Ahead of Cato was the ladder and the axeman a short distance further on. A hand appeared on top of the parapet and an instant later a head and shoulders and the tip of a sword. The man saw Cato at the same time and let out a cry of alarm. Cato grabbed the top of the ladder and tried to thrust it to the side, but the weight of the men on the rungs was too great. The Silurian, fearful of toppling, had clamped his sword hand to the ladder shaft to steady himself, but now saw that he was safe and grinned as he drew his sword back to thrust at Cato.
There was a blur of motion at the periphery of Cato’s vision as Macro’s sword punched forward into the man’s face, shattering his cheekbone and knocking his head back. He cried out and snatched his hand away from the ladder to clutch at the wound and lost his balance, falling from the ladder into the unlit shadows below the wall. His cry alerted the axeman who glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with rage as he saw the two Roman officers.
‘Take the ladder!’ Macro snarled. ‘He’s mine!’
There was no time for Cato to respond as his friend thrust past him, lowering himself into a crouch as he sized up the tall, broad Silurian who was twirling his axe shaft as he turned, showing off his slick skills with the weapon.
Cato hurriedly sheathed his sword and grasped the ladder shafts. Bracing his boots, he wrenched the rough pieces of timber to the side, and felt the ladder give under its reduced burden. Slowly, then more easily, it tilted and Cato released his grip. It toppled against the angle of the gatehouse, shaking two men loose before it fell into the ditch.
Meanwhile Macro feinted at the axeman, testing his reactions. At once his opponent swirled his axe round and grasped the shaft in both hands to block the blow.
‘Fast reflexes,’ Macro complimented him in an undertone. Then he stepped forward to make a genuine attack, thrusting at the man’s guts. The Silurian knocked the blade aside with a sneer and then blocked the next thrust at his face and let his right hand slip smoothly down the axe shaft as he made a diagonal cut towards Macro’s shoulder. It was done so swiftly that Macro only just had time to leap to the side; the blade of the axe missed him by less than a finger’s breadth. He fell against the palisade, a short distance in front of Cato, knocking the breath from his lungs. The axeman stepped forward and thrust the butt of his weapon into Macro’s chest, striking one of the silver medallions on his harness and knocking him back a step. He made to punch the heavy shaft again but Cato leaped past his friend and thrust his sword into the warrior’s chest. It was a blow struck at full stretch and resulted in a shallow flesh wound, but it halted the axeman in his tracks and he hurriedly faced the new threat. Macro snatched a breath and took his place at Cato’s side.
‘This one’s beginning to annoy me.’
Cato nodded, teeth gritted, his eyes fixed on the axeman. Then he lunged again, his height and reach superior to Macro’s, and he forced the axeman to give ground. Macro let out a roar and charged forward, and Cato followed suit. The sudden movement of the two officers caught the enemy warrior by surprise and he hesitated for less than a heartbeat, and that was the death of him. Macro struck first, stabbing into his right shoulder, jerking the man’s hand from his weapon so that the axe dropped to the walkway. Cato followed up with a thrust just below his throat, shattering the collarbone and driving six inches through his windpipe. The axeman staggered back defenceless and then jerked to a stop, head thrown back as the tip of a pilum burst through his side. Behind him a legionary wrenched the point free and kicked him down the turf slope of the rampart where he rolled to a stop, hands clamped to his throat as he spluttered and bled out.
‘Good work, soldier!’ Macro grinned. ‘Spitted him like a pig!’
The man smiled at the praise and turned back to face the parapet, bloodied javelin tip raised, ready to strike at the next man rash enough to attempt to scale the wall. Cato sheathed his blade, heedless of the blood that still stained it, and looked along the wall. A handful of duels were being fought at the top of the ladders but no more of the enemy had gained the walkway behind the parapet. He nodded with satisfaction.
‘All well so far. Come on. Back to the tower.’
