The attack did not come straight away. Unlike with their previous encounter with the Parthians, the riders initially kept their distance. Firing blindly into a town was far less likely to hit a Roman than firing into a more densely packed camp. And the town was nominally in Parthian territory, so they presumably had some obligation to minimise civilian casualties.
So they rode in a circle around the town, out of arrow shot, making noise, aiming to disconcert and demoralise. Quintillius kept the whole century standing to for two hours, until it became obvious that there would be no imminent attack. After this, he sent half of the reserve to go and get food, and to rest, though not to sleep.
On one occasion a small group of riders approached the main gate, but were chased away by a few arrows from the towers flanking the gate. Apart from that, there was no action the whole night, and Oclatinius felt that strange mix of anxiety and boredom common while waiting for a dangerous or stressful situation to materialise.
When it was his turn to be rotated out of line, he grabbed some soup from the mess. In contrast to the heat of the day, the nights in this country chilled to the bone, and he was grateful for the warm broth, even with its stodgy consistency and unidentifiable lumps of gristle. As soon as he had finished it and used the latrine, he went to check up on Bricius.
His friend was sitting up, holding a piece of bread that had a single bite taken from it. Oclatinius squatted down beside him.
“What’s happening?” asked Bricius. His voice was weak and Oclatinius had to lean in to catch what he was saying.
“The Parthians have come.”
“The same ones that have been shadowing us?”
Oclatinius shrugged. “Maybe. But a lot more have joined them now.”
Bricius mouthed a word that Oclatinius couldn’t quite lip read in the darkness, though he presumed he had just said, “Doomed.”
“How are you feeling?” asked Oclatinius.
“Like Hades shat in my stomach.”
Oclatinius tried to imagine what that might be like, and quickly gave up. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“That physician you mentioned? Galen? Can you fetch him?”
Oclatinius chuckled and slapped him on the shoulder. Bricius heaved and clapped a hand over his mouth, and Oclatinius backed up, preparing to be vomited on. Bricius managed to hold it down though. He swallowed hard and gave Oclatinius a half-smile. Oclatinius settled himself on the sandy ground to sit with his friend for the rest of his break.
The Parthians still hadn’t attacked by first light. Oclatinius had been reassigned to his guard post, and as the horizon turned a dark blue and then orange, the number of men arrayed against them became clear.
Oclatinius’ heart sank. On their march, he had only seen around a score of riders. Enough to be a bother, especially when they had no cavalry of their own, but not a serious threat. Now he looked out across rows of horses mounted by riders armed with bows and spears, and though he quickly lost count, he estimated their strength to be a couple of hundred.
The century was now besieged.
The Parthian commander approached the gates, flanked only by two other riders, and came to a halt just out of bowshot. There he waited, the only movement coming from the swishing tail of the exquisitely obedient horses.
“What do you think?” Quintillius asked Flaccus.
“It doesn’t look like a trap. They seem to be unarmed.”
“Maybe so, but with ten score mounted bowmen a short distance behind, they don’t lack protection.”
“I think they want to talk,” said Cominius.
Quintillius and Flaccus both turned a withering glance on the optio, who shrank back.
“I’ll go and parley,” said Quintillius.
“I should go, sir,” said Flaccus. “I’m more expendable.”
“Nonsense,” said Quintillius. “No one is expendable. Well.” He threw a sidelong glance at Cominius. “Almost no one.”
Cominius flushed.
“Anyway, I’m in command, it’s my responsibility.”
“You aren’t going alone?”
“No. He has two escorts, I’ll take two. Not you, Flaccus, you take command if anything happens to me. Not the signifer either. We aren’t risking the standard. Cominius. You will come with me. And…” Quintillius looked around him, then spotted Oclatinius at his station on his guard tower. “You. Oclatinius,” he called. “You always seem to be in the middle of trouble. You can join me.”
