“She is returning!” Eppa had been anxious for the Herb Queen’s safety, fretting from the moment Lyda and Tucsux had described their encounter.
They all sprang to their feet, rushing to surround the healer as she approached.
“What ails the graybeard? What did he require? Tell us.”
“You know I cannot speak of such things. No one would come to me with their ailments and needs if they knew I would tell their enemies.” Her smile and the bright spark in her eye roused their interest even more, but they relented as she sat before the fire in the least smoky part of their rough shelter.
With a sigh and a longing look at the gruel Eppa was stirring into a beaker for her, the herb queen shook her head. “I cannot speak of the warrior’s needs, but it will take some days for me to make a potion and stir powerful shades from their slumber to do my wishes.”
“He is our enemy, so surely you can tell us what his need is?” Cenos hissed.
In a voice as stern as winter hail, the Herb Queen replied, “Do not seek that which I will not offer, Cenos.”
Chastened, Cenos dipped her chin, her lips suddenly bloodless with fear. The others were silent, faces contrite at their behaviour. The Herb Queen was right to withhold the man’s woes from others, even them.
She smiled and thanked Eppa for the food. Testing it, she found it too warm and blew the thick porridge. “While with the Gaul, I heard something of Hamilcar’s plans. Perhaps if I told you this, it would appease your hunger for gossip?”
Lyda’s head snapped up, her expression eager.
Chapter 14
He stumbled and tripped. Falling to his knee, his shield rim battered into his cheekbone, sending a bolt of pain through his face. Yells and calls of derision forced him upright, swaying in the cold autumn wind.
“Come on, Bastetani! What use is all that muscle and blade if you cannot land a blow?” Amma’s voice called from behind him.
Dubgetious whirled about, his newly gifted blade scything the air before him. The forged iron edge was wrapped tightly in raw wool and hide to prevent injury, but the weight of the blade could still crack bone. The weight! He had held the falcata for the first time just that morning and was stunned at the heft and balance. Now though, after a morning of wielding the heavy chopping blade, his wrist ached and his arm and shoulder muscles were knotted.
“If I put a sack over your head, you might fight better.” Amma taunted. The Libyan, as battered and bruised as Dubgetious after their battle with the Turdetani, seemed to soak up the punishment. He had promised to teach Dubgetious how to master the sword and so far had simply taught Dubgetious how little he knew. The few postures and moves his father had shown him were nothing in comparison to what the Libyan could flaunt.
Determined to walk away with at least one good blow landed, Dubgetious took a deep breath and blinked his frustrations away.
“I am ready.” He concentrated, keeping his feet spaced beneath his shoulders, his blade held low and angled away from his body.
Amma grinned and lunged. Dubgetious braced his shield and swung his sword, but the Libyan had done something with his feet and was not where Dubgetious expected him to be. He was within a hand’s breadth of him and the covered tip of his own sword was at Dubgetious throat, resting on the rim of his shield.
“Hear that?” Amma asked, his breath smelling of dates, warm in Dubgetious’ face.
“Hear what?”
“The sound of Bastetani blood splattering the ground.” Amma laughed aloud and danced away. “Enough!”
Dubgetious clapped his sword against the face of his shield. “I know less now than I did when I started!”
“I disagree!”
“Amma! What manner of lesson is this?”
The Libyan smiled at Dubgetious and then his face became solemn. “It is the most important lesson of all, young Bastetani. You have learned that you know naught of fighting with a sword and that in battle you would die ten times over.”
“This is important? I asked you to teach me how not to die. Better yet, how to kill.”
Amma rested his sword over his shoulder and turned away. “I am hungry. Come eat with Kelle and I.” He looked back at Dubgetious. “She has a wonderful way with bruises as well.” His wink was unnecessary. Dubgetious found his feet already following. He had seen Amma’s long-limbed woman and found her almost as beguiling as the Herb Queen.
