Warhorn

by J Glenn Bauer

  Following the Libyan horsemen came four men walking in pairs and beating massive drums of wood and hide. Caros and Neugen exchanged glances. They had never seen such men before; tall, regal and the colour of black grapes on the vine. Across their shoulders were draped pelts of a wheat-coloured beast with many black markings. They wore headbands cut from the same skin and mythically large plumes of black and white bobbed high above their heads. Their skin glistened with perspiration, but they walked with an easy gait and above all, swung their muscled arms in a continuous, beating rhythm.

  Caros felt tears burn his eyes at the magnificence of the spectacle. His chest grew larger as though he was expanding to be part of this army. Beside him, Neugen clapped his hands above his head and roared with the crowd. Aksel, grinning broadly, grabbed Caros around the shoulders and ululated to the sky. Caros gripped the Masulian and drew Neugen to him with his free arm and the three men roared with the army of Hannibal. They roared of their coming victory. They roared because they were warriors and the drum’s beat was the beat of their hearts. Never had such sound engulfed Caros before and tears ran freely down his cheeks and the cheeks of his friends. All around, men were cheering and weeping. The Libyans reached the bridge and their mounts’ hoofbeats hammered in unison with the drum roll, driving the cheers of the warriors to new heights.

  The Greek phalanx came next and from their forms one could only wonder how they did not rule the world. They thumped their heavy spears against their round shields as they marched. The sound rolled like thunder over the spectators, surged against the walls of Sagunt and climbed into the heavens as though honouring Zeus. Neugen wiped his face with his tunic and laughed, embarrassed and ecstatic at once. Aksel stood leaning against Caros, his arm still draped over his shoulder. Caros knew what his friend was waiting for and he felt for him. The Libyan infantry came next preceded by a giant of a man. He was taller than the tallest stallion and towered over the Libyan infantry behind him. His armour was white enamelled iron, worn over a red tunic. His helmet bore hinged cheek plates and was topped with a silver horsehair tassel that hung down his back when not whipping in the evening breeze. On his left arm he bore an oval shield with the signature red emblem of the ancient Phoenician and Carthaginian mother goddess, Tanit. In that hand, he held a staff from which flew the pennant of the Barcas. At intervals, this giant would lift a great warhorn to his lips and give a mighty blast, the sound crashing over the warriors and drowning all other sound. Caros could not hear his voice, neither could he hear Aksel’s ululation beside him when the giant Libyan let forth these mighty blasts. The Libyan infantry marched over the bridge and across the face of the white pavilion from where Hannibal Barca and his brothers watched the procession.

  The cheers died and the bubble of excitement began to shrink. Aksel stood dead still, waiting. Beside him, both Caros and Neugen watched expectantly for the Masulian contingent to appear. They heard massed warriors in the distance and then rising above their roars came a strange trumpeting bellow. Each bellow sounded closer and the anticipation of the warriors grew greater. The sun was so low now that the city of Sagunt threw a long deep shadow across the parade route. Caros discerned movement in that shadow, as though a boulder had broken free from the hill and come to life. He stood on his toes and strained to see. Something vast moved there and for a moment stories of mythical mountain monsters were remembered. The warriors closer to the moving shadows gasped in awe.

  Neugen beside him cursed. “What am I seeing?”

  Aksel stood silent and proud, a faint smile held on his handsome face. Caros hissed in surprise as a monstrous form stepped from the shadows. It was magnificent and terrifying in one breath as it strode forward with the Iberian sun striking and lighting it from the west, throwing a giant shadow across the awed warriors on the east side of the beast. As though at a signal, it lifted a long appendage into the sky and the source of the bellow became apparent as the beast blew a triumphant call across the Iberian landscape. Tens of thousands of warriors who had lost their voices suddenly roared in wonder at the majesty of the beast. It came forward, effortlessly striding towards the bridge, and Caros noticed for the first time that there was a contraption attached to its back in which two men stood. A third man sat right behind the domed head of the beast and held only a short rod with which he seemed to control it.