Oclatinius looked at the guard on duty with him in the tower who gave him a sympathetic smile. He descended the ladder and hurried over to Quintillius. The centurion looked him up and down, then looked down at his own uniform.
“Not exactly Praetorians on parade are we? Well, a bit of dirt and grime never hurt a real soldier. Come on. Let’s see what these barbarians want.”
Oclatinius marched behind Quintillius’ left shoulder, Cominius behind his right. He kept his back straight and his face impassive, though his heart was pounding. As they neared, the Parthians became clearer. The two escorts flanking the commander wore tunics and trousers, like some of the northern barbarians preferred. Their pointy helmets seemed to be made of some sort of cloth. The commander by contrast had an iron helmet and a type of scale armour that covered his neck, chest, abdomen and legs. His horse too was covered with a similar armour, and Oclatinius wondered how you were supposed to bring someone like that down.
Quintillius came to a halt a dozen feet away.
“What do you want, Parthian?”
The Parthian commander regarded them for a moment, before replying in clear Greek.
“My name is Phraates. I command these horsemen you see behind me. You are in Parthian territory.”
“We’re leaving,” said Quintillius. “Let us pass peacefully, and there will be no trouble.”
“Peacefully? Did you pass peacefully on your way into our lands? Did you bring peace to Dura-Europos? To Seleucia?”
Oclatinius felt a weight settle in the bottom of his stomach. He had hoped that they had outpaced the news of the sack of those cities. But it was a forlorn hope, he knew. They had been making a pathetically slow pace, and these men were on horseback. If they knew what had happened, especially at Seleucia, they would not let them go without punishment. And the century was in no shape to fight its way through them.
“Then why are we talking?” asked Quintillius.
“So I may accept your surrender.”
Quintillius actually laughed aloud at this. Oclatinius didn’t know if it was bravado, madness, or genuine hilarity, but Quintillius put his hands on his belly, tilted his head back to the sky and let out great guffaws. Phraates watched impassively, waiting for the seizure to pass.
Quintillius regained control of himself, shaking his head and wiping tears from his eyes.
“How stupid do you think we are, Parthian? Surrendering to you is death. We still remember how you treated Crassus and his legions.”
“Whether you live or die after your surrender will not be my decision, Roman. Though you are right that mercy may be in short supply after your actions in Parthia. Still, if your sentence is death, it will be swift if you have not prolonged this struggle unnecessarily.”
“If it is to be death, we would rather die like Romans, with swords in our hands. But I think you are getting ahead of yourselves. We are a full strength Roman century in a strong defensive position.”
Phraates sneered. “Full strength? Please, centurion. Don’t insult me. My men have been watching you. You are carrying cartloads of wounded soldiers.”
Wounded? Oclatinius realised they didn’t know about the sickness. Their scouts won’t have got close enough to realise what had afflicted so many of them, and would have assumed they were just the battle-injured who had been left behind by the main column. It was a small blessing. If the Parthians knew how weak they really were, they would be tempted into a full scale attack. They clearly felt that as things stood, that would be overly costly, even if probably successful.
“If you have no more to offer,” said Quintillius. “This parley is finished.” He turned on his heel abruptly and headed back to the town. Oclatinius and Cominius hurried to catch him up.
The first attack came late in the day. The Parthians were clearly in no hurry. They had the Roman century penned in like sheep, and there were no reinforcements for many days ride in any direction. But after letting them sweat, quite literally, on alert all day in the sweltering heat, they came, just as the sun was descending towards the horizon.
It started with a hail of arrows directed at the sentry towers of the main gate, and the towers in the corner of that front wall. It had little direct effect, but it made the guards keep their heads down. They were too few in number to return a suppressing fire of their own, so all they could do was crouch behind the flimsy defences, flinching as the missiles whistled overhead or smashed into the walls, splintering wood and sending splinters flying.
And while the legionaries took cover, another volley of arrows sailed in. But these weren’t aimed at living bodies. They were aimed at the gates, and the arrows were flaming.
