Caros slapped the leather and bronze on his chest.
“Maleric is right. The Carthaginians place his word over ours.”
“The gods! We will be executed like common hill-warriors!”
“Yes, it will be Berenger laughing up at us as we scream our last.”
“Then what do we do?”
Caros looked first east and then south. His eyes narrowed and lips pursed as he thought. There was little point in going to Qart Hadasht to plead their innocence. That would be like offering their throats to winter hungry wolf. Every stater of honor in him screamed for him to proclaim his innocence and condemn Berenger. Anything else would only make him and his companions look even more guilty. Unless…
“We did not search the village. If one woman escaped, then maybe others did too. Some herdsman or women in the fields. They could tell the commissars exactly who burned the village.” Caros looked at his three companions earnestly. Neugen was chewing his lip in thought and Rappo was nodding.
Maleric looked at Caros gravely.
“Even if we found anyone alive, and I have my doubts we would, we will face the same question. Will they believe Berenger or these survivors?”
Caros cursed. “You are saying it is no use?”
Maleric lifted a shoulder.
“I am saying we would be better off using the time to put as much distance between ourselves and the Carthaginians as possible.”
“Flee!” Neugen growled. “We do not run from our fears!”
Caros tilted his head in agreement. Flight was the course of the guilty man, the man of no honor. When Neugen’s words slowed and his face had turned red, Caros cleared his throat and spat.
“We have been thinking like animals! There is no decision to be made here. We must return to the village. There may be injured there that need aid.”
His words threw a blanket of silence over the men. The prospect was daunting. Even for men who had seen the horrors of vast battles, witnessing the aftermath of the butchery unleashed on the village was a thing they dreaded.
Caros slipped the cap of his waterskin, noticing the trembling of his hands that often affected him after battle. The leather cap popped loose and he tipped the spout between his lips, relishing the wash of cool water. Refreshed, he capped the spout and turned to Rappo.
“Cover our trail in case the bastards return and try to surprise us.”
“I will but know that I have just one spear and my knife.”
Maleric rolled his eyes heavenward and muttered an invocation to some god.
“Time I taught you to use a sword.”
Rappo looked down his nose at Maleric.
“For what? My spears kill them just as dead.”
“There may be spears back at the village.” Caros interrupted before Maleric could venture his opinion of spears. “While the three of us sweep the village, stay on the hills and see if any of those young goatherds managed to hide themselves in an overlooked crevasse.”
Rappo dipped his chin without argument.
Smoke still rose from the Bastetani village, the many smaller columns combining to form a featureless black shroud above it.
Rappo turned away to track along the upper slopes of the surrounding hills while Caros led Neugen and Maleric down the hillside and across a field of stubble.
“Good that you sent Rappo into the hills. To forget what we see in this place will take more ale than can be brewed in a season.”
Maleric’s voice was dark and Neugen looked past the Gaul to Caros, his eyes heavy with trepidation.
Caros swallowed, his forehead abruptly prickled by perspiration and cold dread flayed the nerves down his back. His mind filled with images of hacked corpses carpeting the ground, his mother’s body among them. Of Ilimic burning like a torch, just paces from him. The stink and rustle of flies and worms.
Caros touched his amulet and sent an invocation to Runeovex.
Birds were already closing in on the bounty of carnage. The same crows that fought the village dogs for scraps now cawed hungrily as they circled their erstwhile competitors’ bodies.
The men slowed as they approached the gates which hung open, charred by fire and painted with blood. Their hearts beat unsteadily as their fears grew. This was a place of shades and the killing done here may have drawn more than mere scavengers of flesh. It was well known that shades from the land of the dead could ensnare not just the innocent, but graybeards and even champions, in such places, digging their claws into the minds of their victims. Such people became ill of spirit, their sleep wasted fleeing dreams, their waking moments spent seeing dark visions.
Caros spat to ward off such shades before riding through the gates.
