Who All Die Read online

  Who All Die

  Cover

  Title Page

  165 AD. Parthia

  I

  II

  III

  Emperor’s Sword

  Chapter One 210 AD Caledonia

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  The Imperial Assassin

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  165 AD. Parthia

  Marcus Oclatinius Adventus walked slowly through the city of Seleucia with a dry mouth, wide eyes and a racing heart. To his left, an elderly matron came stumbling out of a burning building, screaming as she tried to beat out the flames that had taken hold of her hair. Ahead of him, two legionaries had grabbed a young women and were dragging her, sobbing and struggling, down a side alley. All around, the roar of the flames mingled with the cries of the dying city and the laughter of its executioners.

  Seleucia was once the capital of the Seleucid Empire, and later an important city under its conquerors, the Parthians. It was still great when the general Avidius Cassius, under the co-Emperor Lucius Verus, besieged it in his war on the Parthians.

  Oclatinius had joined the legions a year before, had finished his training and joined the III Gallica in time to be blooded in the front rank of the battle of Dura-Europos. That first fight had been terrifying and exhilarating, facing down Parthian soldiers, with shield to the fore and tough legionaries on each shoulder. They had marched into Dura-Europos as worthy conquerors, and the general had accepted the surrender of its citizens with grace and mercy.

  Why then was the taking of Seleucia so different? Why was it necessary for the city to die? Especially since the Seleuceni had opened their gates to the Romans, rather than face a siege. Was it some command of the usually hands-off Lucius Verus, correctly or incorrectly interpreted? Had the Seleuceni broken the terms of their surrender? It was not for a young soldier like Oclatinius to know. But he didn’t have to like it.

  “Not joining in the fun, boy?”

  The voice from over his right shoulder was hoarse, maybe from smoke inhalation, maybe from shouting. Oclatinius turned to find himself looking into the stern face of his centurion, Flaccus.

  “It doesn’t look like much fun to me, sir.”

  Flaccus took a long look around him, then shrugged. “Most of your comrades would disagree, it seems.”

  “The city surrendered, sir. This isn’t right.”

  Flaccus put an arm around the back of Oclatinius’ neck and pulled him forwards, the centurion’s hot onion breath washing over his face.

  “Listen, boy. It isn’t up to the likes of us to decide what is right. We do as we are told. Things go badly for us if we start having our own opinions. Understand me?”

  “Yes. Yes, sir.”

  Flaccus released him, and gave him a shove.

  “Join in, or don’t. But don’t you be giving out your opinion on what’s right or wrong again, do you hear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Flaccus’ eyes narrowed, catching sight of something behind Oclatinius. Suddenly alert, Oclatinius turned swiftly, hand on the hilt of his gladius. But it was just a corpse, one of thousands that Oclatinius had seen that day. There was a gaping wound in the dead man’s abdomen, ropes of intestines leaking out onto the ground. Flies buzzed around the slick offal, and the stench of fresh excreta made Oclatinius wrinkle his nose.

  Flaccus took a couple of steps forward and knelt by the body. He grabbed the blood and mud soaked hair and lifted the head, so the dead eyes stared at him past the flies that walked across the dry globes.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” said Flaccus. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Oclatinius bent over to peer at the dead face, swallowing down his disgust. To call the pattern of lumps and bumps on the man’s face a rash was as accurate as calling his abdominal wound a minor injury. Every inch of his face, and all his visible skin – neck, arms, upper chest, was covered in round, raised, suppurating pustules. Some had scabbed over, some still leaked fluid, which more flies lapped up. The appearance was actually terrifying, like this was some demon from the underworld that had been summoned by the defenders of the city, and had died fighting. But there were no dead Roman soldiers nearby, so Oclatinius knew that really this deformed man had put up no resistance.

  “I’m not sure you should be touching him, sir.”

  Flaccus let the head drop down to the ground with a thud.

  “You’re probably right boy.” He stood and wiped his hands on his tunic. “Go and fetch Fulvius. See what he makes of it.”

