His companions were suddenly close beside him. Maleric threw a glance at the warriors staggering into the square from the taverna, jugs of ale in their hands, eyes fixed on Caros and the body at his feet.
“They look very interested. Sure it is a good thing to be offering them your head?” Maleric placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Nobody? Or would you prefer I turn my back?”
“Caros, they are good people.” Neugen defended his clan.
“Hear that? My friend here says you are good? So what does that make me if you wish to sell my head to the Barcas?”
Men grumbled and one or two women walked forward, eyeing the body warily. The drunken warriors were pushing closer, no longer jesting.
“Did you kill that man?” Their graybeard called. His words gave away his clan as western Bastetani.
Caros spoke before Maleric could wag his tongue.
“I did. He thought the silver the Barca’s offered him for my head was a good trade.”
The people of Tagilit were melting into the dark and at these words they disappeared faster. None wanted to be caught up in the retribution in store for those who killed a tax collector.
The graybeard hissed to silence the murmurs of the men around him and stepped a pace forward.
“What did you do to them that they want that ugly skull of yours then, lad?”
The corner of Caros’ mouth twitched with the urge to laugh at the graybeard’s words.
“I expect I am accused of killing a tax collector and enriching myself with his plunder.”
Now the graybeard held back a smile.
“Accused of or did?”
“It was neither I nor my companions, but we know the man who did.” Caros shrugged. “Makes no difference. It is my head they want.”
The graybeard stroked his beard thoughtfully. There was little sign that he had been drinking hard just heartbeats before.
“This tax collector’s name, could it be Asril of Gadiz?”
To one side, Maleric stepped away from Caros, his blade ringing clear of its scabbard. Neugen gritted his teeth and drew his blade a moment later. Unarmed apart from an eating knife, Rappo stepped into the shadows.
Caros watched the warriors drop their cups and pull their own blades. Alone among them, neither he nor the graybeard reached for the blades at their belts.
Caros smiled openly, his teeth glinting orange in the light from the crackling flames.
“It was. A friend of yours or did you come to pay him with the blood of your children?”
Warriors growled and Neugen hissed at Caros.
The graybeard’s eyes narrowed briefly before he walked forward to the consternation of his fellows.
“We came looking to open his throat after we had flayed his hide from his back and fed him his own limp cock.”
“Not a friend then.” Caros’ eyes shone.
“So he is dead.” Mused the graybeard. The man turned on his warriors. “Away with your blades. This man is no enemy of ours.”
Caros nodded to Neugen and Maleric to sheath their blades and they did so with evident relief.
“I am Caros of the Bastetani.”
The graybeard grinned.
“Greetings, Caros. I am Diln.” He looked at the dead man. “Where will you go?”
“Go?”
The graybeard lifted an eyebrow and gestured at the body.
“Barca spears will be close on his heels or did you hope they would forget?”
Caros grunted. “I will not flee like a murder.”
The graybeard eyed him appraisingly. “You will still die like a condemned man if you stay here.” He gestured to Caros’ companions. “Your companions are loyal too. They stood at your shoulder despite my warriors outnumbering them. They will probably die with you.”
“We will not flee. We are Bastetani.” Neugen spoke hotly.
The graybeard smiled. “Honor is it? It has value, but sometimes there is a fine line between honor and foolishness.” He held both hands up. “Hear me out. Since the tax collector is dead, my men and I will be returning to our homes. It is rare that the Barcas visit there. Come with us. The Carpetani have angered their gods who have struck many of them down with boils and pox. It will be easy raiding and plentiful plunder. More than enough to spare three good warriors a share.”
Rappo scowled at the graybeard from under Maleric’s elbow.
“The lad can come to, but he does not look like much of a warrior.”
Maleric pushed Rappo forward. “Tell our new friend here how many of Berenger’s warriors you killed.”
Rappo’s chest bulged and he stood taller.
“I killed four of their horsemen. With more spears, I could have killed that number again.”
The graybeard looked hard at Rappo and Maleric.
“Berenger? Big bastard with a black shield?”
“Yes. He was escorting the tax collector, killed him and put the blame on me. You know him too?”
“His name and deeds are known to us, yes. A dangerous foe to have. Especially if he has the ear of the Barcas.” The man spat into the dark and looked back at the warriors who had resumed drinking. “Think about leaving here, Caros. Find another way to uphold your honor.” He tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “You look like you know how to use this. Work out another plan.”
He turned and sauntered back to his men, leaving Caros to stare after him.
Maleric sighed. “They look like good warriors. Could have been a good option tagging along.”
Neugen shook his head. “When he heard Berenger’s name I think he reconsidered his offer to us. Wonder why that is?”
Caros fingered his sword handle. “He fears Berenger more than the Barcas’ wrath.”
His muddy tunic was suddenly icy across his back and a worm of doubt was twisting in his belly. There were many places Caros could go that would see him safe from the retribution of the Barcas. If he left though, would he ever find a way to regain his honor?
