He assessed the route the riders were taking and made up his mind. “You! Get the men down and tell them to shut their mouths or I will have their tongues.” He directed the command at the nearest warrior whose eyes widened at the ferocity of the command. The man quickly made his way along the wall relaying the order. Berenger hastily scrambled down the wall and bounded past the breach to find his way up to the parapet on the other side where again he silenced the warriors and had them keep out of sight. Keeping low, he peered over the parapet and found the pair of riders. They were indeed entering the range of a good javelin thrower and coming closer yet. Berenger could throw a javelin, but had never become proficient with it. Unless the target was within spitting distance, he knew he would likely miss. He whispered to the warrior nearest him. “Who is best with a javelin amongst you fellows?”
The warrior glanced along the wall taking the time to weigh up his choice from among those present. Reaching a decision, he pointed his thumb at his chest. “I am.” Berenger’s eyes became slits in his face. He glared at the warrior, not wanting to hear idle boasts.
The man read his expression and smiled nervously. “As Runeovex is the god of Javelins, I can strike a racing hare from twenty paces.”
Berenger thrust his chin at the riders beyond the wall. “Could you hit them?”
The warrior squinted, seeming to gauge the distance and breeze. “They are too far to be sure, but I have a good chance. If anyone can, it is me.” The man smiled widely.
Berenger realised the man was confident and not just boasting. “Do it then. Either of them.”
Berenger watched as the warrior limbered up his shoulders and bounced lightly on his heels while crouching below the parapet. Warriors along the wall had realised what was happening and it seemed their tension had not gone unnoticed by the warriors set below to guard the breach. It seemed all present held their breath and watched. Berenger grimaced and hoped the warrior could handle the pressure of an audience. The warrior eyed the riders and slowly rose with his left foot braced forward. He leaned his upper body back, the javelin’s shaft resting along the inside of his outstretched right arm and its iron tip pointed steeply into the sky beyond the wall. The warrior took two deep breaths, blinking rapidly while mouthing a silent prayer. So fast, Berenger almost missed it, the warrior snapped forward and swept the javelin into the air beyond the wall, his right arm stretched far forward. He remained as still as a Grecian statue while his eyes tracked the missile. Warriors along the parapets surged to their feet, unable to resist the temptation to look. Berenger was right up there with them. He tried to spot the javelin, but quickly gave that up as hopeless and instead concentrated on the riders. He saw the closest suddenly brace and thought for a moment he had been struck. The next moment he saw a shadow pass the man and then the second rider jolted while his horse whinnied and pranced sideways.
In moments, the rest of the warriors on the walls were hurling their own javelins, inspired by their comrade’s success. The horseman did not fall, but he had been struck. Berenger imagined he could see the shaft of the javelin protruding from the man’s leg. With javelins flying thickly at them from the walls, the riders backed off. Coolly, the uninjured rider grabbed the reins of the other’s mount and together they trotted away down the hill. Berenger smiled, hoping the spear had struck someone of importance. Such wounds could take days to kill.
Hannibal was far calmer than Caros had thought he would be as the Carthaginian surveyed the devastation. Maharbal, on the other hand, looked livid, his mouth set in a grim line. Caros greeted Hannibal respectfully and the General smiled briefly at him.
“You got here quickly, Caros.”
“I fear it was not quick enough.” Caros nodded at the burning rams and scattered dead.
Hannibal grunted. “Which contingent was on guard?”
“The Turdetani, Gualam’s men from Malaka.” Maharbal answered.
Hannibal’s calm demeanour disintegrated. “This means another bloody delay, Maharbal. This is taking too cursed long. We have not even breached the outter walls yet.”
Caros realised the long siege was starting to tell on even the usually calm General.
“We have more rams, but yes, there will be a delay.”
Caros ventured to interrupt. “General, the outer wall has been breached.”
Hannibal turned to him swiftly. “The wall is breached? Show me!”
Caros rode forward past the two men who followed him until he stopped and pointed. They could clearly see the tumbled rock of the wall forming a mound at its base. The breach was not big, perhaps as wide as five men abreast. They would not be storming the city through a breach that narrow.