  Oclatinius took another look at the disgusting corpse, and hurried off in search of the century’s medicus.

  * * *

  Oclatinius found Fulvius sitting on the steps of a marble temple, a flask of wine in his hands, ignoring the chaos around him. The solid structure was resisting the fires that were taking hold of so many other buildings in the city, and with the priests and temple slaves fled, this was a small oasis of calm in the chaos and destruction.

  “What do you want?” said Fulvius, before Oclatinius could even speak.

  Oclatinius took in the ugly scars on his face. After months in this grizzled veteran’s company, he still hadn’t got used to the disfigurement he wore with a defiant glare at anyone who looked too hard.

  “Flaccus wants you.”

  “If some legionary has been stuck by the innocent he was raping, then he can look after himself.”

  “It’s not that. We’ve found something strange.”

  Fulvius looked up at Oclatinius curiously. “What sort of strange?”

  “You need to see for yourself.”

  Oclatinius led Fulvius to the body, where a couple of other legionaries had joined him, staring down with horrified fascination. Fulvius elbowed them aside, then knelt down beside the body with an air of irritation.

  But as soon as he saw the foul rash on the dead man’s face, his annoyance disappeared, and an air of amazement replaced it. He reached down and touched the suppurating rash, rubbed the oozing juice between thumb and finger, sniffed it. Oclatinius’ stomach gave a little lurch in protest, but Fulvius seemed unperturbed.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “You’re the medicus,” said Flaccus. “You tell us.”

  Fulvius turned back to the corpse and examined it further. He turned its head this way and that, picked up the limbs, even examined the entrails, grasping the fly-covered, glistening ropes in his hands and letting them slide through his fingers. The he stood up, wiped his hands on his tunic, and shook his head.

  “I cut off legs and sew skin back together. You need a physician for this.”

  “You mean you don’t know what it is?” asked Oclatinius, surprised. Fulvius had always seemed so self-assured, if distant and curmudgeonly. Now, he seemed, not alarmed. Just confused.

  “Look, it’s some sort of imbalance of the humours, or a curse from one of the nastier gods. Or maybe it’s a miasma. I don’t know, it’s not what I do. I met this fellow in Rome once, what was his name? Galen. He was different from all the other physicians I have known. Always enquiring, wondering what made people ill, how he could treat them better. He would have loved to take a look at this.

  “But I think you are all missing the point.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Flaccus.

  “His guts are over the floor. That’s what killed him. Not this rash. Unpleasant as it looks, I’m sure it’s just cosmetic.”

  He stood up. “If that’s all, I have somewhere I need to be.” He picked up his flask and headed back towards the temple.


  Oclatinius looked down at the dead man’s face. Cosmetic? He didn’t think so. An involuntary shudder went down his spine.

  * * *

  A legion marching to war is an inspiring or a terrifying sight, depending on whether it is marching towards you or away from you. A legion marching back from war engenders other feelings, depending not only on whether it is marching towards you or away from you, but what it is marching from. A legion loaded with spoils, its soldiers with heads held high, full of pride and tales of bravery, is a very different sight to a legion retreating from a defeat, shoulders down, not looking each other, ignoring the cries of the wounded.

  Yet a neutral observer of the III Gallica as it marched back from Parthia towards Syria under its legate, Gaius Avidius Cassius, might find it hard to work out if this was an army returning from victory or disaster. Yes, their backpacks were laden with looted gold and silver, the carts dragging the wounded were lightly laden, their numbers were not markedly depleted. But they marched with heads down, exchanging guilty glances from time to time. There was no singing, no bawdy jokes, no unlikely tales of derring-do. This was an army marching from a victory which it felt it did not deserve.

  “We’re cursed,” muttered Bricius the Gaul loud enough for his voice to carry to the Centurion. Flaccus whirled on him.

  “If I hear you say that one more time, you long-haired idiot, I’ll take my vine stick to your arse and you won’t be able to sit for a week!”

