A shout from above, then the twang of a bow and the Roman dropped back from the parapet with an arrow in his face. Another Roman appeared, then gasped as the men who had been crawling forward sprang up, hurling aside their cloaks. The pause gave the chance for the archer to string and lose another arrow, which hit this Roman in the throat. Brasus was almost at the top and jabbed the knives in just below the wooden parapet so that he could stand on them as he hauled himself up.

There was no one in front of him and he got onto the top of the parapet and then jumped onto the walkway. A man was coming at him, but the archer loosed again and the Roman hissed as the arrowhead punched through the palm of his hand. Brasus crouched, drawing his blade two-handed and slicing a chunk out of the plume on his captured Roman helmet with the same fluid motion.

Another Roman pushed the wounded one aside. This one had an oval shield, a gladius held low and was protected by an old bronze helmet with flat neck guard mail armour and. He had a moustache and Brasus wondered whether he was one of the Britons. A trumpet was blowing as the men attacked the gates and there was shouting and the heavy thumps as the Romans shot their engines.

Brasus stood, his falx raised high above his head. Behind him, one of his warriors was scrambling onto the walkway. The Briton twitched his blade and shield, feinting, but Brasus was not to be drawn and waited. With a roar the Briton rushed at him, shield up and jabbing forward to punch with the boss. Brasus was quicker. He shifted slightly to the left, so that he was on the edge of the walkway and swung down hard. The falx was end heavy, its tip like a spearpoint and there was a hollow ring like a cracked bell as it went through the bronze of the Briton’s helmet. The man jerked convulsively, pushed his shield feebly at Brasus before dropping it and his sword. Brasus staggered for a moment on the brink and then jerked the blade free. He grinned, the power of the god filling him.

‘Come on!’ he shouted to the men behind him and ran towards the gateway. The wounded Roman, perhaps another Briton, screamed in terror and flung himself from the walkway, bouncing and rolling down the slope into the fort. Brasus ignored him and went on. A legionary with a rectangular shield stood in his path, holding a stubby spear, until an arrow sprouted from his ear, having found one of the few vulnerable spots in the side of his helmet, and Brasus would have thought such a thing remarkable luck if he had not known better. The Roman dropped, and a Dacian appeared above the parapet.

Brasus ran on. A Briton appeared, and the downward swing of the falx smashed through his upraised shield and beat the man to his knees. Brasus yanked it free, struck again and the shield broke apart as the Briton gaped because his severed hand was still holding its grip as it fell away. A third cut went through the mail armour, through the ribs and into the wounded man’s chest. Brasus had to put his foot on the dying man to draw his blade free.