by Dan Wallace
The horse commander was a large, long man in dun linen pants and a thick gray shirt with a long sword belted over his shoulder, and a knife in front. His hair fell down on both sides of his head, parted by a leather band. He looked familiar to Tiberius for some odd reason.
“You’re Avarus’s son.”
The man nodded, “I am Caciro, his youngest. My two older brothers were killed during the siege.”
Tiberius nodded slowly.
“Here are horses. My father told me to escort you. If you would mount, please, we can be there in short time.”
The two horses appeared from behind the men as the young warrior spoke. Tiberius eyed the horses, while Sextus went straight to one and flipped his leg over its side.
“Before I meet with your chiefs, I will return to my legion,” Tiberius said, his left hand still on his sword.
The young son of Avarus nodded, “It is all the same way. You’ll pass through us to get to your camp, sir.”
Sir. Tiberius hiked his leg over the horse’s back and squirmed astride. The young horseman led the way across the wide meadow toward the line of hills where the Ninth waited. In a matter of a few hours, they found themselves amid the Numantine force.
The bearded warriors eyed them curiously as their horses walked past. Tiberius noted the long, two-handed swords some of them carried across their backs, the small, round wooden shields others held next to their shorter but formidable spinas. Bowmen stood staring at them as well, and he couldn’t help tensing as he rode by, expecting at any moment to feel a shaft entering his back. But he refused to show signs of nerves or fear. He rode calmly up to the abbreviated barricade that formed the forward wall of the Ninth’s camp. Standing with one sandal at its top, Casca peered out at the two approaching riders. A rough smile barely creased his mouth as he recognized the two Roman officers astride the Numantine horses.
Tiberius raised his hand in salute and said, “Prepare the men to march, Casca. The campaign is over. We will leave for home with honor.”
The men of the Ninth sent up a ragged roar of approval as Tiberius and Sextus dismounted, tethering the two horses to a beam of the wooden wall. They scrabbled tiredly up the side, helped up by leather-armored arms of the legionaries. On top of the parapet, Tiberius and Casca silently took stock of each other. Then, the quaestor tribune motioned for his centurion primus to follow him to his headquarters.
The assembled officers listened carefully as Tiberius recounted the events in the main camp.
“Mancinus is not fully capable of leading a withdrawal. His soldiers are close to collapse. Their resources are nearly exhausted, and they possess little will left to resist enemy hostility they might face on the way back. We cannot leave to join them now and risk the entire army’s destruction.”
“What do you wish us to do, sir?” asked Casca, straightening up almost at attention.
“Mobilize the men but be sure that they understand the threat. Discipline will mean everything. See to it that we gather plenty of fresh water from the hill streams to carry along. I’ll insist that the Numantines replenish our food stock now to renew the men before the long march itself. Until we’re in possession of these supplies, we defend this camp. I have been asked to meet with the Numantine chieftains which might give us a chance to strengthen terms. Otherwise, nothing has changed. We are the only force between them and the destruction of our army.”
Tiberius nodded at Sextus, and the two made to leave the lean-to. As they left, each centurion and optio saluted them, one by one.
When his large-limbed son Caciro flipped the tent flap up to present the two Roman officers, Avarus smiled. He stopped scratching the long-healed scar on his belly and stood, raising his hand to his forehead and bringing it down in an open-palmed salute.
“General Sempronius Gracchus, welcome, welcome, and welcome to your adjutant.”
Tiberius grimaced involuntarily, “Quaestor, Chieftain Avarus, or tribune at best. This is my eques, Sextus Decimus Paetus.”
Sextus languidly bowed his head.
“Yes, yes, of course, a good horseman, this one, we’ve heard of his deeds at the walls of Malia. You’re a brave one, you.”
Sextus stared straight at the chieftain, silent.
“Yes, sit, sit,” Avarus motioned to some stools in the large, linen tent. Beautiful moss-green drapes fell from the four walls to guard against the wind rounding the hilltop. Knotted rugs tied together with linen bits in dark earthen colors covered the floor. At the far end, two piles of perfectly tanned sheepskins over woolen blankets sang a siren song to the worn-out Roman officers wavering trance-like in their stances.