  Bricius clamped his lips shut, and looked at Oclatinius who was marching next to him. Oclatinius gave him a sympathetic shrug. When the centurion turned back to the direction of the march, Bricius mouthed to Oclatinius, “We are, though.”

  * * *

  They marched along the west bank of the Euphrates, heading north west. The vast river was spotted throughout with craft, fishing vessels, cargo boats, ferries. Along the banks were small settlements – fishermen’s huts, small docks for trading goods locally. The sun was burning, and Oclatinius thought wistfully of the water flask in his pack. His mouth was dry as a Vestal’s… he stopped the sacrilegious thought before he could finish it. He wasn’t overly religious or superstitious, but Bricius’ constant whispering about the doom that was sure to befall them had left him uneasy.

  He swatted away a small swarm of flies from his face, which scattered but then descended immediately, and after two or three attempts, he gave up, and let them do as they wished. The sun was heating the metal of his armour to uncomfortable temperatures, and he wished desperately that he could go and jump in that inviting expanse of water.

  But Flaccus would have none of it. He kept his vine stick to hand, ready to lay into any of his men that slackened the pace.

  “When can we stop, sir?” asked Mergus, a tall, willowy individual from northern Italy, who marched directly behind the signifer, Pictor, but was benefitting from none of the shade of the standard that Pictor carried since the sun was at their backs.

  Flaccus didn’t slow his pace, just called over his shoulder. “When the primus pilus gives the order, and not before. I will not have the men of my century showing me up, understood?” He swished his cane ominously.

  Mergus had a sheen of sweat over his face and Oclatinius, marching behind him, could see droplets running down his back.

  “He’s going to be on his knees from the thirst soon,” said Fulvius who was behind Oclatinius. “He isn’t built for this sort of heat.”

  “Is any man?” asked Oclatinius, wallowing in his own misery. A fly settled on his cheek, and he swatted it, then rubbed at a pock mark that was collecting sweat. He had a few dents on his face and hands from a childhood illness, but he hoped he wasn’t ugly enough to scare the horses. Maybe just enough to make the odd maiden tremble.

  His mind went back to the disfigured corpse in Seleucia. They had not stayed in the town long, before returning to their encampment outside the burning city, but some of the men in the century told tales of others from the city they had seen, mothers begging food for their children, offering their bodies in return, young men and women taken as slaves, wide-eyed children sitting silently in the shade, staring at the men. And many of these sported rashes. Some little more than pimples, some covered in suppurating pustules. There was something rotten in that city, and when, after a few days, the order had come to pack up and begin the march back to Syria, they all breathed a sigh of relief, and muttered thanks to whichever god they thought might be interested.

  But Oclatinius felt they had not really left Seleucia behind. Something nagged at him. A feeling deep down, that Seleucia would yet have its revenge.

  In front of him, Mergus suddenly bent double, and vomited loudly onto his caligae. Flaccus let out a short cry of disgust. The spew had splashed the back of his legs.

  “Mergus, you disgusting felator. What do you think you are doing?”

  Mergus ignored him, dropping down to his hands and knees, retching miserably.

  Flaccus sighed and put his hand up high.

  “Halt.”

  With well-disciplined precision, the century came to an abrupt stop.

  “Fulvius,” Flaccus yelled. “Get up here now.”

  Fulvius hurried forward.

  “Sir.”

  “Deal with this… weakling. Cominius!”

  Cominius the optio came to attention, face earnest in his desire to obey.

  “Give me your water flask.”

  Cominius threw his pack to the ground, opened it and handed the flask over. Flaccus pulled the stopper and poured the water over his legs, rubbing away the vomitus with his hands. Then he took a swig from the flask and handed it back without a word of thanks. Cominius took it and raised the flask towards his mouth. Flaccus looked at him steadily. Thinking better of it, Cominius restoppered the flask and placed it back in his pack.

