“There are fearsome shades here. Come away, we must ride.”
His words brought Beaugissa to herself and she sprang astride her mount, lips pressed to her wrist.
“Men to the north. They wear armour!”
Rappo, ever alert, warned the others who at once slunk low on their horses and edged them into the shade of two leaning birch trees. From there, they watched a score of men working their way south.
“They are strangers to this place or they would know of the road.”
“Some of them are walking heavily; carrying wounds.”
“On whose side do they fight?”
Maleric grunted and fingered his sword, but left it sheathed.
“They are Rome’s dogs. The tribes of Italia cursed to live in the shadow of Rome, but who are not Roman.” He pointed north. “They flee the butchery I spoke of. That is the way to Hannibal.”
The galley lurched, its stern lifting like the back end of a kicked dog as a wave swelled beneath it. Men cried out in their mother tongues and horses screamed in terror. A sailor, drenched and numb with cold, lost his footing as he dragged on a rope with his fellows. Tumbling down the deck, he fetched up hard against a rowing bench. Shivering, he pulled himself upright and grinned at Berenger who stared back at him.
Calls from the captain grappling the tiller were accompanied by a crunch and scrape as the galley drove onto the windswept beach in northern Italia.
Berenger waited until the captain gestured for him to jump. The ways of the sea were a mystery to him and on top of his inexperience, the voyage from Qart Hadasht had turned his stomach almost from the moment he had hopped over the railings onto the salt-stained deck.
Ibon glared at the sailors who sprang into the surf and hauled at the ropes that kept the galley from swinging about. Berenger resolved to be the first to jump and with an unpracticed invocation to the gods, he leaped from the rails. Foaming brine splashed up his tunic, freezing his sack and burning his eyes.
The horses were being heaved into the surf behind him and he had to blunder through the breaking waves to avoid being kicked or bitten.
A sailor laughed at his expression and Berenger snarled and drew his sword. It refused to budge, the wood and leather sheath having swollen and closed tight about the blade. The sailor laughed even louder, a wickedly sharp blade in his hand and a challenge in his eye. At his back, his shipmates looked as eager to fight as he.
Berenger spat and hoped his remaining warriors had not seen the display. He had lost too much respect already with so many of his men dead without having taken the Bastetani or any of his companions.
That would change now. They were in Italia and the Bastetani had no friends here. The moment he discovered his whereabouts, the Bastetani’s heartbeats would be numbered.
With the horses rounded up, the warriors set about finding driftwood to light fires. The captain, his galley already beyond the breakers and growing smaller, had warned Berenger not to linger on the coast. That was all well and good, but he and the ten men with him were soaked and worse, their blades were already pitting with rust.
They would spend a single afternoon and night restoring themselves before beginning the hunt.
The following morning he discovered the camp surrounded. The first man up from beneath a still musty cloak gave a cry of alarm when he stood to urinate, prompting the rest to reach for their blades and scramble for shields.
The men surrounding the camp hesitated, each looking to the man beside him for courage.
Ibon spat in disgust and leapt at a pair of men stealing away with the horses. His blade flashed and they screamed as they felt its bite.
Berenger grinned. These were mere villagers turned to banditry and hardly a threat. He had a use for them though and quickly roared to Ibon to rein in his blows. The two men lived, though their arms were a ruin of slashes.
“Do not flee. We seek your aid and will pay you handsomely for it.”
He directed his remarks to a gray-bearded man with drooping jowls and a belly that hung loosely. A once prosperous man that had scarce used his teeth on food in a long while.
The would-be bandits ran, some dropped their spears while one loosed an arrow that bounced harmlessly off the hide of one of his fellows.
The Iberian warriors circled about Berenger, laughed aloud at the cowardice and ineptitude of the fleeing men.
The graybeard stood his ground and called for the two men at his shoulders to stand with him. These were the only two who looked like warriors; well-muscled from regular feeding and hard work, they wore leather vests reinforced with bronze lozenges and carried well-balanced war spears.
