The legionaries had practised the drill many a time, although few had done it with a real enemy up above. A stone banged hard at the point where one scutum overlapped the next, sending a quiver across the whole roof of shields. Men flinched at the noise, looking up nervously.
‘Steady, boys. Keep going,’ the centurion called. His voice was firm and carried well for all its high pitch. He knew that the tone mattered more than anything he actually said.
Archers came behind them, but it was hard for them to dodge missiles in the narrow space between the inner ditch and main rampart, and harder still for them to shoot up at men on the wall. One of the auxiliary bowmen fell, struck on the helmet by a stone. Then another had his left arm broken and staggered away. Arrows stuck into the wooden parapet or sailed harmlessly overheard.
With a rumble, a basket of stones cascaded onto the testudo, scraping the calfskin cover of one of the shields so that its wooden boards were exposed. The soldier underneath went pale. Next to him a man started to mutter a prayer.
‘Liber Pater, be with me now.’
At the front, men could glimpse what lay ahead over the tops of their shields and knew that there was a long way to go. The men on the flanks saw the ramparts on either side of them inching past. Those at the back saw nothing, apart from the helmets and shoulders of their comrades, arms held up to keep the shields in place.
‘We’re doing well, boys,’ Tertullianus told them. ‘One step at a time, that’s all we need.’
Behind the archers came the Batavians, infantry and cavalry mingled together and with Cerialis at their head, a bandage around his right shin. With them went Vindex, a limping Segovax and his brother, and the other survivors of the tower, including Probus, whose bandaged side made him wince each time he moved, and Longinus, who had slipped away from the tribune. The auxiliaries carried two ladders salvaged from the first assault, and they went to the left. A few of the Harii followed them, and a trooper was pitched over with a javelin in his back, for it was hard to shelter behind shields when going in this direction. The centurion had a line of men walking backwards, shields together, but sometimes they slipped or wavered and, even when they did not, plenty of missiles sailed over their heads to strike the main group behind them. A team of sailors with a bolt-shooter stood in the open entrance way and the first heavy dart struck a pirate in the face with such force that the pyramid-shaped tip burst out of the back of his head. The second shot killed another of the defenders, and then the marines forced their way through the entrance and the men had to stop shooting. The marines had one ladder – the other had been broken in the earlier fighting – as well as a couple of ropes, and they followed the legionaries and the archers.
The testudo continued its slow, jerking progress. Up on the rampart, one of the pirates climbed onto the lip of the parapet and stood up straight, a big rock held above his head in both hands. He flung it down, his comrades grabbing his legs because he nearly unbalanced with the motion. The impact was dreadful, and the noise far worse, as the boulder cracked the boss of a man’s scutum, forcing him down to his knees. For a moment, there was a gap in the shields. Someone threw a burning torch from the rampart, but it missed the hole and simply lay on the top of the testudo, smouldering for a while before it went out.
‘Liber Pater, be with me now.’ The prayer was almost a whimper.
‘Bastards,’ hissed another legionary. ‘I’m going to kill every bastard bastard of the bastards, and that bastard god if he gets in my way. Let him stick to wine and wild women.’
‘Wish I could,’ said another, and there was laughter – tense and nervous, but laughter nevertheless.
‘Steady lads, keep together,’ the centurion called. ‘Not far now.’
The soldier stood up, knuckles hurting, and his shield rose to meet the others again. An arrow struck the man standing on the parapet, the point forcing its way through where four scales of his cuirass joined together. He twisted away from the blow, and his friends lost their grip so that he fell off, limbs waving, and smacked into the roof of shields.
‘Shit!’ yelled the soldier who had been praying. The noise was appalling, and half a dozen men staggered as they felt the blow, but the weight was spread and they soon recovered.
‘Come on, boys,’ Tertullianus said. ‘Not far, not far.’
The testudo jerked along, the spread-eagled body of the pirate lying on top, moaning.
Behind the legionaries, Batavians and marines were falling, and men tripped over the wounded and dead, but already Cerialis’ men had raised the ladders. A pirate tried to push one over, but ducked back when a javelin struck the parapet beside him, throwing up splinters.
‘Follow me!’ the prefect yelled, pushing one of his troopers aside and scrambling up the wooden rungs. He did not use his hands, and had sword in one hand and his raised shield in the other, so that he could not see the top of the ladder or the wall. Something slammed into the shield, but he kept going. Close by, one of his men was climbing the other ladder, but then slumped back, his helmet dented from the strike of a stone, and the man stuck there, legs caught so that he hung down and blocked the way.
Cerialis saw the wood of the parapet, the drab shield of one of the defenders in his path, and a spearhead came past his own shield and only just missed his face. Then the pirate vanished, falling back with the bolt from one of the engines in the throat. The prefect took another step, then another, and punched a warrior in the face with the boss of his shield, knocking the man back. With a shout, a soldier had pulled the stunned trooper off the other ladder and was climbing. Cerialis stabbed with his sword through the opening in the parapet, striking against a shield, but once again his opponent went back a step. Vindex watched from the ditch, saw a man coming from the side, knew the prefect could not see him, saw the slicing blow of his sword break through the boards of Cerialis’ shield, but then the pirate fell with a bolt in his shoulder.
The testudo was almost at the gate, the wounded pirate slipping with each movement and sobbing with pain. Up on the rampart men were lifting something heavy. An archer saw the bronze cauldron and yelled a warning, even as he loosed an arrow. One of the pirates carrying it let go, clutching at the shaft in his arm. More archers shot, and it was enough to panic the men so that the cauldron tipped too early. One of the pirates screamed as the scalding oil splashed onto his legs. Wood on the parapet smouldered, but most of the contents went in a wave down the stone side of the rampart. A legionary yelped as little spots of hot oil flicked onto his breeches. More struck the pirate lying on top of the testudo, and he writhed, making the shields bob underneath him. Then the cauldron thumped onto his chest, breaking ribs, and the men underneath staggered.
‘Hold together, lads. Nearly there,’ the centurion called. ‘Another pace, another. Now!’
The front rank had held their rectangular shields ahead of them. Now they raised them, adding to the roof of shields so that it reached the timbers of the gate. The second rank was tightly packed against them, for it consisted of sailors with axes and the dolabra pick-axe that was the army’s universal tool, and these men squeezed past to get to the front. There was not much room, but they swung the blades and started to bite into the timber. Stones smacked onto the shields above them, and then a pirate who had leaned over to throw at them screamed because an arrow hit him in the face.
The marines were raising their ladder, men starting to climb, when a second cauldron appeared on the wall. It was too heavy for the pirates to carry up to the gate and use on the testudo, so they raised it here and strained as they tipped the mouth over. Warning shouts came too late, and the stream of yellow liquid hissed as it fell. Men screamed as their flesh was scorched and blistered. One fell from the ladder, arms flailing. Another man was desperately struggling with the shoulder buckles on his mail because the liquid had seeped inside and was burning him. A shout of triumph came from the rampart.