‘Bastard better not be dead,’ the decurion grumbled as he swung himself down from the saddle. At once the two bodyguards were at his side, looming over the man whose life had been entrusted to them.

‘Alive?’ one muttered.

‘Yes. He’s breathing.’

The Greek’s eyes flickered open, then he blinked them shut against the glare of the sun. ‘What . . . what happened?’ Then he slumped back, unconscious.

‘Get him up!’ the decurion snapped. ‘Put him on his horse.’

The Praetorians heaved the Greek on his feet and slung him back into the saddle before remounting. One took the Greek’s reins while the other steadied the man with a firm grasp on his shoulder.

The decurion pointed up the track. ‘Get him out of here!’

As the three men spurred towards the safety of the general’s camp, the decurion swung himself back on to his mount and turned towards their pursuers.

They were much closer now, no more than three hundred paces away, and fanning out into a loose chevron as they charged towards the halted escort. Light javelins were snatched from their holsters and raised overhead, ready to throw.

‘Form skirmish line!’ the decurion bellowed.

His men eased their snorting ponies apart and extended across the track to face their pursuers, each man drawing his shield up to cover his body while his spare hand lowered the tip of his lance towards the rapidly approaching horsemen. The decurion wished he had thought to order his men to bring javelins with them, but he had expected an uneventful day’s ride to the general’s camp. Now they would have to weather the volleys of light javelins before they could close to tackle this enemy hand to hand.

‘Ready!’ the decurion called out to his men, giving them warning of his intention to attack. ‘On my order . . . charge!’

With savage cries and frantic urging of their mounts the auxiliaries rippled forward, quickly picking up speed as the two small lines rushed towards each other.

The enemy horsemen showed no signs of slowing as they pounded up towards the auxiliaries. For an instant the decurion was certain that they would simply smash into his men at full tilt, and he braced himself for the impact. The impulse to recoil shivered along the ranks of his men and the line slowed down.

The decurion quickly recovered his wits and bellowed to each side, ‘Keep going! Keep going!’

Ahead, the individual expressions of their pursuers could be made out: intent, silent and utterly remorseless. The flowing folds of their tunics and cloaks gave no hint of any armour beneath and the decurion almost pitied them, given the one-sided nature of the imminent clash. Man to man they could not hope to prevail against the better-protected auxiliary cavalrymen, regardless of the quality of their mounts.