Gladius Winter

by J Glenn Bauer

  Caros strode forward. “Greetings. I am Caros and as our large friend here has no doubt already told you, we need passage across these marshes. Is there a path that leads west?”

  Cunigni listened to Caros, his brow furrowed in concentration, unused to hearing his tongue with such an accent. “Westward?” He pointed that way to clarify and when Caros nodded, he squinted. “There is a way, but it will be hard for those at the back.”

  “How great a distance do we travel on this path?”

  The guide held up two fingers. “Two days. Maybe three or even four if it rains again.”

  “Where do we camp? Will it be dry?” Maleric anticipated Caros’ next question.

  The Gaul shook his head. “Nothing is dry in the marsh, but there will be many small islands just large enough for a few men each. It is all there is, yes.”

  Caros switched to Maleric. “Romans?”

  “Their horse are in the valley. They will be coming on soon.”

  “Their legionaries?”

  “No sign yet.” He shrugged. “Vestivaxus and his wife are all for attacking the Romans. Brunnod wants to make peace with them. They are still bickering. Vestivaxus sends his apologies and best wishes.”

  Caros was still disappointed at their treatment, but no doubt Vestivaxus had done all he could. From Leucivix’s own words the previous afternoon it was clear there was a deep rift in the Gaelic village.

  “They are no longer our concern. Split the supplies amongst the men. It is time to travel.”

  The marshland was a wide expanse stretching both south and west. Run-off from the higher ground to north accumulated in the basin and became a land of tall grass growing to higher than a man atop a horse. Where the land did break from the surface of the water, it was damp and festering. Here thorn bush and trees grew in dense thickets.

  Waterfowl of every sort fed and lived here, from the smallest waders to large herons and even larger cranes, occupying the leafy boughs of the trees on the small islets. The cloying stink of fowl shit was thick and tangled resolutely with the decay of age-old mud. Floating above the miasma was a cloud of winged insects, merciless in their intentions towards the men and horses that blundered through their domain.

  At the dying of the day, Caros was struck by the incongruousness of the sudden beauty as the sun’s beams raised myriads of rainbows in the splashes of water and drew iridescent colors forth from the wings of multitudes of insects.

  “We go no further today.” Cunigni announced.

  Around them was a scattering of dense stands of trees signaling drier ground. The men would be forced to hack into those thickets to make room for their bodies.

  He took the message back down the column. First were the Turdetani, their armor, tunics and skin black with mud, eyes red-rimmed and fouled by flies. Lebita took the news with a nod and his men began filing off to locate some piece of dry ground on which to find some respite.

  “The Gaul says no fires. It brings more misery than it is worth.”

  Lebita shook his head. “Hard to say how that is possible. I will tell the men.”

  Azulay and Gunurst rode side by side. Their faces and necks mud-flecked and sporting numerous raised bite marks. He rubbed his own eyes clear of the midges that stung and blurred his sight.

  “Get your riders to find what cover you can for the night. The Gaul says fire will bring out snakes and if the Romans are watching, they will be able to see them from the hills.”

  Azulay looked pained, but nodded. Gunurst looked back at the high land they had left from to enter the marsh. “They are watching. We have seen enough lances of sunlight off armour to be sure of that.”

  Caros had also seen the distant flash of light where the sun struck some shiny helm, armor or blade. That was a long distance away and so no concern for that night.

  The riders dispersed to find their beds for the coming night. The pair of Gauls chose a small rounded hillock.

  “We have slept here before. It is dry enough.” Cunigni commented when he saw Caros’ expression.

  Shrugging, he dismounted and found himself up to his shins in mud that stank worse than a cesspool. He spent time rubbing down the mount. Fly eggs were as thick as crusted salt on the animal’s hide and he made sure to rub them clear along with every other parasite. When he had also cleaned the horse’s hooves he finally took stock of his own limbs and body. The Gauls offered a bitter-smelling salve for the worst of the bites. While Caros rubbed this into the itching wounds, both Gaelic scouts undid the ties of their leggings and shrugged these off. They began to pull at fat gray creatures fastened to their white flesh, teasing them free and leaving trails of blood where they had come away.

  He looked down at his own mud-blackened legs and slowly lifted his tunic.

  Maleric grunted and pointed a finger. “That’s the smallest leech I ever saw.”