  Oclatinius watched the precious water spilling over his centurion’s legs and over the ground, and was reminded how dry his mouth was. He thought about taking his own flask out, but Flaccus was glaring at his men, daring them to do anything they hadn’t been ordered, and so he merely stood, eyes forward, face set, and tried to think of something pleasant. A plunge into the cold pool in the baths of Trajan in Rome, followed by a good rub down with oil by a skilled masseur to ease his aching muscles.

  It didn’t really work. He couldn’t hold the picture for long, before visions of flies, desert sand and purulent visages pushed it out.

  “Told you he wasn’t going to last much longer in this heat,” muttered Fulvius, who was kneeling beside Mergus.

  Mergus groaned, strings of saliva hanging out of the corner of his mouth and snot running down his upper lip.

  “Well,” said Flaccus. “What’s going on? Something he ate?”

  “It’s the heat,” said Fulvius. “He hasn’t got the right constitution to march for long distances in this temperature.”

  “He’s a legionary,” said Flaccus. “He survived basic training. He should be able to cope with a little stroll in the countryside.”

  If Oclatinius had still been unsure whether Flaccus was a real bastard, watching Mergus vomit his innards out under Flaccus’ contemptuous eye finally dispelled any doubts.

  Fulvius put a hand on Mergus’ forehead, then looked up sharply at Flaccus.

  “He’s hot.”

  Flaccus sneered. “The climate does seem to be on the warm side.”

  “No, I mean really burning up.”

  “Nonsense, just a touch of the sun. Get him back on his feet, we need to march. The whole legion behind us has had to stop.”

  “With respect, centurion,” said Fulvius with obvious disrespect, “I am not some young boy who has been given a roll of bandage and told to get on with the job. I’ve been around a long time. I’m not sure this is just heat exhaustion.”

  Flaccus ignored him and looked back down the marching line at the halted centuries behind them.

  Mergus moaned pathetically, and rolled onto his back. Fulvius took a cloth and wiped the goo away from his
mouth and nose, then tipped a little water into his mouth from a flask. Mergus coughed it out, but Fulvius persisted, and he managed to get the recumbent legionary to drink a few mouthfuls.

  A short, squat centurion with a broken nose and ears like cabbages poking out from under his helmet marched up to them.

  “Flaccus, you old goat. What’s the hold up?”

  “Greetings, Quintillius. Apologies. I have a malingerer who can’t seem to stand a little bit of sunshine.”

  Quintillus looked at the supine Mergus.

  “To be fair I’ve got one two in my century looking peaky.” He squinted up at the sun. “We’ve marched through a lot worse. Do you think there was something in the food?”

  Flaccus looked sceptical.

  “A weakness of spirit, I would say.” He swished his vine stick. “A bit of discipline is what they need.”

  Quintillus nodded. “Do you need any help?”

  Flaccus shook his head. “Cominius, Oclatinius. Help Fulvius get this weakling onto a cart so we can march on.”

  Cominius jumped to the task, stabbing a finger at Oclatinius to help. With a couple of cloaks and two palisade stakes they fashioned a makeshift stretcher, and rolled Mergus onto it, though he protested and moaned softly. Cominius took the head end, and Oclatinius the end of the poles by his feet, and they hoisted him up, escorted by Fulvius who kept a restraining hand on his patient.

  Flaccus shouted the order to march, and the century moved on, setting a time and a half-pace to catch up with the rest of the legion ahead. Oclatinius and Cominius tramped backwards by the side of the legion towards the baggage train. Legionaries with slumped shoulders threw them sullen sideways glances, as if, Oclatinius felt, they were blaming him personally for parading this sickly soldier past them.

  * * *

  They reached the train with the ox and mule-drawn wagons and carts. Among the food supplies and ammunition for the artillery and the auxiliaries’ bows were the wounded, lying in rows next to each other. Oclatinius couldn’t stop himself staring at some of the injuries – the bandaged stump of a leg or arm, a broken jaw, a bandaged gut wound that even the inexperienced Oclatinius knew would soon prove fatal.