Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  Caros looked downhill and saw the warrior he had pierced leading the Carpetani on. No, they would not.

  Alfren watched for a moment, “Right fellows. Looks like it’s time to cross the river.” He gave the sign to his signaller who duly blew the retreat. The Carpetani roared when they heard the signal and surged forward with renewed vigour. Caros looked around, despite the signal, many of the Bastetani sat spellbound, watching their foe strive to close on them. He saw pride and admiration in these men’s faces and looking at the struggling Carpetani, he felt a strange sense of hope. Their strength and honour was what made great warriors. The warhorn called again and the Bastetani began to stream away to the south. Caros wondered where Hannibal and his Libyans were. It was impossible to see through the dust of battle to their last location.

  Alfren rode up beside Caros and diverted his thoughts. “If you want to live to see the river again, then get your blade out!”

  Startled, Caros realised the warriors around him had all drawn their falcata or held javelins at the ready. The column was streaming across a hillside towards the river, but they could barely see more than ten riders back or to the side. The enemy could be anywhere at this point. Just because they had bested one charge of Carpetani did not mean others had not penetrated this far. He dragged his blade free. It was a new blade he had purchased to replace the one lost in the ambush that had claimed Ilimic. They walked their horses forward calling to the right and left, ensuring they were amongst their own. A mass of movement ahead gave them pause until a troop of Libyans appeared. They started at the sight of the Bastetani until Caros yelled, “Barca! For Carthage!” At that, one raised a salute and they turned and streamed back into in the dust.

  “Good thinking.” Alfren called, he had a half smile curling under his beard. Caros squinted; something was caught in Alfren’s beard. It had not been there a moment ago. Alfren’s eyes were large and round.

  “Alfren!” Caros yelled.

  Neugen spun around to look. An arrow was lodged in their Commander’s shoulder. Suddenly another missile zipped past Caros. They were being targeted from the right, from downhill. The enemy were firing blind into the dust, knowing that horsemen caused the roiling clouds over the hillside. Caros raced the mare to his Commander’s side.

  “Alfren, where has it struck?” Caros expected the worst. The arrow had plunged from on high and must have hit the Commander in the throat above the neckline of his cuirass. Alfren looked down and pulled his beard aside. The arrow had indeed struck above the neckline of the armour, but had lodged in his left shoulder.

  “Would you look at that? Luckiest shot I ever got hit with.” The Commander reached up and gave an experimental tug. He grunted. Caros expected him to snap the shaft, but with a sudden wrench, Alfren instead tore the arrow from his shoulder. Caros saw skin still attached to the barbed head and blood pool at the Commander’s neck. He quickly tore a strip off his tunic and thrust it at Alfren who grabbed it, balled it up and thrust it into the wound.

  Alfren tottered on his horse unsteadily, fighting blood lose and shock. Then he opened his eyes, “Order the column to head east and then come back sharp to the north and hit the river. We must reach the other side and the sooner the better.”

  Caros looked around for the signaller with the warhorn. The fellow was slumped over his mount’s neck. Damn! Caros spurred his mare up to the warrior. He had taken an arrow in the thigh. The leg of his breeches was black with blood that dripped steadily to ground. The man was pale and breathing in short shallow gasps. Caros grabbed the warhorn off him and blew the signal to move east and away from the arrows still arcing down amongst them. He blew it again to be sure and then draped it over his shoulder. “Hey, you just going to bleed out and die?” Caros felt an unreasonable anger at the warrior’s apathy. He tore more off his tunic and then split this in two. One piece he wrapped tight around the arrow shaft where it stood proud in the man’s thigh. The next strip he then used to tie the first piece tightly to the man’s leg. That would hold back the blood. Looking at the man Caros thought it was touch and go.

  Neugen came trotting up to him. “Come on Caros! Leave him, you need to remain with Alfren!”

  Caros grabbed and unfurled the reins from the wrist of the injured warrior. “Hang on!” He spurred the mare after Neugen.

