asI dared over the broken ground, knowing every moment counted. Thenext hundred paces would be the worst, once we closed to a pointwhere the Thracian archers no longer had to fire upward to achievemaximum range. Now they could shoot directly down onto us, the onlything protecting us our shields and the scorpions’ ability toskewer archers before they loosed their own arrows. It did not takelong before I felt the first arrow thud into my shield, but thepoint did not penetrate all the way through. I could hear theThracian missiles whistling past my ears, my eyes barelyregistering a black blur when they streaked past me. Step by step,I kept my eyes glued to the edge of the rubble pile, willing itcloser. My heart was hammering now, the sweat having begun tostreak down my face, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. Therewas a shout behind me, a cry of pain that told me an arrow hadfound a target, yet I kept going, panting from the exertion ofcarrying the three sections of ladder. The section on my shoulderthat had felt comfortable at first was now pressing the links of mymail through my padded tunic, biting into my flesh. My right handwas cramping from trying to hold the other two sections, and Isuddenly realized that if it continued, I would be unable to holdmy sword. We were now close enough to hear the shouts of individualThracians, and while some of them were speaking in their triballanguage, others were calling to us in Greek, taunting us andtelling us what they were about to do to us. Punctuating thesecries was the sound of our ballistae missiles crashingsomewhere inside the fortress, and I was gratified when immediatelyafter one strike I heard screams of men in mortal pain. However,our scorpions were only partially successful in keeping the enemy’sheads down, the arrows now flying at us thicker than ever. Just afew paces short of the rubble pile, my shield was struck atremendous blow, almost wrenching it from my grasp while punchingthe bottom down toward me as an arrow slammed into it. Immediatelyin front of my face was the gleaming point of the arrow that hadpunched through the shield, going several inches before it hadstopped. Less than an eye blink later, another arrow hit, this onenearer to the top, and again the shield was almost knocked out ofmy hand, this time the impact thrusting the top of my shield backin the direction of my face, making the bottom pop up. For just aninstant, I was exposed and, in that flicker of time, I saw thatthere were several dozen men now standing at the edge of therampart firing down at us. Before I righted the shield, anotherarrow sliced by under it, at chest level but off a few inches tothe side, and I heard it thud into the ground next to me. Knowingfrom experience that a few more strikes from arrows would unbalancethe shield, making it almost impossible to handle, I was desperateto reach the pile now. Opening my stride, I increased my pace fromthe fast walk to almost a sprint, despite a tearing pain in my sidefrom the exertion. I reached the edge of the pile, but not beforeanother arrow hit my shield, this one punching a hole next to theboss, less than an inch from my forearm. My legs were shakingviolently by this time; I was torn between the fear of not beingable to finish what I had started, and the fear of the humiliationif the men saw my weakness and mistook it for what it really was.Simply put, I was already near exhaustion, yet I had not evenstarted to ascend the pile. Titus, I thought bitterly, you are theworld’s biggest fool. Diocles, Gaius, and even Marcus Primus wereright; you are simply too old for this. It might sound strange, butin that moment I stopped moving, standing there with my shieldabove my head, full of shame and even worse, despair. I was nolonger Titus Pullus; I was an old man, a secret joke to all theyoung men of the Legions. In my mind’s eye, I started to see what Ihad thought were looks of admiration and pride in the eyes of themen when I had announced that I would lead the assault instead asgazes full of disdain and embarrassment. What a laugh they musthave been having among themselves, I thought, as this pathetic oldman tried to pretend that he could do what they did. No doubt therewas spirited wagering about how long I would last, and there wasprobably a man in the watching Cohorts who was crowing with delightat the sight of me standing there, seemingly unable to move anotherstep. I was done, finished, through and, in that moment, I almostlet my shield drop to allow a Thracian arrow to put me out of myshame and misery. As it was, I did not think I could hold it muchlonger, my left arm now as exhausted as my right. I stared up atthe shield, now riddled with arrows, watching it quiver in myhand.
“Prefect, are you all right? Why have youstopped?”
I heard someone behind me shout, and I felta twinge of guilt that my bout of self-pity was putting men in evengreater danger. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that twoof the other three men had now reached the rubble pile, but theywere watching me as well; apparently, my instructions hadn’t beenas clear as I thought, because they were watching me to see what Idid. You can’t even do that right, I thought disgustedly. There Istood, like a statue, as sure as I have ever been that my life wasat an end, when an old and very useful friend chose that moment toshow back up.
During my first campaign, when part of theFirst Century of the Second Cohort of the 10th Legion,with Gaius Crastinus as my Pilus Prior, we had been surrounded on ahilltop by a vastly numerically superior force of Lusitani, thetribe we were campaigning against under the command of Caesar. Itwas a desperate situation
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