“I am hunting a man who has fled justice and come to these shores. If you help me find him and his companions, I will make you rich with silver.” Berenger pulled a pouch from within his tunic. “Five silver staters.” He tossed the pouch to the graybeard. One of the warriors shoved the older man aside, sending him sprawling in the white sand of the dune. The other snatched the pouch from the air and prized it open with his teeth to peer inside. Satisfied he nodded.
“We will help. These others are carrion.”
His companion kicked the older man in the buttocks as he tried to scramble away. Then, with a high-pitched giggle, he stepped on the man’s neck, pressing his face into the soft sand.
“The man I hunt will be seeking the army of the Carthaginians. Do you know of it?”
The two warriors exchanged glances accompanied by leery sneers. The one with his foot on the neck of the thrashing graybeard, pressed his spear point between the man’s ribs.
“We were among the warriors of that army. It passed south some days ago.”
“You are no longer with it?”
The warrior with the silver coins, tucked them into a larger pouch and shook his head.
“We were left behind. Could not walk two paces without shitting down our legs.”
The graybeard’s struggles ended and his killer lifted his foot from his neck.
“True that. It felt like a witch twisting a knife in my guts. There were a score of us. Some died. The Etruscans killed the rest. Saw that coming and we two went hiding in the forests.”
“Lead me and my warriors to the army of Hannibal Barca and I will reward you handsomely.”
As Maleric had foreseen, the peaceful landscape changed as they rode north. They passed scene after scene of violent destruction; farmers butchered beside their beasts, villagers burned in their dwellings and towns pillaged.
A column of black smoke swirled and climbed into the sky to the north, drawing Caros’ attention.
“This must be the work of Hannibal’s army.”
Beaugissa lifted her chin to savor the stink of charring that filled the air. Her voice and expression had hardened over the last day.
“He is dealing with these people in a way they will understand.”
Maleric too had changed. His good humor was gone, replaced by frustrated urgency.
“Might be the Romans themselves that are burning the land. They would do that to deprive Hannibal of food and set the Etruscans here against him.”
Neugen rode across the face of a gentle hill two stade to the south. He rode a path that allowed him to see beyond the hill without exposing his silhouette to watchers. Where there was cover, he would ride up to the ridgeline to survey the dead ground hidden from view.
Doing so now, he had scarce come to a halt when he slid low across his mount’s neck and twisted her about. Beaugissa noticed and rose to her knees to see what danger threatened. Neugen thrust his spear over his head repeatedly, signaling numerous enemy.
Caros glanced north to where Rappo traced the edges of a forest. The Masulian was watching and Caros waved to him.
“It is clear to the north. Come!”
He whipped his mount into a gallop with the others at his back, Neugen bringing up the rear. Hooves lashing emerald green millet to tatters, they cut through a narrow field and up the hill to where Rappo sat
his pony. He pointed back the way they had come.
“We have found the Romans. Hopefully, Hannibal will not be far.”
The Romans crested the southern hills and surged down its slope to the road.
“They have seen us.”
The Roman cavalry swept over the road in a line some thirty wide and three deep, plunging into the doomed millet field.
Caros led his companions into the shade beneath the trees, raising his voice.
“We will lose them in the forest. If you become separated make for the burned farm we passed three stade back.”
They fled through the forest, ducking low in a fruitless effort to avoid whipping branches. Behind them Roman trumpets signaled the chase.
The ground rose steadily until they reached the hill’s rocky summit that ran from east to west. Clattering over grey rock patterned by dry lichen, Caros found a gap in the trees through which he caught a glimpse of the land that lay to the north.
It was like a vision of the land of the dead; fires leaped from the buildings of a village, the source of the black column of smoke. Ranged further afield were smaller points of glowing flames marking the deaths of other communities. And through it all, rode columns of Barca warriors many thousands strong.
Rappo grinned.
“My people. Those are my people.”