  Arrows fell amongst the Bastetani, but they were moving out of range of the missiles now. The air was clearer and they descended the reverse side of the hill, heading east. The lower slope of the hill was too steep for anything other than goats to clamber down so the Bastetani traversed the hill, continuing south. Caros saw a glint in the morning light. The Tagus lay ahead, its course marked by dense stands of ash, elm and poplar trees. He hoped they could find a ford across it although the water was not flowing swiftly. He wondered where the Libyans with Hannibal and Muttines were and trusted that they had managed to extricate themselves from the battlefield as well. A roar drew his head around. The crest of the hill above teemed with the enemy. Thousands upon thousands of raging enemy warriors had sighted the Bastetani column. Caros quickly put the warhorn to his lips and blew. Break! The Bastetani needed no urging. They were on the backfoot now. The enemy held the high ground and every javelin and arrow they loosed would plummet into the horsemen below.

  As though reading their minds, the lead warriors threw their missiles and a wave of speeding javelins arced into the blue Iberian sky. Warriors, beating their horses in their panic to outrun the oncoming wave of angry missiles, overtook Caros. A horse went down on its rump ahead of Caros who still led the mount of the injured signaller. He easily avoided colliding with the fallen mount, but across the hillside others were not so lucky and either fell or were felled. Finally, the Bastetani reached a scree slope that led down to the banks of the Tagus and they fed down the slope like so much runoff. Neugen kept alongside Alfren who rode hunched over, his left arm held tight against his cuirass. They kept to a slow trot to avoid any sudden mishap. Perhaps half the Bastetani force was now off the hillside. Caros saw figures appear across the river. They had managed to ford the river! He felt weak with relief, having imagined being trapped on this side of the river with raging Carpetani warriors breathing down his neck. Alfren turned stiffly on his mount and surveyed the hillside behind. Sadly, it was littered with downed horses and Bastetani warriors. The Carpetani were swarming downhill and their lead elements were now harassing the Bastetani stragglers.

  Warriors who had lost their mounts were struggling across the hillside after their mounted companions. Caros watched in awe as riders braved the oncoming enemy to double back for these men. A single horseman could support a warrior on each side as long as that warrior was prepared to grip the rider’s waist and leap along beside the horse. It was an ancient way to use their horses to move many more man speedily across country and they used it here to good effect. Time and again though, these brave individuals were trapped and then a mob of Carpetani would pull horse and rider cursing to the ground.

  Neugen prompted Alfren to continue. “We must go Alfren. There is nothing to be done!”

  “Go then! I am their leader and will be the last off the hill.”

  Caros looked back at the injured signaller. “Can you ride alone?” The injured man nodded uncertainly so Caros handed him back the reins. “Abna will guide you across the water. Go!” Caros slapped the rump of the man’s horse with the flat of his blade, sending it whinnying down the scree slope.

  Neugen stared at Caros, his face grey under a layer of dust and grime. Then his friend smiled. “Us again! Shall we?”

  Caros grinned and lifted his war shield from where it hung by his left knee and turned the mare to face back the way they had come. Carpetani warriors were overwhelming the tail end of the Bastetani column. One bare chested brute with yellow hair and breeches to match, launched himself off a boulder to sail into the air and down onto the shoulders of a man too old to be riding to war. The first the Bastetani rider knew of the attack was when the brute crashed
into the luckless soul. Neugen winced as both men crashed to the ground beyond the mount. Warriors were charging parallel to the fleeing riders and loosing arrows at them at will. The Bastetani horsemen were trapped between the wall of warriors above them and the steep drop into the wooded valley on their left. Every time a horse went down, three or four mounts behind it would be tripped up.

  Caros urged the last of the riders on while Alfren sat grim faced, watching the fight closing on him. Caros shook his head and then bellowed into the dust-laden air. “Runeovex! To the victor!!!”

  Neugen jerked at the sudden shout, then smiled and echoed the call. As one, the pair charged across the hill. White-faced Bastetani stared at the pair who charged past them. Caros led the way with Neugen just a pace or two behind and on his flank. The enemy were so intent on the fleeing warriors that they did not see the pair until the last moment. Wide-eyed, they turned, only to see Caros’ singing falcata. They saw nothing after. Caros timed his blows, keeping the blade from hacking too deeply into helms and the skulls below, afraid of the blade becoming lodged in a dying warrior.. He hacked down one than two then four then eight warriors. Any that remained upright after being struck were run down by Neugen. His mare too felt the blood fervour and lashed out with her hooves or bit deep into their faces and shoulders.

