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.
Bricius was oblivious. He mainly stared at his feet as they marched, muttering to himself. Oclatinius wondered whether to mention it. They were still in enemy territory, albeit a subdued and beaten Parthian enemy.
When their watch was over, they reported to Cominius at the gateway.
“All quiet?” asked the optio.
Oclatinius hesitated and looked over at Bricius, who offered him no support.
“Sir, I think I heard horses.”
“Where? When?”
“Out there.” Oclatinius gestured vaguely.
“Did you see anything?”
“No, sir,” Oclatinius conceded.
“Bricius, did you hear or see anything?”
“No horses, sir, but I swear I heard an eagle circling overhead, crying ‘death, death is with you.’”
Cominius rolled his eyes. “Fine. Well, I don’t think this is anything we need to bother the centurion with. Get some sleep you two.”
Oclatinius woke feeling dry-mouthed and groggy. Sleep had not come easy, he had insect bites on his ankles that itched viciously, and the night heat was oppressive. So when he dragged himself out of his tent, he wasn’t in the best of moods.
But his irritability dissipated when he saw Mergus walking past. The tall, pale legionary had never seemed to possess the strongest constitution, and now he looked thin and drawn. But he gave Oclatinius a cheery wave.
“Mergus? You’re better?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say fighting fit. But yes, loads better. I’ve stopped throwing up, and I’ve started keeping food down. I’m on my way to the latrine. Want to join me?”
“A kind offer, I’ll shit on my own schedule though thanks.”
Bricius emerged from the tent behind Oclatinius, looking at Mergus with narrowed eyes.
“What do you make of that, then, Bricius? Eh? You said we were doomed. And look, Mergus is up and about.”
Bricius pursed his lips, seemingly unwilling to commit himself. Oclatinius spotted Fulvius, heading towards the hospital tent. He hurried over to the medicus.
“Fulvius, Mergus is better. So this sickness isn’t that serious?”
Fulvius shrugged. “Maybe. But four more fell ill overnight. It’s spreading through us rapidly.”
“So we just wait it out, and once everyone who is going to get it has had it and got better, then we can get our pace up and get home, right?”
“The optimism of youth. I love it.”
The day’s march was if anything even slower. Several more legionaries dropped out of the line, feeling nauseous, feverish and faint, and most of them vomiting soon afterwards. Fulvius had drafted Bricius and Oclatinius into helping him with the dozens of sick that the legion had left behind. That meant swabbing out the carts that were running with vomit, offering food and water, dabbing cold towels to sweating foreheads. Oclatinius’ compassion quickly fatigued. Constant cries for his attention, curses or pleas, or just incoherent moaning took its toll. These, coupled with being splashed with emetic juices more often than anyone would fairly expect in a life time, had Oclatinius thoroughly fed up.
When they made camp for the night, Oclatinius found sticky fluids had dried and congealed on his legs and feet and in his hair.
“I need a bath,” he told Bricius.
“You’ll have to wait for Palmyra for that,” came the reply.
“There’s a great big river half a mile north east.”
“It might as well be in Britannia. The centurion won’t let you go.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
Bricius gave him a surprised stare.
“Our watch isn’t until nearly dawn. I’ll sneak out when it’s dark, have a nice swim, be back in the tent within an hour, and dry by the time I have to go on patrol. I know the route the watch guards will be taking, so it will be simple to avoid them.”
Bricius shook his head. “Quintillius will slit you open and leave your guts for the birds.”
Oclatinius ignored him, and laid on his bed roll, waiting for full darkness to fall.
The moon’s reflection rippled in the gently flowing surface of the river. Oclatinius stripped off and jumped in from the dusty bank, barely keeping in a whoop of joy. He swam a few strong strokes to take himself out towards the middle. He could feel the dirt leaching off him, and he rubbed his legs and arms under the cool water, scrubbing away crusty scabs from tiny bites, the dirt from the road and the excretions from the sick. He took a deep breath and ducked under, swimming a short way near the river bed. For just that brief moment, the length of one breath-hold, there was no sound of crying or vomiting, no shouts, no orders, no clanking of armour and weapons and the thud of wheels in potholes. For a moment, he was alone, and free.
