There was a chorus of grunts as the legionaries hurled their weapons down from the tower, over the causeway to where the bunched ranks of the enemy formed an easy target. The iron-tipped javelins punched through flesh and bone with soft thuds and an instant later the cries and groans of the injured cut through darkness. The party stopped abruptly, the ram dropped to the ground and those with shields swung them up to cover themselves.

‘Again!’ Cato ordered his men. ‘Pour it on, lads!’

The legionaries snatched up more weapons, took aim and hurled the javelins. More of the enemy went down, including those with shields – the wood and leather they were made of provided poor protection against the impact of the deadly iron points. Macro was shouting with glee as he threw one weapon after another and urged the legionaries on. Beyond the tangle of dead and wounded the survivors were breaking and running back down the track. Cato heard the enemy leader shouting angrily at them, and then breaking off to call out an order. A moment later more slingshot whirred out of the darkness, smashing into and splintering the hoardings, with a few shots cracking off the shields of the legionaries. One of the deflections caught Cato on his cheekguard with a loud ring. He felt the blow but luckily the small missile had lost most of its energy and did not injure him.

‘Take cover!’ he ordered as the sharp rattle of shot intensified, and another legionary was hit, the blow spinning him round. A further shot struck him in the face, pulverising his nose and eye socket in a spray of blood. He collapsed like a sack filled with stones and thudded on to the wooden boards, his shield clattering beside him. The other legionaries ducked down behind the parapet, their heavy rectangular shields adding further protection as the barrage of slingshot rattled against the tower. Cato took an anxious breath during a brief lull and glanced over the wall. The enemy had taken up the ram once more and were making their way across the causeway. A loud crack on the wood beside him sent splinters flying and he felt a hot stab in his cheek and ducked back down.

‘Shit . . .’ He reached a hand up and felt the blood pouring down his face, and then touched something hard protruding from his flesh. Gritting his teeth he pinched the end tightly and pulled it out and flung it away. The sharp, stinging pain intensified but Cato ignored it.

Macro crouched down beside him, breathing hard. ‘The bastards have got us pinned down, sir.’