Howl of Blades

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Howl of Blades Page 22

by J Glenn Bauer


  “My war name is Spear Heart. Remember it.”

  She stamped on his hand as she passed, a smile lifting the corner of her lips.

  Caros could go no further. Warriors circled them, spears like a hedge and swords rasping from the throats of scabbards. The smell of greased iron, raw lambswool and cured leather was a wall through which neither he nor Beaugissa could pass.

  “Hannibal Barca! It is I, Caros the Claw!”

  Caros turned, uncaring of the Greek’s neck stretching in the crook of his muscled forearm or the man’s dirt encrusted nails tearing at the skin of his arm.

  “I served your cause on the banks of the Tagus. I served your cause under the walls of Sagunt. Hear me Son of the Thunderbolt!”

  Beaugissa hissed and kicked aside a spear thrust at Caros’ ankle. Drawing her sword with her left hand, she set her back against Caros’, her eyes glowering.

  The warriors surrounding Caros and Beaugissa parted to allow Hannibal Barca to step into the tight circle. Maharbal followed, looking closely at Caros in the gathering gloom.

  “Light a torch! Shine it on his face.”

  “Greetings, Maharbal. Greetings Hannibal. As you see, it is I, Caros.”

  Men passed forward flaming torches to cast light on him. Hannibal stood with his feet planted wide and arms crossed.

  “You served my cause, Caros the Claw. You served my cause on the Rhone too and the high mountains beyond the Ebro.” Hannibal coughed and spat a wad of phlegm into the dirt.

  Beaugissa stepped warily to Caros’ side to give Hannibal a weighty look before removing her blade from the Greek’s cheek. She slid both blades into their sheaths and placed her hands on her hips, chin jutting forward and eyes hard.

  Caros uncurled his arm and loosened his hold on the Greek’s throat, shoving him away.

  Hannibal caught the Greek’s arm as he coughed and fought to catch his breath.

  “Tyrtaeus, you met your match here today. Do not feel slighted.” The Greek nodded feebly and stumbled into the ranks of warriors. “Caros, your arrival is auspicious for I have hopes of a feat worthy of my ancestors.”

  “I did not come to fight your battles, Hannibal Barca.” Growls rose from all sides and Maharbal shook his great head, one eyebrow raised. Undeterred, Caros went on, “You were ever a friend to the Bastetani and in return, your cause became mine. Ours.”

  Hannibal coughed, a wet hacking cough worthy of a bent-backed crone. He held up a hand as he cleared his throat.

  “I sense you have a grievance and I expect Hasdrubal will be at the center of it. No need to reply.” He stepped closer, placing his hands on Caros’ shoulders. “We will talk of it tomorrow. Tonight, you should eat and rest.” Dropping his hands, he turned to Beaugissa. “You are as brave as any ten of my warriors. A fitting companion for my friend here.”

  Beaugissa stared stonily at Hannibal for a long heartbeat before allowing a smile to shape her lips.

  “Ten you say.” She made a show of looking at the many scores of men crowded about, drawing an amused chuckle from both Hannibal and Maharbal. “I am Beaugissa of the Vascon.”

  “Greetings, Beaugissa. We shall speak again.”

  The army was a foul thing in a once fertile valley. Now it possessed it, poisoning its streams, splintering its woods and slaughtering its denizens. A young man, chin still hairless and voice liable to soar, led Caros and Beaugissa through and past circle after circle of warrior kin. Africans, Iberians, Gauls and Greeks.

  “You will find it is a good place to bed down. I had it marked the moment I saw it.”

  He had been assigned to ensure Caros and his companions received all they needed.

  “How do you find your way? The army is vast.”

  Caros watched a band of Gallic warriors slaughtering a goat stolen from some Etruscan farmer.

  “I joined the army the moment it arrived in the lands of the Boii. I have been in every battle and seen it grow and shrink. The warriors always set their camps in the same general pattern.”

  Caros could see no pattern, but he looked more closely at the young man.

  “You have seen battle then? Against Romans?”

