Varro dodged back into the cover of the tower but not before he felt the heat of the flames threatening to set him alight, almost instantly he could smell singed fur and wondered briefly if it was his own or the guard he had been talking to just moments before. He fell over the ballista in his panic and stumbled along the other wall out of reach of the fire as it took hold of the forts frontal defences. He had time to check his cloak but didn’t see anything on fire.
He struggled to his feet and ran along the wall with the sentry close behind. He heard someone already shouting for water to fight the flames as he got to a ladder and virtually fell down its length to the relative safety of the ground below. It was only when he got to his feet that he felt the pain of a large wooden finger length splinter embedded into his right palm, he swore in frustration ripping it free. Soldiers were already throwing buckets of water against the walls at the forts entrance and along the walls length, trying to cool the wood as he threw the splinter to the ground.
Suddenly without warning an avalanche of night arrows began to land inside, hitting men sporadically at random. Those who weren’t struck, took cover under their shields once more, others cried out in agony as the barbed hot arrowheads punctured their bodies. Medics ran from cover to help them, seemingly unconcerned by the deadly barrage from above. Archers fired blindly into the night hoping to hit their attackers in the dark. He didn’t know how large a force the Britons had outside but if they managed to burn through the outer wall, the fight could turn into a free for all. With the flames lashing up around the towers now, the ballista were already useless and out of action. He ran to the lines of men that had already formed up from the well as they quickly passed buckets to each other to pass forward, dark black acrid smoke seemed to be everywhere as men coughed and choked.
“Form another line and another here.” He ordered pointing and quickly arranged the men so there were three lines handing buckets forward to throw onto the hot wood of the wall. It was impossible to tell what was happening outside now, the Britons could be formed up ready to run into the place as the wood burned through. For now he could do nothing but concentrate on dampening the wood as much as possible, it was already starting to steam and crack.
In the background he was aware of squares of soldiers forming up ready for any eventuality, if the Britons got through they would be met with heavy infantry. The fight to control the fire seemed to be never ending as the pig fat continued to burn, the smell was foul and the smoke blacker than the night sky but eventually it started to die down.
Varro saw that some men had stopped passing buckets and shouted for them to continue. It looked as if the wood on the inside of the fort had held but it now looked like charcoal, black and crisp, shining wet with the water, hissing and steaming in places. The main gate was a ruined husk and far too hot to open as it had before, the great metal hinges glowed red. It was decided to let it cool and settle before any attempt was made to go outside where they didn’t know what waited for them. Men sank to the floor exhausted holding ripped material from their tunics over their noses to try and stop the smoke from entering their lungs, faces black with soot looked about relieved that it was over for the time being. The injured were carried and dragged to the infirmary where they could receive better treatment.
As the sun began to rise and the dark sky started to lighten with the first few rays of daylight a few hours later, the forts occupants were still on a high state of alert and were ready for another attack. After the last of the night arrows had fallen the offensive against them seemed to have ended or at least paused but they couldn’t be certain from their position inside and so they waited. A few brave souls ventured to the front wall still smouldering from the flames but they couldn’t see beyond the palisade and its own smoke, so had quickly backed away.
“We’ll wait until daylight and we can see properly,” A centurion shouted, “nobody is to approach the wall again until I give the order. If you do I’ll shove my vine cane where you don’t want it” His previously white tunic was now blackened by smoke where he had been in the midst of the fire fight during the night. Varro saw Vespasian behind the centurion, he looked furious and barely able to contain himself. The Britons had caught them unawares, something that the Legate was not used to happening. He remembered back to Caratacus shouting from the edge of the woodland, the image raw in his mind. Clearly the wily Briton had regrouped and re-enforced his army and now had another tribe fighting under his banner. The enemy obviously had no regard for the conventions of war, attacking outside the campaigning season and when they were bottled up inside their walls. Caratacus was still a worthy and dangerous opponent Varro thought to himself, would this ever end?
“Centurion,” A familiar voice shouted, he turned and saw Vespasian wave him over. He ran towards him holding his armour still at the neck under his furs as it had a tendency to bounce when the wearer jogged or ran.
“Sir.” He said coming to a halt, he saluted.
“As soon as it’s light enough to get out there safely,” he said immediately discarding any pleasantries, Varro feeling his pulse quicken, “I want you out there on their trail, I want them found, I want to know where they are so we can destroy every last fucking one of them. Do you understand Centurion?”
“Yes sir.” He had never seen Vespasian so angry before.
“I don’t want you to be seen, I don’t want them to know we’re coming. I want you to take your men and find out everything there is to know about these Silures is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“I want to know who these fucking Silures are as well as this Ardwen. I want to know where their tribal grounds are and how many of them there are, I’m going to hit them so fucking hard their dead ancestors will feel it.” He turned to the senior Centurion standing by his side. “I thought we had got rid of that barbarian Caratacus back at the Medway, hasn’t he learned his lesson already? Now he turns up with another tribe and sets fire to my fort and kills my men.” He turned back to Varro. “Find out who this other cunny is, he’s probably fucking Caratacus in celebration as we speak.” He turned to survey the damaged wall at the front of the fort. “You will take Quintus’ section of men as well and those Britons, Brenna and her brother. They’re due to arrive in the morning,” this came as a surprise, “you will command. Find them for me Varro.” The Legate turned and walked off quickly to survey more of the damage.
Varro didn’t reply but saluted and turned to go to the stables to begin to ready his horses and men, he looked up at the sky and shuddered. He wasn’t aware that Brenna and her brother were due to arrive that day, they were in for good welcome on the frontier.
Already miles away to the north, Caratacus and Ardwen led their men back towards the rolling valleys of the Silures. Snow had begun to fall and people huddled inside their furs trying to stay warm against the days chill. Snow capped the mountains in the distance of Ardwen's land where they knew they would be relatively secure. The attack upon the fort of Vespasian had gone exactly according to plan and at a cost of only five dead but the Roman cost must have vastly outnumbered their own. In addition to their dead and injured the fort was badly damaged and a number of vessels sunk or put beyond repair, it had been a very successful night’s work.