He surfaced and stood, a few feet from the bank, waist deep, water cascading off him, and used both hands to squeeze the excess from his hair, blinking drops from his eyes. As his vision cleared, he saw movement, a short way up the river bank.
Ducking low, and moving his legs slowly to avoid making splashing noises, he crept out of the river and retrieved his clothes – a tunic and boots. He kept his eyes on the shadows he could dimly see coming nearer as he hastily dressed. The moon was behind him, so his face did not reflect the silver light, but the figures approaching were more clearly illuminated. Slowly they resolved themselves into a group of riders.
Parthians! Armed with bows and spears. At least twenty.
Oh shit.
It was half a mile back to the camp. Oclatinius set off at a loping run. In a straight sprint it would not take long to reach relative safety, but he had to keep his head down and try to remain undetected. There was no way he could outrun men on horseback at that distance, and they would chase him down in moments, if they decided not to pick him off with their frustratingly accurate bows.
Fortunately the riders did not seem to be in a hurry, approaching at a gentle trot. Oclatinius felt his legs begin to ache, as well as his back, from the unnatural, stooped running position. The camp palisade came into view, just visible in the moonlight, and his heart, pounding from exertion and fear, gave a little leap of hope.
Just then there was a shout.
Whether he had made a noise, or he had crossed the path of the moon, or one of the Parthians with excellent night vision had noticed movement, didn’t matter. Other riders took up the cry. He heard the horses being urged forward, the hooves hitting the earth heavier and faster as they accelerated into a gallop.
Oclatinius put his head down, pumping his arms and legs, gasping in deep chests-full of air. The camp grew bigger in his vision with an agonising slowness. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw the two lead riders nocking arrows and pulling their bowstrings taut. The space between his shoulders blades suddenly felt like a practice target. He zigged and zagged, and the first arrow flew past his shoulder, the second parting the air where his head had just been.
He could see the guards at the gateway now, holding spears, peering into the darkness to try to work out what the commotion was.
“Parthians!” yelled Oclatinius at the top of his voice. “To arms! We are under attack.”
He heard hoof beats right behind him, and tensed, waiting for the spear thrust into his back.
Then a figure stepped out from behind the guards, took two paces forward and hurled his spear. It sailed past Oclatinius and a whinny of pain told him it had impacted the horse that was on the verge of riding him down. With a desperate effort, he threw himself through the gates, and the legionary guards braced themselves with shields forward and spears angled with butts in the ground like stakes. The lead riders broke off, and retreated until they were just out of bowshot.
Oclatinius lay flat on his back, trying to get some breath back. A face leaned over, occluding the stars. Oclatinius found himself staring into Bricius’ concerned features. The long-haired Gaul held out a hand, and hauled Oclatinius to his feet.
“It was you that threw the spear?” said Oclatinius, still breathless.
Bricius nodded.
“What were you doing awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I had a bad feeling.”
“Thank the gods for your feelings,” said Oclatinius.
Quintillius came hurrying over, strapping on his sword.
“Report!” he snapped.
Oclatinius, Bricius and the two guards came to attention. One of the guards spoke first.
“Parthians, sir. They came out of the darkness. Chasing Oclatinius here.”
“Chasing? Why were you out of the camp, man? You aren’t dressed for patrol.”
“I…I mean…that is…”
An arrow came flying over the palisade and landed in the dirt at Quintillius’ feet, quivering.
“I think we will discuss this later,” he said calmly.
Cominius appeared out of his tent, breathless and fiddling with the buckle on his belt.
“Optio,” said Quintillius as if he was giving an order to begin a routine march. “Sound the alarm.”
The legionaries responded efficiently, emerging from their tents ready for battle. Quintillius barked out orders, and half a dozen reinforced the gateway, spears and shields to the fore. Behind them the rest of the century lined up six rows deep. Oclatinius rushed to his tent to grab his sword and shield, no time to don his armour.
