On the verge of turning back to the Bastetani lines upriver, a sharp glare stabbed at his vision, drawing his gaze to the next ridge downriver from the ford. He squinted and then cursed as Carpetani and Oretani horsemen crested the ridge. Alfren had remarked on the lack of enemy horsemen earlier in the morning and now Caros knew why they had been absent; they had hidden themselves on this side of the river! It was possible they had foreseen Hannibal’s trap. Caros looked back at the Masulian and Libyan lines standing like a wall of reeds against a storm and he knew they were doomed. The enemy riders would crush them against the warriors coming across the river and the slaughter would be to the man.
Hands shaking, Caros lifted the warhorn to his lips and blew! It was already too late; the enemy riders were pouring over the hill towards the ford, their own warhorns sounding wildly over their battle cries and drumming hoofbeats. Across the river, the warriors roared and blew their warhorns in a deafening salute to their mounted allies.
Caros spun the mare around, jerking harshly at the reins and flailed his heels into her belly, sending her racing back past the deserted settlement. He could have wept at the thought of the victory that had been within grasp. He reached the ravine at speed, raising cries of alarm and curses from among the Bastetani warriors lounging along its sides.
“Draw your blades! Bastetani!” He screamed as he tore at breakneck speed towards the willow tree where Neugen had already dropped from the tree branches and mounted his horse.
Alfren was on his feet, face dark with anger. “Caros! What are you doing?”
“The missing Carpetani horsemen have appeared.” Caros jerked his mare around in a tight circle, sweat pouring from his face. “They were on this side of the river all along and even now they attack Hannibal’s rear.”
Alfren paled, but there was no hesitation in his voice. “What are you waiting for? Blow that warhorn!” Long lessons learned in countless skirmishes and battles had prepared him for moments where instinct and action blended seamlessly. The warrior cursed and leaped onto his own mount. “Bare you blades, Bastetani!”
The Bastetani riders, with a sense of something amiss, were leaping to their mounts in moments. Caros barrelled his way up the ravine with Neugen and Alfren close behind. Their horsemen were spread out in the hills above the river and would need to regroup to be effective. The cleared land about the settlement would be ideal. The stalwart mare leaped from the ravine and the sounds of battle raging downriver rose to a roar. Behind him, the Bastetani extricated themselves from the thick growth they had taken cover in after their retreat over the Tagus.
Caros pointed to the track he had used. “You can see all from there.”
Alfren and Neugen grunted and turned their mounts that way while Caros cursed the Bastetani and watched as their numbers slowly grew.
When he estimated that a thousand or more riders had gathered, Alfren nodded to Caros who lifted a war spear high and raised his voice.
“Bastetani warriors! The battle hangs in the balance and it is up to us to turn it as only Bastetani warriors can. Are you ready to slaughter Carpetani?”
The Bastetani horsemen, eager to avenge the lives they had lost that day, roared back. “To battle! Bastetani!”
Caros grunted and levelled the spear. With their war cries ringing and blades glinting, the Bastetani poured down the steep incline toward the ford. There was no time to pick their way downhill over rocks and goat tracks, instead the superb Bastetani horsemen on their redoubtable mounts flew down the hill, the sounds of battle growing ever louder from the river.
The enemy riders heard them coming and their rear ranks hauled their mounts around to face the onslaught. Warriors slipped from their mounts and levelled their spears, others waved their blades and risked staying stop their mounts.
