Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  The anvil was now ready and Hannibal Barca had placed himself upon it. Abarca hoped desperately that the second crucial factor in their plan paid off. This element relied on Berenger and he was confident that the experienced warrior would be able to fulfil his role.

  The Strategos paced along the walk while staring out over the city and plains. On the plains beyond the outer walls the columns resolved from distant spectres into the forms of individual warriors. Abarca studied the columns and tried to estimate the numbers. His spies had told of how energetically Hannibal had been levying warriors from amongst the tribes he had subjugated. All his intelligence indicated Hannibal had upward of one hundred thousand warriors on the field. The figure was a mind-boggling amount considering that the largest settlements in Iberia numbered a fraction of that. His gaze lowered to take in the preparations for defence. In truth, Abarca had expected Hannibal to launch this assault much sooner in the season. The unexpected delay had given the city still more time to bring in reticent leaders and lay on more provisions to see them through a protracted siege.

  His aide cleared his throat. Abarca turned away from studying the city walls and looked along the walkway. Two members of the oligarchy, resplendent in finery, were climbing the stairs on legs buckling with fatigue. Abarca detested both, but knew that without their influence and wealth he would have had no chance to succeed in his plans. The men stepped haltingly from the steep stone stairs onto the walkway. Both were of mixed Iberian and Greek blood, but they looked more like swaddled toads than either powerful Iberian or statuesque Greek.

  Abarca found himself enjoying the men’s obvious fear of heights, physical exertion and simply being out of the comfortable couches from where they ruled.

  “Aniceteus, a pleasant surprise? Glauketas you are up early. It is particularly noisy today is it not?” Abarca held an innocent look on his face while inwardly he laughed at their discomfit.

  Catching his breath, Aniceteus, the most powerful and wealthiest of Sagunt’s merchants replied with a glare. “I would have expected you to warn us Hannibal was approaching.” He turned and stared over the wall at the massing army.

  Beside him, Glauketas, still gasping for air, had to stand on his toes to peer over the parapet to the plains below. Glauketas was as evil a person as Abarca had ever had to associate with, but he held sway as high priest in the temple of Cariociecus, god of war. His equally maniacal sister, Carmesina, was the high priestess in the temple of Catubodua. Abarca revered Runeovex as god of war, but kept that to himself. Both Cariociecus and Catubodua were old, bloodthirsty gods of times past, but with cunning and guile, Carmesina had thrown down the newer more benevolent gods and reinstated Cariociecus and Catubodua. The oligarchy had gone along with this as it gave them a tighter rein on their citizens.

  “I believed you were informed yesterday that Hannibal was just a day’s march from the city walls.” Abarca responded mildly.

  Aniceteus harrumphed and peered at the approaching army. “Looks like an awful lot of warriors. Are those horsemen?” He stuck a flabby arm over the parapet and pointed to the west where a mass of men on horseback thundered through the low foothills onto the plain. It was as though some strange river of flesh streamed out of the mountains and swallowed the plains.

  “I see them! I see them!” The high-pitched voice of the high priest squealed. The short creature bounced excitedly and brayed with laughter. “Ride to me you fools!”

  Abarca could not keep the contempt from his face and saw even Anicetus flinch away from the unhinged priest.

  The merchant looked at Abarca. “Horsemen against a walled city. That seems odd?”

  Abarca sighed. “They are men not Centaurs. They are able to dismount and attack our walls as well as any man. They will also be able to run down our messengers.”

  “My sister, the High Priest Carmesina, has high hopes for the rituals and I am eager to honour our warriors in the same vein tomorrow. You will be there in your role as Strategos will you not Abarca?” Glauketas asked, losing interest in the world beyond the walls.

  Abarca suppressed a shudder. In a moment this creature turned from a frenzied lunatic to a calculating viper. Abarca could imagine the rituals. Through their whorehouse, the House of the Crow, Carmesina and her brother had bought numerous virgins for these rituals. Knowing the depraved minds of these siblings, Abarca could only begin to imagine the fate awaiting these girls. Nevertheless, as Strategos it was incumbent to show his leading men that he never shirked his responsibilities. Now was not the time to let his sensibilities alienate him from a large portion of his fighting forces.

