‘We could call them back, sir,’ suggested Plinius. ‘Lay down another barrage and try again.’

‘No,’ Vespasian replied curtly. Plinius looked at him, waiting for an explanation, but the legate remained silent. Any relaxing of the pressure on the front gate would put Cato and his men at risk. For all the legate knew, they might already be dead, but he had to assume their part of the plan was going ahead. Only Cato could save the hostages now. He must be given a chance. That meant the First Cohort had to remain in the killing ground outside the hill fort’s gate. There was another reason for keeping them there. If he ordered them back down the rampart, they would lose more men on the way. Then, while the bolt throwers renewed their barrage, the survivors of the first assault would have to wait, knowing they had to face the perils of the attack all over again. Vespasian could well imagine what that might do to their fighting spirit. What they needed up there right now was encouragement, something to strengthen their resolve.

‘Get my horse, and get another for the eagle-bearer.’

‘You’re not going up there, sir?’ Plinius was shocked.

‘Get the horses.’

While the mounts were fetched, Vespasian tightened the ties under his helmet. He looked at the eagle-bearer and was reassured by the man’s easy composure, one of the key qualities looked for in men picked for the honour of carrying the eagle into battle. The horses were rushed to them by running slaves and the reins handed over. Vespasian and the eagle-bearer swung themselves up.

‘Sir!’ Plinius called out. ‘If anything happens to you, what are your orders?’

‘Why, to take the hill fort of course!’

With a swift kick of his heels Vespasian urged his horse towards the foot of the ramp, pounding across the open ground with the eagle-bearer just behind him, reins in one hand, the shaft of the standard clenched in the other. Up the ramp they galloped, swerving round at the first dogleg and on to the second ramp. Here lay the first Roman casualties, pierced by arrows or crushed by stones, their blood pooling on the track amid the feathered shafts that seemed to have sprung up from the soil. The wounded, seeing the horsemen approach, painfully hauled themselves to the side of the track, some of them managing to raise a cheer for the legate as he thundered past.

They turned the second dogleg, and quickly reined in as they came up against the rearmost century of the First Cohort.