Chapter 9
Neugen’s face was as sour as Caros’ stomach felt. The four sat beside the cookfire in the kitchen area behind Hiln’s taverna. It was mid-morning the following day and Caros had barely slept. He had lain awake in his cot, his thoughts spinning between arguing his innocence or accepting that if they did not leave, sooner or later the Carthaginians would arrive to haul them off to be executed in Qart Hadasht.
“You have said yourself that to flee only makes us look more guilty.” Neugen argued again.
“As far as they are concerned, we are guilty whether we stay here or ride elsewhere.” Caros slapped his knee.
Neugen growled in frustration and dragged both hands through his hair. He looked up at Maleric and Rappo.
“You think this is best? To ride away and allow the real killer victory?”
Maleric began to respond, but to their surprise, Rappo leaned forward and spoke instead.
“When the Romans broke us at Cissa, we fled. We were beaten, yes?” He flicked the fingers of his hand as though dislodging dust. “But we were not defeated. This Berenger has won just one fight. If we remain and are captured, his victory will be complete.” The young Masulian sat back and showed his palms.
Maleric grinned fondly at Rappo, nodding in agreement. While all three older men gave Rappo the benefit of their guidance, it was the Gaul who had most taken him under his wing.
Neugen looked nonplussed for a heartbeat at Rappo’s logic and sighed.
“To me his victory is complete if we flee. How will we ever return with our honor intact?”
“I cannot say, but at the very least we will not have to fear a blade in every shadow and we can plan what we should do next.” Caros tried to sound optimistic, but he was not even sure where they would go.
Neugen shook his head unhappily. “It had better be a good plan.”
Maleric leaned back and stretched his arms, cracking his neck one way then the other. A grin was growing on Rappo’s face.
Caros raised his eyebrow.
“You have something to share?”
“We were just thinking where we could go that would be beyond the reach of the Barcas. There is a place where we have friends. Well, one friend.”
A sly look passed between the two.
“You have friends? That is news to me.” Neugen quipped, his mood improving now that the decision to leave was finally made.
Caros was bemused that it was the Gaul and Masulian who had thought ahead to where they would go since this was a land neither knew. His eyes widened with sudden understanding. Of course they knew someone. A warrior who had fought beside them at Cissa. Someone who had travelled far with them and had earned their trust and whose trust they in turn had won.
His heart skipped a beat. It was a good plan and they knew it. The warrior was a Vascon, a people not directly under the heel of the Carthaginians and whose lands lay far to the north.
Caros glared at them. “No.” Rappo’s grin fell at once, Maleric just grinned wider. Neugen looked from one to the other, confused. “No. It is too…”
Maleric leaned forward. “Too what? It is perfect. Beaugissa would certainly be happy to see you.” His smile was back.
Caros felt his face grow hot. Beaugissa had left a door swinging restlessly in his heart, but she had a husband. Children by him too.
Rappo clenched his hands tightly and Caros noticed the Masulian was holding yet another length of braided leather. Although unfinished, already Caros could see it was well made and handsome with patterned discs of bronze worked into the weave.
“What is that?”
Rappo held it up proudly. “It is not finished.” He held it to his throat. “See? It is a necklace that also guards your throat from blades. It is a gift.”
Like Maleric, Beaugissa had fussed over Rappo and the Masulian loved her like a mother. No doubt he had started making it for her the moment he and Maleric had decided they should travel to the lands of the Vascon.
“You have a better destination in mind then, Caros?” Neugen challenged him.
Caros slumped back, eyes on the leaping flames in the fireplace and thoughts on Beaugissa. Dare he show up at her home? They had never done more than give one another lingering looks. Looks that were overflowing with their need, but upon which they would not act.
As it was, with Barca control strong everywhere south of the Ebro and Rome’s twenty thousand legionaries sharpening their swords in the north east, the Vascon lands were the ideal place for Caros and his companion to make for.
He thumped a fist into his palm abruptly.
“Then that is where we will go.”
Berenger ducked through the doorway and into the early morning light. A thick fog had crept over the town in the dark hours and now clotted and swirled between the building. His men had ready to depart since sunrise and stood in groups, hunched under their cloaks and leaning close to their mounts for added warmth.
Usually Berenger would be waiting for them, but this morning, before first light, a messenger had come to him with news of Caros. The Bastetani had returned to Tagilit and, remarkably, was still there. Berenger grinned; the fool must think he would be safe there, nestled among his people.
Ibon stood menacingly in the thick blanket of fog some paces from the doorway.
Berenger smiled inwardly at his good fortune in finding the man. He was ideal for keeping the warriors of the column in check.
“How many ran off in the night then?” Berenger asked.
“Just this pair.” Ibon pointed.
The two men lay side by side, eyes blank and throats gaping. It was ever the way with hired spears, even those proven in battle. They had scant respect for authority and would come and go as they pleased. Not these though. Not after he had set Ibon to watch them through the night and kill any that tried to leave.
“Good work. Their friends have all seen them I take it?”
Ibon dipped his head. “They have. They heard them begging too before I opened their throats.”
Berenger took the reins of his mount and hopped from a stone mounting block onto the animal’s back. He rode past his silent warriors, not bothering to so much as glance at the two corpses. Ibon followed, growling to the rest to follow.
