Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  A deep rumble built quickly into ground shaking thunder. Rocks bounced and rolled down the hillside above the terrace, crashing to the ground and splintering with vicious cracks. Alarmed and then terrified, Dubgetious’ mount reared and bucked him clear from her back. He fell heavily, his landing cushioned only a little by the bloodied corpse of a Turdetani warrior, her glazed eyes vacant in death. He heard other mounts neighing, their riders equally unable to remain seated, falling. A boulder bounced once and then flattened a rearing horse, crushing both it and its rider. Rising, Dubgetious grabbed his spear and began to run for the safety beyond the terrace. Behind him, a new danger followed. The stacked tree trunks had come free of whatever restraints had held them and were rolling and cartwheeling down the hill.

  He flinched away from a near miss as a log drove into the hard rock at his feet, sending splinters flying. Eshmun was rolling away from an oncoming log, but another was close behind. Dubgetious swerved and caught the Carthaginian under the arm, dragging him to his feet with a grunt and wheeling him away from the spinning tree trunk. Shoving the Carthaginian ahead of him, he saw others less fortunate, driven into the ground by the avalanche of timber and rock. A dark shadow fell over him and Eshmun and Dubgetious slammed his shoulder into the Carthaginian’s back, knocking him over the lip of the terrace as a huge boulder swept over them.

  The rumbling dwindled and died, leaving the air swirling with dust and his senses reeling. Raising his head, he saw the savage destruction on the terrace and winced at the shuddering bodies of men who had been too slow to react.

  Layered in dust, Eshmun coughed raggedly and scrambled to his knees, eyes unfocused. Other survivors were rising and seeing Eshmun, began to gather around him. Amma appeared and helped the Carthaginian leader to his feet, smiling at Dubgetious.

  “Tanit’s hand has saved you!” Cried a weeping rider, his helmet dented and bloody dust plastering his beard.

  “The Bastetani Messenger did a fair job too.” Amma pointed out. He had his back to the mines and was dusting down the Carthaginian.

  Dubgetious bent to retrieve his spear once again and felt the rustle of wind part his hair as he did so. The thump of a spear into flesh was followed by a gurgled grunt of surprise. A score of Turdetani graybeards erupted from the mine shafts. Leaping across shattered boulders and splintered lumber, they roared their battle cries.

  The surviving riders were virtually unarmed. Swords, when dragged from sheaths, were bent or shattered. Spears had been dropped in the flight from the avalanche which now seemed part of a trap laid by the rebels.

  “Run!” Dubgetious screamed, dashing forward to leap onto the terrace. Amma was at his side in a heartbeat, a spear with foreshortened shaft gripped in his fist. Two others joined them, grabbing frantically at partially buried blades of dubious quality and wresting them from the death grips of their former wielders. A handful of battered riders minus their mounts were trying to hustle Eshmun to safety, calling for warriors to attend.

  The Libyans were already racing their way, having seen and heard the avalanche of rock and timber. It was clear they would not arrive before the Turdetani were upon them.

  Chapter 11

  The cold did little to dampen the stink of the Punic army camped across the southern slopes of three hills. Lyda wrinkled her nose as the north wind lifted the odour of a thousand improvised latrines and funnelled them towards the tree line where her and her companions sheltered. Her eyes narrowed as she watched a hundred horsemen range through the valley below and as it became apparent that they would pass, she looked back to where Chalcon crouched, watching her. He grinned confidently.

  “It is as you predicted.” She allowed. “The Barca army is readying to storm the Oretani town.”

  He shrugged. “The town has good walls, but without stout-hearted defenders to man them, it will fall.”

  “The Oretani will know that.” Lyda reflected on the desolation of her own home settlement. The warriors and home keepers killed, and the fittest of the survivors levied by force into the Barca army. She had no great love for the Oretani, but she would not wish such a defeat upon them at the hands of Hamilcar Barca’s army.

  “They will fight harder if they believe Orissus is coming to their aid.” Chalcon made a fist, knuckles white beneath dark hairs.

  “I am not here to save the Oretani. I wish only to find my son and bring him home.” She glared accusingly at Chalcon.