Chapter 8
The streets of Qart Hadasht were awash with people making their way to the great square. The cascading chorus of dialects from lands near and far was rich with anticipation.
Berenger lounged on a cushioned bench in a yard set off from the main streets, but with a view of the crowds gathering. A woman of exotic beauty trailed a hand through the hair of his chest and moaned between small white teeth as in slow, practiced strokes, she emptied him.
She leaned close to lick the sweat from where it had pooled on his flat stomach and he opened his eyes to gaze at her pink tongue darting over his skin.
She caught his stare and grinned languorously. Berenger glanced at the warrior standing beside the door who drew a purse from within his tunic. He tossed and caught it, the sound of coins a siren call to the woman who rose. She averted her eyes from his face when she accepted the coins and backed nervously into the shadows of the doorway beyond.
Berenger watched her until she was gone and then closed his eyes, savoring the moment. It would be his last opportunity to enjoy a woman as beautiful, clean and engaged till possibly winter’s end. Tomorrow would see him leading thirty riders after the Bastetani champion and his group of warriors. When they were found, there would be no repeat of the excuse for a fight his previous column had put up. This time the Bastetani would die. The warriors riding at his back on the morrow were veterans, used to quick and savage battles against equally experienced warriors. They were drawn from the south and west; a mix of Turdetani and Turduli with a handful of Bastetani included.
From the large central square, the massed crowd sounded like a nest of hornets and Berenger sat up, stretching his muscled arms and rolling his shoulders. Striding to the fountain, he scattered the slaves there and picked up a wooden pail filled with clean water. Dousing himself thoroughly, he smiled as his breath hitched, hardening himself for the coming days. Washed, he stood for a moment, allowing the mild warmth of the sun to dry his naked form before tying his smallclothes on and dropping a tunic over his head. He knelt and quickly tied his sandals and lastly drew his sword belt tight around his narrow waist.
“Follow me, Ibon. Have you ever seen a Roman?”
The man was neither as tall nor broad as Berenger, but from the way he moved, it was apparent that he did not need the additional weight or muscle. He walked like a predator; all fluid grace and purposeful motion.
When he sloped forward into the light, the hideous scars across his face rose to prominence. His left cheek was hollowed, the skin yellow and waxy. Much of his nose too was missing, leaving a knuckle of flesh and two cavities in the center of his face.
When Berenger had first seen Ibon ten days earlier, the man had been standing in a ring of newly made corpses, his blades dripping blood and gore at his feet.
“I have not. Are they here then?”
The man’s words were deeply accented with the manner of the far western Lusitani people.
“Just a handful. Fools who allowed themselves to be captured instead of falling on their swords.” Berenger enjoyed how stragglers, scurrying to reach the square, shied away from himself and Ibon.
“They are to be executed?”
“Offered as sacrifice is how the Carthaginians would describe it.” He rubbed his stomach. “Although
once your guts have been drawn and set alight to appease Baʿal, I doubt you will notice the difference.”
Arriving at the great square, they shouldered their way through the dense crowd to find a vantage point on a stack of quarried rocks. A simple growl from Berenger and the sight of Ibon’s ruined face was enough to send the burly men atop the stones scrambling.
From the Barca’s complex strode a rank of Libyans followed by a retinue of slaves and officials and then the General himself, Hasdrubal Barca.
The crowd either roared and hissed as expected while lesser officials spoke. Silence fell though, when Hasdrubal Barca stepped forward, all curled beard and shining armour. Berenger squinted as the low winter sun painted the Carthaginian’s armour in burnished rays.
The Carthaginian began speaking and the crowd hushed to catch his words.
“Our beloved general, my brother, Hannibal Barca has sent word. He and his army have reached our allies in Italia and have begun to free them from Rome’s oppression.”
While the crowd cheered, Berenger began to suspect this was going to be a long litany of events of dubious merit. An official Berenger recognized, lifted a scepter and the crowd quieted.
Hasdrubal nodded.
