Howl of Blades

by J Glenn Bauer

  Hannibal stepped past the Libyan who straightened and followed him. Bastetani warriors were exclaiming all about them, gesturing at Caros, some claiming to recognize him. Hannibal noticed and his smile widened.

  “They do not recognize you, Caros. Take off your helmet and remind them who you are.”

  Caros wanted to dismiss Hannibal’s request as a jest, but the Carthaginian’s face suggested it was not. He glanced at the warriors, their features clearer as dawn grew in strength. He recognized none of these men, their faces worn, scarred and bearded. Angrily, he untied the stiff leather strap and pulled the cold bronze helmet from his head, revealing the distinctive scar.

  At once, warriors pointed to it and their faces brightened with recognition.

  “There. I think they recognize you, Caros the Claw. Now tell me your tale.”

  Beaugissa seethed, face clouding with anger at Hannibal’s humiliation of Caros. He caught her eye and shook his head. Smiling at the Bastetani warriors, he took a moment to retie the helmet strap before turning to Hannibal.

  “It is a short tale which is fortunate because the Romans will be here with the first rays of the sun.” Hannibal cocked his head and thinned his lips, inviting Caros to continue. He recited how on the voyage to Italia, they had been set upon by pirates. “The pirates went right past us. Do you see? The second galley made themselves the object of the hunt and the pirates went after them.”

  Hannibal turned to the west and lifted his head as though divining the presence of the Romans.

  “I see it, Caros.” He turned to look over his shoulder to where dawn stole through the widening fissure between sky and earth. Shaking his head, he looked north to where a ridge extended onto the flat plain less than a stade from where they stood. A haze of smoke rose from the cook fires of whoever from the army had reached there in the aborted night maneuver. Hannibal’s eyes brightened and he pointed at that hill. “There is our second galley, Caros.”

  Chapter 22

  The fog was a sheet of white that drifted in every direction, muffling sounds or amplifying them at the whim of the gods. The forms of men draped in cloaks and set close to the ground were irregular shadows that could have been low-growing bushes or deeply furrowed farmland.

  More of Hannibal’s commanders had arrived on the eastern flank of the army, summoned by fleet-footed messengers.

  “They know we are here.” Maharbal argued.

  “And they will know I know. So why would we hide from them?” Hannibal gestured about him. “They will come east, warily, until they see our spearmen set before them.”

  Caros listening, glanced at the spearmen. They were his people, Bastetani and other Iberian warriors, who by virtue of being on the eastern flank of the army, had become the lure to draw the Romans into the battlefield.

  As though reading the guilt in his eyes, Beaugissa leaned in front of him.

  “It will not only be our people, Caros. There are also the Libyan warriors. The angry one, Maharbal, he said they numbered three thousand.”

  Caros nodded. The Libyans were the warriors who had actually reached the hill and climbed it to sleep under the trees.

  Maharbal glared at Caros for a heartbeat before turning back to Hannibal.

  “They will expect to see cavalry and if they do not, they will be wary of a trap.”

  “Yes, true enough. What cavalry do we have nearby?”

  “The Insubres…”

  Hannibal shook his head.

  “I have promised them the center of the field. Iberians?”

  Maharbal nodded grimly.

  “Yes, we can spare them.”

  Caros swallowed hard. Maharbal’s sense of sparing the Iberian horse was to sacrifice it. The commander did not expect them to survive the battle.

  Hannibal issued the commands and men ran from him to begin adjusting the position of the warriors. Maharbal threw himself onto his mount and rode it hard to the west to meet with the Masulian and Gallic horse that had circled back that way.

  Caros sensed Hannibal’s eyes on him and lifted his chin.

  “Caros, this day was always going to be our victory. All it lacked was this one piece to turn it from a victory to a complete destruction of Flaminius’ legion.” The Carthaginian smiled tightly with just the right side of his face. “If you wish to, you are welcome to bring your companions here to fight with your people.”

  Caros had hoped to do just that, but his ire had grown and before he paused for thought, he shook his head.

