Gladius Winter

by J Glenn Bauer

  The young Masulian scout nodded respectfully as Caros approached. “Claw of the Lion.” He used Caros’ full war name, bestowed on him the previous year by Massibaka, a renowned Masulian leader.

  “Rappo, what do you see?” Caros nodded at the ridge.

  “The dust of many riders.”

  Caros gritted his teeth and slid off his mount. “That is not a good sign. We need to see this.”

  The two men climbed the boulders that formed the spine of the hill and stopped in a thread of shade offered by a twisted tree.

  “They are not traveling fast.” Rappo pointed out the dust cloud kicked up by the unseen horse riders.

  Caros stared at the smudge of dust that lay less than a morning’s ride to the west. He watched it silently, estimating distance and size. It appeared to hang unmoving.

  Maleric silently materialized beside him, his ability to move silently unhindered by his size.

  “What are we looking at then?” Spotting the dust as he spoke, he hissed. “They are in our path.”

  Caros broke off a stalk of dry grass and scratched at an itch in his ear. “They are coming this way.”

  “You can tell that?” Maleric’s eyebrow rose skeptically.

  Rappo nodded. “If the cloud does not move or lessen, it is coming towards us.”

  Maleric gave the Masulian, barely into manhood, a thoughtful look and turned to Caros. “We’ve been skirting these buggers for three days already. How many of them can there be?”

  They both knew the answer. Too many to risk being sighted let alone pursued or engaged.

  “We cut back inland. I do not fancy getting trapped between them and the sea.” Caros motioned towards the steel gray of the Inland Sea or Mare Nostrum as the Romans called it.

  “You are forgetting the smoke we just saw which means they are inland as well.” Maleric broke off his own stalk and clamped it between his teeth.

  Caros gave a half smile. “We have the best scouts north of Africa to keep us hidden from their sight.” He clapped young Rappo’s lean shoulders, displacing a cloud of dust from his tunic.

  Turning north, the horsemen descended the hillside they had been traversing and rode inland. They took their time, with riders covering each flank and a pair riding out ahead.

  Caros bore a deep cut to his right forearm which was healing well and he barely noticed it. Others carried more grievous wounds though, and he had to remind himself of this when he felt they moved too slowly. Their more sedate pace also lifted less dust and reduced the chances of them being seen.

  The most likely danger was a small troop of Romans or their auxiliaries noticing them and summoning a larger force.

  Caros was confident though that the Masulian horsemen would easily see any enemy riders first and remain out of sight. The Masulians were doughty horsemen, having learned to ride from when they were just knee-high. Though not nomadic, they did spend many months traveling through their arid homelands in North Africa, tending their horse herds, hunting and skirmishing with rival clans and other tribes.

  Thousands had joined or been levied into Hannibal’s army in Iberia where they had shown their worth as hard warriors, able to hold their own against enemies with many times their numbers. Caros had seen them in battle, had fought beside them even. On the banks of the Tagus in Iberia, the Masulians had slaughtered thousands of hardened warriors who had rebelled against Carthaginian rule.

  They sighted the smoke of the burning villages occasionally between the hills and used this as a reference. Guided by the scouting riders, they angled northwest of the smoke, hoping to slide up and away from between what appeared to be two Roman forces.

  The day waned as did the men’s energy. Caros noticed the men towards the rear of their short column beginning to bunch and reckoned it was time to find a place to rest up for the night. There was no moon to see by once the sun had set and night fell, and even if there had been, the men were too tired now to ride safely by its silvery light.

  He signaled to a rider some way behind him. This man was alert still at least and Caros did not have to signal twice. With no visible sign, his horse broke forward from its slow walk and he trotted it up alongside Caros.

  Where Rappo was just a young lad with all the delights of life ahead of him still, if he lived long enough, this man was a graybeard. His eyes were sunk into leather folds of skin that stretched like worn leather across his prominent cheekbones. His hair, where it emerged from beneath the mound of his coiled fabric headdress, was a dull gray as was the straggly whiskers that covered his cheeks, chin and throat.

  “Time to make camp?” The leathery old warrior spoke.

  “Yes, Azulay. Find us a decent place to bed down and have the scouts stay where they are until then.”

  “I shall see to it.” Azulay eased his horse ahead of Caros and rode at a trot up the valley.

  “It is unnatural that.” Maleric gestured at the departing Masulian’s back. “How does he tell the horse what to do? He does not even have reins.”

  Caros, familiar with the Masulian’s innate bond with their mounts grinned.

  “Unnatural? It may seem like it to you or I, but the Masulians are raised among their horses as though they were part of the same herd. In this way, they learn to speak to their mounts with just the muscles of their thighs.”

  “Right.” Maleric was unconvinced. “There is something bloody strange in what you just said, but do not mind me, a dumb Gaul who would just as soon eat his horse as speak to it.”

  Caros snorted with amusement, but then the thought of a decent piece of meat skewered over a roasting fire had him salivating.

  “No talk of meat. My stomach is already about to crawl out my ass and go hunting for a decent meal.”

  There was the barest trickle of a stream cutting down the valley, all but dried by the long summer.