“Three times Hannibal has faced the Romans and three times he has defeated them.” He made a chopping motion when the crowd began to clamor. “In the most recent battle Hannibal and his army defeated a mighty Roman army at a place called Trebia. The people of northern Italia are free for the first time in a generation!”
Smiling widely, he let the crowd applaud.
Berenger was surprised. He had fought for the Greeks at Sagunt and seen firsthand how Hannibal’s army had struggled to overcome the city. He had always doubted that the Carthaginian general would be able to do much against the Romans on their very doorstep. It seemed the Barca had proven him wrong. He grinned wryly to himself. It was a good thing then that he changed sides. Still, Rome could draw levies from all the people to the south that kneeled to its strength. There might come a time he would need to rethink his loyalties again.
There was movement behind the officials and four stocky men in tattered tunics were paraded into view. They were shackled at their ankles and their hands were tied at their backs.
Hasdrubal pointed at the prisoners. “These are our enemy. Legionaries of Rome. Their kind has only one use for the people of Iberia; Turdetani, Oretani Bastetani. They wish to place your neck beneath their sandals as they have done to so many tribes across Italia.” He let the crowd snarl and bay as the men were battered and buffeted to a stone plinth on which a great fire burned, giving off an oily black smoke. A dozen robed priests waited there for them.
Berenger glanced at Ibon who was watching the proceedings with a hawk-like gaze.
“Today these men will be sacrificed to Baʿal, god of war. After their sacrifice, I grant two days of celebrations for all.” Hasdrubal turned aside while the crowd’s cheers reached new levels.
The four Romans could only be seen as glimpses between the robed priests, but Berenger could see that they were being stripped and hauled to the posts arranged around the plinth.
Berenger watched as the priests parted to reveal the first Roman. The man stood straight; his chin held high. An object flung by somebody in the crowd, splattered against the post and the closest priest raised his hand, a blade glinting in his fist.
Turning to the Roman, he laid his left hand on the man’s shoulder and slid the blade across the man’s stomach. He stepped aside and another peeled the Roman’s stomach open. The man flung his head back in a soundless scream as the priest stood back, holding a knotty length of his gut in his bloody hands.
One of the unharmed Romans began to plead, his voice a shrill whine. All he earned was more abuse and a rain of rotten vegetables and worse.
The priest with the Roman’s guts in his hands, dragged the ropy intestine to the fire and held it up while his fellow adherents chanted. Without seeming to feel the flames, the priest lowered the Roman’s gut into the flames.
Berenger whistled.
“That is something you do not see every day.” Tiring of the noise, he hopped off the rock. “We have preparations to make.”
With Ibon at his shoulder, he made his way to a side entrance to the administration complex. There, he did not have to wait long for the Carthaginian.
“Did you witness the sacrifice?”
“I did. Impressive.” Berenger stood with his arms folded, his face unreadable.
“Baʿal is close. I can smell his breath and hear the flames that course through his veins.”
Berenger showed none of the irritation he felt as he waited for the Carthaginian’s fervor to ebb.
Secure under the watchful eyes of Libyan veterans observing from their sentry posts, Ahirom stepped to within arm’s reach of Berenger.
“You are to do everything in your power to capture or kill the Bastetani. Everything. That means you follow him to the ends of the earth.” His eyes flashed yellow with anger and he leaned closer to Berenger. “Fail and Baʿal will taste your guts.” He reared back at the sudden unblinking threat in Berenger’s eyes. He shuffled backwards, preening his beard with a shaking hand and tried a conciliatory smile. “Succeed though and a talent of silver is yours. Find and kill Caros of the Bastetani. This is the will of the Barcas.”
He set the outer edge of his foot down softly, straining to keep his breathing even. Lifting his back foot slowly to avoid the squelch of sucking mud, Caros took another step forward in the dark. He held his blade low at his side, ready to sweep aside an attack or strike the enemy.
