‘Shit!’ the decurion spat, nudging the flanks of his mount to edge closer to his foe for the backswing cut. The intent to finish the man blinded him to danger from another direction, and so he never saw the dismounted figure rush up to his side and thrust a sword towards his groin. He just sensed the blow, like a punch, and by the time he had turned back the man had leaped away, his sword stained crimson. The decurion realised at once that that was his blood, but there was no time to check the wound. A glimpse revealed that he was the only one of his men left. The others were already dead or dying, at a cost of only two of these strange, silent men who fought as if they were born to it.

Hands grabbed his shield arm, and the decurion was hauled savagely from his saddle and crashed down on to the hard earth of the track, the air driven from his lungs. As he lay on his back, winded and looking up into blue heavens, a dark silhouette came between him and the sun. The decurion knew this was the end, but refused to close his eyes.

His lips curled into a sneer. ‘Go on then, you bastard!’

But there was no sword thrust. The man just whirled away and was gone. Then scuffling sounds, horses snorting, the pounding of hoofs, which quickly receded, and the strangely serene sounds of a summer afternoon. The shimmering drone of insects was punctuated only by the agonised groans of a man in the grass nearby. The decurion was shocked that he was still alive, that the enemy had spared him even as he lay defenceless on the ground. He struggled to draw breath, easing himself up into a sitting position.

The six surviving horsemen had renewed their pursuit of the Greek and a bitter rage welled up in the decurion. He had failed. Despite the sacrifice of the escort these strangers would still catch up with the Greek, and he could already imagine the harsh dressing-down he would receive when he, and what was left of the escort, limped back into the cohort’s fort.