‘Bad luck,’ he said to Simon. ‘Is there still enough?’

‘Not for everyone, or at least not for long and all staying healthy.’

‘Bad luck.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it, although they reckon they caught the bugger who was behind it.’ Simon lowered his voice. ‘Said he had been paid by Prince Arbandes.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Well, his rotting corpse won’t tell us any more and there have not been any fires since. A Roman would have made more sense though.’

Domitius spent the rest of the daylight hours and the first part of the night in the workshop, cursing the mechanism on a small stone thrower because it just would not pull back and go forward smoothly. There was a flaw somewhere, small perhaps, but enough, and he could not find it. The guards, without Simon this time, eventually insisted on taking him back to his cell. He thought about the problem, thought about Caecilius out there, and wondered how much the man had known about his arrest all that time ago. He also wondered about the western side, and had a nagging feeling that he was missing something important. Yet next morning when he suggested taking a walk to the walls on that side, Simon refused. ‘They don’t want you there. Reckon they have things sorted out.’

They took him to the eastern side instead. The higher platform on the tower was like the little turrets the navy used for battle. Apart from archers, a few slingers from among the shepherds who had come into the city, and javelinmen, there was enough room for a small bolt shooter. They could not quite sweep the Romans from the top of the siege tower, but they killed several and the auxiliary archers were reduced to bobbing up to take quick shots before they ducked down.

Yet as if in answer to Domitius’ challenge, Caecilius, or someone else among the besiegers, had come up with a counter to the woolsacks, three of which were lowered to protect the spot most marked by the ram’s attack. A pole emerged from the level below the top one on the tower and wobbled as it went forward. On the end was a blade like a sickle, and the Romans tried to hook a rope supporting a sack. The men on the wall hauled it up, allowing the ram to strike hard against the wall itself. Down came the sack once more, heavily enough to snap the pole, leaving the blade hanging down and the defenders cheering. A second hook appeared, its advance slightly more confident and it caught another of the ropes and began to saw away. Pulling at the rope only made things worse, and as the cord weakened the sheer weight of the sack made the rope snap. Falling onto the edge of the cliff, the bag burst asunder in a cloud of white, and this time the Romans cheered.

The ram kept striking the wall, but the rhythm was less certain now, the blows a little less frequent and sometimes blocked. Bolts and stones pounded the siege tower so that it shuddered, and there were more dark patches where incendiary missiles had struck and burned for just a little while. Yet still it stood, and still the ram nibbled at the wall.