The man indicated with his head towards the ditch. ‘Down there, sir, trying to sort out the mess.’
‘Bring your century and follow me; I want you to form up in testudo on the gap facing the ditch and be prepared to haul the ram up.’
‘Sir!’ The centurion’s battle-hardened face set firm with resolve, evidently pleased to have a direct order in the chaos.
Vespasian ran forward at the crouch, his shield taking hit after hit; his red cloak and tall horsehair plume making him highly conspicuous. Behind him he heard the bellowed orders of the centurion getting his men on the move. Reaching the ditch he looked down; the housing lay on its back, mangled. Stakes jutted out along its twenty-foot length; a few were slimed with gore, protruding from impaled bodies and, in one case, the back of a broken skull. In amongst the wreckage the surviving men of the first century worked furiously trying to clear a way to the ram and tending to the wounded whilst the second century did their best to shield their comrades, although the archery and artillery concentrated on the wall above them meant that very few Britons risked exposing themselves to try a shot. Nevertheless, three men from his escort stood over Vespasian, protecting him with their shields.
‘Prefect!’ Vespasian shouted, spotting the cohort commander amid the carnage. ‘Cut the ram free and pass it up to those men in the gap.’ He pointed to the third century now forming a testudo, holding their oval auxiliary shields over their heads and to their front and sides creating a reasonably safe leather and wood box around themselves. ‘Forget about the wounded for the moment; we need to open that gate before the assault falters.’
The prefect acknowledged the order and bellowed at his men to start cutting the ropes that suspended the ram from its housing.
Vespasian turned to two of his escort crouched behind him. ‘Run to the support cohorts on either side of the wall and tell them to start scaling the palisade as soon as they see the ram lifted out of the ditch.’
With a salute to their commander and a nervous glance between them the two men scampered off. Down in the ditch much of the protective leather had been stripped away from the wooden frame and the ram was clearly visible; the last few ropes were being cut and the prefect had gathered all his able-bodied men along its length ready to lift the great trunk — almost two feet in diameter — either by the hooks to which the ropes had been fastened or by cradling it underneath. The final rope was left attached to the ram but unknotted from the housing; an auxiliary hurled the loose end of it up to the centurion of the third century, who fed it into his men’s formation.
‘Lift, you whoresons!’ the prefect roared at his men.
Vespasian made a mental note to mention the prefect in his report to Plautius.
The ram rose from the ground. Javelins hurtled down from above in increasing numbers as the defenders realised what was being attempted; the second century’s shields vibrated with their impacts.
The ram was brought up to shoulder level and the slack was taken out of the rope as the men within the midst of the testudo lowered their shields and made ready to take the strain. Vespasian glanced around his shield, up at the top of the palisade; men were still braving the Hamian and artillery volleys in order to disrupt the operation that, if it was successful, would spell their deaths as surely as an arrow in the eye. As he looked, two Britons were punched back by feathered shafts; two more immediately took their places, such was the defenders’ desperation to halt the progress of the ram.
The auxiliaries raised the ram above their heads and began to feed it, foot by foot, up into the heart of the testudo as the javelin storm increased, felling three of the work-party; the prefect rushed to add his support to the weight, bellowing at his men to go faster. Vespasian held his breath, knowing that he was powerless to speed things up; the men were working as fast as possible and his shouting at them as well would make no difference. He steeled himself for what he knew he must do as soon as the ram was back up, knowing that the chances of success would be greatly increased if he fought in the front rank, sharing the danger with his men. How he wished that his old friend, Magnus, always so useful in a fight, was with him to guard his right shoulder and not a thousand miles away in Rome.
The ram juddered and a shriek pierced through the tumult.
‘Get that fucking thing out of his hand!’ the prefect roared.
Without any ceremony the javelin skewering an auxiliary’s hand to the ram was yanked out; the man fell to his knees nursing the bloody wound as his comrades toiled on, heaving the ram the last few feet up out of the ditch and into the testudo. The Britons now concentrated their efforts on the partially shielded formation as the ram was passed through its middle.
Vespasian ran to the front of the century and took up position next to the centurion at the head of the ram, grasping a hook whilst keeping his shield above his head. ‘Get them turned to face the gate!’
The centurion screamed the order; the century rotated ninety degrees as javelins pounded its wooden roof. Glancing left and then right, Vespasian could see the two supporting cohorts making their way down into the second ditch with their tall scaling ladders, drawing a little of the defenders’ attentions away from the ram. He shared a grim but determined look with the centurion and gave a brief nod.
‘Forward at the double!’ the centurion cried.
Hefting the ram in their midst, the auxiliaries broke into a jog, behind them the remainder of the cohort followed up. Within a few pounding heartbeats they covered the last twenty uphill paces to the gates; without stopping, they crashed the ram into them with a heavy report, shaking the structure but doing no discernible damage.
‘Swing it back on my mark!’ Vespasian cried. ‘And now!’
As one the men carrying the ram withdrew it and then swung it forward with all possible momentum, cracking it into the gates whilst their comrades did their best to shield them from the constant rain of missiles. Again the gates shook and again the auxiliaries swung.
But then came what Vespasian had been dreading but somehow had to be endured. Clay pots filled with red-hot charcoal crashed down onto the upturned shields, fragmenting into sharp shards and releasing their scorching contents onto the men underneath. Vespasian stifled an agonised scream as a glowing coal fell onto the back of his hand; it was all he could do not to relinquish his grip on the ram’s hook as the burning lump rolled off leaving seared skin and the stench of scorched flesh. Cries from all around attested to the effectiveness of the stratagem but somehow the ram was swung again and then again.
Now there was a crack of light between the gates and Vespasian’s hopes soared. ‘Keep at it, lads!’
With another resonating blow the gates shifted back a bit more, widening the gap; figures could be seen through it rushing to lend their weight to the defences. Javelins now flicked overhead as the remainder of the cohort’s centuries loosed their primary weapons at the defenders, punching many of them back, arms flailing, eyes rolling, shrieking into the fires beyond. Yet still the fire-pots fell onto their upturned shields; as Vespasian turned to encourage the men one screamed in agony as his woollen tunic suddenly ignited and Vespasian felt a sticky liquid slop through a gap in the shield-roof.
‘That’s oil, sir!’ the centurion yelled, his voice taut with dread as flames burgeoned on their makeshift cover.