  He smiled thinly at the high priest and nodded. “Of course. It is most important these things be done to raise the blood of our more barbaric warriors.”

  Glauketas smiled happily for a moment before a glimmer of suspicion grew on his face.

  Anicetus suppressed a laugh with a forced cough. “Those stairs have really done me in.” To Glauketas, “You must be of a more powerful constitution than I.”

  The words distracted the high priest for a heartbeat, but then he cast a wrathful look at Abarca and scurried off.

  Abarca grunted. “I should not do that. There is no honour in it.”

  Anicetus nodded. “But the look on his face. Ah, such moments are to be relished. More importantly you now have Barca and his,” the merchant made a show of scanning the horizon, “entire army here against our walls. I think you once used the analogy of an anvil. Now where is your hammer?”

  Abarca, eyes fixed on the sea of warriors surrounding Sagunt, wondered the same thing.

  CHAPTER 18

  DAWN RAISED A SILVER mist along the deep river valley. The lynx screamed from the forest above. She had killed and would feed well today so that her young would be able to drink and grow strong and fast. The mother tore into the belly of the young mouflon and reached the sweet, bloody liver. Pink flesh gave way to white fangs and she ate down a mouthful.

  She paused, her black-tufted ears twitching, a heartbeat later a low growl issued from her throat. A familiar and hated scent had found her. Unsettled, the predator quickly ripped free more flesh, swallowing whole chunks as she gorged, all the while her eyes darted from shadow to shadow and her ears remained in motion.

  In the valley below her, the mist shifted heavily and dark forms began to materialise. She growled again from deep in her chest and rose, her kill forgotten. Pacing lithely to an outcrop of guano-stained granite, the lynx looked out over the wild lands. Her golden eyes saw the valley fill with the forms of many men moving together with purpose and her lips drew back in a silent snarl.

  Berenger had accomplished the impossible. So many obstacles had seemed to stand in the way of such a mission. He had overcome them all and now he led an army, the size of which was seen perhaps only once in every ten generations. The combined forces of three of the most warlike tribes of the interior now flowed through the hills of the Carpetani towards Sagunt in the east. Warriors of the Olcades and Vaccaei from the north, hard men with sharpened blades and honed fighting skills. Warriors of the Oretani, men who had fought the Carthaginians before and could boast that it was they who had slain Hamilcar Barca who was Hannibal’s father. By far the most numerous, the warriors of the Carpetani through whose land the combined tribes now moved.

  Berenger’s greatest obstacle had been to have the tribes agree to an alliance of even the rudest sort. In his experience, uniting two leading men of even the same tribe was difficult enough. When Abarca had first asked him if he would do this he had openly laughed at the Strategos. However, Abarca had persisted with the idea, convinced that unless it was done the city of Sagunt would be isolated and strangled through a decline in trade. There were few as wily as the Carthaginians when it came to trade. When Berenger realised the Strategos was serious he had at last committed himself achieving the great alliance.

  Little did Hannibal realise, but he had inadvertently made Berenger’s job easier. In the previous two years Hannibal had
subjugated first the Olcades and then the Vaccaei. Those of their warriors who refused to accept subjugation had fled to Carpetani and Oretani lands. It was these warriors more than anyone else that had raised the battle fever in the Oretani and Carpetani tribes. By the time Berenger arrived with Sagunt silver the warriors of the tribes were all but frothing at the mouth for war.

  He rode his black stallion through the snaking valley in a southeasterly direction. The mighty Tagus on his left still flowed strongly from the past winter rains. He was leading the newly forged army upriver and there at the river’s source they would wait. Abarca would be impressed at the numbers of warriors that would show up to crush the Barcid army against the walls of Sagunt. Berenger estimated the strength of the army at anything between fifty and sixty thousand. He received reports daily of more warriors joining and of more leading men coming over to his side. It was possible that by the time they reached Sagunt, he could have upward of a hundred thousand warriors. He marvelled at the number and the thought of what he could do with such an army bubbled in his mind.