More arrows flew over the palisade.
“Shields up!” yelled Quintillius, and the soldiers smartly raised their protection over their heads, so the missiles bounced off harmlessly or embedded themselves in the wood. From beyond the confines of the camp, they heard galloping horses, circling the perimeter, looking for weak spots. Then they heard a cry for help in accented Latin.
Oclatinius exchanged a look with Bricius, who shook his head.
More cries, running feet, pounding hooves.
A young legionary came sprinting around the corner of the stake fence, shield, spear and sword cast aside. Oclatinius struggled to recall his name for a moment. Junius. That was it. He must have been on patrol. In fact there should have been two of them. His comrade must be dead already.
“Run, boy,” yelled Quintillius.
“Run, run!” screamed the century, urging him to one last effort to get to safety. Behind Junius, two mounted Parthians cornered skilfully, bows already drawn. The legionaries at the gateway stepped aside, to give him space. He charged at the gap, arms pumping, his face a grimace of fear and exertion.
“Second rank, spears ready,” yelled Quintillius. “Throw!”
Six spears arced out, and the riders whirled. Oclatinius marvelled at how they controlled their mounts, turning them as if they stood on a denarius. The sudden manoeuvre meant all the spears missed their mark, but they had done their job. Now, Junius had time to reach the camp. The legionaries cheered.
As they rode away, one of the Parthians turned in his saddle, and with contemptuous ease, loosed an arrow behind him. It hit Junius square in the middle of his back. The young legionary pitched forward with a cry. For a moment, he tried pathetically to reach the shaft that had severed his spine and pierced his lungs. Then he shuddered, and went limp.
The legionaries stared at him, face in the ground, blood leaking into the dirt, feet away from safety.
“Fucking Parthian shot,” muttered Bricius.
The harrying continued most of the night. The century stood at battle readiness, guarding the gate and stationed around the palisade in case any tried to break through or climb over, but the Parthians were not in the mood for a full attack on a Roman encampment, even though the defences were poor compared to a full legion’s marching camp. Instead, they galloped around, shouting and whooping and sending arrows over that did little damage, but kept the legionaries on their guard.
The sick and wounded were corralled into the centre of the camp, as far away from the missile attack as possible, but it was still within range of the Parthian bows. Legionaries assigned to their protection did their best to fend off the arrows, but their large shields were unsuited to moving rapidly to intercept them, and a few got through. Most hit dirt or bedding, but several hit non-vital parts of the bodies of the invalids, arms, legs, grazing off ribs. And one skewered a legionary who had been suffering with the sickness – one of those from a different century who had been left behind – through the upper abdomen, and despite Fulvius’ best efforts, he bled out and died within minutes.
The Parthians left a short while before dawn. Quintillius kept the century at full readiness and summoned Oclatinius.
“Young man, you did us a service by alerting the camp to the attack.”
“Thank you, centurion.”
“There still remains a question as to why you were out of the camp at all. And why you still haven’t got your armour on.”
Oclatinius hadn’t had a chance to return to his tent and strap his lorica segmentata on during the fighting, and now was acutely aware that he was in trouble.
But Quintillius obviously thought this wasn’t the time for disciplinary action. At least not formally. The fact that when Oclatinius asked if he could fetch his armour, Quintillius merely raised an eyebrow and noted that he hadn’t seemed to need it earlier in the evening, and besides he could run faster without it, suggested that his misdemeanour certainly wasn’t forgiven or forgotten.
So Oclatinius went out through the camp gateway, unarmoured, with just his shield strapped to his left arm, and his drawn sword in his right hand. The century watched him go with mixed emotions, hope that he would find the enemy gone, worry for their comrade’s safety, and relief that it wasn’t them going out alone into danger.
Oclatinius peered into the dim light, the glow on the horizon heralding the imminency of dawn. There was no sign of movement. He started a slow lap of the camp, ready to bolt back to safety at the first hint of danger. His heart thumped in his chest, his breathing felt harsh in his throat.