Hannibal smiled widely. “Now that is a good sign! Caros, damn you why the hell did you not say so sooner!”
With a wide grin, Maharbal quickly added. “Where one has succeeded the others must be near to breaking through as well. I will get new rams up here within the day.”
Caros was surprised at how optimistic Maharbal had become. A small victory was worth a lot to morale he noted.
“Yes, send the teams to bring them up. I want the men ready to storm these walls as well.”
Maharbal turned swiftly to set about readying the next rams. Caros thought Hannibal would leave for the pavilion, so was surprised when instead, he rode forward, an eager expression on his face. Caros urged his mare up alongside Hannibal. The fallen wall allowed a small glimpse into the city, but it was too early to see much. Caros became anxious as Hannibal walked his horse along the wall, staring at the structure, probably imagining the whole lot tumbling down. He glimpsed a shadowy movement on the walls above them. They were too close.
Making to voice his concern, he felt the air move and an instant later a heavy impact sounded beside him. Hannibal gasped and cursed. Caros instantly rode close up beside him, lifting his shield to block further spears. Another whipped past his mount’s nose and struck sparks off a rock. Shouts sounded from the wall. The enemy were revealing themselves and hurling javelins and insults at them. Hannibal tottered on his mount; a javelin quivering in his upper thigh. Caros transferred the shield to his right arm and grabbed the reins from Hannibal.
“Hold on! Whatever you do, you cannot fall!” He urged his mare down the hill and away from the wall, jeers and insults following from the now bristling walls. Their mounts scrambled and plunged down the hill in a shower of loose dirt and scree. Caros ground his teeth, expecting at any moment to be flung from his mare as they careened ever faster downhill. His men must have noticed their wild ride and heard the catcalls from the walls, for suddenly they were charging their mounts up the hill. Neugen came alongside while the other warriors formed a line between them and the walls. Neugen saw the javelin protruding alarmingly from Hannibal’s thigh. The General was doubled over his mount’s neck, his knuckles white, as he gripped its mane.
They reached the plain and rode directly to the pavilion. Neugen urged his horse ahead to alert the healers and staff so that by the time Caros led Hannibal’s mount up to the pavilion, there was a throng of men waiting. He leaped off the mare and turned to Hannibal who was breathing tightly through his teeth. Grabbing the his arm, he pulled him carefully from the horse. Neugen helped and between them they carried Hannibal Barca into his pavilion and laid him on his cot. Hannibal’s Generals clustered around the cot, shouting for Asklepius, the healer. Hasdrubal Barca pulled Caros aside the moment the Greek appeared.
“What happened? What is going on up there?”
The smell of wine was strong on his breath and he looked as though he had not slept all night.
“We were studying a breach made by one of the rams. The Saguntines waited until we were well within range and the first javelin found its mark.”
Hasdrubal grimaced. “Bastards! The bloody bastards. If he...”
Mago appeared at Hasdrubal’s side. “Do not voice it, brother. Tanit will shield him.” Mago turned to Caros. “Thank you. Seems you manage to crop up whereve
r you are needed.” He smiled grimly at Caros. “Tell me, did I hear you say the wall has been breached?”
“Yes, that is where we were. I should not have let him get so close, but it appeared so quiet.” He shook his head at the suddenness of the attack. “Maharbal is bringing more rams forward; Hannibal wanted the men ready to storm the walls.”
Hasdrubal pacing agitatedly in circles, spun about and growled. “I will put the entire city to the sword. I want my Libyan column to be the first in.”
Mago eyed his brother who looked pale and ill. “We will discuss it later. Let us see how Hannibal fares first.”
Hasdrubal groaned. “Damn wine has turned my guts. Fine, we discuss it, but I am leading the Libyans through that wall the moment we attack.” With that, he staggered into the gloom at the rear of the pavilion.
Mago turned to Caros. “He handles his sword better than his wine. He did not sleep last night for playing dice and drinking with his officers.” He thought a moment. “The rams will need protection as they are brought up. Have your men ready to keep any more of those bastard Saguntines away from them. You have our thanks and trust Caros.”