  “If only it were that simple, eh?” Chalcon’s grin faded and his eyes sharpened. “Barca has spread from Gadiz through the Turdetani lands, turning proud graybeards and leading men into levies.” He shook his head. “If you were told three seasons past the mighty Turdetani would be so humbled would you have believed it?”

  Lyda did not respond for it was unnecessary. No one would have believed it. The Turdetani were numerous and well-armed. Their warriors raided at will and on those occasions when their leading men combined, they laid waste to settlements of neighbouring tribes until ransoms were paid. Now. Now they were a beaten people.

  Chalcon read her expression. “Save your son, but for what future fate?” He pointed at the huge army. “Until Hamilcar is beaten, there is little future for him. He will be killed or levied along with all the rest of the Bastetani’s best warriors.”

  Lyda turned away from Chalcon, her lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted no part of this, but recognised she had little choice. Chalcon’s words rang true. Hamilcar Barca of Carthage led his army across the land, destroying or taking all that was Iberian.

  Chalcon rose silently and walked to her side. “I must get into the town, Lyda.”

  “It is madness.” She glared at him. He flashed that white-toothed grin of his. He was a bold and handsome warrior with the blood of heroes in his veins undoubtedly. “What can you, one man, do for the Oretani trapped there behind their walls?”

  “Hope is a powerful weapon, Lyda. I can give the defenders that.”

  “While I deliver what they hope for?”

  “You better than anybody. Orissus will hear you. Convince him to raise his Spears and lead them against Hamilcar Barca.”

  “No more levies.” She whispered.

  When Cenos had found Tascux on the hillside he was laid out on his back, head thrown back and mouth hanging slack. He looked like the body of a warrior whose shade had fled. She stepped beneath the slight overhang of rock and looked down mournfully into his face. Her scream when he opened his eyes drew the others in moments.

  They sat around a small fire, Lyda’s Bastetani and Chalcon’s Greeks, laughing with Tascux at the tale.

  Never a great speaker, Tascux harrumphed and grumbled when asked to tell them how Cenos had wet herself, thinking he had returned from the dead.

  “The enemy riders were below me and some other buggers were creeping around in the grass, so I found a dry spot and…” He shrugged.

  Even Lyda was amused and prompted the taciturn old warrior. “A dry spot and… come on, Tascux.”

  Muttering through his tangled beard, he dipped his head. “I fell asleep.”

  The warriors slapped their thighs and howled. Chalcon shook his head, eyes watering. “That is the tale of a true graybeard! The enemy all around and unconcerned, he takes a nap.”

  Passing around a basket of roast goose shot from the sky that afternoon, the warriors’ faces flickered in the orange glow of firelight. Lyda ate sparsely, her stomach too knotted to feel hunger. When daylight came, they would be in the midst of the Carthaginian camp. The thought left her dry-mouthed, but she was committed. They had watched as hundreds of Iberian warriors came and went from the extended lines of the enemy encircling the Oretani town. It was true that these were mostly Turdetani or Turduli, but there were others too. Greeks, Libyans, and Gauls. There were dark-skinned men and red-haired giants. There were women dressed in skins and men wrapped in robes. This was truly an army drawn from all nations that resided beside the Inland Sea. It was the factor that made Chalcon’s plan feasible.r />
  With a simple tilt of her head the talking and laughing ceased. Lyda lifted a waterskin and upended it over the small fire. Dipping her fingers in the wet ash and warm mud, she painted a wide band of black and gray across her face. The others followed and soon they all wore blackened faces. Now they passed a small cup of congealing blood mixed with vinegar from hand to hand, daubing bloody patterns through the ash and mud, smearing it over bared chests and between breasts.

  “We have spoken. All here know the danger and we accept. May Runeovex guide us, but remember that tonight is not a time for battle, but for cunning.” She glanced around at the waiting warriors. Despite the cold, they had stripped off all armour and wore only simple tunics belted at the waist and their sandals wrapped to their knees. Likewise, they carried only spears. The few swords the group possessed were wrapped in cloaks and buried. Now they looked nothing like Bastetani or Greek warriors, but like any savage fighter welcomed into armies such as the one led by the Barca.

