a shield wall, their ovalwooden shields edged with bronze catching the rays of the sun. Mostof the men wore the distinctive Thracian helmet with the high,protuberant knob on the top of the helmet, along with a pair ofgreaves. Bristling from the wall were the glittering points ofspears, the Thracian variety being unlike the heavy spears favoredby Gauls and Germans, with more slender shafts and lighter points,so they could be thrown more easily and travel farther, yet notwith the same amount of force as a German spear. When our frontline drew closer, I realized that I had forgotten to remindFlaminius about the difference of launching javelins from a higherpoint when on a slope, an extremely frustrating feeling. For thefirst time, I began to get an idea of what it must have been likefor Caesar, and every other commander I had served under in battle,unable to do much but watch once the plan you have devised is setinto motion. Fortunately, Flaminius accounted for the change inrelease point, having the call sounded to prepare javelins muchearlier than would be normal. I watched the movement of almost twothousand arms sweeping back, looking like rippling water as eachCentury in the front line was given the order. There was a moment’spause, then the horn blasted the command, the sky instantly turningblack as our men loosed their javelins. I watched them make theirarc, marveling as always at how they seemed to pause for a momentbefore plunging downward, their hardened iron points seeking afleshy target. The shouts of the Thracian commanders giving thecommand to raise shields carried across the open ground and, inresponse, the mass of the enemy suddenly took on the appearance ofsome sort of giant serpent, each shield looking like a scale of itsskin. I smiled grimly, knowing that one of our javelins piercing ashield, while not quite as good as hitting a human target, was thenext best thing, making the shield useless after it was punctured,since the soft iron behind the point bent from the weight of thewooden shaft. That extra weight, along with the drag of the shaftsticking into the ground, would make the shield useless, forcingthe man bearing it to cast it aside. An instant after the javelinsturned earthward, there was the horrible clattering racket of thehardened iron tips punching through the bronze sheeting and intothe wood of the shields, accompanied by the screams of pain whensome of the missiles inevitably struck flesh. I saw severalThracians topple over in the front ranks, many of them writhing inagony, shafts of our javelins protruding from their bodies, whileother men fell, but remained still. Their comrades moved quickly todrag them out of the way as our men prepared another volley. I waspleased to see that Flaminius actually waited to order the releaseof the second volley, allowing those Thracians whose shields hadbeen pierced to discard them. The shield wall now had gaping holesin it, depriving men of the protection from their own shield orthat of the man next to them. The second volley sliced through theair, eliciting a low moan from the massed Thracians, each of themlooking skyward, knowing that their lives might be measured by thespan of time it took our missiles to descend. Another clash ofsound, this one slightly different, with more missiles strikingflesh than shields, the howling of pain and anger immediatelyfollowing, as even more shields were discarded. At the same momentthat the javelins were striking their targets, Flaminius orderedthe charge; only then did the men of the 13
th let out aroar as they went hurtling down the remaining slope to crash intothe Thracians.
The impact was tremendous, helped by themomentum from being higher up the slope, a huge crash of our menslamming into the wall of wood and flesh, punctuated by the shoutsand cries of men fighting and dying. Items of equipment that werenot securely fastened to their owners went flying into the sky fromthe impact; wine flasks, armbands, helmets, all manner of thingsthrown upward from that initial impact. Punch with the shield,using the boss to smash into the face of your opponent, sword heldat waist level, blade parallel to the ground to thrust under theshield, into the groin or gut of your enemy. Recover the blade; ifit lands in flesh, twist the blade to free it while causing moredamage. Over and over, the rhythm of death that is practiced by theLegions of Rome. Even now, all these years after I participated inmy first fight, I could feel the surge of the love of battle in myveins, burning me like liquid fire, despite the fact that I was notin the line myself. In some ways, I was finding sitting on Ocelus,watching other men do the fighting, harder than actually doing itmyself. Even when I had been Primus Pilus, I had been closer to theaction, usually participating at some point, but now I could onlysit with clenched fists while other men did my bidding.
I watched intently as the Cohorts of thefront line began to settle down into the rhythm of relief, eachCenturion blowing his whistle in a manner suiting his particularstyle; some preferring men to fight longer, but in return getting alonger rest period when they were relieved. I preferred shortershifts, keeping the men from tiring as quickly, although I had usedboth methods. After the initial charge, with the first line pushingthe Thracians backward a few paces, the enemy resistance hadstiffened, forcing our advance to stop. This, of course, was notgood, yet it was even worse than it might normally be, because Ihad been forced to have the Cohorts use a single line front, withevery Century in the first line. Usually, we lined up on a front ofthree Centuries per Cohort, with another Century immediatelybehind, to serve as relief and to provide the extra push at thecritical moment. However, I had been forced to use a single line tocompletely fill the space between the forest and the stream. Now Iwas faced with a choice; whether to let the first line try to fighttheir way through this lull in the advance, wearing down theThracians until