  “By all the gods, what is that creature?” Neugen shouted.

  Aksel tore his gaze from it, his face alight with pride. “We call this elu, but the Greek call it an oliphant.”

  Behind the oliphant, the Masulians rode their horses with pride, their familiar mustard coloured tunics glowing gold in the late afternoon sun and their red scarves wrapped high above their heads. Their round shields were newly painted with all manner of animal symbols and they each held three ceremonial spears with feather plumes tied behind the iron tips. The oliphant stepped onto the bridge and the warriors nearest held their breaths as the structure settled. The figure sitting on the beast’s neck shouted a command and the oliphant resumed its steady pace while the bridge continued to creak and groan alarmingly. The Masulian horsemen followed a respectful distance behind and as the last of them crossed the bridge, they gave their distinctive ululating cry.

  Across the plains, Hannibal’s army celebrated the victory at the Tagus. The herds of livestock brought here for the occasion were already slaughtered and turning over fires to feed the thousands. Free ale sated long thirsts and men celebrated.

  Caros and Neugen turned on Aksel and demanded to know all about the oliphant and what other strange beasts they could expect to see.

  Aksel laughed heartily. “How much time have you fellows got then?”

  Neugen elbowed Caros in the ribs. “Say, how about we take the oliphant for a ride? It cannot be that difficult; did you see the little stick that fellow was using to drive it? I swear when it sees the size of...”

  Aksel interrupted. “It will pity you and offer to let you use its own which can be mistaken for a tree.”

  Caros snorted. “You walked into that, Neugen.”

  Neugen assumed a contemplative look. “Say, that is a good point. A beast that size has got to have one big cock!”

  “Do not know about you fellows, but all that yelling has got me thirsty and downing a flagon of ale will be a whole lot better than standing around talking about oliphant cocks.” Caros slapped Neugen’s shoulders.

  “Hang on! I forgot to mention that Alfren wants us up at the pavilion right after the parade.” Neugen quickly answered.

  “What! Now? When did he tell you this?”

  Neugen grabbed Caros by the elbow. “I wager there is some good stuff to eat and drink there. Maybe we will get lucky.”

  “You still talking about food and drink or...?” quipped Caros.

  The three men pushed their way through a mass of warriors and emerged at a clearing in front of the pavilion. A ring of Libyan honour guards encircled the Barca headquarters.

  Without pause, Neugen called. “Mind letting us through, fellows? Got to see somebody called Hannibal.”

  The Libyan closest glared at him until he heard a call from one of his fellows.

  “Adicran! They are expected!” A familiar looking warrior approached. “Greetings again fellows, you are expected this time.” He moved off without explanation.

  “What exactly is going on, Neugen? I have a feeling you know something?” Caros hissed.

  Without answering, Neugen followed after the Libyan. Caros turned to Aksel who was looking out to the coast. “You know something! What have you buggers cooked up?”

  “I know naught, my friend. I am just keeping you company and looking out for some good wine and a tale to tell my sons one day.”

  Caros glared at him. “Right then, play dumb. I will see for myself.” He took off after Neugen who was approaching the front of the pavilion where a number of figures stood. Caros felt his heart drop; he really did not want to deal with the Carthaginians and leading men this evening.
He took a breath and approached the pavilion, unaware that Aksel had dropped back. Caros recognized Hannibal Barca amongst the group as he heard a warhorn and a steady drumming that reach through his heels into his chest. He looked around as he walked forward, noting Aksel some distance away, talking urgently to a Masulian rider. Caros licked his lips nervously. Had he committed some punishable crime? He thought of Alfren castigating him at the Tagus for not following Hannibal’s ordered plan. He braced himself for some sort of humiliating rebuke, after all what did he really know of Carthaginian military etiquette? To hell and all Saur’s dogs with them if they thought he would apologise. Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, he strode purposefully towards Hannibal. A bead of perspiration nevertheless traced the livid scar he bore across his temple.