  “We will stay with the Boii. The center of the battlefield promises much.”

  Beaugissa’s lips parted to object, but she held back, eyes narrowing.

  Hannibal sighed.

  “You murdered a tax collector of mine, Caros. What did you expect me to do when you came here?”

  Warriors were surging into ranks just steps away from them, old men who hoped for a quick clean death or a heady victory. Young warriors who could not foresee that before the fog burned off, they might have only three limbs or be staring at their entrails lying coiled about their sandals.

  “The killer is the man who sold Ilimic to the priestess in Sagunt. I saw what he had done to the village near Tagilit and I confronted him. I and two of my companions against his score. That was when he killed your tax collector.”

  Hannibal raised his hand.

  “Stop. I knew the moment I read the letters that you were blameless, Caros. I know you have little love for Carthage or my house, but you are no hill-warrior.” Hannibal grinned and waved at the gathering ranks. “Far from it. Just as at Sagunt, you have proved yourself a leader.”

  A runner darted from out of the mist and by good fortune did not lose his head to the Libyan guards.

  “The Roman horns are sounding and already some riders have reached the lake shore. Mirabal says Baʿal guide us, general for the battle is close.”

  “Go tell him we are prepared. He is to strike when he sees fit.” The runner disappeared within five paces and Hannibal clapped his hands. “Your pardon has been written, Caros and after this idea, you deserve it. Now it is time for battle.” He slapped Caros on the shoulder and dipped his chin to Beaugissa. “May Tanit shield you Spear Heart of the Vascon.”

  The army was crouched and tensed, warriors on their knees, swords and spears laid flat, shields before them. Caros and Beaugissa saw Maleric swinging his head from side to side, his lips moving as he muttered invocations to his people’s gods. Rappo, close beside the big Gaul, held his pony tight, his fingers drawing through her coat. Neugen looked to be asleep on his knees, his fist clenched tight around the amulet that hung at his throat.

  Caros tapped his friend’s foot.

  “We are back.”

  Neugen’s eyelids parted and he clasped Caros’ arm.

  “Listen. Listen, you can hear them striking camp. Is Hannibal out of his mind?”

  Caros pulled his friend close, bringing his face to his.

  “We can win this battle, Neugen. Win it and make the shades of those that died at Cissa proud. Is that not a thing our fathers would grasp with both hands?”

  Neugen breathed deeply.

  “If I fall, take my heart back home. Take it home, Caros.”

  Caros slapped his palm against the bronze and leather at Neugen’s chest.

  “You be sure to stay alive then old friend. I do not want to have to hire a wagon.”

  From the southwest echoed blast after blast of Roman trumpets. Warriors hissed, prayed and pissed. Leading men shook men from trances and slapped others to still their trembling. A man with ritual scars on his cheeks began to pull apart his armour, despite protests from his kin. His son gripped his arm, begging him to stop, but the warrior shook him off and stripped bare. Leaving his discarded clothes, he took up his shield and spear and began to thread his way forward.

  Seeing the confusion on Caros’ face, Maleric explained.

  “He has heard his name called from beyond and must go.” The Gaul pointed into the fog. “Se
e, there are others who have been summoned. They will lead our blades forward, giving their lives and freeing their shades.”

  Echoes of the Roman horns were still adrift among the hills when warhorns sounded from the northeast followed a half heartbeat later by the rhythmic drumming of a Libyan war drum.

  The skin across Caros’ scalp tightened and his sack shriveled at the invitation to battle that rang through the damp air.

  Beaugissa stepped in front of him and placed her hand against his armored chest, her eyes wild beneath the rim of her helmet.

  He checked that it was fastened and pulled twisted padding straight to shield her underarms. Warriors all around were doing likewise tightening whatever armour they possessed; bronze, iron, leather or wood.

  Hurric scuttled close, his voice an urgent whisper.

  “Still, be still. The Romans are marching. Be still and hear their tread.”

  His voice faded as he moved away, leaving warriors standing with bated breath, listening.

