Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  Standing upright and letting his shield and sword hang at his sides, Dubgetious smiled at the three men as they sat rubbing their bruises.

  “That is half your provisions for the week that you each owe me.” He nodded to the men in turn. “Well fought.”

  Looking at Amma who stood, arms folded and wearing a broad grin, Dubgetious stripped the leather padding from the blade of his falcata and slipped it into his scabbard.

  “You have learned fast.” Amma clapped his shoulder. “That is six wins in two days.”

  Dubgetious patted the hilt of his blade. “I have a graybeard from the Vascone to thank. His advice is sound.”

  Amma’s eyebrows rose. “What advice did he offer that I could not?”

  Dubgetious drew his blade and held it at eyelevel, tracing a finger from the thin waist along the ever-widening body and up to the tip.

  “The power of the blade is here.” He retraced his finger to the wider edge halfway along the length. “To harness its power, I must swing the blade freely and in a fight, the best way to do so without being struck in turn, is to use the shield alongside the blade.”

  “I saw how you did that. I thought it foolish at first, but the shield caught your opponent’s blade leaving room for your own to land.” He smiled in appreciation.

  “There is more to master; the placing of my feet and shoulders. Watching the opponent’s eyes and knuckles.”

  “Knuckles?”

  “Every warrior will tighten their grip the moment before they swing.” Dubgetious grinned and swung his falcata in a dizzying display, his confidence writ large in his expression.

  “Now you are simply showing off.” Amma reproved him, but his tone was light.

  A string of twenty Masulian riders galloped past, hollering and ululating, mud hurled high from their mounts’ hooves.

  “Where are they off to?” Dubgetious asked.

  “To reinforce the warriors escorting the wagons bringing our next meal. There was a rumour that some of our levies had planned to burn them to prevent the provisions arriving.” Amma stared after them.

  “Hamilcar intends to remain? Even after Hasdrubal’s departure?”

  “He scents victory. The Oretani are well fortified, but there are too many of them in the town.”

  Dubgetious frowned and shook his head. “Both are reasons to expect defeat rather than victory.”

  “Think, Dubgetious. You have a sound mind.” Amma gave the Bastetani youth a hard look.

  His stomach growled and he heard the now distant drumming of the Masulian horsemen on their way to bring in the much needed supplies to feed Hamilcar’s army.

  “I think I see. The town’s provisions are enough to feed its own citizens through winter and until the next harvest. The many additional warriors trapped there will quickly eat through their stores.”

  “Hamilcar expects the town’s leading men to arrive at this conclusion before many more days pass. They will then have a choice of starving or submitting.”

  “They are a hardy people. They may choose to starve.”

  “Then before that happens they will become weak and our warriors will cross the walls.” Amma took Dubgetious by the elbow and drew him closer. “You are on sentry duty again tonight, yes?” he went on quickly. “There are more rumours. Plots to kill Hamilcar.” He made a distasteful expression. “Hunger and cold has a way of leading good warriors astray. Keep your eyes open and challenge anything that looks suspicious.”

  Dubgetious frowned, alarmed at the intensity of Amma’s tone. “I will.”

  Amma nodded grimly. “See that you do for if such a plot succeeds, it will go badly for those on sentry duty.”

  Nightfall brought a bitterly cold wind that whistled through the bedraggled tents and hastily constructed shelters raised by the warriors of Hamilcar’s army. Men and women hunkered beside fires built with green wood, trying to coax some warmth from the hissing piles. Their rations were barely enough to keep them alive in the cold let alone to fight on.

  Dubgetious was fortunate enough to enjoy a bowl of broth with a hint of meat in it, doled out to the sentries arriving at the great Carthaginian general’s pavilion to stand watch through the night. With both hands cupping the bowl, he sipped slowly while eyeing the comings and goings of servants and messengers.

  From within Hamilcar’s pavilion came the sounds of laughter intermingled with the chords of a lyre. For some there was no shortage of food, drink and warmth. Dubgetious nodded to his fellow sentries as they arrived and hurried a servant to fill their bowls.