CHAPTER 24
DAYS PASSED AS THE new set of rams were placed and began again to pound the walls of Sagunt. Caros found himself more and more at the pavilion. His previous status as a battle hero now underpinned by the fact he had been at hand to save the General in Command of Carthage’s forces in Iberia. Warriors from all the diverse contingents of the Carthaginian army knew him by sight. Wherever he went, he was greeted with respect by grizzly old warriors and with awe by young bloods whose eyes grew wide when he smiled back at them. Neugen could not get enough of his friend’s new status and teased him mercilessly, knowing that Caros hated the attention and did not consider himself due the respect. Neugen never mentioned to Caros that the livid welt that ran from above his right eye across his temple and above his ear leant itself to Caros’ reputation, marking him as a fierce warrior that had survived a horrific wound. It was the one thing Neugen never mentioned. The night they had nearly died was a dark thing in their past. A thing best unremembered.
Even Alfren, that sombre, gruff warrior, afforded Caros a greater measure of respect. Under his tutelage, Caros found himself learning the trade of war. He learned of the contingents that could be relied on, those that were best in a fight to the death and those best to use when all odds favoured victory. Alfren’s depth of knowledge of war constantly surprised Caros. One day he ventured to ask Alfren how he knew so much about the contingents in Hannibal’s forces.
The Captain furrowed his brow and looked irritably at Caros. “Tell me, as a merchant, would you venture into an unknown harbour without first discovering something of the nature of the people there?”
It wasn’t the first time Caros had seen the similarities between trade and war and he quickly saw Alfren’s point. Knowledge was vital to success. The difference being that in war, the commodity was power; the currency used to buy it was men.
He also learned through his visits to the pavilion of the constant precariousness of the balance of power at play behind this vast army. Many of the oligarch in Carthage viewed Iberia as a temporary source of wealth and had no heart in supporting an expensive army to expand its frontiers when a trading vessel could easily return a favourable profit many times over. Hannibal held his position as General in Command by a tenuous majority of the oligarchs in the mother city. These were men who looked to the future and had a vision to build a still greater empire.
Hannibal’s wound improved rapidly under the ministrations of his Greek healer, Asklepius. His temper though, was becoming frayed by the delays in making any further breakthrough in cracking Sagunt’s defences. As Second-In-Command, Maharbal bore the brunt of Hannibal’s frustration despite working tirelessly at deploying reserve battering rams, guard contingents and drilling the troops. Maharbal voiced his own concerns about the morale of the warriors. They were becoming bored and agitated; fighting between different contingents was becoming alarmingly frequent. There was little to occupy them when they were not drilling or on duty.
Food shortages were becoming more frequent and illness was flaring in the camps. Against this backdrop, the Generals reached a conclusion. They needed a victory and were prepared to pay a high price for it to boost the morale of their army. The siege, now into its seventh month, was about to become a lot bloodier.
The small breaches opened by the rams were too few and too narrow to be useful. Almost as soon as part of the wall collapsed, the defenders would raise improvised defences across the breach. Hannibal had not ordered a single attack through a breach, knowing the cost would be too high and the chances of holding it would be next to nothing.
It was now late summer and the afternoon lay turgid over the plain. Three days earlier, Alfren had ridden into the Bastetani camp with their orders. The gruff Commander’s eyes were like twin embers in a face flushed with excitement. Hannibal was moving the siege forward, the combined army was readying for an assault on the weakened walls. Three columns of Hannibal’s warriors now filled the plains to the west of Sagunt. Forty thousand men, armour fastened on, shields at the ready and weapons drawn. Caros listened in awe as warhorns bellowed in unison, driving a wall of sound rushing towards the defenders crowded along the walls. Drums of wood and hide were beating a deep bass below the strident calls of warhorns and the sound resonated through the columns of warriors as they marched.