  Chapter 6

  The following day, bone-weary and reeking of rotten mud, they emerged onto a spit of dry, stony ground.

  Caros felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Thank the gods that is over.”

  Cunigni shook his head. “Not so. This is a spur only. The marsh reclaims the land beyond.” He smiled reassuringly. “It is not so wide there though. We have made good time and will be free of it by mid-afternoon. Then my nephew and I will leave you to make your way to your lands.”

  Behind him, Lebita led the Turdetani onto the dry ground. Following slowly came the riders of the Oretani and Masulians.

  Atestas was up the spit of land, a spear throw from where Caros and the warriors were emerging. The young Gaul shouted. Caros turned slowly, expecting to see the youth pointing to the next path. Instead, the youth was desperately turning his mount, one arm bloodied and limp.

  Something clattered into the Gaul’s thin bronze helm, knocking it forward over his eyes.

  “Alarm!” Caros reacted. Before him, men were rising from cover and stepping from behind thickets.

  Cunigni yelled in anger as his nephew toppled from the horse. The Gaul drew his sword and charged. Caros called for him to return, but his words went unheeded. The Gaul hacked at a figure, but his sword tasted nothing.

  Caros pulled his shield from his back and fixed his left arm into the leather braces. “Lebita! Form shield!”

  He waved the Turdetani to where he wanted them. Lebita shouted orders to his men and they began to react. A volley of slingshot peppered them and men went down. Some dropped in silence, others screamed as the shot found limbs or ribs The rest ran and stumbled into a rough line. Jostling, they got their shields before them as yet more shot struck. Caros saw a tall fellow’s face implode. His nose and cheek falling aside, a single eye left staring in wild agony, before dimming.

  Shot drummed his shield and his horse screamed as it took several hits. His lost his seating as it reared in terror and sprang from its back. Dodging a mighty kick from the agonized beast, he went to his knee as a shot grazed his helm, rattling it, but leaving him clear headed.

  A trumpet sounded and the hail of shot petered out. The ground shook as Caros rose, shield high. Falcata drawn. His eyes locked onto the wall of blood flowing down the spit. He blinked away sweat and gum to look again. Legionaries.

  The legionaries tramped forward, large rectangular shields a tight wall an arm’s length before them. Their eyes fixed hard on the ragged and wearied warriors of Iberia that wavered before them.

  The Turdetani, now formed two deep across the spit, groaned and wavered at the sight. Bile rose burning in his throat. They were trapped like so many half-drowned rats.

  He looked to the marsh and watched as the Oretani and Masulian riders struggled to join their fellows. He studied the spit of land and a bank of trees growing along the edge of the marsh. He looked back at the legionaries. They drew to a stop at the blast from a trumpet.

  Caros knew what was coming. He turned back to Turdetani and shouted. “Shields! Shields up now damn you!”

  He raised his own and backed into the first r
ank of warriors. He turned to the fear-rattled man behind, “Closer!” The man focused and shoved up into Caros’ back. He could only hope more had done the same along the line. A harsh command was roared from amongst the enemy and a flight of spears rose. Caros watched them as they turned and hung poised. They seemed to float in the air briefly and then faded from sight.

  “Shields! Shields up!” He roared at the top of his lungs then ducked and drew his shield over his head.

  The Romans’ iron pila drove into hard ground, shield, flesh and bone. Men were skewered where they crouched, dying instantly or in long, drawn-out screams.

  Caros backed into the second line. “Hold your line! Stand fast warriors of the Turdetani! This is a day to drink Roman blood. Hold your line you men of courage!

  Lebita’s voice should have been adding to his, but was absent. Caros drew a sobbing man from the second rank and smashed the back of his hand across his cheek. The warrior reeled and fell silent, half-crouched and white eyed.

  “See the riders? Go, tell Gunurst the Romans have not seen them. They must not come here. Tell them to stay unseen behind those trees and find a way up behind the Romans.”

  The warrior blinked and looked at where Caros pointed. The commands returned his courage, and he repeated Caros’ wishes.

  “Your name?”

  “Gizon. I am Gizon.”

  Another harsh command barked from the Roman lines.

  “Run now, Gizon. Their spears are coming. Run!”

  The man gritted his teeth and took off, mud still wet from the marsh spraying Caros.

