“That’s meant for me and Cham and Zeoui, we’re barbarous Djerwa,” drawled Bhakrann without rancor. “You can fight anyway, Yaunis. We saw you fight this morning.”
“This morning,” Wulf echoed. It seemed long ago, that slashing hurly-burly at the pass. But far longer ago seemed his flight from Carthage. Had it been only four days back? Five?
“Did the Cahena tell you anything?” Bhakrann was asking.
Wulf reflected on certain things so carefully left unsaid at supper. “She wants to gather forty thousand men against the invasion that’s coming,” he decided to say.
“I’ll have maybe four thousand Djerdilans, all who can sit a horse and throw a javelin,” said Yaunis, rising. “Good night, Wulf. Come visit me among the Djerdilan.”
He walked away with an elegance that may have been consciously assumed. Wulf and the others sat in the night, cool but comfortable. At last they slept. At dawn, the column marched again.
They moved on one slope after another, past knotty hummocks that, Wulf thought, could hide ambushes. Mounting rivers and crossing valleys, they pointed toward remote heights. With Yaunis’s command gone, the force was smaller and even less ordered. Men rode out of the ranks without permission to javelin partridges and rabbits. One party returned with two deer. Others raided fig and date groves, and the Cahena gave money to protesting owners. Camp that night was among rugged hills, where horses and camels found grass. There were several streams. Wulf and Bhakrann stripped to bathe in one.
“You’ve quite a few scars,” observed Bhakrann, surveying Wulf’s brawny body. “Nearly as many as I have, and you aren’t as old. What made that white mark on your shoulder?”
“An arrow, outside Damascus.”
“We don’t use those much — not grown men, anyway.”
Wulf pulled his tunic over his wet torso. “You mean, children have arrows?”
“Oh, just to play with. I’ve seen little boys shoot at butterflies — hit them, too.”
Mallul came to say that the Cahena would entertain them both at supper. She was in her little stockade of cloaks, with Daris and Ketriazar. The meal was a kettle of big snails, steamed in peppery oil. Again the Cahena ate only sparingly. Putting snails into his mouth, Wulf remembered how in Constantinople they were more appetizingly prepared.
The chieftains accepted war as inevitable, but when the Cahena spoke of forty thousand to fight it, they scowled and counted on their knobby fingers.
“That means women and children to tend the herds and crops,” said Daris. “We’ll need every man who can mount a horse.”
“Wulf says the Moslems have better horses than we do,” said the Cahena, half taunting the notion.
“Does he?” snapped Daris. “We ride better than any men on earth. Yaunis told me that the old Romans used Imazighen cavalry, all the way up there across the sea.”
“Imazighen rode races in the Roman games,” added Mallul. “Rode them and won them.”
“The Romans didn’t win wars with cavalry,” Wulf said. “Their legions marched and fought on foot, and conquered everywhere. Even in England, where I used to live.”
“How did they conquer?” inquired Ketriazar.
Wulf did his best to explain Roman military organization, the hardy legions of five or six thousand men. He described a legion’s division into centuries and the groupings of centuries into cohorts, with efficient commanders. Taking a stick, he diagrammed a legion’s harrowlike line of battle, with a second grouping of centuries to advance and relieve the first. The others asked questions. Wulf found it hard to put into words the way these units made themselves maneuverable, deploying or concentrating on command.
“But these tactics have deteriorated,” he lectured. “Legions are smaller these days, made up of poorer troops. They’ve lost the old skill and spirit, they’ve been defeated again and again. The Byzantines sometimes go back to an older method — the Greek phalanx, hard to break but not really mobile. Yet phalanxes have defeated the Moslems.”
“Old ways of fighting?” Ketriazar sniffed.
“When old methods have been forgotten they become new,” declared the Cahena, and again her word put an end to arguments. “Didn’t the Romans ever win with cavalry, Wulf?”
“Sometimes. A cavalry charge at the right moment can decide a battle’s outcome.”
“How should we train ourselves now?” inquired Daris.
“It’s hard to say at once,” Wulf felt obliged to reply. “I’m trying to think over everything I’ve studied.”
“We don’t have time to think,” Daris said.