The gates were already open when he led the column through and the sky brightened considerably as though the fog was bound by the walls of the Carthaginian stronghold.
He studied the column of warriors over his shoulder. There were none with him from his profitable foray with the tax collector. This lot looked tough, brutal men, fully capable of raising whole villages and reaping a goodly plunder. He would sound them out and have Ibon do the same. After all, he wanted to be prepared to take full advantage of any opportunity that offered itself to him. He smiled coldly and settled himself on his mount. Then of course there was the prize at the end of the road. If the Bastetani thought he was safe in the heart of the Tagilit stronghold, he was in for a vicious surprise and Berenger keenly anticipated seeing his expression when he was captured.
It had been a score of days since they had decided they would leave Tagilit and travel north. First, Neugen had insisted on attending the funeral of one of his kin. Now they were celebrating the marriage celebrations of another.
“Not so hard, Maleric. This is not a battle it is a dance.” Neugen slurred and tried to take the drumsticks from the equally drunken Gaul.
Caros laughed at the pair as they upended the instrument and rolled through the moldy hay strewn over the floor of Hiln’s taverna. The guests, anybody that walked in with a thirst, danced around them as they grappled.
Caros had enjoyed just two cups of ale and now nursed a cup of warmed wine that he cajoled out of Hiln for a clipped stater. Although relaxed, he remained alert and wary of a repeat of the assassination attempts. The death of one of their own had prompted the elders in Tagilit to speak in Caros’ defense and quell any suspicions that people might fan into a justification for taking his head. Caros knew that for some, the lure of the reward offered would soon overcome any clan loyalty.
He strolled through the celebrants, exchanging smiles and comments. There were many women of his age too and more than one gave him suggestive looks. He stepped from beneath the eves into the early evening gloom. His bladder stretched with ale, he slipped into a dark alley beside the taverna only to be met by a pair of pale buttocks and the panting of lovers. He spun on his heel to find another wall to piss on when he heard the strike of hooves on wet cobbles. Two riders clattered to a stop beside a group of townspeople sharing a meal around a fire. Intrigued, he put aside his urge and crossed the square.
“What of it?” A weathered graybeard with one eye was saying to the riders. “It is not like we will wake up with more wealth tomorrow than we go to our cots with tonight.”
“They say many thousands of Romans were slaughtered. The fields ruined by the blood and the sky clouded by a multitude of shades pouring from their corpses.” One of the riders spoke, his voice rising with exasperation.
“Pity there are still thousands of the Latin bastards playing neighbors here. Why does the great Barca general not come kill these?”
Caros closed the distance.
“Greetings, travelers! You bring news of Hannibal’s war on Rome?”
With a look of immense relief, the two men turned away from the old man and the company of uninterested Bastetani.
“Greetings! Yes, I do. As heard from the tongues of men from Qart Hadasht just this past night!” The rider directed a sour glance at his unreceptive audience, catching a few obscene gestures thrown his way.
Caros whistled to two boys tormenting a chained rat.
“Rub these men’s horses down and give them the good feed.” He turned with a smile to the travelers. “You come from Qart Hadasht?”
“No. From Celtiberi lands. I am buying horses but having no success. Seems I must follow the herds to Empúries.”
“Rather you than me. The Romans infest tha
t port and the lands there.”
“That is where all the herds are going. The Romans are paying good silver for our horseflesh.”
Caros absorbed this news, his merchant upbringing making him salivate at the money that could be made.
“Come! There was a wedding today and we are celebrating. Old Glaphux and the rest of these bastards here were not invited.” He hitched a thumb at the Bastetani around the fire who grinned and lifted their cups. “But you two are certainly welcome!”
The pair smiled and flicked their reins to the boys.
“By the gods, it is all too easy to forget how cold the wind is up in the hills. A warm fire and some beer will fix that. I am Brocchus.” He grinned at Caros, his clean-shaven chin dimpled and his cheeks ruddy in the firelight. “My friend is named Zerbero, but his tongue was taken by a witch, so he does not speak.”
Caros spat at their feet to ward off dark shades and the travelers followed his example.
Brocchus continued almost without taking a breath, “My mother was Celtiberi which explains my name. How about you? I wager you have a good salt of the earth Bastetani name, my friend?”
Caros ignored the question and gestured to Maleric.
“Here is another with a name as wide as yours!”
Maleric caught weighing a buxom woman’s breasts in his hands, looked up with a dazed grin.
“Well met! I would beat a drum in celebration, but as you see,” he juggled the woman’s breasts, “I have my hands full.”
Brocchus let out a peal of laughter.
“My advice? Do not let go!”
He found a jug of ale in his hand and saluted Caros with it before tipping to contents down his throat.
“I am Caros. Named for an uncle and as Bastetani as can be. Greetings and welcome. You have news of the war that Hannibal wages?” Caros asked, steering Brocchus past Maleric and into the midst of the revelers.
“Yes, I was told it last evening beside a campfire far less lively than this one.” Brocchus had been noticed by a trio of young women just blooming and vigorous with life and ale. They spun around him, hands pulling at his garments and from his broad smile and tented tunic, a lot more. With giggles and winks, they danced away into the celebrants.
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