  Caros heard the footfalls clearly. A moment later the fog muffled them. He breathed out slowly and suddenly they returned louder than before along with commands issued in Latin.

  The Romans were approaching. Their heavy sandals pounding the summer baked road, their armour and weapons clattering and grating.

  When it seemed that the enemy columns must pour forth from the wall of fog, they passed. Maleric grinned at Neugen who stuck the butt of his spear into the ground and slumped against it.

  “This is the best part, eh? Do not forget your promise to Ust.”

  Neugen groaned and his chin dropped.

  “The gods piss on Ust and these Romans.”

  Warriors nearby were laughing quietly at one another’s trembling limbs, urinating and reassuring themselves they were still in the land of the living.

  Caros nudged Beaugissa and gestured to Rappo who had slipped onto his pony and was laying forward, his face alongside the mare’s cheek. The pair were staring to the southwest.

  “They hear the enemy. Those were just the scouts, the rest are still coming.”

  Beaugissa turned, looking about at the relaxed Gauls who were becoming louder by the moment.

  “I hope these Gauls can fight as hard as they piss.”

  Caros, about to lift his tunic to make the best of the opportunity, scratched a string of raw mosquito bites instead.

  A Gaul with clay dyed hair and thick, hairy shoulders pushed through the warriors nearby, his eyes on Beaugissa.

  “I heard there was a woman amongst these southerners who could sharpen a spear.”

  Caros and Maleric growled as one, turning to the warrior who sneered at them while rubbing the long bladed sword rested on his shoulder back and forth.

  “What? You do not want to share the bitch?”

  Beaugissa hawked and spat at the warrior’s feet.

  “We share.” She traced a finger along the razor edge of her spear blade, her eyes locked on the Gaul’s. Even as his grin spread, Rappo sat upright, waving urgently and pointing. The Gaul frowned in confusion and Caros grunted impatiently.

  “The Romans, fool.”

  In the next instant, a chorus of Roman curses sliced through the fog from no more than a half stade away. The fog swirled and there revealed, were the enemy. They were in marching columns that stretched to the lake and back. Thirty thousand Roman and Italian allies, marching on full stomachs, spear arms strong and legs sturdy.

  The fog closed as fast as it had lifted, swallowing the enemy. The Gauls stood in silence, their eyes wide and their lips blue with fright. The Romans could be heard now, their footfalls steady, wagon wheels squealing and mounted equestrians giving orders.

  To the east, the beat of the Libyan war drums increased in tempo and a muffled crash sounded.

  Caros cursed Hannibal and gave thanks to Runeovex.

  “The Romans will make for them.” He hoped his tribesmen would leave the heaviest fighting to the Libyans.

  “Ready to fight, Bastetani?”

  Ust glided through the fog and between his tribesmen.

  “We are ready.” Neugen, still angered by the hairy Gaul, stood taller. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to miss the battle.”

  Ust’s thin eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Not while I have a sack.” He pushed two Gauls together. “Close up.” He pointed at the nearest warriors. “Here. Get nice and close.”

  Other leading men were getting their men to bunch up, readying them for the charge, and all the while keeping them as silent as shades.

  Caros signaled to his companions, who closed on him, their breathing quick and strained as their hearts began to pound. Rappo remained on his pony and fell back to avoid the crush of warriors. When the battle began, he would sting the Romans from over the heads of the Gauls and his companions.

  Berenger cursed under his breath for the thousandth time that morning. He shoved away a Bastetani warrior who jostled him in the press. The warrior turned on him with a snarl which died on his lips when he was met with a cold, black stare.

  Hearing his name called, he turned to see one of his warriors struggling to push his way through the tightly packed men.

  “I have seen the Bastetani.” The warrior twisted and squirmed through men already frantic at the prospect of battle. “He was here, I saw him. The Bastetani spoke to Hannibal Barca.”

  Berenger gripped his sword hilt tightly, feeling the braided wire press into the flesh of his palm.

  “You sure it was the same Bastetani we seek?”

  “Hannibal himself named him. Caros the Claw.”