“We’ve days to think,” said the Cahena, “and nobody had better talk before thinking.”
“Wulf thinks as well as fights,” added Bhakrann, sipping wine. “You saw him handle them at the pass, right on the spot. I say he’ll do it again, against more enemies.”
“Maybe,” granted Ketriazar.
They waited for the Cahena to speak. Wulf watched their bearded faces and wondered if they dared look upon her with desire.
“I’ll expect Wulf to think usefully,” she said at last. “Now, we’ll ride fast and far tomorrow. Let’s get some rest.”
Another authoritative dismissal, but she smiled at Wulf, a somewhat stealthy smile.
Back with Cham and Zeoui, Bhakrann sat and surveyed Wulf thoughtfully. “You’re hard to believe,” he said.
“I hope not,” said Wulf, dragging off a boot.
“I mean how the Cahena listens to you, how she snubs others when they question you. Why? Is it because you’re from so far away? She says she knew about you before she saw you. She knows everything.”
“I don’t know everything,” said Wulf, stretching out.
The journey went on for days. The Cahena rode alongside wounded men, and they seemed to be better for that. Foraging parties went here and there. The way became steeper and rockier, curved here and there to mount rises or find passages among thicketed pinnacles and ridges. There were streams, where they refilled bottles and watered their animals. The sun glowed, wind stirred eddies of dust.
“I want to know how your people are organized and ruled,” Wulf said to Bhakrann as their horses jogged together. “The Cahena wants my advice about war, but I heard so little about the Imazighen while I was at Carthage.”
“You can say that they obey their fathers and their fathers obey something like grandfathers,” said Bhakrann.
He went on to explain that, away from the half-ruined Roman and Vandal coastal towns, the Imazighen lived mostly in small settlements, grazing herds and growing barley and fruits. A community was made up of related households with a patriarchal chief. Several groups in the same area were further organized, with a commander to call local chiefs to council. The various tribes — Wulf had met their leaders like Daris, Ketriazar, Yaunis — all obeyed the Cahena. She herself lived simply, as Wulf had seen.
“You may laugh at our town of Tiergal,” said Bhakrann.
“You haven’t heard me laugh much at anything.” Wulf watched some foragers driving in a flock of plaintively bleating goats. “There’s not much to laugh about when you have to raise an army.”
“She said it would be raised,” returned Bhakrann. “Ask her how. She seems to answer your questions.”
“And asks puzzling ones herself.”
They kept riding upward on what, said Bhakrann, was the great eastern ascent of Arwa. The horses grew tired, and the Cahena ordered frequent rests and waterings. People emerged from clumps of dwellings to cry greetings. A number of women could be called comely, several might even be called beautiful. They were straight-standing, bright-eyed, with flowing hair and ready smiles. On the cheeks of some he saw small tattooed crossmarks. Bhakrann said that these harked back to some old pseudo-Christian belief.
In camp that night, among rocky points, Wulf and his companions ate stewed goat’s flesh with their barley cakes. Nearby, warriors crooned songs. To Wulf, these songs seemed unwarlike. One in particular was melodiously minor,
to celebrate certain appetizing features of a girl drawing water from a well.
“Do you like that music?” said a voice behind him. The Cahena stood there. Bhakrann lowerd his face to where her shadow fluttered in the firelight. Wulf rose to his feet. She smiled.
“An army needs songs, Lady Cahena,” he said.
“They all sing at Tiergal. They play harps and flutes.” Still she smiled, as Bhakrann rose and stood listening.
“I have you to thank for seconding me, when I didn’t want to speak before thinking,” said Wulf.
“You still have to learn that I see things far off, and things to come,” she said, her voice musical. “I see things in you that I’m glad to find.” She tilted her dark head. “For one, I see your beard’s growing. That will make you more handsome.”
She turned and paced away into the darkness.
“I’ve never heard her talk like that to anybody,” said Bhakrann. “When I killed Okba she said she’d call me her son, but that was just praise. I’m not handsome, anyway. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking of how wise she is, how she leads her people,” Wulf mused. “And how beautiful she is.”
“Yes,” said Bhakrann, sitting again.
