Macro, bent over, scurried to the ramp and, followed by the remainder of his force, made his way down to the open area behind the gate. As he reached the street another blow landed on the gates, and a small fissure opened between two timbers, letting a shaft of light filter through into the dust falling from the walkway.

‘Silva!’ Macro bellowed.

‘Sir?’

‘You and your men, off the wagon now!’

‘But, sir, the wounded . . .’ Silva gestured to the men lying on the wagon bed.

‘Take ‘em out. Carry them to the depot. Move it!

As soon as the injured had been unloaded Macro ordered his men to down shields and put their shoulders to the thick wooden wheels. Macro, with two other men grabbed the yoke and pulled it round towards the gate.

‘Right then, heave! Heave, you bastards!’

The men strained at the dead weight of the big supply wagon, gasping for air through gritted teeth. Then, with a drawn-out groan from the axle, the wagon rumbled forward.

‘Keep her moving!’ Macro grunted as he pulled on the yoke, thrusting his feet down and dragging the smooth-worn yoke towards the gateway. ‘Come on!’

Another blow landed on the gate, and the fissure widened into a gap through which the nearest of the enemy could be glimpsed, swinging the ram back ready for the next run at the gate. At the last moment Macro nodded to the other men on the yoke and they pulled it sharply to the side, knocking over a small brazier still smoldering from the night before. The wagon slewed round and rumbled across the entrance to the gate, blocking the way into Calleva.

‘Clear the wagon. Get everything out, except the javelins. Then stuff the gap underneath with thatch. Move yourselves!’

The legionaries desperately prepared the makeshift defences, while the ram continued to batter away at the gates, the timbers splintering with every blow. As Macro watched, the very next strike shattered the locking bar, which sprang out of one of its holding brackets, and the end thudded down on the ground between the gates and the wagon.

‘This is it!’ Macro grabbed his shield and drew his sword, turning to his men. ‘This section with me in the wagon. Figulus, your section behind the wagon. Anyone tries to squeeze under, or past the ends - kill ‘em.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Rest of you - and you lot on the rampart! Get back to the depot and prepare for us. We’ll hold here for a short while and then make a run for it. Go!’