Who All Die Read online

  But as well as these normal battle-injured men, there were a handful of others without obvious external injuries. Packed in among the wounded were men sweating out fevers, lying supine and breathing shallowly, or sitting up to vomit periodically.

  Oclatinius frowned, puzzled. It was usual to have a few infirm among the baggage who had illnesses other than those sustained in battle – twisted ankles, exhaustion and so forth. You had to be pretty bad to be allowed to stop marching and hitch a ride on a cart in the Roman army. But all these sickly individuals, seemingly with similar symptoms – this wasn’t normal in his limited experience. He wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  “This isn’t normal,” said Fulvius, scratching the scars on his face. “I haven’t seen this before.”

  Oclatinius felt the first sense of misgiving churning inside him. That was bad. If it was outside Oclatinius’ experience, so what? Most things to do with the legions still were. But Fulvius had been around since Romulus and Remus were sucking wolf’s tit, or so it seemed to Oclatinius. If he was concerned, then there was a reason to worry.

  But more pressingly, he was still carrying half of a heavy body.

  “Where do we put Mergus?” he asked.

  Fulvius scouted around a few carts, and found one with a space, next to a man with a bandage around both eyes. Fulvius jumped into the cart, shifted the blinded man aside, and helped drag the stretcher up. They rolled Mergus unceremoniously off, and retrieved the stretcher.

  The cart rolled on, and the three of them watched it on its way for a moment. Mergus paid them little attention, even when Oclatinius wished him the best of fortune.

  “Come on,” said Cominius. “Double time back to the century, or Flaccus will be displeased.”

  Fulvius and Oclatinius exchanged a weary glance, but did as their optio told them. They marched back up the line of the legion and, unburdened this time, Oclatinius observed the soldiers more closely. Most were marching as well as expected in the heat, but others were dragging their heels, falling out of step, getting shoved back into line by their optios. This did not look like a legion in full health.

  They reached their century, and fell into line, matching their pace to the rest. Oclatinius thought they had been swift in their task, but Flaccus of course was not pleased.

  “You took your time didn’t you? All you had to do was drop off that weakling.”

  “Sorry, sir,” said Cominius, a bit too grovelly for Oclatinius’ liking. “We did our best. There are lot of sick back there.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Flaccus. “What is the army coming to?”

  Then he put his hand to his forehead, his knees buckled, and he collapsed.

  Cominius and Oclatinius were instantly at Flaccus’ side. Flaccus was on his back, staring up at the sky in confusion.

  “Sir, sir,” said Cominius, his voice high-pitched and panicked. “What happened?”

  “Who… who hit me? I am injured? Was it a slingshot?”

  “Be calm, sir,” said Oclatinius. “You aren’t injured. You had some sort of turn.”

  “Fulvius. Fulvius! Get over here,” squeaked Cominius.

  With the air of a recalcitrant slave asked to pick up dog shit, Fulvius strolled over.

  “Come on man,” said Cominius. “Help him!”

  Fulvius shrugged. “He just fainted.”

  “How dare you?” cried Flaccus. “I was struck. Or assaulted. I…”

  He tried to pull himself upright using Cominius’ arm for support, but as soon as he reached a sitting position, his eyes rolled and he fell back.

  “I fought against the Jews, I fought the Germans, I fought the Parthians,” he murmured, his eyes wide with confusion. “I don’t faint.”

  “And I didn’t get these scars fucking Greek arse bandits,” said Fulvius pointing at his face. “Doesn’t make me invincible.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Cominius, eyes bright with moisture.

  “Fatigue? Heat?” suggested Fulvius noncommittally.

  Flaccus turned to one side, and vomited on Cominius’ feet.

  “Or something else,” said Fulvius, shooting Oclatinius a frown. He bent down to offer Flaccus some water, but he continued to retch uncontrollably, and all they could do was wait out the attack. Eventually the heaving stopped and Flaccus rolled over, moaning softly.

  The century had stopped marching when Flaccus collapsed, and now Quintillius marched up again.