  “Don’t suppose there will be enough water to more than just wet our lips.” Maleric grumbled at Caros’ shoulder.

  “Hmm, I doubt it. I will be thankful enough if it has not been poisoned.”

  That thought made Maleric grunt with remembered disgust. A day earlier they had camped beside a green pond only to discover the bloated corpses of two butchered men and their hounds mired in the mud. Maleric had been on the verge of cupping the water to his mouth when Caros had seen a discolored face peering up at him from the depths of the pool and shouted a warning.

  Fortunately, the men had not yet drunk any of the fouled water and of the horses that had, none showed any signs of corpse poisoning.

  Now, down to the dregs of the water in their waterskins, and a hot dry ride behind them, they needed to drink. Their only food was dry biscuit, meat and old nuts more moldy than good. Not a very appetizing meal even with fresh water to wash it down.

  Azulay returned shortly after, appearing like a wraith from between a large boulder and a twisted tree to guide Caros and the exhausted riders down a steep path and to a ledge easily large enough for fifty men and their mounts to camp. Here, the stream pooled between banks of rock.

  Caros scanned the ledge, noticing the scorch marks of previous campfires that indicated the place was well used by travelers or hunters. The site was well hidden from casual view though as none of the undulating hills overlooked it.

  The men filed in and stared about, taking in the place just as Caros had done. Even young Rappo sat his horse silently, barely noticing the water he undoubtedly craved. Every man here had been too long on campaign to abandon wariness at the first sight of water.

  Caros dismounted and stretched. The men relaxed and similarly dismounted. As they did, he took note of those that struggled to slip from their mounts. Their faces tight with pain.

  He walked his horse through the riders and stopped beside one of the more seriously injured men. The warrior was a fellow Iberian and of the Oretani tribe.

  “Saulus, would you collect the waterskins and fill them?” Caros asked, lifting his over his head and holding it out to the man. The warrio
r reached with his right hand and mumbled a curse, taking the waterskin with his uninjured left hand instead. Caros took the reins of the man’s mount and led both horses downstream. The sight of Saulus’ maimed hand and arm depressingly familiar. Caros had caught the sickly sweet scent of rot in the brief heartbeat Saulus lifted his hand.

  They had no healer amongst them, although every man here bar the youngest like Rappo, knew the rudiments of managing wounds. He would need to consider what should be done to save the warrior’s life.

  More men followed with their mounts hooves rattling on the rock and hard ground. Conversation was minimal, the warriors exhausted and parched.

  Men stretched out in the shadows as evening descended. Saddle blankets and cloaks served as cushions for their sweat-matted heads.

  The last of the lookouts walked his horse into the camp and nodded to Caros. “The fired villages have burned out, and the smoke faded away.”

  “The Romans in the west? What is their course?” Caros asked, keeping the knotted tension he felt from his voice.

  “They turned north. If they stay true to their course, they will pass close to the burned villages.”

  The knot of tension grew. That meant they were still going to be heading towards his ragtag band of riders.

  “This place is well hidden,” Maleric spoke, his gravelly voice filled with confidence. “We could wait here and let them pass north of us.”

  “Then we would be free to ride west.” Azulay reasoned. He grunted to the scout. “The water here is sweet. Go drink your fill and get some sleep. At first light take Rappo and ride north. You saw the pair of hills that looked like a pair of tits on a Libu virgin?”

  Chuckling, the scout nodded. “I did.”

  “Pick either one and ride to the summit. Watch the Romans west of us.”

  The man nodded and rose to stalk away into the gloom, leaving behind the smells of sweat and horseflesh.

  “You should have mentioned the hills while the sun was still up. I would have liked to see them.” Maleric grumbled.

  Ignoring him, Caros hefted the newly filled waterskin while he considered the news. He sighed, “We cannot stay. We need fire.”

  Maleric’s eyes tightened. “Smoke will bring down a plague of Romans.”

  “Not if it comes from their own fires.” Caros grinned.

  Chapter 2

  A wolf’s double howl was answered by the yipping from a bitch deep in the shadowy thicket above the village.

  If Caros had not been alongside the Iberian imitating the howls, he would have believed the calls were genuinely made by a wolf.

  “It is all clear. One howl. No Romans. Two, nobody at all.” The Iberian’s teeth glinted in the early dawn light.

  Caros nodded and bounded onto his mount’s broad back. The others followed him from out of the thicket, rustling and snapping branches as they went. No stealth was needed. The village was a pattern of blackened timber and ash. All that was left after the Romans had visited.

  “There!” Maleric pointed to where a light breeze lifted a thin trickle of smoke into the oyster gray morning sky.

  Two men dismounted and quickly set about raising flames from the still smoldering stump that was all that remained of a hut’s doorway.

  Caros’ eyes found those of Saulus. The man was folded around his swollen arm, expression filled with fear and resignation. There would be no saving the limb now the rot was so deep. It had worsened horribly overnight so that long before dawn the warrior was forced to bite into a leather belt to stop from screaming.

  Azulay stood beside the revived fire and fed more wood onto it while two men waved cloaks to breathe more heat into the coals.