“With respect, Chieftain Avarus,” Tiberius said, “we need to return to ready our troops to move out. Can we discuss the protocol for peace?”
Avarus raised his hands as he looked down, “We can discuss, but it will be a waste of time. The entire matter must be consecrated by the high priests and priestesses in our sacred grove. Otherwise, the gods will not sanctify our agreement.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Also, not all of our chiefs are in camp. We will need to strike an accord with them, of course.”
Tiberius frowned, “And where is your sacred grove?”
“In Numantia. As are the other chieftains, for that matter.”
“Numantia.”
“Yes, General. I am inviting you to travel to our city to execute this peace before the gods with all proper ceremony and circumstance. That is the only way that it will last in their eyes.”
Tiberius sighed his exasperation. “Chieftain Avarus, wouldn’t a delay be potentially costly? Don’t you think our immediate withdrawal would be best?”
He saw a hard glint appear in the Numantine chieftain’s eyes. “We would like to see you leave at once. We wish you had never come.” Then, his usual affable expression returned. “But we must do these things correctly, Quaestor Tribune. The gods must approve of our actions or we shall suffer later.”
Tiberius raised and lowered his head solemnly.
“Now, you can inform your men, don’t worry about that. We shall be but a few short days, no more.”
“Very well.” Tiberius turned, motioning to Sextus, who exhaled slightly, wearily. Avarus slipped over to the tall eques and gently clasped his upper arm. “Let the young officer stay and rest,” he said. “He’s welcome to eat and drink, and sleep here. Caciro will accompany you back to your camp.”
Caciro smiled and stepped forward. Tiberius looked at them, and at Sextus’s drooping eyes. “Very well.”
Sextus tried to rally and object, but Avarus steered him to one of the sheepskin-covered pallets. “Go, go, he’ll be here when you return.” He uttered a staccato sentence in Celtic to his son. Caciro gestured to Tiberius and the two tall men left the tent. They mounted their horses and slowly trotted toward the top of the steep hillside. As they approached the camp, Tiberius saw a large wooden wagon near the front wall. Again, his hand involuntarily sought out the haft of his sword. But then, a familiar figure dropped from the stockade and began walking in their direction. Didius, the Sicilian centurion, met them beneath the wall.
“Centurion,” Tiberius greeted him, his arm held out.
“Tribune,” saluted Didius.
“What goes here? Where’s Casca?”
“Food supplies, sir. From the Numantines. Casca is supervising distribution. He’s making the drivers taste each parcel before sending it over. Bread, mutton, even some wine. The Numies don’t mind taking a bite at all.”
Tiberius turned to Caciro. He beamed a smile at Tiberius, “My father sent the wagon. More are on their way down to the main Roman camp. He wanted to make sure that you accepted his invitation to Numantia, and he knows that you would not if your men continued to suffer.”
Tiberius stared at this giant boy-warrior, wondering if he wasn’t looking at a future chieftain of these formidable people. He turned back to Didius.
“Tell Casca to be sure that all of the men have a full meal, but that some of
the supplies are kept in reserve. Inform him that Sextus and I will be traveling to Numantia to formalize the truce. We will be back in four days. Have him send a messenger to Consul Mancinus to report the same.”
Didius jerked his chin down and saluted crisply. Tiberius motioned to Caciro with his head to lead the way.
When he arrived at the chieftain’s tent, he didn’t bother loosening his lorica. Instead, he fell face forward on the sheepskin-covered pallet next to Sextus.