Something moved in the shadow of the palisade, and Oclatinius was ashamed that he let out a squeak like a girl seeing a mouse. But it was just some sort of desert fox or wild dog, and it ran off when it saw him, tail between its legs.
He rounded the corner of the camp, and came across the body of the dead legionary, the unlucky victim of the last patrol. He was lying on his back, staring at the purple sky, one arrow in his chest, the other in his groin. It was the latter that had bled the most.
Oclatinius bent down, gently prised the sword from the dead man’s fingers, then hoisted him onto his shoulders. He completed the circuit of the camp, legs straining under the weight. But he saw no sign of the Parthians, and he walked slowly back in the gateway.
The legionaries parted silently to let him through, and watched dolefully as he set the body down at the feet of the centurion.
“Nothing to report, sir,” he said, a little breathless, but his tone leaden.
Quintillius nodded, then put a hand on his shoulder. “Go and get some rest legionary.” He raised his voice to address the rest of the century. “Break camp. We march in an hour.”
They reached the small town of Sura – which Oclatinius learned was a common name for towns in the region – days after that first night attack by the Parthians. Oclatinius wasn’t sure how long it had been exactly. Nine or ten days? Time was a blur of marching, heat, flies and thirst. They had left the banks of the Euphrates when they reached the remains of Dura-Europos. Though they had bypassed the sacked city, they still encountered many refugees, starving men, women and children, as well as plentiful fly-blown and scavenged corpses. Oclatinius noticed that a handful of them had those strange pustules on their face, and he suddenly wished he still had his childhood bulla around his neck, containing the lucky phallus amulet he could hold to ward off evil.
On each day’s march, they had also seen riders, who were clearly keeping an eye on them. Oclatinius wondered if the Parthians were content simply to escort them out of their territory. They had certainly showed no interest in attacking them in daylight, fully prepared for battle as the legionaries were.
But each night they had made camp, the Parthians had come near, shouting, firing arrows at random. Quintillius had stopped sending patrols outside the palisade, and kept half the century at full readiness for half the night, then swapping, so they all got at least some sleep, though it left them weary and irritable the next day.
At Sura, Oclatinius ordered the century in through the gates in the wooden perimeter defensive walls. The townsfolk were not foolish enough to try to deny entrance to the Romans. They had heard what devastation the legions had wrought in the area. But little did they know how weak the century was now. Throughout the march, men had been falling sick, until at one point more than a quarter of the century was being hauled in the wagons, along with the ill and injured from the rest of the legion.
But some had started to recover, and return to their place on the march. Among them was Flaccus, who had demanded Quintillius turn command of the century back to him. Something of the centurion’s old bluster and authority had returned, but he was still physically weak from his illness. Quintillius had put an arm around his shoulder, walked him away from the men, and spoken a few quiet words. Oclatinius had watched Flaccus nodding, then the convalescent centurion’s head fell and his shoulders slumped, and he took his place in the marching order, ahead of Cominius but behind Quintillius, and that was the end of the matter, at least for the time being.
Quintillius quickly set about ordering the century to set up a camp, a fortification within the town walls. The biggest open space was the market square, so the centurion gave the traders one hour to pack up and move out. Anything left after that time was removed or demolished. A small number of wattle and daub houses encroached on the perimeter that Quintillius had walked out for the camp, and Oclatinius and Bricius were in the detachment detailed to pull them down. Watched by somber men and wailing women, they used axes and ropes with hooks to tear the flimsy buildings apart, then dragged the timbers and any furniture that the occupants hadn’t been able to take away into a big pile and set it alight.
When they reported back to Quintillius at the end of their task, the centurion was talking to Flaccus, Fulvius and Cominius.
“Half the century have had it now,” Fulvius was saying.
“And those that are back on their feet are weak as kittens,” put in Cominius.
