‘Help me, lad!’

He had wanted the Brigantian to add his weight but instead the lad, for he was little more than that, leaned through the gap in the parapet and flung his spear down. The weight was suddenly less, as the falling warrior knocked another off on his way down and with a grunt Ferox was able to tip the ladder back.

‘Well done, boy!’ Ferox said and rushed down the steps cut into the rampart. His horse was there, waiting for him, held by a galearius. The mist seemed clearer down here or perhaps more time had passed than he thought. Ferox turned his run into a leap, landing hard in the saddle, so that the mare protested and bucked until he had calmed her.

The light was changing again, and he saw that there was a red glow from behind the dim shape of the praetorium. Ferox kicked the horse hard and cantered down the road, terrified that he had made the worst mistake of all.

Outside the fort at Piroboridava

The same night

THE PLAN WAS a good one, well thought out and prepared, and Brasus had been proud of it, for in his mind’s eye he could see the warriors swarming into the fort and cutting its garrison to pieces. He knew this ground, had studied it, considered it, just as he had thought long and hard about the fort and its defences. The king had sent him almost two thousand men, a quarter of them archers, and with them came half a dozen chieftains old in war, but not too proud to take the orders of one so young. Brasus had led them all to see the Roman fort the day before the attack and covered the ground they were to cross. There were five columns, two of five hundred men each to attack the front and rear gates, another of six hundred men in reserve under his own leadership and the rest split into two parties whose job was to threaten the side gates and keep the defenders busy. For three nights he had walked the routes each was to take, going as close to the fort as he dared, but noting the landmarks that would help them all to find their way. Then, when all were waiting ready to launch their attacks, his trumpet would sound and they would head for the enemy.

Pride was dangerous for the pure, so perhaps it was his fault, but almost at once it all began to fall apart. Brasus was leading his own column and he got lost early in the night. He still could not understand how this had happened, but somehow they arrived at the river where the banks were steep and hard to cross. He knew the spot at once and that it was a mile or more from where he was supposed to be. Men stared at him, wondering, and then before he could make up his mind the first scrambled down the banks and waded across. It took a lot longer than it would have done at the ford, and left them all soaking and muddy, with more than a few lost shoes, but they were across and he tried to judge as best as he could the right direction to take him where they were supposed to go. The moon had not yet risen and clouds were low and getting lower, with thin tendrils of mist so close a man could almost think that he could grab them.