  A second pair of warriors helped Saulus from his mount, straining not to jar the man. With labored breath, he staggered before being steadied and guided to a large slab of wood. Dark stains in the gouged chopping block signaled that livestock had once been butchered on it. Perhaps the Romans too had found a use for it.

  Already Azulay had the blade of a short knife nestled in the glowing coals, the handle wrapped in damp linen to keep from searing his hand as the metal grew red.

  Caros looked to the east where the sun was moments away from rising.

  Maleric noticed. “Your plan is sound. They would expect smoke here. These stumps can smolder underground for weeks unless it rains heavily.”

  It was that thought which had prompted Caros to choose the recently burned village. Smoke from anywhere else would bring Romans down on them as sure as the sun was about to rise.

  Saulus would be unable to travel after having his arm taken by the blade. It was every warrior’s nightmare turned to agonizing reality. Two of his fellow tribesmen would remain with him until he was able to ride again.

  Caros disliked splitting the small band of returning warriors, but the alternative was to let the man keep the arm and die within the day.

  Azulay lifted the blade from the coals. The iron glowed with sullen heat. Saulus gasped and clenched his jaws. Gingerly, he lowered the stricken limb across the block. A warrior wrapped a leather cord around the injured man’s biceps and twisted it tight while two others gripped his shoulders. A fourth stood by with a drawn falcata at the ready.

  Azulay placed the blade back into the fire and offered an invocation to the gods. Caros looked away, eyes casting about the remnants of the burned village and the surrounding countryside. A premonition surged through his bones and sent an icy chill down his back.

  A heaving grunt brought on a strangled scream. Caros turned back to see Azulay slice effortlessly through the skin and muscle of Saulus’ arm and peel back the flesh to the elbow, presenting the white bone. The Masulian nodded to the warrior holding the falcata who immediately hacked down to slice cleanly through the bone. Saulus bucked against the men restraining him, eyes bulging and stifled groans escaping his lips. Azulay quickly covered the bone with the flesh he had peeled back and using a leather thong, tied the wound closed.

  Maleric shook his head. “A sensible man would have passed out by now. You lot put too great a store in bearing your pain in silence. Me? I am all for a good scream when it gets too much.”

  His words were hollow though and his face might have been waxy if it were not for the layers of dirt from days on the trail.

  Caros had seen enough. “It is done. We should take our eyes to those hills.”

  Maleric swallowed and followed the big Bastetani without argument.

  By the time they found Rappo and the second scout, Caros was sorely regretting asking Maleric along.

  “All I am saying is; do not hold it against me that I have never had the pleasure of setting eyes on a Libu virgin’s tits. I expected something more tempting.”

  “They are hills. Just hills and I will forbid Azulay from ever describing another landmark as tits, lips or any other feminine feature.”

  Maleric snorted, “Imagine a hill shaped like a…”

  Caros pinned Maleric with a stare that stopped his words cold but failed to wipe the speculative look from the Gaul’s face as he began to study the surrounding hills.

  Rappo waved and pointed west and north indicating locations of Roman patrols. Caros raised a hand in return and slid from his mount.

  “Best get down. Looks like the Romans are up and about already.”

  “Dull bastards. Do they never kick off their sandals, drink, and chase women?” Maleric moaned as he slid off his horse.

  “They are angered that Hannibal slipped past them and caused them to lose face.” Caros glanced at Maleric. “Or maybe they are just keen to find a Libu virgin.”

  Maleric raised a bushy eyebrow and grinned, pleased to see a hint of humor still in the somber young man.

  Joining Rappo and his fellow lookout, they saw for themselves the range of the Roman patrols. There were two converging columns of dust south of the position and another three columns ranged west of them. The closest was just a couple of leagues away and the furthest no more than four.

>   “What by the gods are they doing? There seems little point in all their riding around. Not a village in all that countryside. No ale, no women. It makes no sense!” Maleric rumbled.

  Seeing how many columns of horsemen the Romans had, Caros wondered for the first time if they would indeed be able to slip past the zealous Romans.

  “Bastards are everywhere. I am not sure how we are going to get through them.” He observed grimly.

  Rappo cocked his head and gestured, “They ride in patterns like hunters quartering for game.”

  Caros squinted south. The converging dust clouds had mingled then broken apart. The mounted Roman patrols might have passed one another within hailing distance.

  “Maybe we should go north then. There is no dust that way.” Maleric swept his hand along the northern horizon.

  Caros rolled onto his back. “There is none is there? Strange.” He looked at the two Masulians whose eyes never stopped scanning the countryside. “If you were the lion which way would you go to escape these annoying pests on horses?”

  Rappo’s companion shrugged and pointed north. The younger Masulian pursed his lips with a frown, catching their collective attention. After several heartbeats of silence, Rappo pointed south.

  Maleric glared at Rappo, “You young fellows have more balls than brains.”

  Caros lifted a hand to silence him. “These Romans are hunting.” He paused, thoughtful for a moment. “They hunt those returning to Iberia from Hannibal’s army. The Roman fleet rules the Inland Sea so the land trail is the safest route to send messages between Hannibal and his commanders in Iberia.”