It rained in the night. Wulf propped his cloak on sticks and refused to be miserable in the wet — how often in the past he had camped in the rain. They marched next day under foggy clouds.
“It’s moving eastward,” Cham pointed out. “It’ll rain where those Moslems are. Good.”
Once more the ascent of the mighty mountain, among cluttered rocks and thorny trees. Wulf looked to where the Cahena rode among companions. Ketriazar was there, and Daris and Mallul, but no word came for him to join them. At noon they paused by a stream where another mountain path crossed theirs. Ketriazar rode off south with his Mediuni followers, and Daris led his men southwestward. As Wulf and Bhakrann watched the departures, excited hails rose from men at the rear. A horse stumbled toward them, its rider bent above its sagging neck.
“Bhakrann!” the man croaked, tumbling to earth. It was Tifan, caked with sweaty dirt. His horse crept toward the stream.
“Water?” Tifan mouthed. “I’ve been short on that — and food and sleep. I’ve ridden days and nights…”
He snatched the bottle from Bhakrann’s saddle and swigged.
“Easy,” warned Bhakrann, taking the bottle away. “Drink too much and you won’t be able to talk. What’s your news?”
Tifan managed broken sentences. The scouts had watched the Moslems carry their wounded through the pass, had cautiously followed. On the far side, the enemy had headed limply eastward. They had seemed to fear pursuit. Tifan said he had ridden one horse into the ground to bring the news, had traded a jeweled dagger for another.
“It’s ready to drop, too, like you,” said Bhakrann, studying the fagged beast. “Don’t let it drink too much, Zeoui. Take another swallow, Tifan. Now you can walk — come and give the Cahena your report.”
Wulf went with them. The Cahena stopped the tottering Tifan from kneeling to kiss her shadow and listened as he told, in greater detail, of how the Moslems were plainly in no case to fight.
“I thought that,” said the Cahena. “Look after this brave scout. Sponge his face, get him a fresh horse.”
She looked past Tifan and smiled briefly at Wulf, as though they shared a specific knowledge.
They marched on the hot, irregular road. The sun sank among western clouds as Wulf rose in his stirrups to peer ahead.
“I see houses, there among those crags,” he said to Bhakrann.
“That’s Tiergal,” Bhakrann told him. “That’s home.”
* * *
VIII
Tiergal, once they reached it, was a collection of homes that huddled here, sprawled there, in a considerable depression in the mountain. In more distant stretches were grain fields and gardens, with clumps of trees among them. As many as twelve thousand people might live here, and there were other coin-munities of the Djerwa. They were, he had heard, the largest tribe of all the Cahena’s alliance.
Some dwellings were of stone or roughcast brick, or of dried mud spread over wattles. Here and there were simple tents with thatching on top. Other homes were dug into the rocky walls of the place, tier above tier. There were wells with curbs and sweeps. A brook flowed. Through the town ran its principal street, with thatched market sheds and chaffering merchants. Women sat at their doors, weaving. A hubbub of welcome rose up as the men rode in.
“The Cahena!”
“Cahena, there is also the Cahena!”
Riders left the column as though heading home. The Cahena sidled her horse toward Wulf.
“Wulf, Bhakrann, come to supper with me,” she said. “I’ll send for Djalout, too.”
She rode away, attended by two warriors.
“Cham, Zeoui, will you look after our horses?” Bhakrann said, dismounting. “Look after Tifan, too; get him some hot soup and barley beer. We’ll tell you later what’s good for you to know.”
He and Wulf walked a narrow passage between close-set houses. Men and women hailed Bhakrann from doorways, and he called back that the invaders had been beaten again. They crossed a busy street and on the far side climbed a sloping alley where roofs merged above them. Clouds thickened with the sunset.
The Cahena’s home lay under a jutting shelf of dark rock. Its front seemed made of broken bits of carved stone, perhaps from forgotten Roman ruins. Bhakrann knocked at a red-painted door, then pushed it inward. A guardsman saluted with his javelin and gestured toward a dark curtain with light seeping from behind. They lifted it and passed into a broad, low-ceilinged room.
