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even if it was not Magnus.
    The gates shifted another couple of feet and in the swirling smoke beyond, back-lit by flaming huts, stood a mass of warriors. With a volley of sleek-pointed javelins announcing their intent, they charged.
    Holding his smoking shield tight before him, Vespasian led the auxiliaries’ response, breaking into a jog for the few closing paces before the two sides collided just inside the gates. The moment before contact, in an action instilled by years of repetitive training, the auxiliaries punched their shields forward and up as they stamped their left legs down, planting them squarely on the ground whilst thrusting their swords, underarm, betweenthe gaps at their adversaries’ groins. The shock of impact crunched through Vespasian’s frame as he strained his left arm to hold back the weight of the charge, hunkering down behind his shield to avoid the wild slashes of long swords and the overarm thrusting of spears. The auxiliary next to him, blood already splattered on his chain mail, screamed in an unintelligible tongue; Gallic, Vespasian assumed as he furiously worked his sword arm forward to feel it jar against wood. The weight of the file behind him pushed into his back and a shield was thrust over his head, protecting him from projectiles hurled from the wall to either side. Javelins from the rear ranks hurtled overhead, slamming into the packed mass of defenders compacted by warriors at the rear surging forward against a Roman line that held solid. Another punch with the tip of his weapon brought a lingering scream from ahead as he felt it tear through yielding tissue; warm fluid slopped onto his sandalled feet as he twisted his blade, rolling his wrist left then right, before abruptly yanking it out. He felt a body slither down his shield and jabbed his sword down at it as he stepped over his fallen foe, praying that the man behind him knew his business and would ensure that the warrior was despatched.
    Another warrior stood in his path, snarling under a drooping moustache, his naked torso smeared with blue-green vitrum swirls, brandishing a slashing-sword above his head. With lightning speed, the weapon flashed towards him, left to right; Vespasian ducked under the swipe at the same moment as the Gallic auxiliary to his left raised himself to stab overarm at the throat of his own opponent. With a wet crunch the blade seared through the Gaul’s neck, cutting off his stream of obscenities, severing his head and sending it spinning, spiralling blood, away into the fray. Vespasian sliced his weapon down, taking the Briton’s arm off at the elbow while the headless corpse sank to the ground disgorging its contents in a crimson fountain as the heart pumped on for a few beats; the freshly carved stump added to the gore spraying about and the warrior screamed, looking incredulously at his shortened arm. It was the last thing he saw; Vespasian’s sword punched back up into his throat as anauxiliary from the second rank stepped into his decapitated comrade’s place.
    Vespasian took another step forward; gradually the auxiliaries were pushing their way into the hill-fort. How the support cohorts were doing in their attempts to scale the palisade to either side of the gate, Vespasian had no idea; he did not even know if they had made it across the final obstacle with their twenty-five-foot ladders that would just reach the top of the palisade from the bottom of the ditch. He pushed on, punching with his shield boss, stabbing with his sword and stamping with his feet, working his body to its limits as the cacophony of battle swirled around him along with the smoke from burning thatch, cocooning him in a world of brutal images and ever-present danger.
    How long he struggled for he could not tell but profound weariness was beginning to envelop him. He forced his aching muscles on, waiting for an opportunity to relieve the front rank with fresh troops; but the press of battle