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Parthia
News from the border. All the brown summer no disturbance, not a raid or scramble, not even a brushfire (tell Caesar to put that in his pipe and smoke it), no breath of mutiny, our troops too bored, well-seasoned and well-fed like fat sparrows rolling in the dust. Only a foreign arrow found last week stuck through the fabric of Lotho's tent and this message in bad Latin wrapped around it, possibly scrawled in blood: We come on you in time. We will fall everywhere like flakes of snow. You do not know us. We are history.