Oclatinius shouted down from his guard tower to Quintillius. The centurion was summoning all the men who were on a rest shift, getting them ready to repel an attack if the gates were rammed, while leaving a reserve in case the Parthians tried to scale the walls with ladders at other points.
“Fire arrows!” shouted Oclatinius. “The gates are starting to catch.”
Quintillius cursed, but he had been round long enough that he wasn’t caught by surprise. He quickly had the reserve forming a chain to pass pre-filled buckets up to the guard towers. Oclatinius received the first one, trying not to spill any, though his hands were shaking with nerves and exertion. He peeked over the top of the wall, ducked down as he saw a bowman line up and let loose at his head, then quickly tossed the contents of the bucket down the front of the gate.
There was a satisfying hiss, and one fire arrow which had only just lodged in the gate was extinguished. But a dozen more were blazing, and Oclatinius tossed his empty bucket to the soldiers below and reached down for another. The soldiers on the guard tower on the other side of the gate were doing the same, frantically grabbing full buckets and pouring them onto the growing flames, while trying to avoid the deadly hail of missiles from the Parthian archers.
One legionary was too slow, too unobservant, or just too unlucky. As he leaned over with his bucket to throw water at a more distant flame, an arrow struck him in the side of the neck. The bucket fell to the ground outside the gate, and the soldier reached up to grasp the arrow shaft. Oclatinius watched in horror as he tried to pull it free, though he surely knew that the wound was mortal. The arrow barely moved before the legionary tumbled over the parapet, falling on top of the bucket which splintered under the impact of the dying man’s body.
Oclatinius watched for a moment, paralysed. The legionary still moved, still tried to breathe. He reached an imploring hand up towards Oclatinius, whose heart broke at the pathetic sight. He started to stretch his own hand out.
The singing of an arrow’s path through the air made him duck. The arrow went high. He was fortunate – there wouldn’t have been enough time from him hearing the threat to it impacting upon him to get out of its path. He hunkered down behind the partial safety of the defences, breathing heavily.
“Oclatinius,” roared Quintillius. “Get up, and get those fires out!”
Oclatinius moved with a great effort, fighting against every instinct screaming at him to keep his head down. Expecting at any moment for an arrow to skewer him like the soldier on the opposite tower, he threw bucket after bucket over the flames. There were several near misses that made his bowels loosen, but eventually the fires were extinguished, the gates were still intact, and somehow Oclatinius had avoided perforation.
He sank back onto the floor of the guard tower, breathing deeply in an attempt to slow his racing pulse.
“Oclatinius!” yelled Quintillius. “Is it done?”
“All done, sir,” he shouted back. “All the flames are out.”
“Good work. Get down here, take a short break. You!” He randomly pointed to one of his reserves. “Get up there and take his place.”
Oclatinius climbed down the guard ladder on trembling legs, clammy hands gripping the rungs of the ladder overly tightly. At the bottom, he glanced at the gates. From the inside they seemed largely undamaged, but some patches had turned brown where the flames had nearly burned all the way through. One or two of the stakes that made up the gate had splintered from multiple impacts. But they were still able to do their job. They had beaten off the first attack.
Oclatinius took out his flask and drained it, then headed over to the well in the centre of the town, near the temporary hospital to refill it. Most of the townsfolk were cowering in their houses, praying to whichever gods they worshipped in these parts to be spared. But some peered out of the corners of windows as he passed, showing expressions of fear, resentment and anger.
Some of the braver children actually emerged onto the streets, until he had a following of half a dozen urchins of varying ages and sizes, and both genders. He stopped and turned on them abruptly, and they shrank back. But he had not the heart in him to be fierce with them, and when he saw that several of them were drawn and skinny, he tossed them some hard bread from his rations. They grabbed it hungrily, the eldest taking charge and sharing it out fairly.