Flaccus gave him a glare and Cominius paled. “Most of them, I mean. Some seem to have just rared back to full strength. Like the centurion here.”
Flaccus gave a sharp nod, but Quintillius ignored the sycophancy.
“So we have around a hundred wounded and ill from the rest of the legion, plus around forty of our own.” They had picked up a few more sick legionaries on the march, who had been left behind by the legion with supplies and instructions to wait for the hospital train. Unfortunately, their marching speed had been too slow for many of the stragglers, so in many cases all they found were corpses, or delirious men who became corpses soon after.
“We have about thirty-five of our own century that have had the illness,” said Fulvius.
“Thirty-five? Half of our century of eighty is forty. I may not have spent years being tutored in mathematics, but I can do basic sums.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fulvius. “Forty had it. Thirty-five of them are still alive.”
Quintillius’ jaw tightened.
“Cominius, just tell me, what is our fighting strength at this moment?”
Cominius looked up, his mouth moving as he performed the mental addition.
“Thirty nine.”
“Thirty nine?” gasped Quintillius.
“Yes, sir. Half the century dead or weakened by the virus. And one killed by the Parthians.”
“What about those who have recovered?”
“There are a dozen who can hold a sword,” said Fulvius. “So they can be a reserve. But march and fight? They just aren’t up to it.”
Quintillius sighed and looked at Flaccus, who gave a barely perceptible nod.
“That decides it then. We stay here, until we are strong enough to march.”
He noticed Oclatinius and Bricius for the first time.
“Cominius, take these two, and start to scour the town for supplies. We may be here some time.”
They went from shop to shop and house to house, knocking on doors, and kicking them down where necessary. Soon they had two ox carts laden with grain, flour, dried meat and figs. They confiscated weapons wherever they had found them too, a sensible suggestion from Cominius who didn’t want armed civilians strolling around at will, so they had gathered a motley collection of knives, axes, sickles and hammers.
Quintillius congratulated them on their haul and sent them to add their plunder to their stores. There was water aplenty supplied by a well in the centre of the market place, which was now their fortified encampment. The townsfolk were allowed inside one at a time to fill buckets, no more than two, for their own needs. Oclatinius watched old ladies, mothers, young girls, totter in, heads bowed, avoiding meeting eyes with any of the onlooking soldiers. Clearly fetching water was not man’s work.
Quintillius was an efficient leader, and he organised the men who were well enough to man lookout posts around the town walls as well as the encampment. Oclatinius and Bricius were given a position on a small wooden tower in the north east corner, with a sardonic admonishment from Quintillius not to take any unauthorised exercise.
They looked out across the barren landscape, leaning on their spears, watching the sun set. They spoke little. Bricius couldn’t help but bring any conversation to their imminent doom, and Oclatinius had had enough of that subject.
But when the sky turned from blue to purple to black, sprinkled with sparkling stars, Oclatinius became aware of other lights, dotted near the horizon. He peered at them, squinting. They were flickering like torches. Like a row of torches that a group of riders at night might hold aloft to light their way.
He turned to Bricius. “Do you see that?”
Bricius vomited on Oclatinius’ shoes, and his legs buckled beneath him.
Oclatinius genuinely didn’t know what to do first. Help his collapsed comrade or go to warn the centurion? But the lights were a long way away, and Bricius was right here, lying in vomit and moaning. He hoisted his friend up and threw him over one shoulder, then struggled precariously down the ladder of the guard tower. With straining legs, he carried him to the camp, and straight to the area designated as a hospital in the centre.
“Fulvius, Fulvius!” he yelled, expecting to rouse the medicus from his sleep.
“Here.” Fulvius was bending over a figure lying on a mat.
Oclatinius hurried over and gently lowered Bricius onto the ground beside the medicus.
“It’s Bricius,” said Oclatinius. “He’s got it.”
“Wait your turn,” said Fulvius tersely.
“But Fulvius, he is really ill.”
Fulvius looked up sharply.
“Listen. A dozen legionaries have come down with it tonight. They are vomiting and collapsing all over the place. But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Not the worst?”
