At the last moment, without the need for any order, the enemy suddenly jerked their horses round and rode across the face of the Roman charge. Their javelin arms swept back.

‘Look out!’ cried one of the decurion’s men as the several javelins swept in a low trajectory towards the escort party. This was no frantic flurry of missiles - each man had carefully picked his target - and the iron javelin heads thudded home into the chests and flanks of the cavalry mounts. Only one had struck a cavalryman, taking him low in the stomach just above the saddle horn. The targeting of their horses was quite deliberate, the decurion realised at once. Some reared up, thrashing their hoofs at the wounds, while others shied to one side with shrill whinnies of terror. Riders were forced to abandon the charge as they struggled to regain control of their beasts, and two men were thrown, crashing headlong on to the dried earth of the track.

More javelins darted through the air. The decurion’s mount convulsed as a dark shaft slammed into its right shoulder. Instinctively clamping his thighs tightly to the leather saddle the decurion swore at his horse as it stopped and swung its head from side to side, sparkling flecks of saliva flying into the sunlight. Around him the rest of the escort milled about in a chaos of wounded animals and unhorsed men scrabbling to get clear of the panicked beasts.

A short distance off, the enemy had exhausted their javelins and now each man drew his sword, the long-bladed spatha that was the standard issue for the cavalry of Rome. The odds had reversed and now the escort faced extinction.

‘They’re going to charge!’ a terrified voice cried out close by the decurion. ‘Run!’

‘No! Stand together!’ the decurion yelled, slipping off the back of his wounded mount. ‘Run, and you’re fucked! Close up! Close up on me.’

It was a futile order. With half his men on foot, some still dazed from their falls, and the rest struggling to control their mounts, a co-ordinated defence was impossible. It would be every man for himself. The decurion side-stepped into an open space to give himself room to wield his spear, and stared at the enemy trotting forward, swords levelled with deadly intent.

Then an order was shouted, in Latin. ‘Leave them!’

The eight horsemen sheathed their blades and, with sharp tugs of the reins, they trotted round the wary circle of cavalrymen, then picked up speed and galloped down the track in the direction of the distant camp of the legions.

‘Shit!’ someone muttered with an explosive exhalation of relief. ‘That was close. Thought they’d carve us up good and proper.’

The decurion instinctively shared the man’s sentiment for a moment, before his guts turned to ice.

‘The Greek . . . they’re after the Greek.’