You’re standing in a dry rocky field, it’s the year 180 BC, it’s very hot, your thick leather armor chaffs, blisters on your shins from the bronze guards, your helmet feels like a boiling pot, leather sandals melting on your calloused feet, the rough wood of the spear you have a tight grip on,  injects splinters into the palms of your hands. Your shield feels unmercifully heavy. A trumpet blares out harsh sounds, a chorus of shouts and you look up. There’s a large mass of men advancing towards you, bristling with 18-foot pikes like some monster porcupine. The hosts move towards you, thousands of men, flanked by several large elephants ridden by other men who greet you with a cloud of arrows. You stand with fellow legionnaires before the massive phalanx with its accoutrements. Stand facing the heirs of Alexander, standing together in successive lines, until officers shout commands, standards are raised, drums beat, and the company steps off  in a slow march towards the massed enemy, dust clouds gather, a shower of rocks and javelins blot out the hot sun.  You want to run, flee from the event that’s about to unfold before you- the epic phalanx battle…