  The river mist was burning off and Berenger felt the heat of the new day begin to rise. They were making good time and would reach the final rendezvous point at the river’s source within three days. Josa came cantering back down the trail and Berenger pulled up in the shade of a giant ash tree to wait for him and the two riders trailing behind. Berenger expected they were messengers. One was certainly from Abarca. He was curious as to why two messengers had arrived.

  “Two messengers have arrived.”

  “Which of you is from Sagunt?” Berenger asked the men as they pulled up under the tree beside Josa.

  A young man with wild hair and a bushy beard, grey with dust spoke up. “I am.” The messenger produced a small leather cylinder from within his tunic, untied it from the leather thong it was attached to and passed it to Josa who handed it to Berenger.

  “I will give you a reply momentarily. In the meantime, go water your mount.”

  “Thank you.” The young man turned his horse about and plunged it expertly down the bank to the river below.

  Berenger turned his gaze on the second man. The man’s one good eye flicked away from Berenger’s hard stare. His other was a puckered red hole. Berenger thought it looked amazingly like an arsehole and wondered why the man did not wear a patch over it. Perhaps he liked to tempt men to insult him and then battle them. In that case maybe he was one of those warriors who loved killing for the sake of killing. He could always do with men like that under his command.

  “What message do you bring me?”

  The man glanced to where the first messenger had gone down to the river and then back at Berenger. Josa’s face stayed blank, but Berenger saw his hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his falcata’s grip.

  “I did not get a written message. Was just told to let you know some riders discovered that you were leading the warriors this way. These are those warriors that fight for Barca’s coin.”

  “Why do you not tell me who sent the message?”

  “Oh? Did I not say?” The warrior smiled revealing a mouth full of black stumps.

  Berenger thought he glimpsed maybe one white tooth left whole. He had seen that before. The pommel of a falcata or gladius breaks off the teeth top and bottom. Good way to disable a warrior for a moment while you dealt with someone else. “Spit out the name or you will be spitting out the rest of your shitty teeth.” Berenger growled menacingly.

  The warrior smiled even wider. “Cortocus. He got after them and we cut them up. Still, some got away.” The man shrugged and spat a wad of phlegm at his mount’s feet.

  Cortocus was a Carpetani leading man who led a couple thousand warriors, a quarter of whom were mounted. From Berenger’s own experience fighting the strange horsemen that Hannibal was using, it was unlikely that Cortocus’ men had ‘cut them up’ as the messenger had put it. He could do little about word of their presence reaching the Barcid army now. In any event, it was already too late for Hannibal to react. He could of course run back south. Then the army holed up in Sagunt together with these warriors could take the battle to him. He gave the messenger a hard glance. “What else?”

  The man cocked his head and then shook it.

  “Nothing? Then tell Cortocus to be more vigilant. Go!”

  Josa lifted his hand a fraction showing a finger’s width of silver blade. The messenger smiled again and turned his mount about casually. He dug his heels into his horse and galloped away down the track leaving Josa spitting dust and fuming.

  Berenger laughed at the spirit of the man. Still chuckling, he pulled open the small scroll he held. The message was short. Abarca wanted him at the city walls in no less than five days. The army was to remain out of sight in the hills to the west of Sagunt and wait upon a signal from the city. That signal would be a column of first black and then white smoke. Three times this column of smoke would issue forth and that was when Berenger and his alliance of tribes should fall on Hannibal’s rear. Berenger tore the parchment and crumbled it between his calloused hands until it was dust. At the motion, Josa yelled for the first messenger to return and within moments the man leaped his horse through the brush up onto the road.

  “Let the Strategos know I have received his message and it will be as he says.”

  The youth waited a moment for any further message and then nodded. “I will tell him.”

  “So, Hannibal is at the city walls?” Berenger asked.