  Light spilled from the pavilion as a curtain was thrust aside, followed by a figure draped in a heavy cloak. With Amma’s warning still fresh in his ears, Dubgetious watched the figure approach the huddle of sentries. He slurped the last of the broth, belched and threw the bowl to a servant boy.

  The approaching figure signalled to him. Dubgetious put his hand on his sword hilt, straining to see who it was as he stepped from the huddled warmth of his fellows.

  “Your cloak, sentry. I would trade you for mine.” The man undid the glittering broach holding the cloak closed at his throat and shrugged it off.

  Dubgetious grew more alert. “My cloak is worn almost through. Why would you want it unless to disguise yourself?”

  “You are right, I wish to disguise myself, but for good reason. I commend your observance.”

  The voice was familiar, but the speaker took care to keep his face from showing in the light of the fire.

  Wary, Dubgetious took a step back, his hand tightening on his sword. “Who are you?”

  “The son of the man you guard so fastidiously. Will you swap your cloak for mine or shall I ask another?” The man stepped to the side and showed his face briefly.

  Dubgetious recognised the youth at once. He was truly the son of Hamilcar. Releasing his sword hilt, he fumbled to release the feeble pin at his throat and throw off his cloak, threadbare and rank.

  “Why would you wish to disguise yourself and in a cloak as poor as this?”

  Hamilcar’s son grinned and thrust his thick cloak into Dubgetious’ hands. “I know your face. You are the Bastetani warrior favoured by Eshmun.”

  Instead of recoiling from the stink of Dubgetious’ cloak as the Bastetani expected, the Carthaginian smiled and took a deep breath. “There. How do I appear?”

  “Like a poor levied Bastetani warrior.” Dubgetious answered. “Your sandals are a giveaway. No levied warrior owns such. Best swap them for my own as well.”

  Hamilcar’s son released a rich laugh. “Oh, I think not.”

  Dubgetious could barely believe he had tried to entice the son of the great Carthaginian general to part with his sandals. “I had to try. You would do the same.”

  Hannibal laughed again. “Indeed.” The Carthaginian turned into the dark, making for the greater camp and the ordinary warriors that suffered there.

  “Who was that?” A Libyan sentry asked through a mouthful of broth, eyeing Dubgetious’ cloak with narrowed eyes.

  “A warrior that owed me a cloak.” He smiled and patted his new garment, inhaling the heady scent of wealth that rose from it. He turned and looked out into the dark, concerned suddenly for the safety of the foolish Carthaginian. He turned back to the scowling Libyan. “How about we trade cloaks? Yours for this one and to even the exchange you cover my post. I will not be gone long.”

  Heartbeats later, wearing the Libyan’s lice infested cloak, Dubgetious set off to follow Hannibal Barca.

  It took no time to catch up with the Carthaginian. The sun had sunk beyond the world of mortals and the cold night had sent most warriors and servants scurrying for shelter. Hannibal was one of the few still about, stealing from shadow to shadow on his secret quest. Dubgetious followed discreetly, shaking his head at the Carthaginian’s furtive movements. They signalled deceit and cried out to be challenged. He was not though and Dubgetious was puzzled when several times Hannibal drew close to cook fires to warm his hands, exchanging brief gre
etings with the warriors huddled around.

  After several more such stops, Dubgetious joined the group of warriors around the same fire Hannibal had chosen. He nodded to the men beside him and keeping his chin tucked low, eyed Hannibal from the corner of his eye.

  Presently a warrior coughed and spat a glob of phlegm into the smoky fire where it sizzled and danced. “That is what I think of this winter war. Evil shades lurk in the mist and ride on the north wind.”

  Others nodded and a woman sketched a rude gesture at the pavilions illuminated by the sentry fires. “Hamilcar and his lot are warm as shit up there. Plenty to eat as well. While we sit here starving and frozen.”

  Dubgetious risked a glance at Hannibal, keen to see his reaction to the dissent among the warriors. Hamilcar’s son stood casually, his hands stretched to the flames, blackened with mud. The youth must have dirtied them to better blend in. He made no remark, but nodded along with the others.

