Repeatedly the Britons rammed the entrance again and again, they were stabbed with pilums through the gaps when the wood bowed threatening to break.
“Sir we can’t hold them like this forever.” Grattius said.
Varro desperately looked round the interior of the fort. “Take two men and get the wagon from the stable. I saw it when we first arrived and anything else you think is useful, we’ll barricade the gate.” He said to Grattius.
“Breech!” A voice shouted from up above on the wooden ramparts. “Breech!” The voice repeated.
Varro glanced up and saw that fights were breaking out above all over the walls as the Britons leapt inside. Somehow they had managed to get into the fort.
“Stay here.” He told the men with him. “And make sure this gate is secure.”
Those with him looked up at the fighting. “Don’t look at that lot, concentrate on what you have to do here or we’re all fucked.” He turned and ran to the nearest ladder, climbing up he saw Cammius directing the battle.
“How did they get in?” Varro shouted from behind him.
“It looks like they’ve stuck javelins into the walls and climbed up them, not bad for a load of barbarians eh, clever bastards aren’t they?” Cammius looked round the walls once more. “Shields,” He bellowed, “use your shields, get behind them and push the fuckers back over the walls.”
Warriors continued to climb over the sharpened wooden stakes that made up the top of the fort’s defences. The legionaries now had no alternative but to fight behind their shields in one’s and two’s. Varro saw one soldier thrust forward striking an attacker with his shield boss; the rounded metal struck the man squarely in the middle of his face. Quickly the soldier pulled back the shield and punched it forward viciously catching him again. Varro saw the damage the boss had done to the man’s face when the shield was withdrawn and readied to strike again; his face was a crushed bloody mess. The second shield punch rendered him senseless and he fell to the ground and then off the platform and into the interior of the fort, where he was stabbed with a gladius by one of the legionaries below.
Other soldiers were now crouched behind their own shields with their legs braced punching them forward and thrusting with their swords like pistons. The centurion saw one who got his timing wrong as the tip of a long sword blade cut deep into his face just above the nose, blood gushed from the wound and the legionary fell back screaming in agony and shock. For an instant Varro saw his own death. Was he really to be slaughtered in a minor skirmish at a place no-one would remember in the future? The image of his hacked and stripped body propelled him into action. He picked up a scutum and charged forward at the nearest Briton punching out and then thrusting with his spatha. Battle rage took over as he thrashed, ducked and killed mercilessly.
He was suddenly calm as the rage continued and then took over. He was aware of his body moving, his sword cutting, stabbing and slashing, his shield being propelled half an arm’s length out and returned in an instant to cover his width, this was battle. As he moved the horse hair plume on his helmet waved and bobbed as he relished the moment, in, out, parry, slice. He was faintly aware of screams around him, of cries of pain and shouts of anguish, it was close as if somewhere on another level, he continued his work, he felt more alive than he had for a long time.
Another Briton hurdled over the wall and landed setting his eyes on him, he carried a double bladed war axe, he snarled and advanced. Varro pursed his lips vaguely aware that this new opponent was muscular and athletic looking, a real test. He set his feet, legs slightly apart, left foot facing his foe first, shield close, body crouched, sword ready. The Briton launched himself into the air slamming down with his axe. It hammered into the shield splitting the metal skirting. Varro had a chance to stab him but as he thrust forwards the warrior twisted ripping the blade free and the point of his Spatha hit air.
His enemy grinned showing brown teeth, his eyes white. The centurion backed up giving himself space but he bumped into a legionary fighting another intruder facing the other way. He crouched lower not daring to turn as the Briton ran at him again. He feinted as if to leap into the air but then ducked low and swiped the weapon at Varro’s feet. He dropped the shield until he heard it strike the ground but the blow of the axe was so great it knocked the scutum inward, causing Varro to lunge forward. The warrior punched up with an elbow, it struck the side of his face guard, making him unsteady on his feet, dizzy, his ears ringing but he smiled. That incensed the Briton who brought his axe up for another enormous blow and then he froze and jerked forward, once, twice, a third time and then fell face down. Varro saw three arrows embedded into his back, he looked over and saw an archer wave quickly and then draw another missile ready to launch it elsewhere. He’d been lucky, battle rage or not.
The mayhem seemed to go on for an eternity, in reality it was probably only mere minutes, but the defenders slowly began to win the fight for control. Dumnoc’s warriors were thinning out on the walkways and those that remained were surrounded by the Romans and killed or pushed back over the walls.
“That’s it lads,” shouted Cammius in the thick of the fighting, “now contain the bastards and make sure they don’t get up again.”
As the soldiers began hurling javelins and firing arrows at those still trying to climb the defences, the Britons launched another volley of arrows of their own from the woods, but this time the Romans ignored them seemingly impervious. They weren’t however and many were wounded taking sharp iron barbs into their exposed flesh. Projectiles deflected off armour and flew at every angle as the desperate resistance continued. Varro was suddenly aware of white hot pain in his left shoulder, looking down he saw an arrow had struck him and forced its way through his chainmail. Automatically he grabbed the shaft and pulled it free shrieking in agony as he did so. He threw the arrow over the side of the wall and looked down at the gate on the interior. The wagon was now upside down and pilums had been thrust into the ground behind it to stop it from moving, soldiers stood around crouched and watching the entrance for the next attack.
“Concentrate on the gates.” Cammius ordered. Legionaries ran to the position above and rained javelins down. The large shield the Britons had fashioned to cover their heads was now falling apart and pilums were penetrating the wood easily. A horn blew from the woods and those around the perimeter started to retreat. A hail of missiles followed them wounding a few who fell away from their huddles crying in pain, they were instantly targeted and fell silent. One group under their makeshift shield abandoned it as it started to fall apart and ran. The men of Statio Deventia cheered as the enemy fell back into the undergrowth of the trees to no doubt regroup and lick their wounds.
“Excellent, excellent lads well done, told you we’d stop the bastards.” Cammius shouted, turning he saw wounded and dead all around him. “Right let’s make one of the barracks into an infirmary. Get these men down out of harm’s way and get them treated and if any of them,” He pointed to a prone Briton, “are still wriggling, give them some iron and hurl them over the side.” He looked down into the interior at the gate. “Get those defences re-enforced with anything you can find, they’ll be back at some point, I’d wager a thousand denarii on it and make sure a raging bull couldn’t breach it.”