When he glanced up quickly he saw the sky above the fort already dull orange with the fires and smoke from the far side. The wall and the palisade at the top were silhouetted solid black against the glow: how would they ever get over that? Don’t think, he told himself. His hands and face were scratched, and his bruised hip ached with every heaving step upwards.
Then, suddenly, the ground levelled and the first massive stones of the wall were before him. He looked up and saw no enemy heads along the parapet. From inside the fort, he could hear men shouting, screams, the noise of panicking animals and the steady rushing crackle of the fire. Most of the defenders were surely trying to extinguish the blaze before it destroyed their huts and defences – but sulphurous pitch burns hot and is hard to quench.
Castus threw his back to the wall. Other men were stumbling up around him now; he needed to wait until the main force was assembled before beginning the assault, if it were to stand any chance of succeeding. But more than half the men were still straggling around on the slope, clawing their way up in the dark. He gestured ferociously, cursing through his teeth. Come on, come on…
‘Archers!’ he hissed. ‘Spread out along the wall and watch the parapet. Shoot anyone you see. Grapnels: get up here quick.’
More cursing and fumbling in the darkness. One of the men slipped and fell on his grapnel, crying out in pain. No point in silence now…
‘On my command, throw together. As soon as you’ve got a firm hold, get up those ropes and start tearing down the parapets!’
Men spread out along the base of the wall. Valens came running up, panting breath, with most of his men clambering after him. Castus could wait no longer.
‘Throw!’
Air whined as the iron hooks were whirled and slung, a score of ropes uncoiling upwards into the glow of the fires. Iron clinked on stone or wrenched against wood. The man nearest Castus, a lumpish slow-witted youth, slung his grapnel up and then stared dumbly as it thumped against the wooden parapet and tumbled back, almost hitting him as it fell.
‘Give me that,’ Castus snarled. The youth was already on his knees, groping in the grass, but Castus found the grapnel first and snatched it up. He gathered a coil of line, then whirled the grapnel and threw with all his strength. For a moment he saw the iron hook dark against the sky’s glow, before it crossed the parapet and he started dragging on the rope until it ran taut.
Two tugs with his weight behind them: the grapnel held. All along the wall a web of ropes were pulled tight, men already scrambling upwards. Castus ran at the wall, feeding the rope between his hands and planting his boots against the rough stones. Muscles bunched, he started hauling himself up. He felt his own sixteen stone of weight, plus the weight of his mail and shield, stretching the rope. He feared that it would break, or the palisade collapse before he gained the top of the wall. Anyone up there with a spear, even a rock, could knock him down now… Grunting every breath, kicking his boots for grip against the wall, he dragged himself up hand over hand.
Then the rope ran horizontal, and the wooden stakes of the palisade were in front of him. He grabbed at them, vaulting across the summit and dropping into a crouch on the far side. In one motion he slung the shield from his back and drew his sword.
He was alone. First on the wall, and no sign of the defenders.
Then bodies crashed against the palisade, soldiers dragging themselves up and over onto the wall walk. In the space of six heartbeats there were a dozen up, then a score, some of them taking position with raised shields, others hacking and pulling at the palisade stakes, others leaning back over to help their comrades scramble in through the breaches.
Castus let out a long breath. The air inside the fort was fogged with smoke, the walls and huts lit by a dull orange glow. There was only a narrow space of ground on this side, between the outer rampart and the wall of upper compound, but it was mazed with animal pens and small thatched shelters. Castus heard a shout from his left, and saw men running between the pens.
‘Shields up,’ he shouted. ‘Form a barrier along the rampart!’
Soldiers stepped in to either side of him, clattering their shields against his. Behind them, more men were climbing the wall, the space inside the shield wall crowding with armoured bodies. A flung javelin struck the shields, then another.
‘Valens! Take your men and go for the gate. I’ll take the inner wall.’
He saw his friend raise a fist, and then signal to his men; the ring of shields broke, Valens and his century veering off to the right along the line of the rampart. Castus stared across at the inner wall. It was over ten feet high, with another palisade at the top, but it sloped inwards from the base and the stones were worn and old. No time now to retrieve the grapnels and ropes.
‘Modestus: take ten men and form testudo against the base of the wall. Ramped towards the top. Understand? The rest of you, stay close on me.’
Leaping down off the walkway, he jogged across the ground between the animal pens. Sounds of fighting to his right. Valens and his men had met the first wave of defenders. He glanced around, looking for Placidus, but there was no sign of him.
Suddenly a figure lurched up in front of him, a Pict with a tall ruff of hair. ‘Ha!’ the man yelled, darting a spear at his face. Castus turned the blow with his shield and hacked the man down without breaking stride.
Modestus was shouting, pushing his group of men against the inner wall. They stumbled together, and then their raised shields rattled above their heads. There were figures moving along the higher parapet. Castus saw the shaved skulls, the matted hair-crests. A spear came down and struck one of the soldiers.
‘Remigius, Attalus: form your men behind me,’ Castus roared. ‘We’re going over that wall at a run – kill every shy;one that gets in your way!’
He felt the bunched strength in his arms, the force of the blood filling his head. The dim glow of the fires seemed as bright as daylight. Three running strides, and he launched himself up onto the ramp of locked and levelled shields.
For a moment they tilted, the men beneath gasping as they took his weight. Castus rolled, sliding on the slick boards; then he got his knees beneath him and managed to stand. A roar from Modestus, and he felt himself boosted upwards as the men heaved against the shields. Sword in hand, he took three long steps forward and snatched at the palisade above his head, dragging himself up onto the crest of the wall.
Thunder of boots on shield boards behind him. Remigius and Attalus leading their men up across the testudo. Castus raised his head over the palisade, but ducked immediately. A blade whirred above him, and he struck back with a wild swing. A crunch of bone, a scream. Then he vaulted the palisade and came down inside the upper enclosure, dropping into a fighting stance.
The sky beyond the far boundary was full of fire, and the shapes of running men threw mad distorted shadows through the smoke. Remigius scrambled across the palisade behind Castus, with three of his men following him.
But the defenders were already upon them: a pack of them, ten or fifteen, coming at a run with shields raised, darting their spears overhead. No time to form up. Castus charged at the first Pict, beat his spear aside and knocked him down with his shield. A second stabbed at him. Castus yelled, a full-throated roar, sliced through the shaft of the spear, and then hacked the man through the head on the backswing. From the corner of his eye he saw Remigius take on two warriors: the soldier lunged for the first, but the second cut low with a sword and sheared the blade through his leg.