‘Beautiful,’ Naso said.

Ferox grinned and knew that he was not needed over here, so hurried down to the intervallum and went to where the second tower would reach the wall. Five veterans of I Minervia waited on the slope behind the rampart. All had helmets with upright bands welded to the top in a cross shape. They were strong enough to weaken the blow of a falx and save a man’s life, even if he would still get the father of all headaches. Each also had his scutum, and apart from his cuirass, wore a laminated iron guard on his right arm. Ferox had wondered in the weeks before the siege about equipping all the men with the same added protection, but there had not been time and other preparations had mattered more.

‘Ready, lads.’

‘Aye,’ one grunted. These were picked men, all of them highly decorated or in two cases the sort of men who would have won awards and promotion years ago if they had shown half the aptitude for the routines of soldiering that they had shown time and again in battle. They were killers, and they would lead alongside Ferox. Behind would come Bran and Minura, for if the fighting broke up and space was cramped he would trust their well-honed skills as much as those of anyone else in the fort, save Vindex and he could not be spared. Last there were two legionaries with torches and two more with pots of oil held in a string net.

Ferox led them up the slope and had them crouch just below the top, the veterans’ shields in front as protection. There was no need to speak or remind them of the job, so they waited.

‘Nearly here, sir,’ a soldier called down from the ramparts and then a great cheer went up all along the wall. ‘The tower, sir! The other one, it’s smashed!’ The man was grinning and then an arrow sprouted from his left eye and another drove through his mail into his chest. He fell, rolling down the slope past them. The arrows had come from above, which meant that the second tower was close, the archers on top beginning to do their job of clearing the rampart. Another man fell a moment later, and the rest were raising shields high and too busy to throw anything back. By this time, the tower was probably past the ground where any of the ballistae could reach it. He thought back to Ephippus cursing the Romans for their stubborn refusal to build towers that projected in front of the walls like any civilized folk.

‘Soon, lads,’ Ferox said softly. He heard the creaking of the great tower as it edged towards the wall and could see the archers sheltering behind wooden crenulations on the roof of the tower.

‘Up!’ he said. They stood, the legionaries in two ranks. Each one in front had his scutum level, as did Ferox who was on the right of the line, and behind them the man had his shield high. ‘Forward slowly,’ he said. They could not march easily on the grassy slope, so needed to be careful. Ferox’s shield quivered as arrows struck the front, and he heard more missiles hitting the other shields beside him. ‘Forward.’ Their legs were covered by the slope and the parapet once they got up onto the walkway. That was a dangerous moment, because until the second rank came up behind them they could not reach up well with their shields. Ferox saw the arrow, pulled his head down and felt the point clang just above the brow-peak of his helmet, no doubt leaving a dent. The veteran next to him was slower and an arrow buried itself into the bridge of his nose. He sighed as he fell, and the man behind cursed because he tripped over the falling corpse.