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its wooden roof. Glancing left and then right, Vespasian could see the two supporting cohorts making their way down into the second ditch with their tall scaling ladders, drawing a little of the defenders’ attentions awayfrom the ram. He shared a grim but determined look with the centurion and gave a brief nod.
    â€˜Forward at the double!’ the centurion cried.
    Hefting the ram in their midst, the auxiliaries broke into a jog, behind them the remainder of the cohort followed up. Within a few pounding heartbeats they covered the last twenty uphill paces to the gates; without stopping, they crashed the ram into them with a heavy report, shaking the structure but doing no discernible damage.
    â€˜Swing it back on my mark!’ Vespasian cried. ‘And now!’
    As one the men carrying the ram withdrew it and then swung it forward with all possible momentum, cracking it into the gates whilst their comrades did their best to shield them from the constant rain of missiles. Again the gates shook and again the auxiliaries swung.
    But then came what Vespasian had been dreading but somehow had to be endured. Clay pots filled with red-hot charcoal crashed down onto the upturned shields, fragmenting into sharp shards and releasing their scorching contents onto the men underneath. Vespasian stifled an agonised scream as a glowing coal fell onto the back of his hand; it was all he could do not to relinquish his grip on the ram’s hook as the burning lump rolled off leaving seared skin and the stench of scorched flesh. Cries from all around attested to the effectiveness of the stratagem but somehow the ram was swung again and then again.
    Now there was a crack of light between the gates and Vespasian’s hopes soared. ‘Keep at it, lads!’
    With another resonating blow the gates shifted back a bit more, widening the gap; figures could be seen through it rushing to lend their weight to the defences. Javelins now flicked overhead as the remainder of the cohort’s centuries loosed their primary weapons at the defenders, punching many of them back, arms flailing, eyes rolling, shrieking into the fires beyond. Yet still the fire-pots fell onto their upturned shields; as Vespasian turned to encourage the men one screamed in agony as his woollen tunic suddenly ignited and Vespasian felt a sticky liquid slop through a gap in the shield-roof.
    â€˜That’s oil, sir!’ the centurion yelled, his voice taut with dread as flames burgeoned on their makeshift cover.
    The ram again thundered forward; the auxiliaries, faces racked with fear, heaved at it with the extra strength afforded by desperation as oil, ignited by the glowing charcoal scorching their upturned shields, dripped down into their formation. The gates shuddered as the bar across them cracked; the ram returned with brutal force, splintering the bar and driving the gates ever back. A spear punched through the gap, cleaving the centurion’s mouth, shattering teeth, and slicing through soft tissue and bone to burst out of the back of his neck in an explosive spray. Vespasian lowered his burning shield to face the threat as all around him the men of the century dropped the ram and slammed their shoulders into the two gates, edging them back. More spears thrust through the gap, cracking into Vespasian’s shield and those of the auxiliaries who now stood to either side of him. They stood firm as the men on the gates strained with the defenders in a contest of strength and will; gradually but inexorably the gates ground backwards as men from the next century rushed to aid their comrades. The gap widened even more and the shield-wall extended; javelins now hissed towards them, thumping into their shields that dripped flaming oil. To his rear, Vespasian could hear the other centuries’ officers bellowing orders at their men to storm the breached defence; he sensed bodies forming up behind him and felt relief at the arrival of support –