  Berenger muttered a thanks to the god of fortune.

  “Take us to him then.”

  The warrior’s lips thinned and he swallowed hard.

  “He is among the Gauls. The Boii.”

  Raised to the lips of rugged Iberian tribesmen, warhorns began to blare. It was the ancient tradition of inviting battle. Of telling the enemy you held no fear and were strong. Even as his ears adjusted to the cacophony, drumbeats added to the din, sounding for all the world like the heartbeat of some ancient creature.

  Berenger began to push through the mass of men bellowing along with the warhorns, shaking their spears at the brightening day.

  “Then we should waste no more time. Come!”

  Breaking free of the rear ranks of warriors, he found himself among the camp followers and the luggage train. His men emerged from the writhing ranks of warriors, relief washing over their faces at escaping the claustrophobic press.

  The fog had cleared to the east and Berenger could make out a village on a hill. It looked like the ideal vantage point from which to view the events. Instead he was forced to go west and closer to the heart of the coming battle.

  A brightly armored rider trotted his horse through the wagons, scurrying women and limping sick. Upon spotting Berenger, he turned sharply towards him.

  “You! Take your men back into the lines or I will have you flayed and hung upon a stake.”

  Berenger guessed from his accent, armour and horse, that the man spoke with the authority of Hannibal or another of the commanders.

  “I do not answer to your authority. Point the way to the Boii though and I will give you silver.”

  “You think their battle will be any less bloody?” The rider laughed aloud. “It will not.” His eyes narrowed. “You have taken Barca silver to fight and now wish to flee. You had better have a heavy purse.”

  Berenger fished a message pouch from beneath his armour and tunic. “These are my orders. Direct from Qart Hadasht. I am to find and kill a Bastetani who fled justice there.”

  The mention of the Carthaginian settlement in Iberia brought a frown to the rider’s brow.

  “Qart Hadasht is a long way from here. What did this Bastetani do?”

  Berenger eyed the man’s mount.

  “He is an agitator. He killed a tax collector and is sure to try and murder Hannibal Barca too.”

  The rider blew o
ut through his mouth and glanced at the ranks of warriors in the thinning fog.

  “It is true there have been attempts to kill the General. Here, pass me the message. What is this man’s name?”

  Berenger looked meaningfully at Ibon who dipped his chin in understanding.

  “He is called Caros.” Berenger held out the pouch and the rider leaned towards him, arm out. “It carries the Barca seal and is in order.”

  Ibon took two quick steps and leaped, driving his sword under the man’s arm and into his chest. As the two tumbled to the ground, Berenger grabbed the mount’s halter and held it still.

  Ibon shoved the rider’s body aside and rose to his feet, his hand bloody.

  “Snapped my blade off in his chest.” He glared down at the convulsing rider who spewed frothy blood from his mouth, painting the dirt red.

  Berenger pulled himself up onto the horse’s back.

  “His sword looks good. Take it.” Ibon gave him a sour stare. “Pull the blade from his chest if you must. A metalsmith can remake it for enough silver.”

  A renewed trumpeting began and Berenger had to work to calm the horse. His warriors looked as likely to flee, glancing about as though Romans were circling.

  A knot of camp followers were watching him and his men, having seen Ibon kill the rider. Their attention turned from him and with frightened cries they sprang onto the wagons, whips cracking.

  The fog had given away to reveal several thousand Romans advancing on the Iberians and Libyans.

  “Get your blade another day. We must find the Boii and take the Bastetani’s head.”

  The screech of horns and pounding drums gave way to the ring of metal on metal. Distractedly, Caros scratched the mosquito bites that festooned his arms and hands.

  Beaugissa noticed and kicked the back of his knee.

  “Stop. You will make them bleed.”

  Caros threw her a sharp look that turned to a grin and then silent laughter.

  “Bleed? You worried about me bleeding? You know there is a Roman army out there who has spears and swords, darts, slingshot and arrows?”

  Beaugissa resettled her shield so that its weight was born on her hip. Her expression remained set.