  Their guide looked sidelong at him and lifted the worn cloak to reveal a wound packed with a clay poultice above his hip.

  “I have tasted their iron. They fight well and they are brave even when they know they must die.” His young eyes grew hooded. “If they had generals like Hannibal and Maharbal then we would have been hard pressed to defeat them.”

  A familiar voice rose from among a band of warriors standing around a large fire.

  “Their ale is as weak as the watered piss of an old man and tastes like it too.”

  “He says that now, but you should have seen him draining cup after cup until his eyes sprouted stalks.”

  Beaugissa shuddered on hearing Maleric’s voice and Caros laughed aloud at Neugen’s retort.

  “Your friends have good company. Those are my people; the Boii. You should fight with us in the next battle.”

  “We will be away before then. My business is with Hannibal, not the Romans.”

  “The battle will be soon. Better to delay your business than miss the opportunity to be among the spears that finally defeat the arrogant Latins.”

  Rappo spotted them and called out excitedly.

  “Caros! Beaugissa! You have returned already? What did Hannibal say?”

  Caros and Beaugissa strode into the firelight. A score of warriors stood close to the flames which lit their broad-chests and clay-crusted hair. They were hard men as evidenced in the scars that crisscrossed their torsos, calloused knuckles and sharp eyes.

  Neugen smiled at them and Maleric lifted a cup of ale high.

  “We spoke briefly and Hannibal has promised to hear what I have to say.”

  Caros cast an eye over the Boii warriors who stared in surprise at him. The young Boii warrior assigned to guide them spoke to his kin.

  “It is true. This man has fought with Hannibal before and Hannibal even spoke to me.”

  “That is a lie. Why would our general speak to you?”

  Caros recognized the youth with the burn lurking in the shadows cast by the flames.

  The Boii warriors laughed as the two bristled at one another until a graybeard cursed them.

  “You two shut up and fetch another flagon of ale before the quartermaster closes the stores for the night.” The man had been seated, whittling a figurine from wood with his short knife. He rose, sheathing the blade.

  “Greetings. Welcome to our campfire. I am Ust. Your companions have been telling us of the battle you fought against the Romans.”

  “Greetings. I am Caros.”

  “I am Beaugissa.”

  “Hannibal must dislike you if he asked young Hurric to set you with us.”

  A board of charred meat and warmed figs was set on a broken stool.

  “We would have saved you better slices if we had known you were returning tonight.”

  Neugen looked sheepishly at the unappetizing meal.

  Caros sighed and reached for a piece that looked more meat than charcoal only for Beaugissa to snatch it first. He glared at her as she stuffed it into her mouth.

  “What does Hannibal have against you then?” Caros asked, turning to the leader of the band of Gallic warriors. “Did you cook for him too?”

  The evening passed swiftly with the Gallic warriors recounting tales of their battles against the Romans. The Boii had a long history of war with their southern neighbors and while their boasts were often exaggerated, Caros noticed they held a grudging respect for the Romans.

  “Short little bastards might not look like much, but they have heart.” Ust said as he put a final touch to the figurine he had carved. “Time to pull cloaks over heads, boys. The Romans have our scent and their blood is up. If Hannibal decides to give battle, it will not do to be curdled.” He gave a meaningful look at Maleric who was still swilling ale.

  “The Roman army is that
close?”

  “Of course! The cavalry that chased you was probably one of their forward scouting parties. Hannibal did not want to march on Rome with two armies at his back so he has had us burn our way through some of their prized lands.” A warrior sat up to exclaim it was all stolen land and Ust laughed. “So what? It is ash now and Flaminius is determined to punish us for that.”

  “Flaminius?” Maleric’s head jerked upright and his shoulders stiffened.

  “Aye. The consul at the head of fifty thousand sickle-nosed bastard Latins. If you want him dead, you will have to get in the line. The Boii have long memories and his name sticks in ours.”

  Beaugissa feigned a yawn and whispered to Caros.

