As the horses shuffled into position, Macro and Cato fastened their helmet straps, untied their baggage and tossed it aside. Symeon reached for his bow and carefully unwrapped it, strung it, then loosened the end of his quiver. By the time the three men joined the formation Bannus had reached his men and was barking out a string of orders. He had positioned slingers and archers on either flank, and in the middle, astride the track, stood a band of swordsmen on foot, mostly poorly armed and carrying wicker shields. Some had helmets and leather cuirasses. A short distance behind them, right on the crest of the ridge, stood Bannus and his horsemen, armed with a mix of spears and bows. As soon as he saw the slingers begin to fit stones to their pouches Cato turned to the decurion.

‘Now! Give the order now!’

The decurion nodded, drew a breath and called out. ‘Squadron! Advance!’

The rough wedge formation rippled forward, the auxiliaries grasping their reins tightly in the hand behind their shields. In the other hand they held their spears, vertically, so as not to risk injury to their comrades before they made contact with the enemy. Above them, on each flank, the slingers were starting to whirl their weapons up above their heads, as the archers drew their bows. Cato found himself angrily willing the decurion to order his men to charge forward, before it was too late. Then he chastened himself. The decurion was a professional, and knew his business.

‘Squadron, at the trot, advance!’

His men kicked in their heels and the formation lurched forward, just as the first ragged volley of slingshot and arrows arced into the air. The abrupt change of pace confounded the brigands’ careful aim and most of the missiles clattered on to the ground a short distance behind the wedge. A handful of shots found the shields of the rearmost men. One horse whinnied in terror as an arrow plunged into its rump. It reared up, but the rider managed to keep his seat and urged his mount back into the formation.