  Hannibal stepped forward wearing a grim look on his face. The men in his presence quieted and turned as one to watch Caros approach the pavilion. Around the perimeter, the honour guard collapsed inwards until they were side-by-side, just ten paces from the front of the pavilion. Caros halted a few paces from Hannibal.

  “Greetings. Congratulations on a very fine parade.” He forced his voice to remain calm, despite the apprehension he felt churning in his stomach. He cast a quick glance around. Every leading man was there apart from Muttines. He noticed Alfren and Neugen at the rear of the cluster, both grinning broadly.

  Hannibal stepped forward and placed his left hand firmly on Caros’ shoulder while staring him in the eye. Some part of Caros’ brain noticed the Carthaginian was his height.

  “Caros, son of Joaquim of the Bastetani, three times now we have met. You brought me reports of our enemies, then you berated your companion for his comments about my wishing you all a goodnight and now of course.”

  Caros was blinking wildly and did not resist when Hannibal used the hand on his shoulder to spin him to face the assembled warriors. Effortlessly, Hannibal’s voice lifted over the warriors whose every eye was fastened on Caros.

  “Warriors! Friends of Carthage! Today I have shown you some of the heroes of our victory over an enemy more numerous than us. You have seen these brave warriors and been lifted by the sight of them as they paraded before us.” The warriors cheered and as the sound died away Hannibal continued. “You know Carthage to be kind and forgiving of her enemies, despite their duplicity, despite their hubris and despite their dearth of fides!”

  It was clear Hannibal was talking of the Saguntines and Caros thought his use of the Roman word fides, which meant faith, was a good touch.

  “You also know that Carthage, under the care of our mother Tanit, is a generous friend and a trustworthy partner who rewards those of her citizens and allied citizens who serve her well!”

  The mercenary army and levied warriors cheered and whistled. They were clinging to every word Hannibal spoke and Caros was beginning to regain his shaken composure.

  “Today I present to you another hero. A hero who, single-handed, slew a hundred warriors to save his companions and risked his life in one mad, glorious charge!

  Warriors roared and clapped. “Who is this warrior? Who is this hero? Show us!” Came the call from different voices. Caros was speechless and felt his face burning.

  “I will, I will. There is more! Surrounded by the enemy, sure to be torn to pieces, this warrior raised his bloody sword to the god of war he knows as Runeovex and challenged the enemy. Three times he challenged and three times the enemy cheered him so great was his valour!”

  As these words were spoken the warriors bayed in the ecstasy of the moment as they saw it happening in their minds. The Libyan honour guard were hard pressed to hold back the common warriors.

  “Our hero then returns to the battle proper, uniting his Bastetani warriors and leading yet another valiant charge into the very midst of the enemy who are about to sweep us away into oblivion down the mighty Tagus!”

  Hannibal grabbed Caros’ right hand and lifted it high. A mighty roar rose into the darkening skies above and reverberated off the walls of Sagunt.

  “I give you Caros of the Bastetani! I give you Caros the Claw. I give you our hero!” Hannibal turned to Caros who was shaking his head, wide-eyed while the warriors cheered.

  “How did you know my father’s name? The Masulian war name? Who told you?”

  Hannibal grinned at him. Caros shook his head and looked about at the warriors shouting their praise and cheering. A rhythm emerged in the crowd and a chant gathered momentum.

  “Caros the Claw... Caros the Claw... Caros the Claw...”

  The steady beat of thousands of hooves drowned the cheering and out of nowhere, a great body of Bastetani horsemen appeared. The massed column thundered past the pavilion with their warhorns blasting. Caros could barely see through his tears. Hannibal had honoured the Bastetani, not forgotten them. He grinned at Hannibal and with a start noticed that Hannibal’s eyes were swimming with tears as well.

  The Carthaginian, reading his mind, laughed. “Bloody dust!”