Then a tan-skinned, crease-faced woman ran from one of the huts and grabbed one of the children by the hand. She yanked the little girl away, batting the food out of her hand so it fell into the dirt. The girl cried as she was hauled off to her hut, but the mother hurried inside, and with one disgusted look at Oclatinius, slammed the door shut.
Oclatinius looked at the oldest child. “What was that about?” He knew the child wouldn’t understand, but he did his best to look perplexed.
The child pointed to his own face, and stabbed it repeatedly with his index finger. What was he doing? Then Oclatinius realised. He was signifying the rash, this pox that had appeared recently among the soldiers. So the townsfolk were scared of that? He rubbed his own pock-marked face thoughtfully, and continued on to the well.
The few townsfolk who had ventured out for water scattered at his approach. Was it the natural fear of a soldier? Before this last encounter, he would have assumed as much. But now, he wondered, was there another reason? Were the locals familiar with this disease, this poxy affliction, and were avoiding the soldiers like the… plague?
The noise from beyond the town defences was muted, and he could hear no urgent shouts, yells or screams from his comrades on guard, so after refilling his water flask, Oclatinius wandered wearily over to the hospital area to check in on Bricius.
“You look dreadful,” he said, when he saw his friend propped up on one elbow, face pale and sweating profusely.
“How many women have you talked into bed with that sweet tongue of yours?” muttered Bricius.
Oclatinius laughed. If his friend’s dour sense of humour was returning, that was surely a good sign. Then his attention was caught by two glum looking legionaries carrying a stretcher. Fulvius yelled to them, beckoned them over, then directed them to one of the sickly patients lying in an orderly row. The legionaries picked the soldier up by his hands and feet and dumped him heavily on the stretcher. Oclatinius winced at how roughly they treated him, until he saw the head loll to one side and stare at him, sightless eyes looking out from a pustulent, blistered, fly-covered face.
He was dead. All the soldiers, maybe half a dozen in that row, were dead. Oclatinius suddenly felt as cold as when he had jumped into the Euphrates, despite the fierce sun.
Fulvius caught him looking but he had no words. He just shook his head, and continued with his work, squatting down by a man with nose haemorrhaging and blood-stained saliva drooling from the corner of his mouth. He offered him water, but the clearly dying man didn’t even respond.
Shouts rang out from the direction of the main gate. Oclatinius looked towards the noise and saw arrows flying again, some flaming. He cursed, patted Bricius gently on the shoulder, and ran back towards the affray. And as he charged towards the battle, he wondered what would kill them all first. The Parthians, or the sickness.
Darkness fell with little progress in the siege. That was the nature of sieges, supposed Oclatinius. Long periods of time with nothing much happening. Weren’t the Greeks outside Troy for ten years?
But this town with its flimsy defences was no Troy, nor was the sickly century a Trojan army. And much as Quintillius seemed to be a competent commander, there was no Hector in their ranks. So he didn’t think it would take ten years to reduce their defences. He thought they would be lucky to hold out ten days.
Still the last attack had been beaten back with just a couple of soldiers wounded, one of whom would be out of action for the foreseeable future after an arrow went through his shoulder, the other who had a graze to his thick skull still able to fight once he had shaken off the concussion. The gates still held, despite some more scorch marks appearing, and the Parthians had retreated to their camp for the night. From his guard tower, Oclatinius watched their distant campfires, like stars strewn across the dark, barren landscape, and wished for a bath, a bed, and a city free from disease and soldiers trying to kill him.
He was glad when his watch ended and he was relieved by a solitary legionary. He had kept lookout alone in his tower. Numbers were so depleted by battle and illness that they could no longer double up, unless they kept watch all night, which would mean no rest before the expected renewed attack in the morning. He saluted the young soldier, then noticed with a shudder that the lad had a few pustules on his face. In that light he couldn’t tell if it was acne or the pox, and he decided that saying something would achieve nothing, and might even cause the soldier to run, terrified, to Fulvius, meaning Oclatinius would have to remain on watch. So he said nothing, and descended the ladder to find his tent and a few short hours of sleep.