  Chalcon stepped into the centre. “This is a thing we must do. We have seen the spread of these Carthaginians and their Punic ways. It does no good to think of this as a battle the Oretani deserve or not. What Hamilcar Barca does here in the days ahead will happen to every village and town across Iberia.” He clapped his hands suddenly. “So let us warriors of Sucro and our Bastetani companions make this a lot more difficult for him.”

  He grinned, as he must have done when a boy and planning a raid on the cook’s stores with his friends. Lyda nodded once and shouldered her spear. Her bare arms, stained by ash and her hair thick with mud, she looked like one of those rough and savage people that lived beyond the fringes of the tribes and were drawn to war like wasps to blood.

  She would not let Chalcon lead, but allowed him to stay at her shoulder with the rest of their small company following. Ranging through the night, she led them to the darkest part of the Carthaginian camp, treading warily lest they stumble into a circle of sleeping warriors.

  The camp was vast with no discernible pattern to where warriors had set their sleeping places and except where cook fires still burned or voices murmured, it was all but impossible in the dead of night to see the sleeping figures until almost upon them.

  Lyda backed up a step, noticing at the last moment the sleeping figure at her feet. Chalcon hissed softly and pulled her by the elbow to the right. Irritably, she twisted her arm from his grip. His teeth gleamed in the dark as did the whites of his eyes. She suspected he was enjoying every moment of their tense journey through the Carthaginian army.

  Rounding the sleeping form and a handful more, she made directly for the flickering torches kept alight along the town’s walls. Before they could reach the walls though, they would have to pass through the ring of sentries that guarded against surprise attacks from the town’s Oretani warriors.

  She grunted at the sight of a large fire and the dozen warriors that stood close to the shedding warmth. More such fires burned at regular intervals around the entire town, leaving no way to reach the walls without passing through the light cast and within view of the alert sentries. To her left, on a slight incline, were lines of shadowy tents, crouched like beasts waiting to pounce. The remnants of an olive grove stretched to the right, the trees stripped and many felled to feed the army’s cook fires.

  “This is where we part.” Chalcon murmured into her ear.

  Lyda eyed the town walls a spear’s throw beyond the sentries. “You will not have long.”

  Chalcon knelt, the sound of leather being tautened told her he was tightening his sandal straps. When he stood, he placed a hand on her shoulder, his skin rough with callouses, hers grainy with mud and ash.

  “Bring Orissus’ Spears, Lyda.”

  She nodded and turned away wordlessly, leaving the warrior from Sucro to slip away into the dark.

  Taking her companions and those of Chalcon, she made for the rows of tents, readying herself for what was to come next.

  At the outer wall of the last tent where the light from the sentry’s fire traced the barest glow, she passed her spear to Audoti and signalled to Tascux. Reluctantly, the old warrior handed his spear to Cenos.

  “What is wrong, old friend?” Lyda whispered, with cold humour. “Would you prefer I took Audoti or Eppa?” She snatched his hand and dragged it to her breast, forcing him against her flesh, pulling the tunic clear, so that the hard bud of her nipple pressed into the centre of his palm.

  “Lyda… this is too much!” He protested, his voice gruff and loud in the dark. A muffled curse sounded from within the tent.

  Lyda grinned and slapped Tascux a resounding blow across his cheek, snapping his head around.

  “If you want what I have, you will need to try harder!” She raised her voice, using the Greek of her old hometown.

  Warriors within the tent were waking with curses while one or two who had heard her words, laughed. A man shouted in broken Greek. “She wants it harder! If you cannot manage, bring her here!”

  Lyda could tell Tascux was bristling with anger and she regretted having to do what she did next. She lifted her knee, catching him squarely in his manhood with just enough force to cause Tascux to grunt and stagger. He hooked a foot under a tent rope, shaking it violently.

  “It is working, but you need to do more.” Cenos hissed, her eyes on the sentries at the nearest fire. Some were peering their way, others still shuffling around the flames to keep warm. “Slap her, Tucsux. You will only ever get this one chance.”