  Caros sputtered and laughed shakily. The rest of the leading men approached and congratulated Caros, touching their brows and inclining their heads in respect.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE MEN CURSED AND strained to keep the battering ram level as they heaved it up the rock slope to the foot of the outer walls. Getting the battering rams to the walls was taking a supreme effort. Already one battering ram had been lost when one side had lurched off a rock shelf, causing the great beam suspended within to swing to the side, not only crushing several men but also overbalancing the structure. Men shouted in alarm and dove out of the way as it rolled and then plunged into a cleft in the side of the hill. On the walls, the Saguntine defenders had jeered and cursed them. Hannibal, surrounded by his leading men on the plain below, cursed. He was determined to take Sagunt quickly and could ill afford such setbacks.

  Maharbal had organised a workforce of slaves and soldiers to construct the battering rams so that when the victory celebration was over, they had sprung immediately into action. On the morning after the two days of celebrations, the army had been roused before daybreak. Reeking of all they had drunk and eaten, the men had been ordered to their positions. Skirmishers were sent forward to take up positions in the rocks of the slopes, the first of these being the famous Balearic slingers. These men made up for their small numbers, being only two hundred in all, with deadly accuracy. Supporting the slingers, were hundreds of archers. These warriors were tasked with keeping the defenders engaged in order to allow the teams hauling the battering rams some respite.

  Despite the arrows and slingshot that thudded and slammed against the stone parapet, the defenders still inflicted heavy casualties on the men sweating to move the rams into position. By the third day, Caros estimated that four hundred men had been killed or wounded getting the rams into position under the outer wall. The moment they were in position, teams of men began to pound the wall with the great iron-nosed beams suspended within. They worked under the protection of a lattice of boughs covered in several layers of green animal hides saved for this purpose. The hides smelled rank, but were vital in deflecting the arrows, javelins and rocks the defenders on the walls directed at them. Heaving, the men hauled back the huge cedar tree trunks, hung by thick rope from cross-beams that formed part of the protective canopy above them. Once it had reached the apex, they cheered and released it to swing in a giant arc towards the wall of stone. A crude fist of iron had been fixed to the thick end of the trunk and this fist smashed with force into the stone. With every strike, sparks and splinters of stone flew outwards from the face of the wall and a surge of dust billowed upwards towards the defenders. From a distance, the rams looked like thundering mythical beasts devouring the walls amidst clouds of dust.

  For days the relentless, rhythmic din of splintering rock surged in waves across the plains. The men working the rams were rotated at every watch so that the constant pounding never faltered. This also meant a constant stream of warriors were moving up and down the slopes, which
inevitably resulted in mounting casualties.

  During the last watch hour on the eleventh day of constant battering, a ram began its lunge towards the wall, swinging through its arc, it collided with the already weakened rock and kept plunging on. The iron fist had run directly through the wall. The man in charge of the crew was ecstatic when the dust cleared and he saw that the ram had battered right through the wall. His thoughts flashed to the rewards Hannibal had promised to the first squad to break through. The entire crew cheered and jubilantly danced, clapping one another across the shoulders as they cavorted safely under the covers of the rotten leather above them. One of their team stopped to cock his head. In the pre-dawn silence he exhorted his fellows to hold still and one after the other they paused and quieted. In the subsequent quiet the ominous groaning of stressed rock was accentuated. They looked at one another, eyebrows raised in query. Realising the danger, yells and panic followed as they fought to flee from the rear of the ram. Behind them, an entire section of wall was slumping tiredly, its base smashed through by the incessant ramming. It leaned slightly and then began to tumble outwards. The sound was as though a titan was roaring above the men as they forced themselves, on already tired legs, down the hillside. Men tripped and fell headlong as rocks crashed and rolled above, over and through them. The echoes carried on across the plains into the western foothills.

  Then came a second more subtle sound. The gates of Sagunt creaked and then slowly inched open. Warriors slipped silently from out of the city into the pre-dawn gloom and raced towards the nearby rams.

  In his tent, Caros was jarred awake. About him he could just make out the gloom of a new day entering the tent. He bolted from the rough wooden cot that was his bed and tripped through the tent opening. He stood silent for a heartbeat, turning slowly, ears attuned to the morning sounds. In the distance, a rumble was dying away and another sound was replacing it. Sharper, more defined. Iron and voice, the songs of blades and cries of death.