His sleep was patchy and he woke frequently from dreams involving facially disfigured comrades, or hailstorms of arrows descending on his vitals. He decided he could no longer sleep at some hour before dawn, so he left his tent to use the latrine, then went to the fountain to drink and splash some cool water on his face. Seeing it was not yet time for him to report for guard duty, and all was quiet, he wandered over to the hospital area.
Fulvius was hard at work, looking like he hadn’t slept for days. He looked up at Oclatinius, nodded acknowledgement, and continued, feeding, offering drink, cleansing faces and limbs that were covered in suppurating sores. Oclatinius looked around at the massed ranks of the unfit, dominated now by the sickly, with those injured in battle a minority – presumably they had mainly recovered or died by now. There were so many. If only they were fit to fight, they had a chance of holding the Parthians off. Even outnumbered, a century of Roman legionaries in a defensive position was a tough nut to crack.
They had plenty of food in their supplies, supplemented by robbing the townsfolk. They had an endless supply of water. Ammunition for bows and slings was sufficient for some time. It was men they lacked. He sighed, and looked around for Bricius. Anxiety rose in his chest when he couldn’t immediately locate his friend. Then he saw the long-haired Gaul, sitting up with his back to a cart, chewing unenthusiastically on a piece of hard bread.
Oclatinius went over and sat beside him, resting the back of his head against the cart wheel.
“Feeling better?” he said.
Bricius turned to him. The pustules on his face had formed sheets, in some places oozing, in others scabbed over. Oclatinius winced.
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I laugh,” said Bricius.
“Well that never happens.”
“And when I talk. And breathe.”
“Oh.”
Oclatinius fell silent for a moment.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Bricius reached around his neck and untied a leather string, then fished out a pendant that had been against his chest beneath his clothing. It was a bronze phallus, anatomically correct with helmet and balls, except for the two aquiline wings spreading out from the shaft.
“Please give this to my mother. She lives in Colonia Nemausus.”
He handed it to Oclatinius, who took it solemnly.
“This is a Roman good luck charm.”
Bricius nodded. “My mother was half Roman. That was her father’s. She gave it to me as a child and I have worn it ever since.”
“You should keep it. You will see her again yourself.”
“Look at me, Oclatinius. Between the pox and the Parthians, what are my chances? I wouldn’t feel so bad if I could go out fighting, with a sword in my hand, rather than rotting away here.”
Oclatinius looked at him with sadness. “You want to die in battle?”
“I’m a Gaul, Oclatinius. Vercingetorix, Gergovia, all that. It’s still in my blood.”
Oclatinius touched his friend gently on his shoulder. The sky was turning red in the east. He got up stiffly. “My watch starts again soon. I’ll come back when I can.”
The Parthians attacked soon after dawn. This time they showed more intent. Maybe they were too impatient for a long siege, maybe they had some idea of the Romans’ weakness. Oclatinius suspected that some of the townsfolk had sneaked over the palisade at night to escape the Romans, or the pox, or both. At least some of those would have gone to the Parthians, voluntarily or otherwise, and provided intelligence on the state of the defenders. And they were in a real state.
The Parthians had fashioned themselves a makeshift battering ram, which was impressive given the scarcity of wood in the region. From the look of it, it had previously been a support from some building, maybe the meeting hall of a local village. It wasn’t as hefty as a properly constructed Roman siege weapon, but it didn’t have to be to break down the flimsy town gates.
Dismounted Parthians rushed in, half a dozen carrying the ram, another half a dozen bearing shields to fend off the arrows that Quintillius frantically ordered let loose. The number of missiles was pathetically small, and all hit shields or went wide. The gates shuddered and there was a cracking sound as the ram impacted for the first time. The Parthians retreated twenty yards, then rushed in again.
