Just as he arrived, the blunt head of the ram smashed through, shattering a plank and leaving a gaping hole just above the bar holding the two gates shut. Thick smoke came through the hole, but then he heard the screams from outside as the crew of the ram started to burn. Yet men must have been running past it, in spite of the scalding heat, for an axe head chopped down onto the bar and he could see the gates straining as they were pushed, inching inwards.
Ferox drew his sword. The ram had attacked the gates on the right, and the pair on the left, separated by a narrow arch, were not under threat. He waved at the reserves to advance, saw the commander, one of the optiones, wave back, and some way behind him could see the cavalry mounting up. ‘Come with me, all of you,’ he said to three soldiers who had been tending the fires where they had heated the oil and sand. ‘This way.’ He led them into the shadows behind the far gates.
The bar snapped as the other gates pushed inwards and open, and with a yell king’s men came pouring through the gap. They ran forward, and the optio shouted to his men so that the front rank of three hurled their pila into the mass. The heavy javelins punched through shields as if they were glass, the slim shank sliding on to drive their pyramid-shaped heads through mail, bone and flesh. Half a dozen men were down, and more fell as the second rank threw their javelins. There was a stutter, but so many men were pressing from behind that the leaders could not retreat and found themselves almost pushed forwards.
The optio and his men charged, drawing their swords, and the Dacians ran to meet them until both sides stopped barely a pace apart. They hesitated, arms raised, swords or spears ready, until one or two went that last pace and struck at the enemy. There were some sixty or seventy Dacians to thirty legionaries and in time they would realise this and start to spread out around their flanks, but for the moment the rough lines faced each other, men probing and jabbing from behind their shields as they searched for openings. Ferox’s job was to make sure that no more of the enemy came in. There was the sound of roaring flames and he guessed that the ram and its shed were truly ablaze, for he could feel the heat even from where he was. That ought to make it harder for the enemy to flood into the fort.
Ferox gestured with his sword and walked towards the open gateway. Another dozen Dacians ran through and turned to the left, away from the fight, but someone else would have to deal with them. A man who looked like a leader was standing with his back to Ferox yelling to the men outside. Another was beside him, and he gaped when he saw the centurion and his men creeping out of the shadows. Ferox took another step and then stamped forward, lunging with his gladius beneath the neck guard of the leader and into his spine. An auxiliary came past and hacked at the other man, who parried with his shield high and Ferox had just enough time to rip his own blade free and stab underneath the shield into the warrior’s thigh. He fell, blood pulsing from the wound.
A man appeared, his clothes and body aflame from oil, and he staggered through the gateway. As Ferox stepped into the opening the heat was appalling and it was amazing how much the fire had spread. More men were screaming as they burned, some rolling on the ground trying to beat out the flames. A bare-chested warrior came at him, falx held high and two-handed, and there was barely time to raise his shield before the weapon sliced down, breaking the bronze trim on the top edge of his shield and cutting down three inches into the wood. Ferox was swinging away and used the motion to stab forward into the warrior’s belly. He glanced back over his shoulder.
‘The gates! We need to close the gates.’ He took a step back, struggling to free his scutum from the falx as the warrior doubled over, clutching his stomach and trying to hold in his innards.
Another step back and Ferox was between the gates. The falx at last dropped away and he had time to lift the shield which shook as a spear struck it. A warrior came at him, sword drawn, and this was one of the king’s men, but as he charged he ran into a spray of sand poured from above and yelped with surprise. Ferox stepped back one more time, trusting that his soldiers were covering his retreat and he hoped that no more sand would come in case it helped to put out the flames.
Screaming, whether in rage or pain, the king’s man came on again, slamming the boss of his shield against Ferox’s scutum. The centurion staggered, but saw the man’s arm raised for a downward cut and jabbed forward at eye level. The Dacian went back, still screaming, and tripped over the legs of the warrior wounded in the belly.
‘Out the way, sir!’ a soldier yelled and Ferox moved to let them close the gates behind him.
‘The bar, quick!’ One of the others called as Ferox and the first man put their weight on the gates to hold them closed. Something struck the outside and Ferox jerked back, almost losing his balance, but his feet got a grip again and he leaned with all his weight. The other two had the longer section of the bar and lifted it towards the brackets.
‘Push, lad! Push!’ Ferox called as much to himself as the other man, and he turned his back against the wooden gate, feeling every muscle strain. The bar came down into one bracket, then the other and the pressure was gone.
‘Shields!’ he shouted, for the men with the bar had dropped theirs. ‘Get behind us!’ He and the other man went forward, for Dacians were turning, realising what had happened. Above the helmets and clashing weapons of the two lines, cavalrymen were walking their horses, lobbing javelins over the heads of the legionaries.
Dacians were turning to face him, and one or two were coming towards him, until a deep voice shouted out a command. The enemy bunched together forming a rough circle. Maximus and five of his men came trotting up from the right, kicking their horses into a canter, and the circle was not yet ready and some of the king’s men flinched as the cavalry bore down. The Dacians opened up gaps wide enough to let them through, or were barged out of the way if they did not move fast enough. Maximus ran a man through with his spear, let the weapon fall with the dying warrior, and had time to draw his sword and hack down into a neck before he was through and out the other side. Another cavalryman darted his spear back and forth in quick, well-judged attacks, wounding three as he passed. The last horse in the group balked as a warrior stood firm. It reared, front hoofs kicking the Dacian and knocking him down, but the rider lost his seat and fell, screaming briefly as swords cut down.
The Dacians stepped away from the legionaries, who let them go and panted as they struggled for breath. The deep voice was shouting again, and the warriors made a circle of shields facing outwards, two or three ranks deep. For the first time Ferox noticed that they carried a draco standard, like the ones some of the Roman cavalry had copied. Its bronze head was shaped like the gaping maw of a dragon and behind it hung a long red sock that would hiss and ripple in the wind when they ran. Now, it hung limp, but the leader was urging his men on and the shields were level and steady.
Reserves were coming up on either side, and Ferox had to hope that there was no danger to the ramparts.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s kill these bastards!’
XXIV
PISO STILL HAD a bandage around his head, but otherwise appeared unscathed. Ferox had watched the tribune ride slowly towards the fort, a warrior on either side of him and standard-bearer and man sounding an ox horn behind them. The young aristocrat kept his hands together close behind his horse’s neck, suggesting that they were tied.