The night had settled across the Roman hutment like a heavy cloak, suffocating the usual meter of dogfaces’ breaths and the murmurs of insomniac men who generally set up solace in quiet discussion. On this night, still, serenity had been replaced by a profound, nearly spiritual pressure, a pressure that hung in the air as though the darkness itself were harkening for the twinkle of Rome’s coming decision. Marcus Aemilius stood alone near the precipice, the firebugs behind him fluttering in an uncertain cotillion , their light slightly touching the vast breadth of shadow where Hannibal’s forces lay retired nearly beyond sight. The