Ferox reached for the shield he had brought and left leaning against the parapet. Yet he needed to see and could not simply cover himself. The Romans were sending back as many or more missiles than came in, so that there was a storm of arrows, spears and stones of the sort poets described even if few of them had ever seen such a thing.
The scorpio beside him slammed forward again, spitting a bolt which created another gap in the shields.
‘Got the bastard!’ Julius said again.
Without needing to be ordered, the defenders were lobbing stones or shooting arrows at whoever came closest. There were a few bodies at the foot of the wall, and more on the lip of the inner ditch, but still the Dacians came and still they screamed. Four carrying a long ladder were at the outer ditch when an arrow hit one on the leg. The three staggered on, down into the ditch, slipping and dropping the ladder, but others ran to them and they were hauling it up the other bank and down into the second ditch. A volley of stones and javelins hit them as they came up again, leaving the ladder dropped just at the foot of the rampart, with two dead or dying men around it and the rest, bruised and bloodied, back in the shelter of the ditch.
‘Got the bastard!’ Julius started cranking the slide back ready to shoot again.
Ferox saw or sensed something coming and lifted his shield in time to cover his face as a point burst through the layers of wood and calfskin on both sides. It stuck there, lacking the force to go further, even though he had swayed back with the impact. He guessed that it was from one of the special bows, and wondered whether to try and spot the men with these and use the scorpiones to pick each man off one by one.
For the moment, the raw power of the engines’ bolts had shattered the column coming up the road, leaving a debris of dead men as the rest retreated, like seaweed thrown onto a beach by the waves. Yet a third group was mustering on the edge of the canabae, swollen by the survivors of the earlier attacks. Someone was blowing a carnyx, one of the high bronze trumpets used by many tribes in many lands including Britannia and beside him there was a warrior who was surely a leader shouting and gesturing at the men.
‘Julius?’
‘Sir.’
‘Look down the road. See the column massing and the active little fellow egging them on?’
The veteran squinted and then grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Kill him for me.’
‘Pleasure, sir, I—’
Ferox heard the dull thump of the blow and suddenly where the veteran’s left eye had been was a thick shaft with leather flights. Julius’ head had snapped back, and then he sighed as he dropped to the plank floor. The veteran who had been loading gaped at him, mouth hanging open. Ferox rushed over. It was years since he had used a scorpio, and the machine felt odd and awkward in his hands as he raised the end and tried to aim.
‘Come on, lad, load for me,’ he said to the soldier who was older than he was. Snapped from his shock, the man laid the bolt onto the slide. Ferox was searching for the leader, but could see no sign of him, and as the column was starting to lumber forward he aimed at that and pulled the release. The slide slammed, somehow seeming slower from this angle than from the side, but he could see no sign that he had hit.
‘You, Flavius isn’t it?’ Half the army seemed to be called Flavius these days, but the name struck a chord.
‘Sir.’
‘Know how to shoot this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then take over. Vepoc, you load for him, you’ve seen it done even if you’ve never done it. Just keep your fingers out of the way when it goes off!’
‘Centurion!’ A voice that had been on the edge of his hearing for a while now sank in. ‘Centurion!’
Ferox ran to the back of the tower and looked down to see two riders below.
‘Centurion Dionysius reports that the porta decumana is under heavy attack, but that he and his men are holding,’ the first said.
‘Bolanus’ compliments,’ the second began and then coughed for a while. It was the same rider who had come the first time. ‘Sorry, sir. His compliments and says that there are a lot of archers shooting at them, and a strong force of soldiers hanging back, but no sign of an assault yet.’
‘Do either need support?’
‘No, sir. The lads are holding well.’
‘Good, tell them we’re winning here as well.’
For a moment the cheering and chanting of the enemy slackened as trumpets blared out the alarm and then followed with another signal. Ferox ran and almost jumped down the ladder to the next floor. Sabinus’ head was just through the trapdoor coming up from the lower floor.
‘The west gate?’ he shouted.
‘And a break-in!’ Ferox was far enough down to leap the rest of the way, his boots banging onto the floor. ‘Out the way!’ he said to Sabinus. ‘Stay here and take charge while I find out what is happening.’
‘I should go,’ the centurion had to shout because the Dacians were surging forward again and their battle cries had redoubled.
‘You’ve got enough to do,’ Ferox said and almost hauled the man up and off the ladder before rushing down. He no longer had the shield and could not remember dropping it, and then he was out on the rampart top. A Dacian appeared beyond the parapet, his helmet tall with a thin metal crest in the centre, and a curved sica sword raised behind his shield. A Brigantian was there and rammed a spear against the warrior’s shield so hard that although it did not break through the wood the force pitched the Dacian off the ladder and he fell screaming. Ferox was close enough to see the top of the ladder and he pushed, trying to topple it, but there was weight from the climbing men.
‘Help me, lad!’
He had wanted the Brigantian to add his weight but instead the lad, for he was little more than that, leaned through the gap in the parapet and flung his spear down. The weight was suddenly less, as the falling warrior knocked another off on his way down and with a grunt Ferox was able to tip the ladder back.
‘Well done, boy!’ Ferox said and rushed down the steps cut into the rampart. His horse was there, waiting for him, held by a galearius. The mist seemed clearer down here or perhaps more time had passed than he thought. Ferox turned his run into a leap, landing hard in the saddle, so that the mare protested and bucked until he had calmed her.
The light was changing again, and he saw that there was a red glow from behind the dim shape of the praetorium. Ferox kicked the horse hard and cantered down the road, terrified that he had made the worst mistake of all.
-
THE PLAN WAS a good one, well thought out and prepared, and Brasus had been proud of it, for in his mind’s eye he could see the warriors swarming into the fort and cutting its garrison to pieces. He knew this ground, had studied it, considered it, just as he had thought long and hard about the fort and its defences. The king had sent him almost two thousand men, a quarter of them archers, and with them came half a dozen chieftains old in war, but not too proud to take the orders of one so young. Brasus had led them all to see the Roman fort the day before the attack and covered the ground they were to cross. There were five columns, two of five hundred men each to attack the front and rear gates, another of six hundred men in reserve under his own leadership and the rest split into two parties whose job was to threaten the side gates and keep the defenders busy. For three nights he had walked the routes each was to take, going as close to the fort as he dared, but noting the landmarks that would help them all to find their way. Then, when all were waiting ready to launch their attacks, his trumpet would sound and they would head for the enemy.