The floor was of great mortared pebbles, with rugs and blankets spread upon it. A low round table stood at the center, with a brass lamp upon it. The Cahena stood there. At her motion, Wulf and Bhakrann sat on the floor beside the table.
Someone else came in. He was a fragile old man, his body like a handful of sticks in his gray robe. A dark red scarf bound his head. A tassel of silvery beard hung below his seamed face. He raised his meager right hand. On its forefinger gleamed a ruby.
“Wulf, this is Djalout,” said the Cahena. “Sit with us, Djalout, give us your counsel.”
Creakily the gaunt body lowered itself to sit at the table. Djalout’s brow was high and broad, his eyes deep-set and brilliant. His lean claw of a nose shone softly.
The Cahena, too, sat down and clapped her hands. Two handsome women came in with bowls and trays of food. There were partridges and doves, stewed with herbs and onions and quinces, and a mess of seasoned greens and hot barley bread. The Cahena broke the bread into fragments and passed them around. A servingwoman poured wine into cups. Her eyes studied Wulf demurely. The Cahena took the wing of a bird. The others helped themselves.
“What good wine,” said Wulf.
“It’s pressed from pomegranates,” Djalout informed him. “Apples of Carthage. We grow them.”
“Djalout,” said the Cahena, “Wulf thinks the Moslems are better horsemen than the Imazighen.”
“They conquered Syria and Persia and Egypt by riding, Lady Cahena,” said Wulf.
“And you think they’ll conquer us.”
It was half an accusation. Bhakrann and Djalout watched.
“Not if we don’t fight their way,” Wulf said. “We might fight them on foot.”
“You’re joking,” she said, “and it’s no joking matter.”
“I’m serious. I’ve told you how the Romans conquered whole horseback nations on foot, conquered even elephants.”
“What’s he saying, Djalout?” asked the Cahena.
“The truth,” replied the thin old voice. “It happened and happened.”
“Horses trample men,” said Bhakrann, gnawing a drumstick.
“Not over close formations with spear points to the front,” said Wulf. “The Cimbrians were big men on big horses, but Caius Marius and his infantry ate them up.”
Djalout nodded. “That’s
in Plutarch.”
“How did they do that?” Bhakrann prodded. “How?”
“With just about the weapons we have — javelins and shields and short swords,” said Wulf. “The Romans could use them.”
“I want to hear more from Wulf about it,” said the Cahena.
“I’d meet a cavalry charge with close ranks on foot, four or five javelins to a man,” said Wulf. “Throw javelins at close range, knock down horses, break the formation. Then stop them with the last javelin. That would be an extra big, strong one.
Bhakrann shook his head. “It couldn’t be done.”
“Could it, Djalout?” asked the Cahena.
Djalout crumbled bread. “As Wulf says, it’s been done. What strikes me is that the Moslems wouldn’t expect it.”
“Who would expect it?” cried Bhakrann. “Not me. Don’t tell me to get off my horse and fight a charge with javelins.”
“You’d stay on your horse,” said Wulf. “When the charge was checked, you and other mounted men would countercharge.”
“It would take planning, but it could happen,” said the Cahena.
“I’ll have to be shown,” insisted Bhakrann. “So will all the other men. They’ll need a lot of talking to.”
“They’ll be talked to,” promised the Cahena.
“Meanwhile,” Wulf went on, “we must scout to see which way the enemy will try to come after us.”
“They won’t come at once,” said Djalout. “The rains have started, and they’ll want good weather to travel in.”
“Giving us time to train,” added the Cahena. “Experiment with formations, maybe choose a battleground.”
She clapped her hands again. The servingwomen brought trays of figs and fresh dates and rosy grapes and a gourd bowl of honey. Djalout dangled a fig in the honey before biting it. Bhakrann, too, visited the bowl with a bunch of grapes. The Cahena dipped her grapes in wine, one by one, as she ate them.
“Choose where we’ll meet them,” she said again.
“As good ground as where we fought that advance party,” offered Bhakrann.
“Ground that Wulf chose,” reminded the Cahena, looking at Wulf as she spoke his name. “But I think closer than that. I’ll call the chiefs to a council.”
Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1986 Page 8