  Presently, Hannibal lifted the hem of his cloak to his throat and turned from the fire. Dubgetious waited a heartbeat and followed. They were headed closer to the Oretani walls and the Punic sentry fires that surrounded the town. Flickering torches guttered at intervals along the walls and he wondered how the Oretani sentries and warriors fared. He envied them the shelter of stone and timber buildings on a night as foul as this.

  He slowed and peered ahead. Hannibal had disappeared. Cursing, he lengthened his stride. He passed a wagon turned on its side, wheels and axels long cannibalised and the rest stripped to the framework for wood. A ragged hide was tied to the remains forming a shelter of sorts. The stink of unwashed bodies was strong and he saw several pairs of eyes watching him from under the hide. These were camp followers. People of no name who did any task for coin or salt or less.

  “Did you see a warrior pass this way?” He called.

  There was a rustle and a hand appeared from the dark, filthy palm open. Dubgetious fished the meanest copper from the purse within his tunic. “A copper for the direction.”

  The hand formed a fist, a single finger pointing. Dubgetious glanced that way and saw nothing. The hand was clicking thumb and finger impatiently. Dubgetious grunted and dropped the copper.

  Walking quickly in the direction indicated, he saw only more servants and camp followers. Just as he was beginning to think he had lost Hannibal, he heard the distinctive thump of a curtain falling into place to his left down a line of tents. He turned that way on a whim and passed the tents slowly, eyes squinting to see any tell of Hannibal’s passing, be it a fresh sandal imprint or shivering tent curtain.

  It was the light and the smell that alerted him. The light burned pale against the dark silhouette of the tent, shining from the small rents in the hide where stitches had been made to join the walls. It was the light of a lamp and few warriors would bother to spend coin on the oil to burn. The smell was a lingering scent Dubgetious recognised from the cloak Hannibal had given him.

  He searched the dark shadows beyond the tent and seeing no watchers, moved closer. Voices murmured within the walls of the tent and Dubgetious strained for long heartbeats to make out the words. It was fruitless and in time the wind died, but the cold was leeching through his sandals and up his legs. He shifted and blew into freezing hands, undecided. He would need to return to his duties soon. About to leave, he noticed the timbre of the voices change and almost before he could react, the curtain was lifted aside and someone hissed. “Kill the lamp first, fool!”

  The light was snuffed out abruptly, but not before the face of the Oretani envoy was shown clear to Dubgetious. Hannibal was behind the envoy and they clasped hands in farewell.

  “Convince him we are sincere, Hannibal. We wish the tablet of peace.”

  “It is past time. My father will be glad to hear the words spoken.”

  “Until tomorrow.”

  They parted and Dubgetious stayed locked in hiding, his memory suddenly clear. The envoy was no Oretani. He was a Greek from Sucro and Dubgetious recalled him visiting their village three summers earlier. He remembered how the man had sought him out among the youths too, just to ask him a few simple questions about his mother.

  Chapter 18

  The Oretani Spears gathered like a mighty river. First came the groups of kin. Men for the most part, but also those women that wielded spears or slings. These merged with others of their clan and in ever greater numbers, raced to heed the unusual summons. The clans joined together on the main trading routes through the territory of the Oretani, all making for the same destination; the war camp of Orissus.

  Lyda leaned back on her haunches, staring at the great number of Spears gathered in the large valley chosen by Orissus to hold his army.

  “They have come at speed. I feared such a large host would take many more days to gather.” She flicked a glance at Tucsux who sat picking at the scabs that had crusted around the dressing on his arm. “You never said how you escaped the Gauls.”

  The Bastetani warrior shrugged. “When I saw you taken I knew it was a pointless fight and cut my way through their spears.”

  Cenos, sitting beside him, added, “The Gauls expected us to die meekly. They did not bargain on facing a cornered lynx.” She spat a lump of gristle into the wet grass.

  “Orissus leads his Spears from here today. He is planning on surprising Hamilcar. I have told him the Gauls are most likely to break.” Lyda watched Tucsux carefully and was gladdened when he nodded.

