Crispinus and a few of his staff joined Cerialis and Ferox as the advance began. No longer having to worry about the pace of the baggage, they went steadily, stopping less often and only for a little while to keep the formation together. As they came to the rise, each unit stuttered in its advance and men talked as they saw the city.

‘I fear that does not look much like a welcome,’ Crispinus said dryly. ‘At least not a friendly one.’

There were bands of horsemen dotted across the plain ahead of them. Ferox counted eight, and reckoned each numbered a little over a hundred. At the rear was a denser formation, half as big again as the others and sparkling as the sunlight glanced off helmets and armour. Between the city walls and the ditch were thousands of men. Although the distance made it hard to make out their equipment, there was some sense of organised formations.

‘We keep going,’ Crispinus said in answer to his officers’ looks. ‘Cerialis, send out skirmishers, but tell them not to throw or strike unless they are attacked first.’

‘Archers, sir?’ Along with his own ala, Cerialis had brought a couple of vexillations of cavalry from other units stationed in Pannonia. Fifty were horse archers.

‘No. I want them in reserve.’

Four turmae rode ahead, each splitting into half, so that the decurion stayed with a formed group while the rest pushed on in pairs. The waiting Osrhoenes watched and made no move. They were still over a mile away. As the advance continued, the closest bands of horse archers similarly broke up, with files of riders trotting ahead.

‘We must not strike the first blow,’ Crispinus said, half to himself. ‘Not while there is still a chance of avoiding it.’ Ferox noticed that the legatus’ cheek was twitching. The foremost bands of the Osrhoenes were barely half a mile away, the one going ahead even closer to the Roman skirmishers.

Suddenly, first one and then another file of the horse archers galloped straight for the nearest auxiliaries.

‘Good lads,’ Cerialis muttered in approval as his men halted. The horse archers kept coming, closer, closer, until they were no more than forty paces away when the leading ones spun their mounts sharply to the right, without slowing, galloping parallel with the dispersed Roman line. Each rider coming behind in turn peeled off and followed.

‘Are they shooting?’ Rufus asked. The man was squinting as he tried to see.

‘No,’ Crispinus said, lips tight as he forced himself to control the twitch.

‘They’re showing off.’ Cerialis laughed.

‘Press on!’ Crispinus ordered. As the skirmishers closest to the galloping horse archers had stopped, so had everyone else, even though there had been no order.

Cerialis gestured to his trumpeter to sound the advance.

‘Arrian, my dear fellow.’ Crispinus was making such an effort to control his speech that the words were almost stilted. ‘I realise that this is a lot to ask, but would you mind riding forward and suggesting to whoever is in charge that we ought to talk, and assuring them of our good intentions.’