‘Why not kill them now, sir? While there’s time.’
Macro shook his head and smiled. ‘Despite everything, I never give in. Never. Even now, there may be a way out of this. I’ll not admit defeat until the end. And if that’s the fate the gods have decided for us, then and only then do we accept it. Now, lads, to your posts.’ He held out his hand and clasped forearms with each officer before they left to rejoin their men. Then, with a heavy sigh, Macro climbed back up to the tower and strapped on his helmet and waited for the enemy.
In the dying light the Silurians formed up in front of their camp, a dark mass of men and weapons set against the glow of their fires. For a time there was silence, and then a horn sounded a deep note that echoed off the surrounding hills and the tribesmen surged forward without a sound.
Macro cupped his hands to his mouth and called out to the garrison, ‘Here they come! Stand to!’
Along the wall the legionaries and Thracians stepped up to the parapet. Macro watched as the tribesmen swarmed up the slope. There was another blast from the horn and this time it was met with a deafening roar from the warriors. He could not help a cruel smile. Even though Caratacus had chosen to attack from the darkness, his men would arrive in a wave and be hard to miss. Especially as they neared the outer ditch.
He called out again. ‘Torches!’
All along the wall fire glittered in shallow arcs as the defenders hurled small blazing bundles of kindling tied to lengths of wood. The torches struck the slope and rolled a short distance. Their flames cast pools of light by which Macro could see the first of the attackers loom out of the darkness. Their cheering had died down as they struggled up the incline towards the fort.
‘Ready javelins!’
The defenders raised their weapons, throwing arms drawn back, waiting for the order.
Macro waited until he could see men all along the line of the slope, clambering up towards the outer ditch. He calmly waited a moment longer until he was certain they were within range so that not a single weapon would be wasted.
‘Loose!’
A chorus of grunts greeted the order as the men hurled their weapons out into the darkness. Then the shafts flickered into view of the glow of the torches as they rained down into the packed ranks of the enemy. Macro saw several of the tribesmen struck down and there were cries of pain from the horde racing towards the ditch.
‘Continue, at will!’
His men snatched up more javelins and launched them into the oncoming enemy. The last of the fort’s stock would quickly be exhausted, but Macro had decided that it would be better to use up the weapons while his men still could. Scores of warriors were felled by the deadly missiles before the first of them reached the ditch and rushed down the slope. Now Macro could see the enemy’s intention. Each man carried a small bundle of sticks. The warriors crossed the ditch and climbed the inner slope before placing their burdens at the foot of the wall and rushing away. And out of the gloom came the first of the wicker shelters, carried up to the edge of the ditch and set down, side by side, to form lengths of a makeshift wall to protect the attackers. The steady flow of javelins continued to claim casualties and the bodies of the dead and the wounded lay strewn across the top of the slope and in the ditch in front of the fort. And still they came on, dashing out from behind their shelters to add more combustible material to the steadily growing piles ranged along the wall. Most of the warriors’ efforts were concentrated on the outside of the gatehouse, thrusting faggots into the gaps left where the garrison had hurriedly blocked the ruined outer gate.
A sharp, splintering crack caused Macro to duck down. The were more impacts on either side and he hissed a curse. The enemy had brought forward some slingers who were loosing their shot at close range from behind the shelters. Risking a quick glance along the wall to the right of the gatehouse, he could see one man was already down, sprawled on his back on the inner slope of the turf rampart. Another man was struck as he took aim with his javelin, his head snapping back with a sharp clang, his weapon dropping from his fingers as he collapsed and lay still. It was too dangerous to keep it up with the slingers so close to the wall, Macro decided. He snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Cease javelins! Take cover!’
The other officers repeated the order and the defenders lowered their weapons and crouched down behind the palisade as more shot zipped over and rattled off the timbers of the wall. The fort’s medical orderlies hurried forward to pick up the casualties and carry them away to the infirmary and Macro wondered how many more men would fall during the night.
For the first hour of the night the enemy continued to pile their combustibles against the fort and their slingers were watchful for any sign of movement along the wall, loosing off their deadly shot at any Roman who dared to show himself. Macro risked the occasional glance to follow the enemy’s progress and for a time he saw Caratacus and his shield bearer striding behind the shelters, surveying the work of his men. At length Caratacus called down to the camp and a short while later small flames flickered as they approached the fort and Macro saw teams of men scurry up to the piled wood with buckets. The sharp smell of pitch reached his nose and he knew that time was running out for the garrison. Then the stench of acrid smoke caught in his throat. The crackling sound of burning timber spread along the wall as one pile of wood after another was ignited. The rim of the parapet and hoardings were sharply defined against the loom of the fire burning at the foot of the gatehouse. A yellow tongue of fire licked up into Macro’s field of vision.
‘Shit. Shit. Shit,’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
There was a cry of alarm from below. ‘There’s smoke in here! Get out! Get out!’
Macro turned and saw that the handful of men with him on the tower were looking at him anxiously. He smiled calmly. ‘Time to move, lads. I don’t fancy being a burned offering to some fucking barbarian god.’
The legionaries scrambled over to the ladder and descended out of sight. As Macro rose to follow suit, he felt the stinging heat of the flames rising up in front of the gatehouse. He swung himself on to the ladder and stepped down the rungs, immediately aware of the smoke starting to fill the watchroom. The doors leading out on to the walkway behind the wall were both open and there was a light breeze as air was sucked inside to feed the flames. Thin slivers of brilliant light were visible through the chinks in the gatehouse’s timbers, and the roar of flames and crackle of burning wood filled Macro’s ears. He breathed in and abruptly doubled over, coughing violently, and his eyes smarted. Making for the nearest door, he emerged from the gatehouse and staggered a short distance along the wall before crouching down.
It took a moment to clear his lungs and blink away the tears from his stinging eyes before he could take in the situation. Several fires were burning along the length of the wall facing the slope down to the parade ground, the biggest of which was the blaze raging up the front of the gatehouse.
‘Sir!’
Macro looked round to see Centurion Petillius standing below him at the foot of the rampart, his face lit by the flames. Petillius was pointing towards the gatehouse. ‘Shall I get one of the centuries to fetch water?’
Macro thought a moment and shook his head. ‘They’d be too exposed to the slingers. Besides, there’s too little left in the cistern to make a difference. Just pull the men back from those sections on fire. The rest can stay in place.’
Petillius saluted and hurried away to carry out Macro’s order. He stayed on the wall for a short while longer, until the pain in his lungs had passed off, and then descended into the fort and stood back by the end of the nearest barrack block. The fires had established themselves now and flames licked around the angle of the gatehouse. There was nothing that could be done to save the structure, Macro realised. It would be gradually consumed by the flames and eventually collapse. The fire would burn on for a few hours before it died down. Come the dawn, it would be a smouldering ruin, and there would be nothing to prevent Caratacus and his army from picking their way over the charred remains and falling on the waiting men of the garrison.