Chapter 19. The Blessings of the Nementon
They rode for two days, over ground that should have looked familiar, Sextus thought, grassy rises turning to wooded knolls, the river never far away. He should have been able to figure out the time it would take to retrace their tracks, but he was having trouble focusing. In the aftermath of the fighting, he could distract himself by watching Tiberius ready the Ninth to march back to Hispania Citerior. The tribune instructed Casca to plan on shadowing Mancinus’s main force from high ground to enable the Ninth to protect the exposed ranks of Mancinus’s four legions from ambush. The Numantines had demanded that all remaining horses be surrendered in exchange for oxen to pull the wagons. Since every horse in the Roman camp had been eaten, it was almost a generous stipulation. Nonetheless, Tiberius countered by insisting that the Numantines allow the withdrawal by the Romans be executed in two contingents. Some of the chieftains grumbled, but Avarus agreed. Still, everything had to be sanctified by the Celtic gods in their sacred groves, the destination of Tiberius and Sextus now.
Sextus assumed that, like so many religious ceremonies in Rome, this would be a matter of routine after the politics had been settled. Of course, who really knew what barbarians did in their rituals? Romans gutted a few birds, maybe a lamb, even a bull now and then. Suppose the Numantines sacrificed humans to their gods? If so, who would they sacrifice? Not their own when they had enemy captives on hand. He and Tiberius might be opened up after all, by the Numie priests. He shuddered at the thought, then gritted his teeth; he wouldn’t go easy.
He wasn’t fond of what the Numantines called a horse, either. His feet almost dragged on the ground, his mount was so sway-backed. It clopped along at its own pace, its bony frame hitting him in the wrong places. Apparently, it covered the ground, though. After another half day of riding, they emerged from a wood into a clearing at the foot of a rising hill. On top of it stood the city-fort of Numantia, and though the battle at the city-fort had taken place just a few weeks ago, Sextus was stunned by the change he saw.
The wooden beams of the stockade surrounding the city showed some scorch marks from the incendiaries fired at it, but everything else had been removed. Not a corpse remained, not even a horse. Not one vulture spotted the sky above the Numantine bastion. Every arrow shaft, broken pilum, sword, shield, and siege engine had been removed. More astonishing, not a trace of the Roman camp could be seen. It was as if the bloody battle hadn’t occurred, that the legions of Rome had never been there at all. Instead, sheep and long-haired steers grazed before the back-switching walls of Numantia.
“Shades of Dis,” uttered Sextus. He glanced at Tiberius and saw that he was equally amazed, taking in the pastoral panorama before him.
“Where are the bodies of Sacerdus Quarto and his son? Where are the remains of Ulpius?” uttered Tiberius, aghast.
“Over there.” Sextus pointed to the far side of the city. Well beyond the walls on the west side of the city, a flock of black birds slowly looped around each other in the sky. Now and then one would waft down while another rose to replace it, in perfect unison it seemed.
“Isn’t that where they have their necropolis? The place where they throw out their dead for the vultures to pick apart,” said Sextus.
“They believe the birds fly the souls of their warriors to the heavens. Their gods are vested in the scavengers, so they say.”
“Really? How bizarre. Where did you learn that?”
“I don’t know, somewhere,” Tiberius murmured distractedly. “Someone told me.”
But he always looked distracted now, thought Sextus, since the end of the war. Brooding over it, Sextus supposed, just like he did himself. Twenty thousand stout legionaries, five full legions with topnotch auxiliary support, and they had lost. Lost to a bunch of bearded wild men in crazy-colored long pants who slept with their horses. Lost because of horrible generalship. He shook his head, bad enough to be a part of such a disaster, but he hadn’t drafted the war plan. Maybe he would have another chance in some future campaign. But Tiberius, he thought, a ranking officer who had surrendered the army, where was he to go after all this mess was over?
Their horses placidly followed the head of the column as they zigzagged their way up the ramp to the gates of the city. Closer in, they could see the scars and gouges from Roman missiles in the wooden walls, broken arrow heads and pyla shafts cut off close to the surface. More work would be done to dig them out, and to rub out the lightest scorch marks on those otherwise sound beams. Some of them more badly burned had been cut out for replacement, not a daunting task considering the vast tracks of forest growing throughout the countryside.
They rode through the gate and found themselves in a small forum-like marketplace, just a few thousand feet in area. More than a thousand Numantines stood in a semicircle, men leaning on long spears or the hafts of their sword, with women next to them wearing solemn expressions on their faces, and children craning their necks, curious to see living Roman soldiers up close.