Eshmun’s column joined with Hamilcar’s army outside the besieged Oretani town two days later. Two days in which Amma had sparred with Dubgetious each morning and evening; teaching the Bastetani youth how to brace, hold, thrust and pivot. Dubgetious, determined and eager, had learned much, but knew he was still a poor sword wielder. The muscles of his arm had grown stiff and he knew he had to keep training to gain the strength and skill needed to wield the impressive blade. He quenched thoughts of the oath to fight for Carthage stubbornly, not ready to contemplate that.
Hamilcar’s army hunched low on the hills surrounding an Oretani town, wet and squalid after four days of heavy rains. Cook fires raised a blanket of smoke over the camp that stubbornly resisted the breeze.
That evening Amma led Dubgetious to the pavilion of the Master of the Messengers, Berut. Dubgetious felt icy sweat on his brow at the thought of meeting Berut and proving he was still alive. They arrived and the curtain was swept aside. Too late now to change his mind for Berut had already seen him.
“Ah, Bastetani, you survived the journey!” Berut dismissed a trio of young messengers with a curt command and then rose, his eyes flicking to Amma who squeezed into the tent behind Dubgetious. The tent was larger than Amma’s and comfortably furnished with a small attractive table of ivory and dark red wood around which were arranged plush cushions on thick carpets. The wind whistled through gaps in the hide and a drop of icy water fell on Dubgetious’ cheek.
“I did, no thanks to the Masulian guides you provided to ensure I reached Eshmun.”
Berut tapped his cheek with a long finger. “You escaped them obviously. Impressive.” The warrior from Sulci noticed the sheathed sword at Dubgetious’ side and his eyes darkened. “You have permission to wear a sword?” He looked at Amma.
“Eshmun’s gift to Dubgetious. I am named Amma.”
“Greetings.” Berut quickly recovered his surprise at hearing that Eshmun had bestowed a gift on Dubgetious and gestured at them to sit. “This is an interesting development. You are full of surprises young Bastetani. One moment offending notable Carthaginians and the next inspiring them to lavish you with gifts.”
Dubgetious polished the grip of his sword with his palm for a heartbeat. He had been cautioned by Amma against telling of how close Eshmun had come to being slain as this would reflect poorly on the Carthaginian. “Eshmun is truly fair and rewarded me the sword for killing an enemy champion. I am honoured by it and have given my oath to use it against his enemies.”
“A great honour. Eshmun is not known for being overly generous.” Berut glanced at Amma.
“Eshmun requests that your Messenger be released and reassigned to serve with my Spears.” Amma lifted a well-greased fold of worked leather from within his tunic. “As a token of his appreciation for allowing this.” He held it out.
Berut grunted, leaned forward and took the leather wrapping with two hands, dipping his chin. He placed it before him on the table and tight lipped, began to unfold it cautiously, fearing a deadly trap. He flicked aside the last corner of leather to reveal a heavy broach. Lifting his eyes to Dubgetious and Amma, he nodded in appreciation while tracing the intricate patterns in the highly polished silver and gold.
“It is a fine piece. I see no harm in having you feed off Eshmun’s provisions rather than mine, but you will still report to me.”
Amma inclined his head. “I will convey your appreciation to Eshmun, however I believe he intends Dubgetious to serve as a warrior within his inner circle. It is, I am sure you will agree, a more fitting role for a promising warrior.”
Dubg
etious held his breath. Amma had advised him that Berut had a final say on the appointment that Amma had weaselled from Eshmun. The broach was not even from Eshmun, but came from the collected wealth retrieved from the slain enemy Turdetani, part of which was divided among the warriors.
Berut fingered the broach silently for a long moment, his eyes skipping from Dubgetious to Amma. At last he shook his head and sighed. “By Tanit, who am I to stand in the way of one so highly regarded as a warrior?” He folded the broach away in the leather and slipped it into a satchel at his feet. “Visit often, young Bastetani. I pay well for good information.”
Dubgetious released his breath and glanced at Amma who grinned at him.
Amma leaned forward. “How long does Hamilcar plan to campaign in this blasted weather? That is information I would like to know.” He made a show of pointing to a splash of rain that had landed on the low table around which they lounged.
