Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  Amma cursed as he slipped on the blood slick tree which had become the barrier between the combatants. A spear thumped into the wood beside his cheek and a moment later lifted as the Turdetani wielder readied to plunge it into the Libyan’s ear. Dubgetious, too far to lunge, hurled his own spear, sending it cracking through the warrior’s ribs and exploding blood in a fountain from the warrior’s gaping mouth.

  Amma rolled to his feet and ducked another swipe from the warrior with the falcata. The unmounted riders that had joined them to slow the Turdetani and allow Eshmun to escape, were hacking and slashing, surrounded by the Turdetani who had erupted from the mines. They screamed in panic and frustration as blade after blade flicked at them, cutting through their minimal armour, opening limbs and then torsos. Sobbing, a rider fell against the tree trunk, a spear buried in his gut, and was immediately seized by howling Turdetani. Screaming in terror, the man was hauled bodily over the tree and set upon. Dubgetious with little battle experience felt his legs weaken at the brutal sounds they made as they killed him, horrified by the man’s terrified pleas and screams. Sickened when the screams became grunts and gurgles, knowing that even then, the rider still lived.

  The warrior wielding the falcata, grinned at Dubgetious and Amma. His face a storm of pox scars and broken veins. Eyes glowing with cunning blood thirst, the Turdetani feinted to the left and then the right. Grinning at the pair as they flinched. Dubgetious was tugging frantically at a spear shaft half buried beneath the tree and the horse crushed beneath it. The mount kicked suddenly, its senses returning. The movement allowed Dubgetious to withdraw the spear.

  “Come on you ugly camel’s arse!” Amma shouted at the Turdetani, brandishing his spear valiantly. With the shaft snapped, it was no longer than the Turdetani’s falcata and no match at all.

  Dubgetious snapped a hurried glance back to see how far the Libyan warriors were and if Eshmun had reached safety. Too far and not yet. The last rider howled as a blade found his ankle, severing the cord there with a snap that twisted his leg horribly.

  Dubgetious lifted his newly won spear and grimaced. The blade was folded along one leaf and shivered loosely on the thick shaft. One blow and it would snap free.

  The Turdetani stopped feinting and with a roar, leaped the log, hacking at Amma who thrust his spear out. The falcata was the chosen weapon of Iberian champions; forged to bend when needed, it rarely snapped and the hungry curve of its blade struck with the force of a battle axe. Amma cursed and fell back, his broken spear spinning away to fall far beyond reach.

  Dubgetious saw the rest of the Turdetani turn their way, hungry for new kills. He crouched, his feeble spear held underarm in his right hand, his left hand splayed on the loose dirt. The Turdetani warrior narrowed his eyes, calculatingly. Amma was little threat while Dubgetious was still armed. He spat at Amma and leaped at Dubgetious. The Bastetani youth roared and sprang, flinging out his left hand as he did so. It was an old trick and ugly. Gravel and grit flew at the Turdetani’s wide-eyed face and although little struck the warrior, just enough dust to water his eyes found their mark. Dubgetious saw the other Turdetani quicken to their companion’s aid and wasted no time in attacking. He had one chance with the precarious blade. With all the might in his powerful shoulders and the keen sight of his youth, he plunged the blade into the warrior’s neck, beseeching the God of Spears, Runeovex, to allow him to open the warrior’s throat. The blade sank into the side of the man’s throat and then twisted. Too late, Dubgetious tried to flick it and open the great artery buried there, but only succeeded in twisting the shaft free of the blade, leaving it buried a quarter of its length in the man’s neck.

  Amma shouted in fear behind him and his heart thundered like a valley of drums. Thinking only of a swift death, Dubgetious spun the heavy shaft and cracked it across the Turdetani’s helmet. The man snarled and snatched at the shaft, narrowly missing it. He drew back his sword arm, readying a gut-skewering thrust. Dubgetious’ eyes were fixed on the spearhead protruding from the man’s neck, bobbing as the warrior roared blood and hate at him. He swung the shaft, eyes narrowed.