“Children,” said Tiberius. “I can’t remember seeing any children since we left Hispania Citerior. Do you think they send them away before battle?”
“We found a few in Malia,” Sextus replied. He shrugged, “Maybe they did send them off.”
“They were ready to fight and die to the end.”
“With any luck we would have obliged them.”
Tiberius turned to Sextus. “They could have done the same to us,” he said sternly, “but they offered us peace instead.”
“All the more fools them. We’ll be back. Romans always come back. It might be Scipio next time, let them see how they like a taste of his cooking. It won’t do any good to send their brats away then. Scipio would make sure that they’d be serving some Roman patriarch somewhere or another.”
Tiberius stared at Sextus. “I’m sure you’d serve well under him yourself, Sextus, if given the chance.”
“General Gracchus, Eques Sextus, welcome to Numantia.”
Dressed in an intricately embroidered, stunningly hued shirt that ended just above his knees, with a green sash cinched at his waist, Avarus waved his arm in a flourish and bowed slightly to the two Roman officers. Next to him stood many of the other chieftains also resplendently decked out, and behind them stood their women, wearing ankle-length dresses of the finest linen. They had tied off their long hair with exquisitely dyed ribbons, some in braids, some in long ponytails, while others merely reined in lightly their shining, thick tresses. Golden, red, raven, all the colors of the northern clans lived in those locks, rich jewels of the Hispanii on display.
“Come, you will be guests in my house until the ceremony tonight. We have refreshments waiting.”
Tiberius and Sextus dismounted, and a slight, backwards ripple of movement coursed through the wary citizens of Numantia. Wary of the Roman monsters, Sextus thought.
Avarus led them to his house not more than 150 feet from the open market at the gateway. A plain, two-story wooden and stone structure, the house surprised Sextus in its simplicity. Large compared to other houses in the city, it was too small to accommodate the number of Hispanic chieftains gathered for the ceremony. A score of long, plank tables and benches line up in the front yard confirmed his observation.
“Do they expect us to eat with them?” he whispered to Tiberius in a strained voice.
“I don’t know,” Tiberius sighed. “We have to eat sometime.”
“Please,” said Granacus, one of the other chieftains said, “our gods demand us to be hospitable to
strangers. It is part of our obedience to them, no more.”
The two Romans exchanged glances. Sextus started to fidget, and Tiberius began to restrain him with his arm when Avarus stepped forward.
“Our Roman guests are tired from the journey. They will rest in my house until they feel that they have recovered. My regrets to the great chiefs of the Numantines and the Lusitanes. Please sit and have the priest bless the repast. I will join you all shortly.”
Avarus led them into the front room of the house, closing the door behind Caciro and Sicounin. He gestured to the table inside, “Please sit.”
Tiberius and Sextus slowly, uneasily, took seats at the table.
Avarus spoke briskly to his wife in his own language, then joined them at the table.
“I’m very sorry for the way our customs might have made you feel. Our way is to celebrate a warrior’s good death, and many good warriors died in this war on both sides. Honor is our meaning, not humiliation, the same honor given to us by your father decades ago.”
Tiberius paused before speaking. “I can see now how you defeated our commander.”
Sicounin appeared with trenchers of mutton steeped in herbs covered by large ovals of brown bread. Caciro followed with four clay mugs of mead and sat at the table.
“Go ahead,” Avarus said, raising a mutton shank from his plate, “Pray to your gods and tuck in. You must be hungry.”
In the middle of the night, Sextus stirred on the bed of furs beneath him. They slept on the second floor above the house’s main room. Windows had been opened to allow cool breezes from the hilltop to freshen the air in the room. It also allowed the sound of the last revelers’ voices in the front yard to rouse those trying to sleep inside.
“Are you awake?”
Tiberius rolled away from Sextus.
“Tribune?”
“What do you want, Sextus?”
“When we rode in today, did you survey the city?”
Tiberius didn’t answer.