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His legs were wet and coated in mud.

Crossing the shallow lagoon had left the lower half of his body covered in the thick,

glutinous stuff.

Like many of the fellow Roman soldiers with him,

the man had tripped and fallen several times while waiting his way across.

The mud covered his boots and ankles and dripped off his calves.

Above his knees, it was beginning to dry into a thick, roundish-gray paste.

The wall loomed above them, and their ladder made a satisfying wooden thunk as its top rung

smacked into the stone.

The Roman drew his sword and began to climb, clinging to the ladder with one hand and

pulling himself up as quickly as he could.

There were no defenders on the ramparts above them, waiting to stop the attack.

All of the Carthaginians were on the other walls, facing other Roman assaults.

But this was the one that mattered, and it came as a complete surprise.

The Roman could hear the architect of this clever plan down below, bellowing orders and encouragement. Publius Cornelius Scipio, that was his name.

When the soldier had heard that this young man was to be their commander, he had scoffed.

What could some youthful stripling offer them that grizzled experienced ex-consuls couldn't?

But then he had heard the stories. Men who had been at the

river Trevia almost a decade before told him how the then-teenager had rushed to save his father

in the heat of the battle. One night drinking wine around a campfire, the soldier overheard a military

...