Berut grinned. “You and every other sorry bastard in the great Punic army.” He wiped away the offending droplet with the palm of his hand. “I usually sell information, but since it is you asking and it is common knowledge…”, he shrugged and continued, “Hamilcar insists on ransacking the unfortunate little town he has encircled and possibly even marching on the Oretani stronghold to the north.”
“So why has he not done so yet? It looks like the army has been here for days already and the town’s defences cannot be so formidable.” Dubgetious spoke.
“The gods. Thunder and lightning. Rain.” Berut grunted, waving his hand at the roof. “What warrior wants to risk being burned to his sandals by a lightning shaft aimed from above. The gods are jealous of their wars.”
Amma nodded. “And archers cannot loose their shafts in the rain. It would be hard work taking the walls without archers covering the men climbing ladders.”
“It will be even harder if Hasdrubal carries out his threat to withdraw his forces to Gadiz.” Berut held up a hand. “You never heard that from me.”
Dubgetious pulled his cloak tighter about his throat to ward off the brisk wind as they trudged through the foetid mud running between the tents. He eyed the torches that guttered on the walls of the Oretani town, wondering what those behind the stones were thinking. The Oretani were not likely to throw open their gates without a bloody fight. The smoke that had hung over the army had been dispersed by the wind which had also cleared the clouds. Bright stars glittered in a sweeping arc through the deep black of the night sky.
“You have your wish now, Dubgetious. You are no longer under Berut’s thumb.” Amma turned towards his tent.
“I owe you my thanks, Amma. I loathed being a Messenger.” Dubgetious made to follow the Libyan.
Amma halted him. “Your freedom comes with a price.”
Dubgetious’ jaw clenched. “The broach?”
Amma laughed. “Not that. Your obligations. You are to stand watch until relieved. At the central pavilion.” He laughed at Dubgetious’ expression. “It gets better. You will be assigned a tent and will be required to sleep there with a half dozen other hairy-arsed warriors.”
Dubgetious grunted, unamused. “You will still train me? To wield the sword?”
“Of course. You are a slow learner, but I never give up.” He laughed at Dubgetious’ outraged expression and held up his hands. “No, you have learned much already. Once your arm and feet begin to retain the moves, you will become much more skilled.” The Libyan clapped Dubgetious on the shoulder. “Best get up to your post.”
While he was walking towards the central pavilions that housed the upper echelons of the army, the sun appeared, casting a vivid rainbow against the storm dark clouds to the east and lighting the camp for the first time in days. It reminded him of the Herb Queen and her claims that she drew shades through the arc of colours.
The following day the sun rose into a cloudless sky, burning through the mist in the lower folds of the hills in a short time and raising the army’s mood.
Dubgetious watched through eyes swollen from a lack of sleep as warriors emerged from their waterlogged tents and threw cloaks and tunics over bushes or strung them from tent ropes to dry in the sun. He slipped in the mud and lurched against a wagon of provisions being unloaded into the eager hands of a rough looking band of red haired warriors.
A spear butt jabbed him forcefully in the ribs. “Hands off our provisions you thieving shite!”
Short tempered with fatigue, Dubgetious clenched a hand around the shaft and pulled hard as he turned to the voice, his free hand already at his sword’s hilt.
“I am Bastetani! No thieving shite!” He turned fully, coming face to face with a wall of chest muscle. It was little wonder the spear’s owner had not stumbled or given when he pulled the spear. The Gaul was a full head taller than Dubgetious and his chest was as wide as that of a bull’s.
“Bastetani, eh?” The warrior looked down at Dubgetious, the Greek patois ill-formed behind his long facial hair. “There are more of you lot around than lice on a man’s sack.” He shoved Dubgetious backwards. “Get lost before you lose your teeth, suckling.”
Cursing inwardly, Dubgetious glared at the huge warrior and his fellows tossing amphorae, sacks and baskets of oil, cereal and cured meat from the wagon. He began to back away and then hearing a familiar sounding voice, paused. In a heartbeat, the huge Gaul stepped forward, his spear held like a stave across his muscled belly. “Get lost means disappear from my sight.”
