The decurion ran an experienced eye over their pursuers, now little more than a mile away: eight of them, their dark brown and black cloaks fluttering behind as they bent low over their mounts and urged them on. Eight against thirteen - not counting the Greek. Favourable odds, the decurion reflected.

‘We’ve seen enough.’ The Greek turned away from the distant horsemen and kicked his heels in. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Forwards!’ commanded the decurion, and the escort galloped after the Greek and his bodyguards.

The decurion was angry. There was no need to run like this. They had the advantage and could rest their mounts and wait for the pursuers to catch up, on blown horses. It would be over quickly enough. Then again, there was a vague chance that someone might get lucky and have a go at the Greek. The prefect’s orders had been quite explicit: no harm must come to the Greek. His life must be protected at any cost. In that light, distasteful as it may be, the best thing to do was to stay out of harm’s way, the decurion admitted. They had a mile’s head start and would surely reach the general’s camp long before the horsemen came within striking distance.

When he next looked over his shoulder the decurion was shocked to see how much closer the pursuers had come. They must be superbly mounted, he realised. His own horse, and those of his men, were as good as any in the cohort, but now they were wholly outclassed. And even then the pursuers would have to be fine riders to wring such performance out of them.

For the first time, the decurion was pricked by doubt. These were no mere brigands. Nor were they natives of this island, judging from their dark hair, swarthy complexions and flowing cloaks and tunics. Besides, Celtic tribesmen attacked Romans only when they heavily outnumbered them. Then again, the Greek seemed to know them. Even allowing for the timorous-ness of his race, the man’s terror was palpable. Ahead of the decurion the Greek bounced up and down precariously on the back of his mount, while to each side his bodyguards rode their beasts with rather more style and confidence. The decurion’s lips lifted in a wry grin around his gritted teeth. While the Greek might have acquitted himself well in the palace, he rode deplorably.

It wasn’t long before the inevitable happened. With a sharp cry the Greek bounced too far to one side and despite a last desperate jerk of the reins his momentum hurled him from his saddle. Swearing, the decurion just managed to steer his beast to one side to avoid trampling the fallen man.

‘Halt!’

With a chorus of curses and alarmed whinnying from the ponies, the escort drew up around the Greek, sprawled on his back.