Neugen had overtaken Maleric and Beaugissa and panting hard, pulled his horse up beside Caros.
“There are still a hundred or more angry Romans chasing us.”
Caros gestured for them to ride north and both responded with speed. He waited for Beaugissa to reach him, eyeing her mount to assure himself it was still sound.
“We have found the army. Go on, I will wait for Maleric.”
With a wave, she turned down the slope after Neugen and Rappo.
Maleric appeared through the forest, grim-faced and covered in fresh dirt and pine needles. His mount was similarly begrimed and its forelegs bloody.
“Horse went down on that ledge back there. It will not last much longer.”
Caros grimaced. The horse was spent and the fall had bruised its legs badly. It would not reach the bottom of the hill.
“It is already finished. Ride mine and I will run alongside.”
Without argument, Maleric slipped from the injured horse and clambered onto Caros’.
Caros grabbed the bridle and pulled, leading the horse down the hillside. Behind them, the Romans came on relentlessly.
Running hard, Caros stretched his legs beside his horse while Maleric gritted his teeth. The ground was broken with jagged rocks and exposed tree roots and at any moment the horse could snap a leg.
A Roman crested the hill and spotted them. With a hoarse cry, he was onto their trail and behind him came another dozen riders. Their curses and shouts grew in Caros’ ears as they quickly made up the ground.
Caros gritted his teeth and ran harder, there was nothing else to be done.
The trees ahead of him erupted into a sudden flood of wild riders, ululating as they streamed up the hill, spears flashing from their hands in shallow arcs.
These were Hannibal’s Masulian light cavalry and their fearlessness and horsemanship made them a valued part of his army.
A spear from a leading Masulian whipped past Maleric’s head and already the man was preparing to hurl another. Rappo appeared from out of the boiling dust raised by the thundering hooves and slapped the man’s spear aside with his own.
The charging Masulians and their hail of spears turned the Romans. Horses wheeling and trumpets blaring, they fled south over the hill.
Hannibal Barca’s army was settling for the night in a wide valley when Caros slid from his mount, skin sticky with the heat of summer and itchy with dirt from days on the road. The others looked about through red rimmed eyes, their appearance as disheveled as his.
After chasing off the Roman cavalry, the Masulians had led them east at a murderous pace to reach the army before nightfall.
A tall warrior waved to the Masulian escorting Caros and his companions into the ranks of the army’s night camp.
“What have you found for us today? More Gauls keen to take their freedom?”
The man wore a beautiful piece of shaped armour over his chest and stomach. An equally decorative sheath hung at his side. His accent marked him as a warrior born in Carthage, but his features were broader, his nose and brow fused in a single line. Greek.
The Masulian remained on his horse and pointed at Caros
“This is the champion who saved Hannibal Barca at the walls of Sagunt. Caros the Claw.”
The Greek mercenary’s eyes rested on Caros as he tore a strip of dried meat from a brick of the stuff with his long teeth.
From nearby, a man screamed incoherently, his voice a medley of agony and horror. Caros was forced to tighten his grip on his mount’s reins.
The Greek spat what he could not chew into the trampled dirt between his sandals.
“These Masulians bring us a dozen or more Romans every day. The richer ones get to go home, lighter of purse of course. The others get to tell us all they know about the Roman armies.”
Caros felt the beginning of a cramp in his thigh and flexed his knee.
“We have come far and we would like to rest. Perhaps be offered some food even.” He looked over the Greek’s shoulder to where a large pavilion stood. “I need to speak with Hannibal Barca.”
The Greek frowned and probed between his teeth with his tongue before shaking his head.
“We can sort out provisions easily enough. No chance of a tent though. Most of them were lost in the mountains.” He looked around and spied a trio of youths unloading a wagon. “You! Yes, you! Come here and take these people to the quartermaster. You tell him they are to be fed on my name.”
The closest youth, dressed in only smallcloths and favoring an ugly burn across his left arm and chest, pushed one of his fellows aside and stepped forward.
