The primus pilus sniffed before giving his verdict. ‘Good horsemen. Well, most are in this part of the world. Mainly archers backed up by some cataphracts. Not up there with the best of the Parthians, but still decent enough. And they’re used to the summer here, so cope better than most of our lads, especially the ones brought over from Europe.’

‘Thank you.’

‘One thing we all need to remember,’ the primus pilus went on, warming to his subject. The first centurion in a legion, let alone one with Caecilius’ forty years of service, enjoyed a special status, as the most senior military man. It granted a licence, even if interrupting the legatus was stretching this to the limit. ‘You all hear talk of soft and effeminate Asians.’ Arrian gestured at himself with an air of exaggerated innocence. ‘Won’t go toe to toe, fight by running away and shooting arrows as they flee, and when they’re not at war spend all their time hunting, humping and eating.’

‘But not necessarily in that order,’ Crispinus said.

Caecilius laughed with the others this time. ‘Well, I can tell you that all of that is true, and it still doesn’t matter any more than a sack of shit. You let them fight in the way they like on ground that they choose, and all you’ll do is pile up the bodies. Remember what happened to Crassus – and Antony. And when I was a tiro there were still boys who had been with that damned fool Paetus. You cannot give them a chance, not the slightest chance, or you’ll die. So let’s have none of this effeminate Orientals. Just because they don’t fight like us, doesn’t mean they’re not good at what they do, because, lads, they are… very good.’

‘That is sage advice and no mistake,’ Crispinus said, judging that the little lecture was over. ‘But to return to Abgarus, he has decided to back one of the claimants to the Parthian throne, and is willing to marry his favourite daughter to the likely lad. She won’t be his first wife, of course, but still an important one, and who knows, the mother of a future king? In the meantime, his son tries to placate us, and is ready to take soldiers to help out the Parthian in question – or another, should fortune change for his first choice. Neither outcome offers particular advantage to us. If Abgarus succeeds he moves closer to Parthia. In the meantime, it might strike one of the other Parthian leaders that a change of power in Osrhoene would be a good thing. There are bound to be a few noblemen with royal blood and ample ambition knocking around for them to use. Again, not a good thing for us. Is everyone following all this? I know it is complicated, but that is the way with kings?’

‘Do I take it, sir, that there is more encouraging news?’ Arrian asked. ‘For us, I mean.’

Crispinus beamed. ‘Indeed there is – for us, for Rome, for the glory of the Hispana!’ He made a sweeping gesture in the air. ‘Azátē is the name of the lucky princess set to marry a Parthian thirty years her senior, who might end up as the true king, or get himself killed. By the sound of it the head of the Suren clan is the real power behind the man, so our girl might face some stout resistance if she hopes to influence the old boy. This gives her pause, and doting daughter though she is, sufficient pause to approach the acting governor of Syria, and through him, the Lord Trajan.’