Dubgetious forgot the voice, ducked a lazy swipe of the spear shaft and retreated. He resisted the urge to throw a jibe back at the big warrior. He had left childhood behind when he had fought and lost at his village.
Chapter 15
There was discord in Hamilcar’s great army. Hundreds of levied Turdetani were stealing away by night to return to their valleys and kin. Provisions had been in short supply for three days and men and women were hungry, cold and falling ill.
Lyda watched as blades were drawn and blood spilled over the slightest insult. Her companions roamed where they could among the wider army, reporting back all they heard and saw.
“Grain enough for half a meal of bread and nothing else.” Cenos, ever quick to find fault, grumbled as she tipped the weevil-infested grain from a sack onto a wooden board.
“They say there are a hundred wagons loaded with provisions just a day’s walk from here.” Tascux spoke as he drew his spear blade along a whetstone and tested the edge against his thumb.
“They have been saying that for three days, so someone is lying.” She began to sift the grain, flicking stone, wood chips, and rat shit from it. The weevils and grub worms, she left.
“The rain washed away the trail and they are bogged down to the axels in mud. The drovers and herdsmen are sitting on their arses in a sea of slime, drinking and eating all our provisions.” The bitter comment came from one of Chalcon’s companions and heads all around bobbed in agreement.
Lyda crouched nearby, only half listening to her companions’ words. It had been three days since Chalcon had gone over the wall to the Oretani and she knew she should have left already to seek out Orissus, the greatest of the Oretani leading men. She would have, except that on the second day, while combing every part of the huge encampment, her heart had lifted when she heard a Bastetani warrior cursing and rounding a wagon stuck in mud, had come face to face with a man from her village. The man had raised her hopes, telling her Dubgetious had been separated from the others of the village and taken away to be trained for some duty. Torn between her promise to Chalcon and finding her son, she had remained another day. She would leave to find Orissus soon, but in the meantime, Tascux’s words had given her a fresh idea.
Dragging Tascux aside after their meagre meal, she whispered, “These wagons with the provisions, do you think there is truth there?” They were alone among the warren of pens used to hold livestock to feed the army; all empty now.
“I do. It makes sense that Hamilcar would have provisions sent up from the south by wagon. Aft
er all the rain, they will be slogging through a sea of mud.”
“Then the gods have gifted us this opportunity. We should find the wagons and burn them.” Her voice was hard with retribution.
Tascux considered the idea in silence before shaking his head. “They will be well guarded and if there are even half the number of wagons they say, then the drovers and herdsmen alone would outnumber our small company.”
Lyda smiled grimly. “We only need to burn some few of their total. The losses will make Hamilcar reconsider his position and he may decide to retreat.”
Tascux nodded slowly. “That we can do. Strike like lightening out of the dark.”
“We will need to move tonight. The rain has ceased for now and the wagons may already be on the move.”
Night came swiftly and throughout the encampment, hungry and despondent warriors curled up under their cloaks to escape their misery. Lyda and her companions watched as the Gauls banked their fires and wrapping themselves in furs, settled down to sleep. They followed suit, prepared to sleep for a short while and then steal away. The sentries guarding the camp were more alert after a number had been punished for sleeping and allowing many levied Iberian warriors to desert. Lyda was confident they would be able to slip past these though.
The great army was silent under a thin gauze of mist and smoke. The only light was that cast by the sentry fires and torches burning in the inner circle where Hamilcar and his leading men plotted their war.
The Bastetani woke and rose silently as one. Their movements stealthy as they stepped through the dark, a dozen formless shadows. There was no movement from the Gauls who snored as loudly as they spoke.
Leading her companions towards their mounts, Lyda saw a form step from behind the horse lines followed by another. Her heart beat loudly as sharpened iron caught the moonlight. Her companions hissed as all about them, Gauls materialised from the dark, spears levelled.
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