Oclatinius attempted to line up his shots with his bow, but the quick moving, shielded targets were difficult, and he missed time and again. He leaned out from the tower, looking for an opening. Suddenly he saw a gap, and let loose. The arrow flew true, hitting an exposed Parthian leg, just as the ram impacted the gates again. The jolt through the woodwork unbalanced Oclatinius, already leaning out too far. He tilted, feet coming off the floor of the tower, balanced momentarily on his abdomen with the distant ground and the Parthian soldiers wobbling beneath him.
For a terrifying moment, he thought it was all over. If the fall didn’t kill him, the Parthians below would make short work of him. He flailed, but felt himself tilting inexorably forward and over.
Firm hands grabbed his feet, and yanked him back on the safe side of the parapet. Oclatinius sank to the floor, rubbing his stomach, sore from the stakes pressing against the mail, breathing heavily. Centurion Flaccus was looking down at him with his customary stern face. But that face was covered with sheets of coalescing, weeping, scabby pustules.
“Still being an idiot, Oclatinius,” he said. He reached a swollen hand, oozing hand down to help Oclatinius to his feet. Oclatinius hesitated to take it, repelled for a moment.
In that moment of hesitation, an arrow flew over the parapet and struck Flaccus squarely in the chest, penetrating his curaiss and lodging deep inside him. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words emerged, only dark blood. He took one step forward, then toppled over the parapet to land with a sickening thud below.
Oclatinius jumped to his feet, looked over, knowing there was no hope, but needing to see for himself the fate of his first ever commanding officer. Flaccus lay on his back, staring at the sky, a dark patch staining his front. A Parthian hurried over to him, sword drawn, ready to finish him off if there were any signs of life. He stared down into the dead face, took a hasty step backwards and called over another. He pointed at Flaccus, then pointed at his own face. The other Parthian grabbed his arm and pulled him away, muttering loudly. They ran over to the officer who seemed to be commanding the ramming party, shouting and pointing over to Flaccus.
The men holding the ram were readying themselves for another charge, but the officer yelled a command and they stopped in their tracks. At another command, they dropped the ram, and ran back towards their own lines.
Oclatinius watched the scene play out in fascination, the bow at his feet forgotten. This was important. He gave Flaccus a last, regretful glance, then hurried down the ladder to find Quintillius.
There were no more attacks that day. Oclatinius, watching from the guard tower, fancied that the Parthians had moved their camp further away from the town walls. He thought he could hear raised voices. Disagreements, arguments, even some fights breaking out within the Parthian ranks.
He kept a careful, solitary watch, and was relieved that they stayed their distance, while at the same time feeling a growing sense of frustration. Hiding in this foreign town, trapped like rats in a cage, made him want to break free, go running at the enemy with his sword over his head.
But young as he was, his rational side had a firmer upper hand over his irrational, animal instincts. He watched the sunset and the Parthian camp fires appear in the darkness until he was relieved. As had become his habit, his first stop after seeing to his bodily needs was to go to see Bricius.
His friend looked in a bad way. His head was drooped on his chest, and his face was one big scab, that had broken apart in multiple places, liquid oozing from the crevasses, pale yellow in some places, creamy and thick in others. Oclatinius touched a gentle hand to his shoulder, and Bricius jerked awake. He squinted up at Oclatinius, and the creasing of his eyes forced more liquid out.
Bricius covered Oclatinius’ hand with his own, and Oclatinius forced himself not to flinch at the crusty, sticky touch.
“Do you still have the fascinus?” Bricius’ voice was a hoarse whisper.
Oclatinius patted his chest where it dangled from the leather strap around his neck. He had taken his own childhood charm off when he had become a man, anxious to leave behind boyhood. What a fool he thought himself now. Those days growing up on his father’s farm, that he had been so anxious to escape from, now seemed like a sojourn in the Elysian fields.
“I think this may be the day,” said Oclatinius.
Bricius nodded, only a slight head movement.
“You know what I think, don’t you?” asked Bricius.