  Thunder and dust. The world swept around Dubgetious, tilting from blue to gray. Blows hammered him across hard rock until he fetched up against a warm form wedged beneath the tree over which so many blows had been struck. His hair, bloody and matted, covered his face so he could see only blurred figures and swinging sandals. The form beneath him moved and he was thrust painfully aside. The log above him trembled, dust falling across his body. His senses sharpened, filled with the stink of horse and blood. The mount crushed beneath the tree was still alive and now scrabbling frantically, its screams of pain loud in his ear which he jerked away from its snapping jaws.

  Its kicking had startled the Turdetani warriors and one man lay clutching a snapped leg. Dubgetious saw them moving away from him and then he felt thunder rising through the ground. Expecting at any moment to be crushed by more falling rocks and timber, he was too startled to identify the next thumping sounds until a Turdetani warrior crashed to the ground paces from him, his jaw opening and closing as thick blood flowed through his beard. The throwing spear that had felled him was still quivering from the force of the impact.

  Sliding away from the unfortunate horse’s death throes, he wiped his eyes clear and peered up at ululating Masulians.

  Amma lay beside him under a canopy erected beneath a tree upwind from the mines. The warrior was smiling, teeth loose in his mouth and lips split, but smiling. At the foot of their cots, Eshmun was dragging a painted fingernail through his freshly combed beard, teasing the tight curls. The Carthaginian’s eyes were moist with unshed tears.

  “Tanit herself stood over us, permitting no killing blow to land.” Amma nodded. He looked at Dubgetious and winked. “You should have seen the Bastetani here swing a blow.”

  Eshmun cleared his throat. “We have all seen the warrior he killed. Truly his hand was guided by the gods.” Eshmun turned his gaze on Dubgetious who winced as he tried to lever himself upright.

  “No, lay back. Your bones should be in splinters, but they are not.” A shade of a smile breezed across the cold Carthaginian’s features and his expression softened. “You were willing to sell your life for my safety. This is no simple gesture and so no simple matter to reward.” He dipped his head in a gesture of gratitude or respect. “Is there some boon you desire?”

  Dubgetious, uncomfortable, glanced at Amma who nodded. Dubgetious’ eyebrows rose in uncertainty.

  Eshmun grunted with vanishing patience. “Well?”

  Amma spoke. “The Bastetani, Dubgetious that is, wishes to bear a sword.” Amma’s grin slipped a little and he added hurriedly, “I would be happy to train him to use it without cutting off his… er, his toes.”

  Eshmun frowned. “We have swords. Is this all Dubgetious of the Bastetani wishes?”

  “A falcata. The one the Turdetani tried killing me with.” Dubgetious found his voice. “It seems fitting.”

  Amma gaped at him and Eshmun’s depleted retinue whispered, but the Carthaginian nodded, surprising them all. “It is fitting. It is yours if you give your oath to fight for Carthage.”

  Dubgetious blinked, his joy tempered by this unsought bond. “To fight for Carthage? Very well.”

  Chapter 13

  Unarmed, Lyda dove away from the grasping arms of a squat sentry, his mouth wide and leering. Her companions were stabbing aggressively at the sentries, keeping them at bay. No blood had been spilled as yet, and the swelling crowd of warriors from the nearby tents regarded the events as a diversion, urging them on with hoots and insults. Lyda kicked the squat sentry’s legs from under him and rolled to her feet in time to plant her foot in his face.

  Tascux was crouched low, his spearpoint held poised to thrust into the face of the leading sentry. He growled a warning when the man slid his hand towards his fallen spear, stilling the motion at once.

  Lyda grinned and drew her short knife, holding it similarly to the throat of the s
quat sentry.

  Speaking in Greek, she addressed them all. “Save your blades for the enemy who even now could be stealing towards us.” She jerked her head at the walls of the town and was rewarded when the sentries glanced over their shoulders, suddenly aware of the darkness that lay beyond the firelight and between them and the enemy walls.

  She pressed her blade against the squat sentry’s cheek, watching the whites of his eyes grow. “Another time perhaps?” She grinned at him, the firelight painting her blood-smeared face with unearthly savagery. “Back away.” She called to her small group who backed up three paces before lowering their spears and turning for the deeper dark. Tuscux had not moved, so she slapped his shoulder. “Come. We have done enough.”