“Look at this.”
Fulvius held his oil lamp over the man he had been tending. Oclatinius bent over to have a look.
The soldier’s face was the colour of a lobster. There were pustules protruding from his skin, weeping a clear fluid.
Then Oclatinius saw his eyes.
The whites of his eyes were no longer white, but blood red. Not just blood-shot, but a chilling crimson, as if the eyes belonged to some demon from the underworld.
So it was his eyes that caught Oclatinius’ attention.
That and the fact that the man who possessed them was stone dead.
“B…but,” stuttered Oclatinius. “What…?”
“It’s the sickness,” said Fulvius grimly. “Just like we saw in Seleucia. There are more.” He gestured around him with a wide sweep of his hand, and Oclatinius saw bodies in the darkness, most breathing, moaning and tossing and turning, but some deathly still.
“Why now?” asked Oclatinius, struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing.
“Apollo and Aesculapius may know but I certainly don’t. But what I can tell you is every man here who has come down with this horrific rash had previously had the vomiting sickness and fever.”
“It’s the same illness?” Oclatinius was confused now. He had no idea how diseases worked, had never been taught about humours and miasmas, and for an illness to go away and then come back as something else was incomprehensible.
Fulvius shrugged “Who knows? What I do know is that some of the least ill have the worst rash. The ones whose rash is flatter to the skin are weak and hot and have swollen bellies. And in some the skin remains smooth, but they bleed out of their mouths and noses and arses and into the skin and the eyes, and they die quickly.”
He nodded down to the corpse at his feet. “This lucky fellow seems to have had some sort of combination of all three.”
Oclatinius ran his fingers over the pock marks on his cheeks and nose, remembering the childhood illness that had left him covered in little blisters on his face, arms and legs, and the aches and sweats that had accompanied them. But that illness had been nothing like this. He had shaken it off like half a dozen other childhood illnesses and within days was back to working on the farm.
“What are you going to do?”
“Do? What can I do? Give them comfort, pray, and wait for them to live or die.”
A moan came from just behind Oclatinius.
“Bricius!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I… Fulvius. What about Bricius?”
“You will have to tend him yourself.”
“I can’t. I have to go and find Quintillius.”
“Why?”
“I saw riders coming this way. Lots of riders.”
“Fuck me,” said Fulvius in a low voice. He looked down at Bricius. “You were right, you Cassandra. We are doomed.”
“Look after him,” said Oclatinius. “I have to go.”
He hurried away to the centurion’s tent, where he yanked open the flap.
“Centurion Quintillius. Wake up!”
Quintillius jerked upright, reaching for his sword even as his eyes opened. He squinted at Oclatinius.
“What is it, legionary?”
“Sir, I think…I saw…”
“Spit it out!”
“Parthians, sir. Riders, in the distance. Lots of them, I’m sure of it.”
“Minerva’s tits!” He was out of the tent in a flash, fully armoured and ready for action. “Cominius! Get out here.”
Cominius emerged from the next tent, bleary eyed, struggling to strap on his cuirass.
“Sir,” he said, attempting to come to attention while still dressing.
“Sound the alarm. Now!”
Cominius hurried off, moving from tent to tent and calling out at the top of his squeaky voice.
“To arms. We are under attack. To arms!”
Soldiers appeared with greater or lesser alacrity, and in various stages of alertness and dress. They assembled before the centurion in an ordered square, but it quickly became obvious there were numerous gaps in the ranks.
“Optio. Where is everyone?”
Cominius looked around in puzzlement at the assembled century, which appeared to be at half strength.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” roared Quintillius. “It’s your job to know.”
“But, they were here yesterday.”
“I think I can tell you, sir,” said Oclatinius tentatively.
Quintillius rounded on him in fury. “Speak!”
“They’re sick, sir. I mean, really sick.”
“This vomiting bug that has been going round?”
“No, sir. Not exactly. I don’t know. It’s much worse.”