  Their impetus could not last, the Carpetani were pouring down the hillside in ever increasing numbers. The last Bastetani warrior knew he would not make it to the scree slopes despite the two warriors hacking and slashing to keep the path open. Caros looked on as the warrior reined in his horse, encircled on three sides. He looked at Caros and smiled, blood bubbling from between his teeth, driven from his lungs by a spear plunged into his side. The warrior’s horse whinnied and neighed as it pranced wild-eyed, daring any to charge. The horseman lifted his falcata in salute to Caros and Neugen. Blood and gore dripped from the man’s blade. He kissed the blade and face the enemy. They in turn howled their war cries and fell upon him. Caros watched as the Bastetani’s falcata rose and fell. He was on the verge of charging the mass of warriors as they cut down the brave warrior and his horse, but a hand fastened on his shoulder.

  “Our duty is to live and fight on the river. We must get Alfren back across the Tagus.”

  His senses returned as the bloodlust cleared. Caros screamed his defiance at the Carpetani again and again as his mare rose on her hind legs and joined him. The enemy warriors massed within spear throw of him, both down the trail and on the slopes above him. None hurled their missiles, instead a ragged cheer rose from them and they raised their own blades in salute.

  Neugen eyes popped at the display. “How the hell did you do that? They had us! No, do not answer, just ride!”

  The pair doubled back to where Alfren was already waiting on the scree slope for them while the Carpetani cheered them. He said not a word, but gave Caros a long, thoughtful look before starting down the slope. Within moments, the three men reached the valley floor and threaded their way through the riverine growth. Even here, some unfortunates had dropped from their mounts, giving way to wounds dealt to them on the slopes above. The men picked their way past the bodies, eyeing them for any signs of life. Those that still breathed they helped pass on, making sure they grasped the hilt of a weapon in their right hand as their shades parted from their bodies.

  They reached the bank of the river and plunged down it to the muddied waters below. The river here rose high enough to make their horses falter and then swim, but then the river bed rose quickly and their mounts found footing and walked to the far bank. The Bastetani forces had rallied across the river as planned and Caros was relieved to see that their numbers were far from depleted and the warriors that had been trapped and killed on the hillside were just a fraction of their total. The trio were the very last of the Bastetani to reach the southern bank of the Tagus. As they exited the waters and rode up onto the churned riverbank, a mighty cheer rose up from the Bastetani warriors. “Runeovex! Runeovex! Runeovex!” The god of war would hear their adoration and bless them.

  Caros sheathed his falcata. Now to find the Masulians for without them they would not be able to hold the southern bank. Two of Alfren’s leading men trotted up to them.

  “Have you located the Masulians or the Libyans?” Caros asked at once.

  “No, but we have sent scouts to range up and down the river. We will hear their warhorns the moment they encounter either.”

  “Good, then let us not antagonise our approaching enemies any further. Have the column ride out of sight.”

  The leading men frowned, perplexed that Caros issued the order in the presence of Alfren, their leader. They looked to Alfren, who lifted his chin and glared at them from deep under his thunderous brows. “You heard him, get to it!”

  Nodding, they spun their mounts at once, riding off to move the column out of sight of the enemy on the north bank.

  Berenger rode at the fore of a band of eleven of the more powerful of the leading men and minor kings of the Carpetani and Oretani. They had splashed through the Tagus long before sunrise to reach the north bank. Behind them, tens of thousands of warriors had risen and followed. They all knew the Barcid enemy were on the north bank and hopelessly outnumbered. However, Berenger knew something that the warriors on foot did not. A rider had arrived in the dark of night when the campfires glowed only weakly under layers of ash. He had delivered one short message. “Hannibal leads.” At the words Berenger’s hopes had soared.