  The leader of the sentries watched her with suspicious eyes, but remained still as Tuscux stepped back. They turned and raced into the dark after the others, leaving the watching warriors to moan and curse the sudden end to their entertainment. The leading sentry called after them, anger stretching his words.

  “I will find you! The army is not large enough to hide you from my men and I!”

  Lyda felt Tuscux eyes on her in the dark. “What?”

  “Might make finding our kin a little difficult?”

  “If we meet him and his lot again, it will go badly for them.” Lyda reached the others who were making their way back along the route they had followed through the army.

  Cenos noticed her at once. “That was too close!”

  “It worked did it not? I saw Chalcon pass the fires unseen. He will be over the walls by now. Besides, no one got hurt.” She glanced at Tucsux. “Well, almost no one.”

  There were sniggers from the companions and Tucsux growled and gave them an evil eye.

  They bedded down within spitting distance of a large clan of Gauls and awoke at dawn to their strange language booming across the lines.

  “Bastards are loud. What are they on about?” Audoti complained.

  “Who can tell? They are from far to the north.” Tucsux shrugged his shoulders and rolled to his feet to better see their neighbours.

  Lyda sat up, hair still caked with mud and ash, her face equally smeared. She rubbed her cheeks and frowned. “We should wash at once so none recognise us from last night.”

  “I will fetch water.” Tucsux took up their waterskins and used the water remaining in them to douse his head. He rubbed vigorously at the mud, ash and blood. Eppa, grimaced at the mess and grabbed a waterskin from his hand. “I will pour while you rub.”

  “The gods! It is cold.” Tucsux complained as water dribbled from his long hair down his spine.

  Eppa smiled. “The mighty Tucsux complaining. I never thought I would hear that.”

  “This is not the season for war. Real warriors should be at their hearth fires, counting their victories, not freezing their sacks off.”

  “Hamilcar of Carthage is a new enemy and brings with him a new meaning to war.” Lyda intoned. “There will be others fetching water, Tucsux.” She did not need to tell him to keep his chin down.

  The warrior grunted and shook his head, scattering water and splashing Eppa who squealed.

  “Bastard!”

  He grinned at her over his shoulder, making for the stream.

  Hair cleaned and tied back, Lyda signalled for Tucsux to follow her. The Herb Queen gathered her satchel and joined them.

  “It is not necessary for you to come.” Lyda eyed the young healer,

  “Oh, a Herb Queen can always be useful.” She smiled and stepped ahead.

  Lyda looked at Tucsux who spread his empty palms, equally nonplussed.

  The Gauls numbered in the hundreds. They were large people, with loud voices and exaggerated gestures. Tucsux, who was among the biggest of the Bastetani, would be considered of average size among them. Those women among them were all much larger than Lyda. The few swords they were honing were far longer than the blades used among the Bastetani. Likewise, their spears were longer and thicker, the blades like short swords. They were clustered in groups, every man and woman talking at once it seemed. Every warrior there was dressed for battle; heavy with leather, padding and chain.

  “Looks like they are readying themselves for a fight.” Tucsux observed.

  Lyda nodded, her eyes straying to the larger Carthaginian camp. Similar activity was occurring throughout Hamilcar’s army. She cursed. The Oretani town may be overrun before midday, long before she could summon Orissus and his spears.

  The Gauls noticed them and began to exchange comments among themselves. Lyda drew back her shoulders, alert for any hostility and felt Tucsux beside her do the same. The Herb Queen dogged their footsteps in silence.

  A burly warrior shouldered his way from the centre of a large group, his armour of the highest quality, scrubbed and polished to a gleam in the early morning light. His white moustache hung like plaited horsetails from his cheeks to his chest, bright beads of bronze and silver threaded into the trailing ends. He bore a spear in the crook of his arm, and a sheathed sword hung from under his shoulder, the tip reaching to below his knee. A graybeard and champion.

  Speaking the Greek patois used throughout the trading ports of the Inland Sea and the lingua franca in the Carthaginian army, the Gaelic graybeard addressed them.

  “What do you seek here, Iberians?” His question was directed at Tucsux, who cocked his head at the Gaul, but remained tight lipped.