  “What’s the hold up this time, Flaccus?” he called as he approached. “More malingerers?”

  Then he saw Flaccus lying flat on his back, mumbling incoherently.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “What are your orders?” asked Cominius, anxiously.

  “My orders?” repeated Quintillius, surprised. “This isn’t my century. You are second in command, optio. What are your orders for your men?”

  “I… er…” He looked down at Flaccus, who was muttering something about what he would do to the man who had clubbed him on the back of the head.

  “Maybe you would be thinking of having some of your men take your centurion to the wagons with the wounded, and get the century moving again, before the primus pilus has your balls nailed to the standard?” suggested Quintillius.

  “Yes, of course. Oclatinius, Bricius, take the centurion to the wagon train. Fulvius, go with them. Give him every attention he needs.”

  Oclatinius sighed. He had only just got back from taking Mergus there. But he beckoned Bricius, and together they cobbled the stretcher back together and rolled Flaccus onto it. Fulvius put a cold, damp cloth on the centurion’s brow which had started perspiring profusely. Oclatinius was breaking out in something of a sweat himself, but he believed or at least hoped, that it was just because of the extra physical activity he was being made to do.

  They tramped past the marching soldiers, who now gave them open stares of fear and hostility. One or two called out. “What’s going on? What are you doing to them up there?” But Oclatinius ignored them. He had no answer for them anyway.

  Bricius was not so reserved.

  “We’re cursed,” he told any who would listen. “This whole damned legion. I can see it in all your eyes. The gods are going to take a terrible revenge on us, for what we did to Seleucia.”

  His words were met with jeers and abuse, but Oclatinius could see they were hitting home. The already demoralised legion was starting to wonder if the gods had turned their faces away.

  “I’m not sure you should be shouting that stuff out loud,” said Cominius. “The centurion wouldn’t be pleased…” His voice trailed away as he looked down at his superior officer.

  “He doesn’t exactly look delighted at the best of times,” said Oclatinius. “And now is certainly not the best of times.”

  They reached the wagon train, and found the wagon that contained Mergus. Their comrade had his knees hitched up to his chest, hugging them tight and he his whole body shivered uncontrollably. There was still space for one more in the cart, and they heaved Flaccus up beside Mergus. The centurion immediately started babbling.

  “We’re under attack! Form a testudo!”

  “Yes, centurion,” said Fulvius, pulling down Flaccus’ lower eyelid to examine the white of his eye. “Stick your tongue out, sir.”

  Flaccus did as he was told, obedient as a school boy to his cane-bearing grammaticus. Fulvius looked at it suspiciously, then told him to put it away.

  “They’ll be coming out of the forest.”

  “Who, sir?” asked Oclatinius, unsure whether he should be engaging with the feverish babble.

  “Them. You can’t trust them you know. Any of them.”

  “Leave it,” said Fulvius. “You’ll get no sense from him while he is burning up so badly. Sir, drink this.” He offered some water to the centurion, who batted the flask away.

  “You! Are you a medicus?” The new voice boomed with accustomed authority.

  Oclatinius saw Cominius’ reaction before he discovered the new
comer’s identity. The optio went pale, stood to attention and gave a faltering salute.

  Oclatinius turned and found himself confronted by a tall, stern-looking man, flanked by two huge bodyguards wearing immaculate and clearly not battle-worn armour.

  “L… legate,” stammered Cominius.

  Oclatinius saluted the commander of their legion, the Butcher of Seleucia, Avidius Cassius.

  Fulvius finished attending to his patient, before climbing down from the cart of sick and injured. He moved as slowly as was possible to express his contempt for authority without earning a summary field punishment. Avidius Cassius, who was mounted on a fine black gelding, started to fidget in his saddle, and finger the hilt of his sword. One of the mounted bodyguards barked, “Hurry it up, legionary.”

  Fulvius stood to attention before the general and saluted.

  “I asked you a question. Are you a medicus?”

  Fulvius gave an insolent glance down at the roll of bandages protruding from his satchel, then looked back up at Cassius.