  The messenger relaxed slightly. “Yes, he arrived days ago, but nothing has happened. His horsemen tear across the plains racing one another and his warriors eat what little food we left them in the surrounding countryside.”

  “Siege engines? Any of those?”

  “Nothing we have seen so far.”

  “How do you get back to the city? Surely no one will be able to get in.”

  “I have lived there all my life and know every fold of the countryside. They will not see me till I am at the north postern gate showing them my hairy, white arse.”

  “What about your horse? Can you get it in as well?”

  “Of course!” He patted the mare’s neck affectionately. “Those bastards would probably eat her if I left her outside the city.”

  On an impulse, Berenger asked the messenger to draw him a map of his apparently secret route into the city. The man frowned at the unusual request, but was happy to do so. He had the necessary parchment with him in case Berenger had wanted to send a return message. With some verbal descriptions to go along with the rude sketch, Berenger was confident he could now find his way into the city through the besieging forces if necessary.

  The following day the army encamped on a large plain to the south of the Tagus near the little settlement of Peñalén. Berenger was tearing at the flesh of a goat that Josa had roasted over a fire when a party of mounted warriors galloped up. He stood as they approached, shouting to one another with excitement. Josa walked over to Berenger’s side. The warriors skidded to a halt, shouting to Berenger who waited impatiently for them to make sense. A grizzled warrior, older than the rest of the party bade them silence and spoke.

  “We were scouting to the south, near the headwaters of the river. We crossed at a ford where we found their tracks. We thought it was maybe Carpetani warriors joining us, so we followed the tracks and these led us downriver. That is where we spotted them, maybe thirty thousand warriors. All mounted.”

  “How far from here?” Berenger snapped.

  The warrior answered immediately. “Less than half a day’s ride.”

  “They are on the other side of the river?”

  “Yes, on the north bank on the road that leads to Althea.”

  Berenger looked to Josa. “They will be here early tomorrow. I want the warriors on the north bank at sunrise. This is our chance to crush them.” He then eyed the warrior before him. “Send your men out to find as many of the leading men as you can. Send them all back here to me.”

  The man nodded and the scouting
party turned towards the warrior’s camp to find their leaders among the thousands of warriors encamped on the plain. As they rode away, Berenger hoped desperately that Hannibal led the enemy horsemen himself. Victory over the Barca would forever mark Berenger as more than just a great warrior, but as a leader and greybeard as well.

  CHAPTER 19

  ARRIVING BACK AT HIS farm outside Orze, Caros discovered that Alfren had brought his men down to the valley, recruiting more warriors from every settlement as he rode. Bastetani from the south had also come north to join the growing column. Alfren numbered his forces at over six thousand, with two thousand of those warriors mounted. He had received word of the siege of Sagunt, the news spreading on wings across the land. Warriors from even the most remote settlements were sharpening their blades and readying for battle. The southern tribes were very much aligned with the Barca. The tribes to the west and north were sympathetic to Sagunt primarily because they wished to throw off the yoke of Carthaginian alliance they had been forced to accept.

  Aksel’s men had left ahead of Alfren’s column and ridden north to Sagunt to join forces with the main body of Masulian horsemen. Caros had been sorry to see the ever-smiling Masulian leave, but promised to see him again at Sagunt.

  Alfren forced his column at a brutal pace and the warriors had not complained. Within four days they had spied the coastal plain ahead of them. The city of Sagunt sat defiant on a rocky outcrop in the midst of the plain. The hill on which the city had been built was elongated and dipped slightly in elevation at its center. A castro commanded the eastern end of the hill. Even from a distance it was obvious the defences of the city, both natural and man-made, were formidable. The flat plains about the city were already invested by tens of thousands of warriors.

  “Well we haven’t missed the fun yet by the looks of it.” Neugen joked.

  Alfren shook his head at the sight. “Orko, god of rock and mountain, will need to be on our side to get up and over those cliffs and walls. I hope Hannibal has a damn good plan or this is pure folly.”