‘Julius?’

‘Sir.’

‘Look down the road. See the column massing and the active little fellow egging them on?’

The veteran squinted and then grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Kill him for me.’

‘Pleasure, sir, I—’

Ferox heard the dull thump of the blow and suddenly where the veteran’s left eye had been was a thick shaft with leather flights. Julius’ head had snapped back, and then he sighed as he dropped to the plank floor. The veteran who had been loading gaped at him, mouth hanging open. Ferox rushed over. It was years since he had used a scorpio, and the machine felt odd and awkward in his hands as he raised the end and tried to aim.

‘Come on, lad, load for me,’ he said to the soldier who was older than he was. Snapped from his shock, the man laid the bolt onto the slide. Ferox was searching for the leader, but could see no sign of him, and as the column was starting to lumber forward he aimed at that and pulled the release. The slide slammed, somehow seeming slower from this angle than from the side, but he could see no sign that he had hit.

‘You, Flavius isn’t it?’ Half the army seemed to be called Flavius these days, but the name struck a chord.

‘Sir.’

‘Know how to shoot this?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then take over. Vepoc, you load for him, you’ve seen it done even if you’ve never done it. Just keep your fingers out of the way when it goes off!’

‘Centurion!’ A voice that had been on the edge of his hearing for a while now sank in. ‘Centurion!’

Ferox ran to the back of the tower and looked down to see two riders below.

‘Centurion Dionysius reports that the porta decumana is under heavy attack, but that he and his men are holding,’ the first said.

‘Bolanus’ compliments,’ the second began and then coughed for a while. It was the same rider who had come the first time. ‘Sorry, sir. His compliments and says that there are a lot of archers shooting at them, and a strong force of soldiers hanging back, but no sign of an assault yet.’

‘Do either need support?’

‘No, sir. The lads are holding well.’

‘Good, tell them we’re winning here as well.’

For a moment the cheering and chanting of the enemy slackened as trumpets blared out the alarm and then followed with another signal. Ferox ran and almost jumped down the ladder to the next floor. Sabinus’ head was just through the trapdoor coming up from the lower floor.

‘The west gate?’ he shouted.

‘And a break-in!’ Ferox was far enough down to leap the rest of the way, his boots banging onto the floor. ‘Out the way!’ he said to Sabinus. ‘Stay here and take charge while I find out what is happening.’

‘I should go,’ the centurion had to shout because the Dacians were surging forward again and their battle cries had redoubled.

‘You’ve got enough to do,’ Ferox said and almost hauled the man up and off the ladder before rushing down. He no longer had the shield and could not remember dropping it, and then he was out on the rampart top. A Dacian appeared beyond the parapet, his helmet tall with a thin metal crest in the centre, and a curved sica sword raised behind his shield. A Brigantian was there and rammed a spear against the warrior’s shield so hard that although it did not break through the wood the force pitched the Dacian off the ladder and he fell screaming. Ferox was close enough to see the top of the ladder and he pushed, trying to topple it, but there was weight from the climbing men.