  “I am, sir.”

  “Then can you tell me what in the name of Mithras is going on here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No?” Cassius was turning purple, and Oclatinius tensed, wishing the veteran wouldn’t push things like this, purely, as far as Oclatinius could see, for his own amusement.

  “No?” boomed Cassius. “You won’t tell me?”

  “No, sir. I can’t tell you. I have no idea.”

  Cassius clenched his fists. “Just tell me why men keep dropping out of the line, and the carts for the wounded are filling up with vomiting, raving invalids.”

  “I think they are ill, sir,” said Fulvius, with wide-eyed innocence.

  “Give me strength,” muttered Cassius to himself. Then to Fulvius, at full volume. “I can see they are ill. But why?”

  “I can tell you, sir.”

  The voice came from the cart. Flaccus was sitting up, propped on one elbow.

  “Go on, centurion,” said Cassius.

  “It’s the Germans, sir. Coming out of the forest and hitting us on the back of the head with their sausages.”

  Oclatinius looked at the desert around them, and wondered if Flaccus really was seeing trees.

  Cassius let out a long sigh.

  “Right,” he said, addressing Fulvius again.

  “Rock solid, those sausages are sir,” said Flaccus.

  “Right,” repeated Cassius, trying hard to ignore the earnest centurion. “We are going to separate off the sick. I want to get home, and I’m not being slowed down by these weaklings. We’ll leave a century behind to escort them. Fulvius, since you have been so helpful, you have just volunteered your century for that duty.”

  Oclatinius and Bricius, who had been trying to stay out of sight, turned acid glares on their comrade, whose expression remained equanimous.

  “Who is your centurion?”

  “Reporting for duty, sir,” said Flaccus, attempting to salute and falling onto his back. “Can anyone smell sausages?”

  Cassius shook his head. He looked at Cominius, considered for a moment, then said, “I’ll assign Quintillius to lead your century, while your centurion recovers. His optio can take control of his century.”

  Cominius flushed at being overlooked for the temporary promotion, but merely snapped out, “Yes, sir. Excellent choice, sir.”

  “I’ll send him down to you, with your century. You four remain here. We’ll send down anyone else who looks sick. Guards, let’s go. Maybe we can finally get this legion moving.”

  He wheeled his horse, and cantered back up the line, the bodyguards quickly following and kicking up dust that made Oclatinius cough.

  * * *

  Quintillius arrived a short while later, leading the remainder of Flaccus’ century. He was clearly not delighted to be assigned this duty, and was ready to take it out on anyone he could. But he was also an efficient officer, and his first step was to assess the situation.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Cominius.”

  “Yes sir, well sir. There are some people getting sick. And the legate has told us we have to escort them so the legion can carry on.”

  “I got that much from the legate. Medicus, what’s your name?”

  “Fulvius, sir.”

  “Fulvius, anything to add?”

  “Not really, sir. As Cominius said, lots of people are coming down with some sickness, but I haven’t seen the like before. Fever and vomiting seem to be the main symptoms so far in the cases I have seen.”

  “Where has it come from?”

  “Where does any disease come from? Imbalanced humours? Miasma? The gods? Curses?”

  “It’s a curse,” said Bricius. “For Seleucia.”

  “Be quiet, Bricius,” snapped Cominius.

  “Well, whatever,” said Quintillius. “Let’s get to work so we can let the legion get on its way. Cominius, get the wagons with the sick out of the road. Bricius, is it? And you, what’s your name?”

  “Oclatinius, sir.”

  “Oclatinius and Bricius, we will be marching without the supply wagons, so make sure that we have everything we need to be self-sufficient for a long journey. Food, water, ammunition. Raid the stores, and tell the quartermaster that Avidius Cassius authorised it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oclatinius and Bricius saluted and headed down the line, relieved for the moment to be away from the sweating, vomiting, sickly soldiers.