  “I think so too. They are hard warriors, but they care more for silver than honour.” He looked up at her. “That is not to say they will not fight well.”

  Lyda said nothing as she stood and shrugged her shoulders to readjust the padded leather armour into a more comfortable position. It was old and brittle, but she could not complain as it had been given as a gift by Orissus.

  The others rose, looking to her for direction. She turned slowly, her eyes raking the thousands of Oretani. Still more were converging and soon they would move. She turned to the small company of Bastetani.

  “We are just a few and guests of Orissus. Still, it would be wise to be wary of the Oretani in the coming battle. Remain together and do what you must to stay alive, and do not let your guard down.”

  Cenos, chewing the last of a haunch of sun cured meat, grunted. “We are with you, Lyda. Together we will find Dubgetious and take him home.”

  The Oretani moved fast. They marched at midday and did not pause until well after dark and then only to eat dry rations and relieve themselves. Lyda and the Bastetani struggled to keep up, their legs and backs aching from the pace so soon after their flight from Hamilcar’s army.

  The quarter moon set and the cold breeze died away. The thousands of warriors toiling along the rough paths trod for generations into the hills made little sound. Soon after the moon set, the warriors thinned out and settled down under their cloaks to sleep. They had covered much of the distance to the besieged Oretani town. It was unlikely that any enemy scouts would have been roaming the night. When dawn came, they would need to move fast to reach Hamilcar’s army before they were spotted.

  They rose again just before dawn. Staggering on legs numb from the cold ground, they cursed moodily as they relieved themselves and ate cold rations. As they ate, the Oretani became buoyant at the prospect of the great battle ahead. It was rare for such a host of Spears to gather and they could not see anything but victory before they retired to their villages for the rest of the winter. Lyda and the Bastetani were grim jawed, knowing the enemy and how deadly they were.

  A dense mist had risen while they slept, obscuring the valleys and leaving the hilltops exposed to the first coppery rays of sunlight. Oretani horsemen rode out ahead of the marching warriors, intent on silencing Hamilcar’s scouts. The clopping of their hooves as they disappeared into the mist quickly became muffled before fading altogether.

  The Oretani host moved like a great serpent through the mist filled valley. The only sound they made was the muted tread of leather sandals on rain sof
tened ground. Their war horns hung unused and their battle songs remained sealed behind their lips as they marched to surprise their enemy.

  “There!” Cenos was ahead of Lyda and the others and was now pointing at the smudge of campfires beyond the next rise.

  “I hear no drums or horns.” Tucsux observed.

  Lyda hurried forward on stiff legs. The Oretani were gathering on the slopes ahead, keeping a good distance from the ridgeline. She saw Orissus among a group of a hundred horsemen.

  “Greetings, Lyda!” He called as she neared. “Hamilcar is making this easy for us.”

  “No scouts. The gods favour us.” She replied, her eyes sliding away to the ridgeline.

  “You wish to see?” The Oretani slid from his mount and tossed the reins to an attendant. “Come. There is time as my Spears gather.”

  He did not slip to his belly as he neared the ridgeline, but strode boldly to the crest of the hill. Lyda stopped beside him and looked down upon the besieging army.

  “They are preparing for battle.” She hissed before noticing that the enemy lines were formed to face the town rather than the hills from which the Oretani would soon be pouring.

  “There are many of them.” Orissus grinned as he watched the enemy. “That will only make our victory all the sweeter.” His eyes glittered.

  Lyda saw a handful of figures emerge from the town. A similar sized group broke from the enemy ranks.

  “We must attack at once.” Lyda gestured at the delegations.

  “Eh? A delegation?” Orissus brushed his fingers through his greased beard. “Perhaps.” He mused.

  Lyda turned on him, eyes blazing. “If you wish to kill the snake you cut off its head.” She stabbed a finger to where the two parties were gathering mid-way between the Carthaginian ranks and the Oretani town walls. “Strike now while Hamilcar is separated from his men. Attack with your horsemen and split him from his army and it will shrivel and die on your spears.”