“Yes,” said Oclatinius. “We’re doomed.”
The remains of the century stood at the ready behind the gates. Oclatinius couldn’t help glancing down at them, though he was supposed to be watching the advancing Parthians. Half of the legionaries could barely stand. They leant on their spears or on one another for support.
He caught Quintillius’ eye, the centurion standing behind the ranks, surrounded by a small reserve of the fittest troops who had somehow avoided injury or illness. Quintillius held his gaze for a short while, but Oclatinius couldn’t read his expression. That was a skill he would have to work on, he thought.
He saw Bricius in the front line and waved the winged phallus at him. Bricius mouthed the word, “Doomed.” Then he swayed, and the soldier next to him grasped his arm to support him.
Oclatinius turned his attention back to the advancing Parthians. They looked a mighty sight, all mounted except for the handful carrying the battering ram, and a few carrying rickety ladders. Their mastery over the horses amazed Oclatinius every time he saw them, keeping them under perfect control, steering them as if by thought alone, given how imperceptible the movement of the riders’ heels and hands were.
His heart beat faster as they neared. He signalled to Quintillius their distance, as best as he could estimate it. They appeared to be in no hurry, confident in their superiority over the fragile Romans. When they were within bowshot, the men with the ram broke into a run, and the horses trotted alongside them.
Oclatinius shouted down to the centurion.
“Here they come!”
Quintillius yelled a command.
“Open the gates!”
Four legionaries hastened to obey, heaving the bar out of the iron catches holding it in place, and as soon as it was free two others hauling on the gates themselves. They creaked open, the gap widening slowly at first, then faster as the two legionaries who had removed the bar helped. The Parthians, unable to counteract the momentum of the ram quickly enough, burst through the empty gap in the gates. They stumbled, off-balance, braced for the resistance of the gates and encountering only air. Unexpectedly faced by the legionaries, some dropped the ram and turned tail, causing those who tried to keep a grip to trip and fall.
Legionaries placed either side of the gates in readiness, fit and well soldiers, stepped in with swords drawn. The Parthians had no chance to defend themselves. Gladii thrust, men screamed, blood gouted, and in moments the Parthians within the gates were finished, dead, dying or fled.
It was a good tactic, they had captured the ram, given the Parthians a bloody nose, and the sensible thing would be to close the gates once more.
Quintillius looked up at Oclatinius, as if seeking reassurance. Oclatinius nodded. This had been his idea after all. And maybe it would be the death of all of them. What was it Fulvius had quoted that physician as saying? “All who drink this recover, except those who don’t, who all die.” Something like that anyway. That was how he felt right now. This remedy would work, and they would be saved. Unless it didn’t. And then they would all die.
“Advance!” called out Quintillius.
The sickly front rank of the century lifted their shields, the efforts of even this showing on their pustular faces. Then, one foot plodding after another, to the amazement of the Parthians, they advanced.
Oclatinius watched with pride, hope and fear as the legionaries pressed forward, swords drawn, shields in front of them. But the shields did not cover their faces, Oclatinius was pleased to see. He had been very explicit about that instruction to Quintillius, and he was relieved the order had been obeyed, alien as it seemed to keep any vital part exposed to the enemy.
The Parthians unleashed a volley of arrows, and two of the front rank fell. Oclatinius was dismayed to see the lanky figure of Mergus fall with an arrow in his face. But shuffling soldiers filled the gaps and they continued forwards. Instead of hitting and running as was their usual tactic, the Parthians, seeing an opportunity to outflank them, and to end this fight once and for all, rode forwards. Oclatinius shot arrow after arrow into the horsemen, catching a horse in its flank which bucked and threw its rider, hitting another rider in the arm, making him drop his sword. But the numbers of attackers were too big for him and the other archer on the opposite tower to make a significant difference.