  If the Barca was leading this small force, Berenger had the opportunity to rise beyond his wildest dreams as the warrior that had bested Hannibal, the son of Hamilcar and leader of the great Carthaginian Barcas! The early morning sun had not yet risen high enough to illuminate the deep, narrow valleys on this bank of the Tagus. Neither had their warriors closed on the enemy, although scouts had reported they were encamped close by.

  He paused on the eastern slope of the hill and watched as the warriors of the Carpetani ran tirelessly upriver. The majority were content to take the easier paths close to the riverbank, but many had fanned out to proceed over the higher hills. He had encouraged this, as he wanted to hit the enemy horsemen with as broad a wave of warriors as he could. In this terrain, the warriors held the upper hand. For the same reason, he had ordered the Oretani to march five stadia beyond the river before turning east. The Oretani would force the horsemen against the river while the wild Carpetani drove into them like a javelin.

  Cractas, a burly Carpetani leading man, rode up beside Berenger. “My warriors are hungry for this victory, Berenger. We have fought the Barcas for many years. It is our time to kill a Barca.”

  Berenger smiled grimly at Cractas while eyeing the man’s muscular chest and arms. Cractas’ massive build together with his ability to plan ahead, had already seen him become a legend among the Carpetani. Neighbouring tribes had learned through brutal reprisals to avoid raiding settlements under the protection of Cractas. “I pray to Runeovex the message was accurate. I too would like to see the Barcas finally defeated.”

  Cractas grunted and flexed his shoulders while watching proudly as the Carpetani warriors poured unendingly upriver. The evening before, Cractas and Berenger had argued heatedly about the placement of their ten thousand horsemen. Cractas had wanted to send them with the Oretani to complete the encirclement of Hannibal’s column all the sooner. Berenger had wanted the Carpetani horsemen to remain on the south of the Tagus. The argument had almost come to a clash of arms as Berenger’s patience slowly wore away. He had sensed that Cractas was testing his strength as a leader. The other chiefs had wisely remained silent in the standoff.

  “They will reach the enemy in a short while. Will you lead them with me?” Cractas asked with a shrewd smile.

  Berenger knew the Carpetani had seen the irritation flicker through his face, but his constant push to be the leader was trying. “I will be leading where the battle is thickest. In other words, wherever Hannibal fights.”

  It was now Cractas’ turn t
o be irritated, but Berenger knew better than to gloat. As trying as Cractas was, Berenger recognized qualities in the chieftain that would serve him well in the future.

  A man whooped nearby and both men turned to see what had elicited the wild yell.

  “They have flushed the game!” A pox-faced leading man from the Olcades shouted, pointing to the river.

  Berenger made out a line of enemy horsemen on the crest of a low hill. Carpetani warriors were streaming towards them over the rough terrain, like dogs on the hunt. He wisely kept the analogy to himself. Cractas growled and hefted his sword. He used a falcata of an impressive size. Berenger guessed it was double the size of any falcata he had ever blocked. It would take a horse’s head off cleanly, or so Cractas had boasted, and Berenger believed him.

  “Hold! The Barca will not be there. Wait a little and his position will become evident.”

  Cractas spat and flexed his shoulders again. The others shifted in anticipation of a charge and the coming, bloody fray. The Barcas had in the past bested them or their fathers, subjugated them and forced levies from their people. Tribe had turned on tribe, blood on blood, through forced loyalties sworn to the Carthaginians. In the south, tribes had become weak shadows of their former selves and had grown meek. These leading men and graybeards of the Carpetani, Oretani and Olcades would not allow that to happen to them. Those few Olcades and Vaccaei among them had watched their strongest settlements defeated and burned. They had fled to the Carpetani and Oretani, spreading their hate of the Barcas.

  Further movement in the east brought Berenger’s attention around. The Carpetani were advancing on another hillside. He thought the horsemen could be Iberian judging from their more colourful and varied outfits. He swivelled his gaze back to the first of the enemy they had seen alongside the river. Yes, they wore a more uniform coloured outfit than their companions. He pointed out his observation to Cractas.

  “Those will be the Libyans. So, the others must be the Bastetani or Turdetani horsemen.”