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 Romans were kept occupied along the wall the ram would batter the gate before the defenders realised Caratacus’s intentions. It was a good plan, Cato conceded, except the Romans were ready and waiting.

The first men had reached the end of the causeway and Cato filled his lungs, swept his arm forward and roared, ‘Loose javelins!’