  “Greetings, I am Lyda of the Bastetani. We are newly come to fight for Hamilcar and…” she opened her arms at her sides, palms up. “Number just a handful. We seek to fight at the side of your warriors.”

  The Gaul shifted his gaze, his eyes traveling up and down Lyda’s body. He shook his head slowly and then more deliberately.

  “Bastetani, eh? Eager to spill Oretani blood! Well, this is the right place to be. Today we will crush that town of theirs.” He swung his spear to point at the Oretani town walls. “You cannot fight beside us. Your Commissar should have allocated you a position. Speak with him.” The warrior grunted and began to turn away.

  Lyda looked blankly at him for a heartbeat before catching his meaning. Her face darkened with anger. “We are not levied!” Her words snapped like a whip. “We come of our own free will as proud Bastetani warriors.”

  The Gaul paused midway in his turn and looked back at her, his great brows creased. He allowed his spear to slide through his hand until it was balanced for a thrust.

  “The Bastetani are at war with us, yet here you are with no Commissar?” His eyes narrowed and he levelled his spear at Lyda’s chest. “How many of you dog turds are there?” Gaelic warriors stood closer, their conversation dying as they scented the tension in their graybeard.

  Lyda saw the mistake her pride had led to and her mind raced to find a way to allay the warrior’s suspicions. “It is true many Bastetani clans are at war with Hamilcar. My companions and I wish to join his great army not die fighting it. We are just twelve, but all seasoned in battle.”

  Her words had no effect on the graybeard, instead, he grinned through clenched jaws.

  “Look at me, bitch! Do I look like a suckling? I can smell a liar across a hall filled with farts. And right now the stink of liar is heavy in the air.” His spear punched to within a hair’s breadth of Lyda’s throat. “I think it is time you wore chains and knelt before our Commissar.”

  Tucsux growled, but already he was surrounded, spears bristling at him. Lyda sent an invocation to Runeovex. If ever she had need of the spear god’s power, it was now.

  In answer to her hurried prayer, the Herb Queen stepped forward, loosening her hood and letting it fall to her shoulders. She lifted her chin so her face was lit for all to see. At once the Gauls made hurried gestures to ward off witchcraft.

  “Your Commissar pays you in silver, yes?”

  The Gaelic champion eyed the elaborate swirls etched into her brow, the shock of white growing among her raven black hair and he swallowed at the sight of the necklace of bones taken from the ha
nds of each foetus and newborn she had sacrificed. Uneasily, the warrior grunted a confirmation.

  “And the Commissar is rewarded in silver for the warriors that swear to fight for the army. He pays a part to those warriors and keeps the rest, growing wealthy.”

  “Of what concern is silver to a… healer?” He had groped for the word, preferring it to the obvious.

  “Oh, none. More an interest to you I would think for what if you became our Commissar? Would you not then be paid in silver for our pledges?” The Herb Queen smiled serenely at the big warrior, unconcerned by sharp blades dripping dew at her feet.

  The warrior squinted at her, shaking his head. “Cunning and pretty. You know how these Carthaginians deal with spies?” He grimaced. “They set you on a pyre of wet wood, feet in an iron cauldron.” He spat. “Nasty way to die. Days it takes. Cooked to death. Your flesh swells and parts from your very bones. By the time your shade flees, your legs from the knees down are white bone.”

  “I suppose these Carthaginians also dine on your boiled flesh while you scream on your pyre?” Her voice light with mirth.

  The graybeard scowled. “Laugh now, but a pretty little thing like you will have uses before they set you to boil.” He grinned at her and Lyda. “You too, although you look a little sour for my tastes.”

  “As a Commissar you could earn good silver for adding our spears to yours. You know this, but there is something else, is there not? That you long for?”

  The warrior rocked from one leg to the other in agitation, his face growing long. He eyed the Herb Queen for an uncomfortably long heartbeat before swallowing and easing his grip on his spear. “You are young, but are you gifted?”

  The Herb Queen smiled in answer.

  Lyda, brought her companions and those of Chalcon to the lines of the Gauls where they marked their places and strung mean shelters of thin hide on lines of braided hemp. The promised battle had been delayed by downpours that fell from the black clouds that rolled together above them, battling one another with thunderbolts and lightning shafts.