Caros lead the charge with Neugen beside him and they remained mounted, pressing their knees into their mounts’ heaving backs and bracing themselves as they leapt into the enemy ranks. A javelin whipped past Caros’ cheek and then his mare struck a horse’s flank as its rider tried to pull aside. The mare snapped savagely and Caros yelled and thrust his spear. The Carpetani took the blow in his shoulder and a great sliver of flesh peeled opened, spraying blood high. The man screamed and fell with his mount to be crushed under an avalanche of hooves. Time froze as Caros fought deep into the enemy ranks until slick with blood, he began to slide from her back. He cursed and jumped into the maelstrom of flesh and iron where he managed to back up against a tree. Neugen joined him panting and cursing. The two men hacked at any enemy that came within an arm’s length of them. Most of the riders had abandoned their mounts and it was a press of men fighting between confused and frightened mounts. A giant Carpetani warrior saw Caros and Neugen and charged them roaring, his falcata flashing in tight arcs. The warrior never saw the horse that kicked out and caved in half his head and Caros, arms numb and legs like clay sent a prayer of thanks to Runeovex.
Like mist breaking in a breeze, the fighting thinned and flowed away. For the first time in long heartbeats Caros could spare more than a harried glance about them. He staggered over corpses still warm and bodies scrabbling to for purchase on life. Whimpers and curses floated from beneath his soles as he saw where the enemy horsemen had struck the Libyans who had formed a shield of heavy horse around their lighter Masulian comrades. The carnage that ensued was marked by a ring of twisted flesh and broken bone. Kicking away a hand that clutched beseechingly at his sandal, Caros turned to the river and watched as the Masulians sat their mounts triumphant along the shore turned black with the life blood of thousands. Even now, with the enemy floundering in the river and turning back in broken droves, the Masulians sent showers of lethal spears to kill still more, turning the river the colour of ox blood between the drifting corpses and weak thrashing of the dying.
In the early afternoon the warhorns across the river sounded time and again and the roar of the attacking warriors changed. Their voices fell away to be replaced by the ringing clash of iron as the enemy horsemen also began to retreat, fighting their way back into the hills.
Caros returned to find Neugen sitting on the blood-drenched ground at the base of the ash tree. His unblinking eyes were distant, as were those of many of the warriors left alive on the shores of the Tagus that day. Men stumbled past, calling for kin and sobbing in shock. Caros looked at the falcata clutched in his hand and it seemed there was no force that could unglue the hilt from his bloodied grip.
At the water’s edge, the Masulians fell quiet, their appetite for killing more than sated. Turning from the river, their faces revealed their shock at the sight that met them mere paces away. The once lush shore and shelf of land at the river’s edge had been turned to a charnel house. So intent had they been on the oncoming waves of warriors from across the river that most had not noticed the battle fought at their very backs to keep them from being overwhelmed and crushed.
Massibaka led his riders in respectful silence through the dead and dying and away into the hills, taking with them the bodies of their dead for the rites of burial according to their customs.
The battle had been hard won, but the Bastetani’s earlier lucky escape on the opposite bank was the edge that gave Hannibal victory. As for the enemy; the ferocious warriors of the Carpetani and Oretani had suffered grievous losses. Caros watched as they took away many thousands of dead. Many more again were injured and he thought it unlikely that these tribes would wage war for long seasons after the losses they had suffered.
He spotted Hannibal, blood spattered and grim faced among a press of gesticulating Carthaginians and Libyans. It was evident that the Carthaginian General had been in the thick of the fighting and must have known how close they had come to losing the battle. That evening, as the sun hovered and merged with the distant horizon, Alfren appeared carrying two bulging wineskins.
He sank to a crouch before their fire. “Thirsty?” He did not wait for a reply but yanked a stopper from one of the wineskins and spat it away over
his shoulder. The scent of fermented grape rose strong. “Got these from the Barca himself.”
The taciturn leading man shook his head and then upended the skin over his mouth. He swallowed and watched Caros thoughtfully before passing him the now considerably lighter wineskin.
“Drink. You earned this and more.” Alfren winked. “Hannibal knows your name, Caros the Claw.”
