‘Hush, both of you, or you will start some trouble,’ Rufus hissed. ‘I’m fine. Just give a shout if you see anyone moving up there!’ There was still some shelter from the screen ahead of him, but that would not block a missile coming high from one of the towers. The centurion was hoping that the shadows would conceal him, for it must be hard looking down, even on a bright night like this. He had been up at the works on the western side of the city for more than an hour since sunset and no missiles had come, so perhaps the defenders were having a good rest.

A legionary had been killed this morning, hit square in the face by the bolt from a ballista. The man had peeked just a little too high and for too long over one of the screens and no one was quite sure why and whether it was curiosity or simple carelessness. A dozen or so soldiers had been wounded during the course of the day, most lightly, and that was about average. The defenders had shot well on the day that the legion had driven them inside their walls, but for a while it had seemed that this was no more than luck. For the next morning their aim was poor, missiles usually going too high or thumping down short. They were improving, slowly and steadily, and yesterday had even got a man as he dashed between a gap in the entrenchments, something that had seemed safe until then.

It was harder to tell how much injury the attackers were causing. Now and then, when some bold fool made a good target of himself on the parapet, they could see a head shattered by a stone or a body flung back by an arrow or bolt – a sight that always prompted a cheer from the besiegers. Mostly the Romans shot and hit the wall, or went through a gap in the crenulations or over without any sign that it had struck home. Both sides flung hundreds of missiles at each other for every definite hit, and Rufus wondered how many times some arrows had been shot, then shot back and so on. Anything not broken was reused, and the fabricae set up behind the camps were turning out scores of arrows and bolts every hour. They had also found a patch of rocky ground not far away, and a detachment was kept busy prising pieces up and chipping them to shape.

Rufus had mentioned to Caecilius that manuals recommended a constant onslaught, including attacks by escalade, to wear down the defenders. Outnumbered, they would have to keep manning the walls and suffering a trickle of casualties, whereas the more numerous besiegers could swap men around so that they all had plenty of rest between making each attack.

Caecilius had sniffed, although with less scorn than in the past. ‘Good way of wasting your own men’s lives as well – and some of your best and boldest too. Oh, I dare say in the old days they did not have much choice. Techniques weren’t so advanced. We can break their walls, given time and care, and that takes sweat. No sense in fighting more than we have to. I’d prefer the lads to be worn out from slog than attacks with no hope of succeeding. That way at least we’ve got something to show for it. It’s started well, lad, it really has, so let’s get on with it and see it done.’