Quintillius looked him up and down, then turned to Cominius.
“Get the men lined up. Three lines by the gate, reinforce the towers and leave a mobile reserve in the centre.”
Cominius looked around uncertainly, clearly wondering how to achieve all that with the men he had available.
A tall man who had joined the assembly belatedly walked stiffly and slowly to the front and saluted.
“Sir, can I be of assistance.”
Centurion Flaccus had lost weight and lost muscle. Oclatinius thought he was maybe half the man he had been. Yet his face, though showing a humility and deference that Oclatinius had never seen before, still showed a stern resolve.
“Are you up to it?” asked Quintillius uncertainly.
Flaccus looked at Cominius, who flushed under the gaze.
“I think you need me to be.”
Quintillius nodded. “Very well. Thank you centurion. You heard my orders. Carry on. Oclatinius, show me what’s going on?”
Oclatinius led him to the hospital area in the centre of the camp. Fulvius was where he had left him. He had Bricius on a mat, and was offering him well-watered wine, which Bricius was weakly batting away.
“Medicus! Report!”
Fulvius got slowly to his feet, and his fatigue was written in his slack features, the bags under his bloodshot eyes.
“I think you can see for yourself,” said Fulvius. “These men are dying.”
Quintillius’ eyes narrowed. “Can you tell me why?”
“No, I can’t. I’m a medicus not a physician. I patch up battle wounds.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
Fulvius summarised what he had told Oclatinius earlier. Men had started to break out in pustular rashes. Some were feverish, some had worse rashes than others, and the worst ones were bleeding into their skin and eyes.
“How many dead?”
“Two. Two more who won’t make the night.”
“So this is a different sickness from the vomiting that has been going around?”
“Maybe. Yet every man who has come down with the rashes or the bleeding previously had the vomiting.”
Quintillius stroked his chin, looking at the sickly men lying on mats all around.
“Will we all get it?”
Fulvius let out a humorless laugh. “I told you I’m not a physician and I’m no haruspex either. Have you ever heard of a man called Galen?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“An amazing doctor. Brilliant mind. Understands everything there is to know about diseases. He once told me about this potion he had created for treating some sickness or other, I forget which. He was delighted with it, and told me that all who drink of the remedy get better in a short space of time. Except for those it doesn’t help, who all die. If a man of that calibre cannot predict who will live and die, how can you expect it of me?”
Quintillius had been shifting impatiently from foot to foot during this short anecdote.
“Fine, I get it. What do you advise?”
Fulvius shrugged. “Try not to get ill?”
“You’re wasting my time, medicus. I’m minded to have you whipped. You are lucky I have better things to do.”
“I have told you the truth, centurion. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.”
Quintillius glared at him, then whirled round. “Oclatinius, with me. If these riders really are Parthians coming for us, we are going to need every man that can hold a sword.”
He marched to the main gateway, where Flaccus had done a good job of following Quintillius’ orders. Oclatinius remained surprised the strict centurion had ceded command so easily. It was testament to how humbled he had been by the illness that had struck him so low.
Oclatinius took his place in the mobile reserve, such as it was. A mere dozen legionaries, still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. Mergus was next to him, still weak, but able to support his weight by leaning on his pilum. Half of the reserve was made up of those who had recovered from the sickness. Though Oclatinius now wondered whether they were really recovered at all.
Mergus made a strange mouthing movement, working his tongue in his mouth. Then he spat, and though it was dark, Oclatinius thought he could see blood in the saliva.
“Are you well, Mergus?” he asked.
Mergus nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick, like his tongue was too big for his mouth. “But my mouth is really sore. I’ve got these ulcers.”
He stuck out his tongue, and Oclatinius saw red dots throughout his mouth and tongue, with much larger blisters, many of which had ruptured and were raw. And as he looked more closely, he saw small lumps on his face. Just like little pimples at this stage. But definitely there.
“How long have you had that rash?”
Mergus ran his fingers over his cheeks, and his face registered surprise.
“That’s new.”