  When they returned from their foraging trip, the rest of their century had arrived, looking distinctly fed up. Quintillius was busy organising them, with help from the deferential Cominius. The wagons with the sick and wounded had been hauled off the road and the rearguard of the legion were passing by. Some of the finest troops were stationed in the rear to guard against surprise attack, both cavalry and infantry. They passed by with contemptuous glances and mocking comments about those who couldn’t stand the heat, and those who were such crap soldiers they were being left behind to babysit the invalids.

  Pictor the signifer was happy to give back as good as he got. As the standard bearer, he took more pride than anyone in the century, and wouldn’t stand to hear it maligned. Cominius kept his head down and ignored the cat calls, to Oclatinius’ embarrassment. But Quintillius would have none of it. When one legionary was particularly insulting, Quintillius strode over to him and dragged him out of the line.

  “You think you are funny, boy?” he roared, and threw him to the floor.

  “Sir, I was just…”

  Quintillius swished down with his vine stick, cracking him across the forearm. Then he laid into him, ignoring the legionary’s apologies and cries for mercy, caning his legs and arms until the red-faced centurion broke out in a sweat.

  “What are you doing to my legionary?” The recumbent legionary’s centurion had hurried over to investigate.

  “This boy thought he could insult these fine soldiers who are putting their lives at risk by caring for the legion’s most needy.”

  “It isn’t your job to punish him, Quintillius,” said the centurion. “It’s mine.”

  Quintillius kicked the young legionary in the kidneys.

  “Then I suggest you take him away, and instil some discipline into your century.”

  He turned his back on the centurion and the recumbent legionary, and returned to calmly directing his new century.

  * * *

  Oclatinius thought he rather liked Quintillius after that, though he resolved not to get on his bad side. The century waited by the side of the road as the tail of the legion marched on. It took some time, waiting in the sun, for the last stragglers to finally pass. Then Quintillius ordered everyone to start moving. The wagon drivers coaxed, cajoled and whipped the donkeys and oxen back into motion, and Quintillius arrayed the century around them in a protective formation. The bulk of the century marched at the front, three abreast, led by the centurion, the signifer and the optio. Then came the wagons, flanked by half a dozen legionari
es on either side. In the rear marched a further twenty.

  The pace was slow, and soon the rest of the legion was out of sight. In some respects the reduced speed was a blessing – less effort in the hot sun, and more time to sneak drinks when the centurion wasn’t looking. But Oclatinius knew it would mean a longer march, all that time in the company of the sick.

  The sun dipped in the sky, and Quintillius gave the order to halt and make camp. A century could not recreate the formidable fortress that a legionary in the field built every night when in hostile territory, but Quintillius did his best. They dug a shallow trench in a wide circle around the encampment and used the stakes the legionaries carried as standards to make a pallisade, with a simple gap for the gate.

  Tents were erected, each contubernium pitching theirs where Cominius directed them, and cooking fires were lit. Oclatinius and Bricius were assigned second watch, so they made the most of a brief rest by eating a warm stew and stretching their legs out for an hour.

  When it was their turn to go on watch, they donned their armour and strapped on their gladii and pugios, picked up their pila and reported to Cominius at the open gateway. He gave them their orders for a patrol, then disappeared back into the camp for a two hour sleep, leaving Oclatinius and Bricius to their own devices.

  They trod a route around the outer perimeter that was already well worn by the previous watch. It didn’t take long to complete a circuit around the small encampment, but night had fallen by the time they had completed half a dozen laps. Torches along the palisade lit their way, but allowed them to see little beyond the puddles of light at the base of each. Another pair patrolled in the opposite direction, and two guards kept watch at the gateway.

  Every so often they would stop to listen. From inside the camp came the sounds of swords being sharpened, some loud snoring, some muffled arguments. None of the usual laughter and songs that usually drifted over an encamped legion in good spirits. They could hear little from the surrounding arid countryside. They were too far from the Euphrates to hear any night river traffic, and there were no nearby settlements. But every so often, Oclatinius thought he could hear the light tread of a horse hoof in the soft ground, or an isolated whinny.