Caros saw the blade before the warrior. With a gasp, he ducked under the deadly edge and hit the ground in a spray of muck. On his stomach in dark glutinous mud, he heard his attacker grunt and step closer. He slipped as he tried to draw his limbs under him, the blade plummeting towards his rain-sodden scalp.
The hollow thud that echoed above him almost had him pissing from his terror-shrunken member. The sudden warm rain that splashed his neck and arms was followed by a heavy weight landing across his lower back.
“That is the second one in three days.” Maleric panted, trying to sound casual.
Caros’ fear morphed in a heartbeat to anger. With a snarl he dragged himself from under the corpse that pinned his body. Maleric leaned against a crumbling wall, breathing hard. The Gaul had run hard to reach him. More hurried footsteps and Neugen darted from around another corner, blade bare and chest pumping, Rappo beside him. He glanced at the body and then took in Caros and Maleric, his eyes turning dark.
“The news is spreading. A talent of silver promised for my head.” Caros’ voice shook.
It had been a long, cold two months since the massacre of the villagers and skirmish with Berenger and his riders. They had returned to Tagilit and their tale was greeted with outrage. The elders had vowed to return to Qart Hadasht with demands for Berenger’s head, but their bluster had quickly faded.
Every day since, Caros had expected an army of Libyan spearmen to appear and drag him and his companions off to Qart Hadasht to be nailed onto beams outside the city gates. Instead, whispers begun to circulate through the Bastetani town and stronghold. He might have missed them, but for Heln, the tavern keeper who had drawn him aside one evening just days ago and warned him. The Barca administration had declared Caros of the Bastetani a traitor to his people, Qart Hardasht and Carthage. A traitor to the Barca regime. His head had swum at the words, but Heln’s fingers dug into his forearm, nails gouging flesh as she warned him of the price the Barca’s had put on his head.
Now the killers had started to arrive. The first had at least had the honor to challenge Caros to his face. That man had died with Caros’ blade buried in his head. The bastard lying dead at their feet had tried to waylay Caros on his way through the dark streets. Fortunately, Rappo had heard the first clash of blades and alerted Neugen and Maleric who had bolted from Heln’s warm taverna to aid their friend.
�
��Lucky it was just one man.” Neugen rolled the body of the man onto its back. “This one is no stranger from the south like the other was.”
Caros grimaced.
“You know him?”
Neugen blinking rapidly.
“He lives… lived on the same street as my wife and I.” He rubbed his face vigorously.
Rappo’s eyes faintly glowing orbs in the dark.
“When the painted dogs hunt the least of the pack strike singly until the others gather and overwhelm the antelope.”
Maleric stared at him for a heartbeat and then clapped a huge hand on the youth’s slender shoulder.
“Rappo is right. We have been lucky that both attacks have been by warriors on their own. The next might be by a group of them.”
Caros was thinking the same thing. The only difference was the pack he envisaged was a column of Libyans sent from Qart Hadasht.
“The Carthaginians have judged me without seeking to know the truth. Now my own people would cut my head from my neck for silver.”
He bent and slipped his hands under the shoulder and knees of the still warm corpse. Lifting him with a grunt, Caros turned for the center of Tagilit, his companions eyeing one another with raised eyebrows.
Nightfall was long past and many had already sought their homes and cots. There were two score or so men and women sitting around braziers in the central square, drinking ale, gnawing on roasted nuts and talking. There was also a boisterous knot of warriors drinking hard inside Heln’s place.
Caros walked into the orange glow cast by the scattered fires, his shadow proceeding him like a denizen of the underworld carrying a luckless victim in its arms.
The talking died away as more and more people saw Caros and recognized the dead man hanging limp in his arms. Caros turned slowly in the center of the common area until everyone was staring, some standing, hands reaching uncertainly for their knives.
“He is one of Tagilit’s.” Caros voice rang out across the street and the warriors still laughing and thumping tables in the taverna paused their merrymaking. Caros released the body, allowing it to fall heavily at his feet with no concern. “You know why he is dead. Who else here wants to take my head?” Caros’ roared the words.
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