  Lyda cursed. The tent’s occupants were wide awake and she heard the curtain being thrown aside. They were coming to see the fun. She pulled her tunic loose from the belt and allowed her breasts to fall free, pale skin mottled with drying blood. She backed away from where Tascux was rising and signalled to the rest of the company to spread out. They did so quickly, melting into the dark like so many shades.

  Backing away from Tascux, she edged towards the sentry’s fire and cackled. As the first of the warriors from within the tent appeared, seeking the cause of the commotion, she called to the sentries.

  “His spear has gone soft! I have seen slings harder than what he offers!” She slipped her hands under her breasts and lifted them, cackling again. Deliberately, she twisted and spun, closing on the sentries, allowing the firelight to catch her form and light her chest and thighs. She had their attention now. They were all watching, sidling around the fire to stare and voice opinions. More than one lifted his tunic and thrust with his hips, making vulgar suggestions.

  Her companions were emerging from the dark, mingling with the tent’s occupants and others awakened by the growing noise. Audoti, with Cenos at his side, stalked through the warriors. Those who did not see him were shoved from his path. Breaking from the milling group, he strode into the firelight, a scowl fixed on his wild face, his hair pale with ash and skin streaked with blood. Warriors cursing him for shouldering them, swallowed their words at the savage sight he made.

  “Come!” He growled at Lyda.

  She had not seen Chalcon move and could not be sure where in the shadows he crouched. She needed to be sure he had slipped past the sentries who were still clustered close to their fire.

  She spat at Audoti and edged towards the devastated olive orchard. Her companions fanned out as though to capture her. Warriors hooted in anticipation of violence. She had moved closer to the sentries and Audoti bellowed again for her to come, advancing on her with his spear resting over his shoulder.

  The leading sentry lifted his own spear and strode towards Lyda, calling his fellows to heel. Their eyes danced between Lyda and Audoti and the barbaric looking woman with him.

  “Come keep us company by our fire, woman.” The sentry called to Lyda, his smile wet and crooked.

  Audoti swivelled his spear off his shoulder and levelled it at the sentry. “Not yours. Ours!”

  A shadow flicked briefly through the outer edge of the firelight, unnoticed by all save Lyda who had been watching for it. She tucked herself back into h
er tunic, eliciting groans of disappointment from the men watching. She threw a gesture at the sentries and turned her back on them, striding towards Audoti. Chalcon was past the sentries. Her role here done.

  The leading sentry snarled and lunged at her. A shadow form hurtled into him, sending the surprised man staggering into his companions. Tascux held a spear before him, its wicked edge hovering close to the sentry’s eyes.

  Lyda shouted and the sentry’s companions charged. In a heartbeat, the night was filled with curses and blades.

  Chapter 12

  Dubgetious sprang. A splintered tree trunk lay before him, wedged between tumbled rocks and bloodied by the carcass of a mount crushed beneath it. He landed and immediately braced as a large Turdetani, wild with battle fever, leaped at him.

  Dubgetious twisted and slipped to one knee, slashing his spear across the warrior’s forward leg. The blade opened the leather and wool of the man’s sandal, not reaching flesh, but tripping him off balance. The warrior carried a round shield and he battered Dubgetious in the face with this as he fell across the tree trunk.

  Ears ringing, the Bastetani youth struck out with his spear, again slashing at the warrior with the edge of the spear’s long blade. This time, he opened the man’s exposed thigh, cutting to the bone. The warrior screamed and rolled awkwardly, blood painting the tree. Amma silenced him with a vicious stab to the throat, spraying more blood into the air.

  The rest of the Turdetani were on them and Dubgetious dodged behind the tree trunk to avoid a massive blow from a falcata, a dreaded weapon able to cleave helmets and spill brains. The falcata bit deep into the tree, sending splinters of wood spinning. Dubgetious rose and stabbed with his spear, aiming at the man’s groin, hoping the falcata had stuck fast in the wood. It had not and the warrior snapped his wrist back, deflecting the spear thrust with ease. Dubgetious lurched aside to avoid the return swipe which swept past his face with the scent of grease and wood sap.