  “We might learn something about our tame Gaul from this lot. He has not told them he is Boii.”

  Caros winked at her.

  “So you are as curious as the rest of us?” Beaugissa shot him an icy glare. “If you punch me, Beaugissa, I will be sure it is Maleric and not I that unrolls their cloak alongside yours.”

  Her silence was possibly more threatening and Caros hastily pulled his cloak to his chin and shut his eyes. The grating whine of circling mosquitos went unnoticed as he envisioned the Romans.

  The new day found the army of Africans, Iberians, Gauls and many others already on their feet, their campfires behind them still smoking.

  Caros received no word from Hannibal and when Neugen asked he smiled at his friend.

  “Hannibal will not see me before this battle he is planning.”

  The Boii warriors gathered from where they had camped in their clan groups. Ust and a handful of the leading men stood beside a wagon, their voices urgent and faces grim.

  Beaugissa looked at Maleric.

  “They do not look happy. What are they on about?”

  Maleric listened for a long moment before shrugging and shaking his head.

  “Men are dying. Last night a score of them stiffened and cooled. There is talk of witchcraft and curses.”

  Ust waved at the leading teamster who whistled and cracked his whip above the oxen. The Boii warriors flanking the wagons grumbled along with the oxen as the wagons creaked and rolled forward.

  Rappo was edgy, wanting to ride.

  “It is going to be a dry day. We should ride ahead of the wagons or we will be swallowing their dust all day.”

  “We are with the Boii now so will ride on their flanks far from the dust.”

  The wagons moved lightly and were soon making good time.

  Neugen had noticed the speed of the wagons too.

  “They do not carry many provisions. Most of their load are those taken ill.”

  Beaugissa nodded.

  “I wonder how much of the food looted by the cavalry finds its way back to warriors who have no riders?”

  Ust issued a final command and the leading men left to find their clans. The Gaul’s face was grim and his lips turned down still further at the sight of Caros.

  “What does Hannibal want me to do with you?”

  “We could scout for provisions for you. I noticed your wagons are all but empty.”

  Ust’s eyes grew dark.

  “I wish they were emptier still. Too many of our good warriors cannot walk and the Romans are closer every day.” He muttered an invocation and dipped his finger into the amulet bag hung around his neck. “We are supposed to draw provisions from the quartermaster, but he gives only enough to feed a child.”

  “We are only five, but we will seek provisions and send for wagons when we find any.”

  Ust laughed bitterly.

  “The Insubres have many horsemen, champion warriors all. If there is anything worth taking, it is they who will take it.”

  “There is little harm in us trying. Who leads the Insubres?

  “Ducarius. A brave warrior, but do not tell him I said so!”

  Caros led his companions northeast, into the rough country that forced the bulk of the army to skirt southwards. The heat of the summer sun slowly burned off the last stubborn stands of fog and began to warm his face.

  He rode his horse off a shepherd track where it turned sharply around a great boulder. Neugen cocked his head when he stopped beside Caros.

  “I hear water. Good time to fill up our bellies and waterskins.”

  The day promised to be hot and Caros hoped the spring was cool. After a careful look into the shade under the trees higher up the hill, he slipped off his mount.

  Neugen walked ahead of him around the great rock, jumped a ledge and pointed at a pair of tortoise engaged in a duel to upend one another. A light breeze brushed the leaves of an ancient olive tree growing in the craggy soil and passed the two warriors.

  Neugen lifted his spear at the same time Caros did, both men baring their teeth, eyes snapping from tree to rock, seeking the source of the scent. Caros flared his nostrils and still the smell of oiled leather, iron and rust was there. He gestured downhill towards a cluster of bushes a deeper green than most of the foliage.

  Pacing through long grass and over rough rock, they made their way silently towards the source of the smell.

  Neugen broke to the left and Caros to the right, their shields rising to nestle under their left ears.

  The trickle of running water grew louder as did the gasped breaths. The sound of a man with a gut wound. Caros smelled blood, blinked away sweat and saw a booted foot.