The Parthians were almost upon the advancing legionaries, when they became close enough to see the Roman faces. Oclatinius could feel the shock ripple through the enemy ranks, even from his lofty viewpoint. Some continued the charge. Some drew up short. Some immediately whipped their horses round in a tight half circle and fled. The legionaries, all infected with the most visible form of the pox, suppurating, oozing, scabbed and pustular jeered at the Parthians.
“Come on then you barbarians fuckers.”
“Aren’t we pretty enough for you, fellators?”
Some Parthians pressed the attack, and even those few looked enough to overwhelm the weak legionaries at the front. But at a command from Quintillius, the sickly soldiers opened up gaps in the rank, and the second rank, all healthy, fit men, stepped forward. The Parthians were committed, but found their horses riding onto spears braced in the ground, found themselves dragged off their horses and once on the ground kicked, beaten and hacked to death.
The attack was finished, almost as soon as it had started.
That evening, there were no fires visible as far as Oclatinius could see from his guard tower. As far as they could tell, immediately after the battle, the Parthians had packed up camp and melted away into the desert. Quintillius would not let them reduce their vigilance, but Oclatinius knew the siege was over.
When his watch was over, he went to report to the centurion. He found him outside his tent, in discussion with Fulvius and Cominius.
“So how come we three haven’t caught this pestilence?”
Fulvius shrugged. “I have no idea. I don’t know where it came from, how it spreads, or how it does the damage it does. I have noticed one thing though. Can I ask where you two grew up?”
“In Campania,” said Cominius.
“In a small village in Cisapline Gaul.”
Fulvius caught sight of Oclatinius lurking nearby.
“And you, Oclatinius?”
“On my father’s farm.”
“I think that people who grew up in the countryside have some resistance to the disease. Maybe there is something in the country air that provides protection. But it’s just a theory.”
Oclatinius rubbed his hands over the pock marks on his face. That illness, mild as it had been, had seemed similar in some respects to this much more serious sickness. Was it that that had protected him? He dismissed it from his mind. He was alive, and well, and that was all that mattered.
“How many are left, Fulvius?” asked Quintillius.
“A third dead from sickness or in battle. A third ill, some of whom will die. A third are well. At least for now.”
“Oclatinius, what did you see?”
“No sign of them, sir.”
Quintillius nodded. “It was a good idea of yours, lad. And you knew it would work, just from your observations of the reactions of the townsfolk and the soldiers to the disease? You knew they had seen it before and would fear it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Quintillius clapped him on the shoulder.
“I see great things for you, boy. You are destined to be more than just a legionary, I feel. Now go and get some rest. We will spend tomorrow in the town, then we will march again. And hopefully reach Palmyra before the pox or the Parthians take us all.”
“If Oclatinius is right, the Parthians should keep their distance now, knowing we have the illness among us.”
“Let’s hope. Dismissed, legionary.”
Oclatinius wandered through the town, drained physically and emotionally. That the centurion had trusted him still amazed him. But what other choice had he had? If it hadn’t worked, they were doomed anyway.
With that word ringing around his head, he went to check on his friend. Bricius looked spent, but he smiled when he saw Oclatinius. He had a half-eaten piece of bread in his hand, and Oclatinius thought he looked a little better in himself. Bricius confirmed this when he was asked.
“I don’t know if it’s the excitement of combat or the disease is waning, but I do feel a bit better. Though when I have finished eating, I’m going to sleep for a week.”
“We made it through, Bricius. For all your warnings. We have made it through disease and war.”
“For now,” said the pessimistic Gaul.
Oclatinius reached under his armour and drew out the winged phallus on its leather strap.
“Here,” he said, putting it over Bricius’ head. “You can show this to your mother when you see her next. Tell her you kept it safe. And in turn, how it kept you safe.”
He looked around at the dead, dying and diseased all around them, and wondered what would happen when the infected reached big cities like Palmyra and Antioch. But that was not his problem.
He put his arm around Bricius’ shoulder, and exhaustion finally claiming him, closed his eyes.