Mounted on his mare, Caros watched the Bastetani warriors move forward. They shouted to make themselves heard over the warhorns and drums, teasing one another and making promises of what they would do once in the city. Many men beat their swords and spears against their shields as the column inched towards the city. Caros noticed their eyes were stretched wide, he saw unblooded warriors with beads of perspiration on their faces that had nothing to do with the day’s heat. Men drank frequently, their mouths suddenly and inexplicably dry. Caros recognized the signs, he was experiencing them all himself. He knew that under the ribald suggestions and brash boasts their warrior hearts were drumming as urgently as his.
He licked his lips and looked at Neugen. His friend was staring at the city as it loomed over them. His lips were drawn tight and he was clenching and unclenching the pommel of his falcata.
“Want a drink?” Caros uncorked the waterskin.
“Good idea, yes give us a belt.” He drew a mouthful and swallowed, grimacing. “It’s water!” He choked in shock.
Caros laughed. “Well, what did you want?”
Ahead of them Alfren turned on his mount and smiled tightly. “Water Caros? Really? There are forty thousand warriors on this field and I’ll wager my sword and mount that not more than a handful have water in their skins.” He let out a belly laugh, causing nearby warriors to look across at them in surprise.
Caros shook his head and looked at the waterskin Neugen had thrust back at him. He plugged and tossed it aside. “Never occurred to me. Now what the hell have you got to drink?”
Alfren and Neugen grinned and Neugen tossed him a skin. “The good stuff my friend. No worthy Bastetani should raze a city before downing it.”
Caros sniffed and then drank. A bolt of white heat slid down his throat and wrapped around his gut. Eyes watering, he tossed the skin to Alfren speechlessly. He coughed and breathed deeply. Alfren upended the skin over his wide-open mouth, taking a long draught of the honey-coloured liquid. Neugen rode closer and slapped Caros on the back. “Now we can go do battle!”
The archers swarmed up the hillside in the thousands. Across their backs were slung quivers packed with the arrows they would loose at the defenders. The Saguntines on the walls jeered and cursed, their own arrows and javelins ready to repel the attackers. The first flight of arrows rose and the killing began. Behind the archers, the three columns climbed the hillside. They carried long, roughly made ladders of felled saplings bound together with hemp rope. Libyan, Iberian and Numidian warriors pushed forward at the heads of
their respective columns.
Hannibal was gambling on overwhelming the defenders on the western walls that were weakened by the months of savage battering. He wanted to enter the city before nightfall. Once his warriors had gained a foothold within the walls, they would have the additional cover of night to consolidate their forces within the outer walls.
Wave after wave of arrows flew at the defenders, taking them in the throats and heads, thinning their ranks. Men fell wounded or dead by the score to be pushed aside as fresh defenders climbed to fill the spaces. Their own javelins and arrows struck back, killing archers in droves. The screams of dying men punctuating the bellow of warhorns as each side let fly volley after volley of missiles. The columns came forward faster into the killing field under the wall. Warriors braced their shields against multiple impacts of javelins and arrows. They grunted in frustration as razor sharp iron found their flesh. Some fought forward to the walls despite the wounds, others fell dead or writhing in agony. The columns reached the foot of the walls and the ladders rose and lodged against the battlements. Warriors raced up the ladders into a storm of arrows, javelins and slingshot. The Bastetani column surged against the wall and simultaneously a dozen ladders grew out of the mass of warriors and slammed into the walls.
Warriors climbed as fast as their armoured arms and legs could take them. Caros, Alfren and Neugen had dismounted to move through the packed warriors towards the walls. Above them the defenders were dropping rocks and sending arrows as fast as they could into the milling warriors. Caros watched as a ladder, laden with screaming warriors, was roughly levered away from the walls by the defenders. The packed ladder toppled and slid sideways down the face of the wall until it crashed into a second ladder and stuck there. Those warriors, who had not already fallen, jumped clear. The lead warrior on another ladder reached the parapet and slapping aside a spear thrust, clambered onto the parapet. The defenders swarmed over him and hauled the man, screaming curses, into their midst. His fellows climbed up to take his place and were cut down, but more followed, until slipping on the blood of their comrades, two warriors gained the parapet and held the defenders back. More warriors surged up and joined them. Twelve men had died going over that lip of stone to gain their precarious perch on the wall. Steadily more warriors followed, replacing their fallen comrades.
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