CHAPTER 21
THE ARMY BESIEGING Sagunt had been left under the command of Maharbal. The young General was a horseman at heart and excelled in open battle. His birth was the accident of a liaison between a Carthaginian merchant and a Libyan woman of noble blood. In Carthage, such offspring were excluded from all but the meanest opportunities in trade and finance and none at all in worship. His Carthaginian father had therefore decided his son would instead excel at war. From an early age Maharbal trained with both Libyan warriors and Masulian horsemen. He was just fifteen years old when he was involved in his first skirmish against an outlawed Masaesyli chief and since then his experience in battle had grown. In just a handful of years he had risen in the hierarchy of the Libyan ranks until he came to the notice of the Carthaginians who invited him to fight their wars.
When Hannibal’s victorious horsemen returned to the plains around Sagunt, they found that the besiegers had undergone a transformation. Maharbal had whipped order into the rank and file and where there was once chaos there was now determination. Reserve camps were designated to support forces. Valuable Balearic slingers were now placed behind the heavy Libyan infantry who formed the three lines around the besieged city. Horsemen were assigned their proper role on the outskirts of the great army where they patrolled continuously to prevent spies, messengers and mercenaries from entering the camp or penetrating to the city. To the north of Sagunt, beyond the shallow river, carpenters and builders worked to construct rough-hewn battering rams, covered with stout timber roofs. These camps were guarded by a maniple of Greek mercenaries.
The siege had now lasted more than thirty days and not a single engagement had been fought, not a single stone disturbed from the city’s walls. This would change now that the threat to Hannibal’s rear was neutralised. Hannibal was ecstatic at the preparations that had been made. He had besieged large Iberian settlements before, but these paled to insignificance against the vault that was Sagunt. Now with preparations already underway and the tribes inland pacified, Hannibal needed to lay Sagunt low as quickly as possible. He was conscious that the city had close ties with Rome. While his spies in that far off city reported a confusing malaise amongst the senators of Rome regarding his siege of Sagunt, he was aware that at any moment they could vote to send their iron-hard legionaries to break the siege. However, his first order of business upon returning to the army with his bloodied horsemen was a victory celebration. He ordered that for two days the army would feast, drink and give thanks to the gods for the great victory. To the tens of thousands of warriors encircling the city this was a welcome diversion from the tedious camp tasks and drills that had been their lot throughout the summer. Sparing no expense, Hannibal ordered vast quantities of ale shipped north from as far away as Malaka in the south. The horsemen became herders and brought in cattle, pigs and sheep; all paid for with silver Carthaginian staters. An air of anticipation permeated the besieging force.
From behind the parapet of Sagunt’s castro, Abarca watched the transformation of the besiegers from disorganised and disparate to cohesive and energetic. From this same spot he had watched Hannibal lead his horsemen out to challenge the massed warriors that Berenger had brought together. On that day he had thought that soon the siege would be broken for the numbers that Hannibal took could surely not prevail against the tens upon tens of thousands of warriors Berenger led. Somehow though, the Barca had prevailed and returned. Abarca needed no messenger to give him news of Berenger’s defeat. Hannibal’s return was testimony enough.
He slammed his fist down on the parapet. He had urged the oligarchy to allow him to sally out and attack the disorganised besiegers the day Hannibal had left. There had never been a better time; with their camp in complete disarray and their General away with a third of the army, they had been ripe for the picking. He had been denied the opportunity. “The Romans will come to our aid,” he had been told. “We are safe on the rock of our ancestors, behind the walls built for this purpose” were the rebuffs he had received. He should have argued more vehemently! Now he looked at what lay ahead with a feeling of dread uncertainty. Bring on the Romans, those hard, haughty legionaries.
Caros raced Neugen through the wide valleys in the hills west of Sagunt. The heat of the day was mercifully gone and the two men needed a break from the tedious days in the Bastetani camp where all they seemed to do was duel, drink and gamble. Caros reached the shallow bed of the river well ahead of Neugen and pulled up laughing as Neugen trotted up beside him. They edged their horses into water still cold from the mountains and allowed them to drink.
“It is good to be away from the sight of that damned city! It is always there at the edge of my vision when I am in the camp.” Caros groaned.
“Hmm, nearly two moons and we are no closer to breaching the walls. Not that we have tried.”
