Dawn was close when the horns blew and Brasus realised that the chieftain must have thought that he wanted the east gate attacked whatever else happened. His own men were on their way to the west of the fort, with, as far as he knew, no sign of the men who were supposed to lead the way. No matter, the plan was still sound and the faithful would prevail over the unclean. Brasus jogged over to the chieftains in charge of the first column.

‘Go!’ he shouted. It was enough for they knew what to do. As Brasus ran to join his own men he heard a great shout challenging the night and his blood thrilled to the sound. Before he reached his own men there were more trumpets and cries from the far side of the fort.

‘My lord!’ a voice called from out of the white mist. ‘We are here!’

Brasus took his time because this was the key to it all. The attacks on the two main gates would keep the enemy busy, but unless the god was truly kind to them they would not break through, not on their own. The west gate was the key, because he reckoned that it was the least vulnerable to be rushed and that because of this the Romans would not watch it as carefully.

Brasus chose fifty men to make a charge at the west gate, with the Bastarnae and a dozen others to follow them. Of the remainder, sixteen were to start crawling across the field, their backs covered in dark cloaks, and the other five came with him. They also had drab clothes and cloaks, although the black paste they had smeared on their faces was of less use now. They began by crawling until they reached the outer ditch, where they headed to the left, towards the corner of the fort. No arrows came and no sentries shouted. Brasus was trusting to the darkness and fog, and most of all to the instinct of the Romans in the corner tower and on the rampart to watch the big attack unfolding and pay little heed to quiet and empty fields. They went slowly, and one by one slipped out of the first ditch and into the second.

The noise of battle ebbed and flowed and the light slowly grew, although the mist did not thin or rise and made it hard to tell which direction sounds came from. His own men attacking the west gate were close enough to be sure and he heard them shout and then scream as they were hit by arrows or javelins. There had been no ladders left over for them to use, which meant that the assault was little more than a sham, but it sounded as if they were giving their lives willingly by pressing close.

Brasus slid over the edge of the ditch, saw no one on the rampart above when he glanced up and dashed to reach the foot. Another warrior followed him, then another, while the next man was stringing the bow he had carried on his back. Brasus had his falx, the great curved sword that took skill and strength to use, in a scabbard slung on his back, along with a coil of rope, and two straight daggers in his hands. One of the men crouched down so that Brasus could stand on his back and start to climb, thrusting the knives into the piled earth to help.