As most of the legionaries ran in a loose pack up the street in the direction of the depot Macro and his rearguard readied themselves for the one-sided fight. The centurion hauled himself up into the wagon and snatched up a javelin. The surviving five men of the section took position either side of him, shields raised and javelins held ready to thrust into the faces of the enemy once they forced their way inside. The ram struck again and, with no locking bar to hold the gates in place, they burst open with a protesting groan, dragging the end of the bar across the packed earth in a short arc. At once the Durotrigans let out a roar of triumph. Dropping the ram, they unslung their shields, snatched up their weapons and thrust their way inside. The broken timbers lay at odd angles with splintered ends, which the first men through were forced on to by the press behind them. Two men howled in agony as they failed to struggle clear of the jagged ends and were impaled, then crushed down by their comrades, thirsting to get at the Romans.

As the front rank of the Durotrigans clambered over the warriors writhing on the bloody shafts of wood, Macro hefted his javelin and thrust it into the face of the nearest man. The warrior jerked to one side and rolled under the wagon. Macro ignored him and fixed his aim on the next enemy, stabbing him through the shoulder, wrenching the iron tip free of flesh and bone, and thrusting again into the sea of savage expressions heaving in front of him. On either side the legionaries were blocking the sword slashes and spear thrusts with their broad shields, then stabbing back at the enemy. Their faces were fixed in the grim desperation of those fighting overwhelming odds. A hand grabbed at the side of the wagon in front of Macro and the centurion quickly hurled his javelin into the solid mass pressing through the ruined gates. He snatched at his sword and hacked down on the hand, slicing off the fingers. The man crumpled down beside the wagon cradling the bloody knuckles to his chest. But on either side Macro could see more of the enemy scrambling in under the reach of the javelins and trying to heave themselves into the wagon.

‘Draw swords! Draw swords!’

The men threw down their javelins and there was the rasping of blades hurriedly drawn from scabbards, then the small group of legionaries thrust and hacked at the enemy, who were now so close to them that the distinctive smell of the Celts filled every breath they snatched. Behind them Figulus and his section thrust their javelins at any man who tried to work his way round or under the wagon.