Another Roman pushed the wounded one aside. This one had an oval shield, a gladius held low and was protected by an old bronze helmet with flat neck guard mail armour and. He had a moustache and Brasus wondered whether he was one of the Britons. A trumpet was blowing as the men attacked the gates and there was shouting and the heavy thumps as the Romans shot their engines.
Brasus stood, his falx raised high above his head. Behind him, one of his warriors was scrambling onto the walkway. The Briton twitched his blade and shield, feinting, but Brasus was not to be drawn and waited. With a roar the Briton rushed at him, shield up and jabbing forward to punch with the boss. Brasus was quicker. He shifted slightly to the left, so that he was on the edge of the walkway and swung down hard. The falx was end heavy, its tip like a spearpoint and there was a hollow ring like a cracked bell as it went through the bronze of the Briton’s helmet. The man jerked convulsively, pushed his shield feebly at Brasus before dropping it and his sword. Brasus staggered for a moment on the brink and then jerked the blade free. He grinned, the power of the god filling him.
‘Come on!’ he shouted to the men behind him and ran towards the gateway. The wounded Roman, perhaps another Briton, screamed in terror and flung himself from the walkway, bouncing and rolling down the slope into the fort. Brasus ignored him and went on. A legionary with a rectangular shield stood in his path, holding a stubby spear, until an arrow sprouted from his ear, having found one of the few vulnerable spots in the side of his helmet, and Brasus would have thought such a thing remarkable luck if he had not known better. The Roman dropped, and a Dacian appeared above the parapet.
Brasus ran on. A Briton appeared, and the downward swing of the falx smashed through his upraised shield and beat the man to his knees. Brasus yanked it free, struck again and the shield broke apart as the Briton gaped because his severed hand was still holding its grip as it fell away. A third cut went through the mail armour, through the ribs and into the wounded man’s chest. Brasus had to put his foot on the dying man to draw his blade free.
‘The gates!’ he shouted. ‘Down here!’ Perhaps five men were following him and he saw a score or more of Romans waiting on the road some fifty paces behind the gateway, but they were not moving. Two auxiliaries appeared in front of him, and then the one on the right took a spear in the face and there was a yell of triumph from one of his own warriors who must have thrown it from up on the wall. Brasus ran at the other, dodged the thrust from the man’s javelin and this time scythed a great horizontal blow. The man’s head flew through the air as his neck jetted blood high like a fountain.
‘The gate!’ Brasus shouted again, and had to spit because there was his enemy’s blood on his lips and face. ‘Open it!’ Three of his men rushed at the nearest, cutting down a Roman who stood in their path. There was shouting, commands in Latin and one of the Romans’ trumpets blowing, but no one else was trying to stop them and in a moment they were lifting the bar.
Brasus turned to watch the Romans on the road. They were coming on, clashing their spear shafts against their shields, but there was something weak and unconvincing about the sound.
‘Fight me!’ Brasus shouted in Latin. ‘Or are you a coward?’ He brandished his falx, trying to provoke one of them, ideally their leader, to face him in single combat and give his men more time to get the gate open.
It worked. A tall, broad-shouldered warrior stepped forward, holding up his hand to stop the rest.
‘Pig, whoreson, I will feed you to the dogs!’ the man yelled in a voice sounding a lot like Ivonercus. The Brigantian had got lost in the fog, and Brasus wondered whether or not he had caught up by now.
Brasus let the man come to him, bringing the falx back up into a high guard.
‘I am Bellicus of the Brigantes and I spit upon you.’ The man turned back to face his men and waved his shield and sword high. They cheered and Brasus let them, still waiting for the Briton to come at him. He heard a creaking and guessed that the gate was opening. A Roman trumpet from up on the tower blasted a signal out.
The Briton came forward carefully, step by step, always balanced, his shield out and sword back ready to thrust. ‘You will die, scum,’ he said and only his chatter made him seem nervous, but perhaps that was the way of his people.
There was a roar, a wonderful Dacian roar, as the first wave of attackers rushed through the gate, but the warrior was still coming on and Brasus did not let his gaze leave his opponent for an instant. Instead he sprang forward, feinted left and then went right, the Briton turning his shield to face. Brasus swung down, not to strike the man, for he was still too far away, but hooked the top of the shield and pulled, gambling that the Briton would never have seen such a move before. The man gasped and let the shield go. Then he turned and ran as feet pounded past Brasus and a couple of dozen of his warriors charged forward. The Roman formation broke apart as the men panicked and fled.
Brasus let the rush pass him as he panted for breath. An older man appeared, followed by two more carrying packs.
‘You know what to do?’
‘Yes, lord.’ The old warrior had lost all his front teeth in some ancient battle so that his grin was a strange one. There was no sign of the deserter who should have been with them to show the way.
‘Then go!’
Brasus ran back to the gateway as the Bastarnae came through, yelping their strange cries and grinning like devils. He let them go, trusting that they would create plenty of chaos on their own and doubting that they would follow orders even if he gave them. Half a dozen of his men were clustered around the gate, smiling at what they had done. For the moment the Romans were hanging back or had fled, but he knew that there were still some on the tower above them.
The track outside the fort was empty. The mist was starting to rise so that he could see a little further in the pale light, but apart from a handful of his archers there was no one there. Brasus stared into the mist, longing to see shadows take shape and a rush of warriors surge out of the fog. He stared out, as if willpower and faith could make it happen just as it had led him up and over the wall. Give him two hundred more warriors and the fort was his. With one hundred he might just be able to take one of the other gates from the rear and let another column inside. The odds would still be against them, but with faith and courage it might just work,
No one came. The archers were trading shots with the Romans on the tower, keeping them busy for the moment, but as he watched one of them was pitched over by the bolt of an engine.
‘My lord!’ One of his warriors was calling and pointing excitedly. There was the red of flames coming from a building ahead of them, which showed that the old man was doing his job. Then there was the thunder of horses and he saw a line of Roman cavalry charging into the score or so of warriors who had gone down the road. A Roman was shouting and he saw a big man with a centurion’s crest coming in against the flank of his men in a lone attack.
It would not be long now. There was no sign of any break-in from the front gate, and while he could not see the rear gate from here, surely there would have been some sign by this time if they had succeeded.