“Yes, you come with me.” He stuck his bony chest out and waved at the other two. “Only young boys. Much fools who not know quartermaster.” His smile was of bloody gums.
Beaugissa remained beside Caros as the others followed the boy and earned an appreciative glance from the Greek.
“I am Tyrtaeus of Utica.” Tucking away the meat he had been gnawing, he dusted off his armour and ran a hand through the tattered horsehair plume on the helmet under his arm.
“I am Beaugissa, Spear Heart and warrior of the Vascon.”
The Greek’s eyebrows wriggled across his forehead like a distressed caterpillar.
“Finding Hannibal is quite a trick.”
Caros looked pointedly towards the pavilion he had spied and Tyrtaeus grunted.
“That is the last place you will find him. He is a man of the army, our Hannibal. Still, I have some experience in tracking him down.”
Chapter 19
Tyrtaeus led Caros and Beaugissa through a labyrinth of tent lines, skirting stinking latrine pits and through impromptu markets selling fly encrusted meat, shriveled fruit and moldy grain. The air was a wall of sound and smells and brought back to Caros visions of Sagunt and Cissa.
As twilight deepened, Tyrtaeus spotted a man among a throng of warriors and grinned.
“Ah! We are close. That man is Commander of the Cavalry. Hannibal will not be far.”
“I know him. Maharbal.”
“Yes, you would if you were at Sagunt.”
Caros glanced over the other men all talking and jeering as though about to do battle. Tyrtaeus sensed the same and rasped the nails of one hand through his thick beard.
“Looks like Hannibal’s plan has worked.”
He stopped abruptly and strained his eyes in disbelief. Hannibal was not twenty paces away, but he looked far from hale. His face was scored deep and his hair had turned gray at the temples. Worse, one eye was swollen shut and leaked fluid down his unshaved cheek.
“That is Hannibal? It cannot be!”
Tyrtaeus waved to wa
rriors that guarded the group that included Hannibal. Three of them approached, their eyes raking Caros and Beaugissa, their expressions cold.
“This is as far as you go until you tell me what your business is with the General.”
Caros could scarcely drag his eyes from Hannibal, but roused himself when Beaugissa elbowed him. Tyrtaeus was watching him warily.
“I bring him news of Hasdrubal, his brother.”
“We have dispatches from Qart Hadasht sent in late spring. Unless something has happened since and you grew wings and flew here, then what is there you can add?”
Frustrated, Caros glared angrily at the Greek. He did not want to air his dishonor before the man.
“He will see me. Just tell him I am here.”
Tyrtaeus crossed his arms.
“We get a dozen men a day with the same claim. Ten of every dozen just want to put a knife in our General’s chest.” His eyes burned with zeal. “Hannibal has but one thing on his mind now and that is drawing out Flaminius and crushing his army.” He snapped his fingers and dusted them as though sprinkling powder. “Your woes rate for nothing.”
The expression of one of the guards changed and he slapped the Greek’s shoulder.
“Do not be so hard on him, Tyrtaeus!” The man gave Beaugissa a wide smile. “He looks a likely warrior with that big pig chopper he carries.” He stuck his hand under his heavy leather and iron skirt to scratch at his sack. “And the bitch looks like she knows how to polish a spear.”
Caros snarled, snapping his fist at the man’s leering chin and clipping it. Tyrtaeus whipped his blade free of its scabbard only to fumble and drop it when Beaugissa kicked him in the elbow.
Caros caught the Greek around the throat and dragged him close while Beaugissa drew her short blade and laid it flat against his cheek, the wicked point, tenting the pouch of dark skin beneath his left eye.
“Stand back or the Greek will lose his eye!” Caros dragged him staggering and wheezing towards the group that contained Hannibal.
The warrior Caros had punched, knelt on a knee, one hand flat on the ground to brace himself. He looked up at Beaugissa, his eyes swimming and blood trickling from his lip.
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