“Those battering rams are ready and they look stout enough.”
“Vinea is what the Greek called them. I tell you I am looking forward to getting inside one of them. I want to be the first to slam a ram into the walls. It is going to make the bark of Saur’s dogs sound sweet.”
Caros laughed at the image of Neugen swinging the huge battering ram into the city walls. “I would not be so eager! I expect the Saguntines will have a thing or two to answer them with.”
“Taking Sagunt is going to make Tagus look like a skirmish isn’t it? The battle for those walls?”
Caros veered from thoughts of taking the city. He had a deep dread of the battle ahead and could not imagine such defences falling to men. There were tales aplenty of Greek and Phoenician cities being vanquished despite their high walls of rock, but this was Sagunt and Hannibal was inexperienced at siege.
“Forget battle, we have tonight and tomorrow to look forward to, eh?” He was referring to the victory celebration Hannibal had arranged. Every warrior was anticipating the games, the spit roasted meats, and the ale.
Neugen nodded and grinned. “Cannot wait to sink my teeth into a piece of beef. I like pig and goat well enough, but after a while...”
“If the Barcas are anything like the Carthaginian merchants, they will want to make sure everybody knows who has paid for the celebrations. Expect plenty of ceremony before we can get stuck into the fun part.”
The focus of the victory celebrations was held on the north bank of the river in easy view of the walls of Sagunt. A parade of Libyan horsemen, followed by a phalanx of Greek mercenaries, Libyan warriors and then Masulian horsemen took place. These troops had been issued new tunics and their armour and weapons were polished till they hurt to look at. Ten thousand warriors marched in the parade that began in the late afternoon behind a low hillock in the west and then meandered south around the city of Sagunt before crossing the shallow river over a wooden bridge and ending in front of the Barca pavilion.
Aksel had joined Caros and Neugen and the three men sat on the sandy bank of the river near the wooden bridge among teeming throngs of boisterous warriors. The beat of war drums in the distance was the first indication of the approaching parade and before long, men could be heard cheering in great pulsating roars. Caros felt the hair on his arms rise at the sounds and looked at his two friends who grinned back. They all felt the martial power in those sounds of victory. Caros gazed at the walls of Sagunt and for a moment felt a sense of pity for the inhabitants who had been besieged there for fifty days already. They must by now know of the destruction of the army raised to break the siege. Hannibal was deliberately staging this ostentatious celebration outside their walls to send them a message.
“How is it that you are not in the parade, Aksel?” He fr
owned as the Masulian’s eyes flicked to Neugen and the two exchanged a look. “What?”
The Masulian shrugged. “Many of us who fought at the Tagus are not in the parade.”
Caros nodded in understanding as the Bastetani had been overlooked as well. He had lost his temper when he heard there would be none in the parade, but instead of the expected curses from Alfren or even Neugen, they had shrugged it off complacently. He sighed, every time he thought he was becoming part of this great beast of war something else occurred to remind him that he was not brought up to be a warrior. He told himself he did not mind and once this campaign was over, he would return to the farm at Orze, make amends with Brent and his kin and begin raising horses in earnest.
Neugen nudged him, the sun was low on the horizon and he was lying on his back half asleep, listening to the drum rolls and roaring of the warriors. Caros sat up and Aksel clicked his tongue and dusted the back of his tunic off. Caros thanked his friend uncertainly.
“Lookey there fellows. The mighty Libyan horsemen appear!” Neugen exclaimed.
Aksel chuckled while Caros stood to get a better view. The prancing horsemen appeared around the eastern edge of the rock upon which Sagunt was fastened. They looked impressive as rays of sunshine shattered and bounced from their gleaming cuirasses and spearheads. Their mounts glowed with vitality as they trotted forward. Men tasked to wet the path ahead of the parade sprinkled water over the dusty ground, preventing the marchers from becoming invisible under a cloud of dust. Warriors from all the diverse peoples in the Barcid army lined the way and roared, whistled and yelled.
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