Those men of the First Century who had caught up with their comrades carrying the ram hurried up the side facing the fort and raised their shields to protect themselves and their comrades carrying the ram. More arrows rained down, and stones, but the constant hail of missiles from the bastion forced the defenders to bob up and shoot without taking aim and they had little effect on the party moving steadily towards the gate. By contrast, the Romans in the bastion remained standing as they bombarded the wall of the fort opposite them. Ahead, Macro saw a ballista bolt smash into the top of the palisade, sending a burst of splinters into the air.
An enemy warrior, more foolhardy than courageous, rose up in full view and thrust his sword out towards Macro, exhorting his comrades to shoot the legionaries down. Then he was struck in the chest by a stone and was swept away by the impact, as if snatched from this life by an invisible giant hand.
Then there was cry just behind Macro and he felt the rope handle lurch in his grip. He hissed a curse as he was forced to a stop and turned to look back with a furious expression. One of his men had been struck on the helmet by a rock and had fallen back against the man behind him, causing them both to release their hold on the ram. Macro nodded to the nearest man carrying a shield.
‘Take his place!’
The legionary obeyed at once, tossing his shield aside and stepping over the fallen man to grasp the rope handle. As soon as he had taken up the strain, Macro gave the order to continue the advance. They slowly climbed the last remaining stretch of track and approached the ditch in front of the gate. Eight feet across, as near as Macro could estimate it. The bridge had been drawn up and hung a small distance from the gatehouse. Macro gave the order to lower the ram and ordered the nearest three men to follow him. They scrambled down into the ditch and hauled their armoured bodies up the rear scarp, pausing at the top to catch their breath. Macro pointed to the taut lengths of rope bound to the end of the drawbridge.
‘We have to cut those! Two men to each. Go!’
While the other legionaries scurried across to the other side, Macro nodded to the third man. ‘Back against the wall and make a step.’
The man did as he was told and cupped his hands. Macro placed his boot on the soldier’s hands and grasped his shoulders as he heaved himself up. ‘Lift!’
The man heaved with a groan of exertion and Macro pressed himself against the wooden timbers of the gatehouse as he felt for the man’s shoulder with his other foot. When both were in place, the legionary grasped Macro’s calves to steady him while the officer went to work. The exposed rope was a short distance above his head and Macro drew his dagger and reached up. With his left hand clutching the edge of the bridge, he began to saw away at the thick weave of cords, the strands steadily parting beneath the well-honed edge of the blade. All the while Acer’s men in the bastion did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.
Then there was a shout from behind the gate and Macro glanced down to see the dim form of a man looking up at him from the shade beneath the gatehouse.
‘They’re on to us!’ Macro called across to the men cutting the other length of rope. ‘Get moving!’
He continued cutting away furiously at the rope, his muscles aching and burning from the effort as he cursed the rope and willed it to part. Through the gap he could see several men moving towards the gate, and the dull gleam of the head of a spear. The spear point thrust towards him through the gap and glinted in the sun. Macro threw his weight to the side as much as he could while remaining steady on the shoulders of the man straining to hold him up. He just managed to maintain his balance and continue cutting. Only a slender strand remained, taut under the load it carried, which made it easier to work at. With a deep resonating twang the rope parted and the corner of the bridge lurched out, dislodging Macro from his perch on the legionary’s shoulders. He fell sideways, scrabbling for purchase on the coarse wooden post beside the gate. The ground came up and Macro landed heavily on his side, the air driven from his lungs with a pained grunt. The legionary stumbled and fell beside him, just as the head of the spear stabbed out of the gap, missing the man by inches. On the other side of the gate the other men were still struggling to cut through the rope.
Macro tried to warn them but was too winded to utter a cry. The legionary with the knife shuddered and gasped as he was stabbed by an enemy warrior but clung on and continued severing the rope. A moment later it parted and the drawbridge swung down and the far end crashed on the lip of the ditch, sending an explosion of dust into the air. The legionary slid off his comrade and fell into the ditch, blood coursing from the spear wound in his groin. But Macro could pay him no attention as he struggled to his feet, still fighting for breath, and saw the enemy warriors retreating into the shadows. Before the Romans on the far side of the ditch could react, the gate swung shut and the locking bar thudded into place. Macro ran back across the drawbridge to the ram with the two surviving legionaries and they took up their rope handles.
Macro grunted an order to his men to lift the ram and it swayed up from the ground. The party moved over the drawbridge and stopped a short distance from the sturdy-looking gates. Each side of them their comrades again raised their shields to protect them all against the men above the gate and on the towering earthworks on each flank. Lining the head of the ram up with the narrow gap between the two gates, Macro yelled over his shoulder, ‘Three swings then strike! One. .’
The men braced their boots on the wooden boards of the drawbridge and swung the heavy tree trunk back, then let it wing forward as far as its momentum would carry it before swinging it back, harder this time, as Macro called out, ‘Two. . three!’
The men swung the ram forward with all their might and the point crashed against the gates, dislodging more dust that shimmered from the seams.
‘Again!’
Macro took up the weight and repeated the process and each time the ram crashed home, more dust and debris showered down on his helmet and shoulders. Then he saw a faint sliver of light between the timbers.
‘The gates are starting to give, lads!’ he shouted to his men. ‘Keep going!’
The next blow drove in one of the thick boards of the gate and light poured through the jagged gap. The Romans let out a spontaneous cry of delight and pounded again, enlarging the opening. Now Macro could see glimpses of the men and weapons waiting for them on the other side. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the prospect of getting to them, avenging the men of the Seventh Cohort and putting an end to the rebellion before it could spread beyond Isurium. There was a deep crack as the locking bar gave way and the gates shuddered inwards a few inches.
‘Any moment,’ Macro warned his men as they swung the ram back again. Sweat gleamed on their faces but their eyes were bright with excitement. It took several more swings before the bar split in two and the gates leaped back on their hinges.
‘Down ram!’ Macro ordered. ‘Up swords and at ’em!’
His comrades released their rope grips and the ram dropped on to the bridge. Macro turned to one of the men protecting their flanks and thrust out his hand. ‘Give me your shield!’
The legionary hesitated for an instant, loathe to give up his personal property as well as his protection. Then discipline re-asserted itself and he handed the shield to Macro.
‘Find yourself another back on the track and get stuck in,’ Macro ordered as he adjusted his grip and then turned to the gate, drawing his sword. ‘Follow me!’
He rushed forward, just as the enemy recovered and began to push back against the gates, forcing them to close. The horn sounded twice from the bastion and began to repeat as the men of the Eighth Cohort let out a roar and charged down the steps to join the attack. Pushing hard against the inside of his shield, Macro braced it against the gates and thrust with all his strength. His men piled in on either side and then behind their comrades, straining to keep the gates from closing. Slowly they stopped moving and the two sides struggled to hold their ground.