They climbed to the top where they could gain a clear overview of the attack. The men to the left of the gate were also holding their own against the natives swarming in front of the fort, lit from behind by the faggots blazing on the ground. As he watched, Cato could see that the flames were starting to die down earlier than he had expected and he glanced up at the heavy loom of the night sky; the rain was falling harder, pinging off the curve of his helmet and providing a light background hiss to the sounds of battle. In the open ground behind the main gate the men of the reserve stood waiting with spears and shields grounded. In front of them Cato could easily pick out Severus, pacing up and down, tapping his sword against his greave. He could practically smell the man’s anxiety and despite himself Cato offered a brief prayer to the gods that the centurion would lead his men well if they were called upon to plug any gap in the line. Looking to his right, he saw Quertus shouting encouragement to his men. Every so often he would stand up, in full view of the enemy, and roar his defiance. Just the example the men needed at such a moment, Cato conceded with a touch of admiration.
He turned to Macro. ‘This rain won’t serve us well.’
‘It’s as bad for the enemy as us. Worse. At least we have shelter.’
Cato shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point. It’s starting to put the faggots out. If it carries on like this we won’t be able to light the signal beacon come the morning. Even if we could I’ll wager the clouds will swallow up any smoke we make.’
Macro stared up at the sky, blinking away the raindrops. ‘Is there nothing in this bloody land that isn’t against us?’
Before Cato could reply, his attention was caught by a movement on the slope in front of the gatehouse. As he strained his eyes he could just make out a large party of men stealing up the track out of the gloom. He leaned forward in an effort to see better.
‘Careful, sir!’ Macro warned. ‘You want to make an easy target for those bastard slingers?’
As if to underline his words, Cato heard a faint whup as a shot passed close overhead. He started guiltily and eased himself back behind the protective hoarding and watched from there. As the men approached, there was something about the way they clustered together that sent a ripple of anxiety through Cato’s guts. Then he realised what it was.
‘They’ve got a ram. . Macro! Look there!’ He pointed out the men climbing the track and making directly for the narrow causeway across the ditch.
Macro squinted through the dull shimmer of the rain and frowned. ‘That’s all we need.’
Cato turned to the other men on the tower. ‘Gather up the javelins and get over here, now!’
The legionaries grabbed the bundles of javelins and formed up along the front of the tower.
‘There’s a party of men heading for the causeway,’ Cato explained, speaking loudly to be heard above the din of the fighting and the rain. ‘They’ve got a ram. Don’t let them reach the gate.’
The legionaries grasped the danger at once. They hefted their javelins in an overhand grip and raised their shields to protect them from the slingers. Then taking aim on the approaching enemy they waited for Cato’s order, Macro taking his place amongst them. Cato watched the warriors closely and could now make out the long, thick length of timber they carried between them. More than likely it was the trunk of a pine tree felled from one of the forests that grew along the side of the valley. At least they would not have had the wherewithal to cap it with a heavy iron point, Cato reflected. But even though it was a blunt, roughly hewn weapon, it would still smash through the gate eventually. The head of the party was no more than thirty paces from the start of the causeway and Cato raised his arm.
‘Make ready!’
The range was long, and in the rain it was likely that his men’s grip would not be as good as it was in dry weather. Cato let the enemy come on. He wanted the first volley to be as devastating as possible.
There was a grunt as one of the legionaries swept his throwing arm forward and his javelin arced towards the enemy and fell several paces short.
‘Who the fuck was that?’ Macro raged, turning to stare along the parapet and glaring as his eyes located the culprit. ‘You’re on a charge. The moment this little fracas is over! Now pick up a fresh weapon and wait for the bloody order!’
The legionary snatched up a replacement javelin and took aim.
Cato saw that the enemy were escorted by men carrying large round shields. Beyond, he saw a smaller party of men led by a tall warrior who stopped well beyond javelin range to watch the progress of the men carrying the ram. Cato nodded to himself; it must be Caratacus. His enemy’s intention was clear now. While the
