‘No, you fucking don’t!’ Macro spat, tightening his grip on the handle. Above him he saw the furious face of the man looming over the top of the shield. Instinctively, Macro powered up from the balls of his feet and headbutted the giant with his helmet, the solid metal of the brim guard crushing the bridge of the man’s nose. He released his grip and staggered away, blood pouring down over his beard and more soaking the tears in the folds of his cloak, matting the fur. Gasping for breath, Macro drew up, realising that he had reached the far side of the causeway. Before him the last of the party charged with breaking down the gate had turned to flee, leaving a score of bodies scattered over the packed earth in front of the ruined gate, most skewered by javelins.

‘Macro!’

He turned and looked up and saw Cato pointing down.

‘Macro, get the ram inside!’

‘Yes, sir!’

He turned and ordered two of his sections to sheath their blades and take up the stumps of branches that the enemy had been using as handles. The remaining men formed a shield wall at the end of the causeway to cover their comrades. Not a moment too soon. As the enemy drew away from the Romans, a hail of shot flew out of the darkness and clattered off the surface of the shields. The men carrying the ram struggled back inside the gatehouse, grunting under the load, as Macro steadily called the step for the shield wall to fall back inside the fort.