‘Come on!’ Ferox said to the remaining veterans and they went to the trapdoor to stop anyone from coming back up. The enemy were bound to recover soon, but it would be hard for them to fight their way up.

‘You two!’ he called in the language of the tribes. ‘Up top.’ There must have been half a dozen archers or even more up top and three or four at least must still be alive, so Ferox sent Bran and Minura to deal with them. It was hard not to lead them, but the aim was to destroy the tower and he had to make sure that they held on until that was done. The boy led up the ladder and his ‘sister’ followed, but none of the veterans paid attention as the pretty girl showed her long legs. A spear came jabbing up the trapdoor, but the veteran closest had greaves and the point threw off a spark without doing any damage. Another legionary slashed at the shaft, breaking it.

There were cries from the upper level, feet stamping on the floor and the clash of weapons. The two men brought the oil and Ferox pointed them to the left-hand side. ‘There,’ he told them, and they piled the rags against the solid side wall and then emptied the pots of oil all over them. Something thick and warm dripped onto Ferox and he realised that it was blood, coming from cracks in the ceiling.

‘Time to go!’ he shouted in Latin and then switched to the tongue of Britannia. ‘Time to go!’ Bran came down the ladder, face flushed and smeared with blood, but grinning from ear to ear. Minura’s boots appeared after him.

‘There were five,’ Bran said. ‘Thetatus,’ he added using army slang for dead. Vindex had taken to the word and the boy must have picked it up from him.

‘Quick.’ Ferox pointed his sword back towards the rampart. ‘Go! Go!’ The men who had prepared the fire ran. One stumbled as an arrow drove through the scales of his armour and almost tumbled off the bridge until the other caught him. Bran and Minura went next, leaping nimbly down onto the parapet.

One of the veterans hissed as a sica slashed up into the tip of his boot. ‘Bastard!’ He jabbed down, but could not reach his enemy.

‘Get him out of here!’ Ferox shouted to the others. ‘I’ll hold ’em back!’

The wounded veteran shrugged off the others and limped away.

‘You sure, sir?’ one asked.

‘Yes, go!’ Ferox glanced back at the men with the torches. ‘Light it!’ a Dacian yelled as he came up the ladder, sica ready. Ferox pushed the blade aside with the edge of his scutum and kicked the man in the face, stamping down again as he staggered. The warrior fell.

Already Ferox could feel the heat from the spreading flames. Everyone else had gone, so he ran back over the bridge and tried to vault across the parapet. His foot caught and he went sprawling headlong, shield and sword flying away before slamming onto the far edge of the walkway and sliding half way down the slope, his breath knocked out of him.