  He caught Neugen’s eye and motioned to where the man hid.

  “You smell of blood and sound like you are giving birth. If you wish it, I can perhaps aid you.”

  He spoke the Greek dialect used throughout Hannibal’s army.

  The panting paused and then a voice whispered from the depths of the foliage.

  “You are not a Latin. That is good. The day looks brighter now by far.”

  Caros recognized the accent as one similar to Maleric’s.

  “We ride with the Barca’s host.” Caros rested his spear against a twisted tree trunk and dropped his shield. Neugen was casting for tracks further away, reading crushed stalks and scattered stones like a scribe would a tablet.

  The warrior sat leaning forward, his arms braced against a wall of rock. From his lower back protruded the snapped shaft of a cavalry spear.

  “That looks uncomfortable.” At first glance Caros thought cutting the man’s throat would be the most merciful course. “Been here long then?” He bent lower under the spiny branches, brushing aside a spider web and its maker.

  The warrior lifted a clammy forehead from his forearm and recited words only he and his gods would hear. Taking a shallow breath, he opened his eyes and turned to Caros.

  “Feels like most of my life. Since yesterday evening.” He wet his lips and fought a spasm that trembled his legs.

  Caros nodded and leaned around the man, smelling his sour agony and thick urine stained blood. The Roman spear had broken through the chain links and thick leather vest to drive into his back, scoring a kidney.

  “It might not feel like it, but your armour kept out most of the blade.”

  “Saves you cutting my throat then.”

  The warrior grinned and widened his eyes in mock terror.

  Caros laughed aloud and drew his sword which the wounded man watched spellbound.

  “That is the ugliest god-cursed thing I have ever seen.”

  Caros swung, regretting it at once, but committed. Two more swings and he had cut aside the low branches and cleared a path. He wiped sap from the blade before sliding it home.

  “It has drunk Roman blood. Has yours?”

  “I was at Trebia.”

  Caros regarded the man. The pain of his injury had tightened the skin around his close-set eyes and his broad nose flared with each intake of breath. Caros knelt.

  “Wrap your arms around my shoulders. I will carry you out before removing the spear.”

  The warrior hissed and Caros heard him shift. With his arms were tight about his chest, Caros rose. The warrior made a hoarse sound at the back of h
is throat, but clung on.

  “Those are my companions. We will take you back to your own now.”

  “I am Larth of the Insubres. Brother of Ducarius.”

  Chapter 20

  The army of the Carthaginian, Hannibal Barca, stretched north to south as far as one could see. They occupied the ground between the plains of the Etruscan heartlands to the west and a ridge of forested hills to the east. At their rear, smoke billowed into the cloudless blue sky as the lands of the Etruscans burned.

  Berenger paused in the shade of a tree to peer back along the length of the column. Somewhere among the twisting mass of warriors, camp followers and beasts would be the Iberians and among them the Bastetani he sought to kill.

  A hatchet-faced man on horseback slapped the shaft of a spear across the back of a Celt who had paused.

  “No stopping here. Keep moving!”

  Berenger raised his eyebrows when the rider saw him and his handful of remaining warriors partially blocking the narrow road.

  “You! Think you special? Move on or my spear goes up your arse next.”

  “I am waiting for the warriors from Iberia.” He tipped his waterskin to dribble the tepid liquid down his throat. More riders approached, chivvying the warriors and camp followers on.

  “Remain here and the next riders you see may speak Latin. They are coming on fast, so move along or get off the road.”

  Berenger lifted a palm in acquiescence and motioned for his men to move off the road. They had fallen in with the column that morning without attracting more than a passing glance. Marching between Celts come for Barca silver and Africans from Carthaginian territories, he and his band had kept to themselves.

  “Tonight, we split into pairs and search every campfire until we find the Bastetani.”

  Ibon ran the blade of his short knife down the leather fringes that armored his thighs.

  “The Celts say the Romans are a half day’s march behind us.”

  “That is why we find the bastard tonight, take his head and leave for Qart Hadasht.”

 

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