  “Shields up! One more time warriors. Shields up… Now!”

  Caros watched that familiar flight of death and timed it. The Roman spears had scant regard for their shields and many plunged straight through the shields and found bloody targets beneath.

  The sound of splintering and a blow from beside him accompanied by a last bubbling exhalation told Caros of the warrior’s death. They would all be lying dead in two ragged rows within a handful of heartbeats.

  From the corner of his eye, Caros watched Gizon plunge into the marsh and plough through the mud. The Romans would think him just a coward fleeing the battlefield.

  “Stand!” Caros belted the man in front of him and hauled him upright. Others rose hesitantly.

  “Spears forward. Move!” Caros paced down the line of men and heard the Roman trumpet blare again. The two lines of Turdetani seemed to waver and shrink.

  Caros shouldered his way to their front and turned his back on the Roman lines. Fixing his eyes on these warriors of his people, yet not his tribe, he hoped they had the mettle to stand this battle or it would be their last and his with them.

  “You warriors of the Turdetani, today you will best these Romans and your blades will drink their blood!”

  Behind him he heard that same Roman bellow another command and the immediate response as the Roman line stepped forward. The Turdetani looked past him and their eyes widened.

  He needed them to hold. “Look at how eager they are to die. Stand fast now and show them your courage. Make your fathers proud.” He raised his falcata and shield. “Will you gut Romans today?”

  A single warrior shouted. Then another. Then all were shouting. Caros rapped his sword on his shield and turned to meet the Romans.

  They came forward without pause into the drum of sword and spear on shields. With no sign of fear or nerves even. Caros could see why they were considered so dangerous. A solid wall of red, sword points bared and dark eyes beneath shining helms.

  Maleric took his shoulder and pulled him back into the line. “Nice words. Hope your sword speaks as well today because these fellows look determined.”

  Caros grinned, sweat leaking down his neck and brow. He hefted his shield and readied his blade. “It is as thirsty for blood as you are for ale.” He glanced back at the marsh. His heart leaped. The Masulian and Oretani riders were turning and hastening further up the spit using the cover of the bank of trees.

  The Romans came on relentlessly. Their sandals thumping the dry soil in time, raising dust.

  Caros beat his shield until the line of red was paces away. Then the Romans surged and Turdetani line shuddered. The Iberians fell back two steps. Men screamed and roared.

  Caros held his shield hard against that of the legionary opposite him, trying to keep the man pinned back. The legionary kept twisting and thumping his shield against Caros’ own in such a way that made it hard to hold. A blade sped through the gaps at the side of the shield, seeking flesh. It gouged the leather armor of the warrior on Caros’ right. Retreated and flicked through again, this time its course aimed true. Caros slapped the blade down with his own, pulled back and rammed his sword forward over the top of the legionary’s shield. The Roman was ready and casually turned his head away from the thrust. Caros cursed.

  The Roman’s gladius flashed again through the gap and drew a gasp of pain from the warrior beside Caros.

  “Stand strong!” Caros urged.

  The warrior hissed and struck his own blade overhand at his opponent. The sword turned easily by the legionary’s shield rim. Caros did the same now, difficult as it was in that press to strike overhand. The falcata was like an axe though and fueled by the power in Caros’ shoulder, back and very thigh, it splintered a hand’s breadth of shield and behind it the Roman’s helm. The Roman’s eyes rolled back showing white before he crashed aside. Caros felt the elation of having lived while his enemy died, but now another legionary’s shield was ramming into the gap. Caros stepped into the shield and struck down with his blade. With more room to swing, his blow struck that Roman directly on his helm, loping away a sizeable portion of the man’s skull. Blood fountained. There was no time to consider. He whipped his blade backhanded to the right and felt it bite into the shoulder of the legionary battling Maleric.

  Then his hand thrummed clear to his shoulder as a snarling legionary struck his blade, almost tearing it from his hand. He dragged it back and presented his shield. On his left the injured Turdetani took another punch to the gut, a Roman gladius driving deep. The warrior screamed and gushed blood from his mouth before dropping away.

  Along the Turdetani line, warriors scrambled to hold while the Romans struck lightning-quick with their short swords through the gaps between the shields. The lightly armored Turdetani were being gutted and their line was floundering, driven back, down the tongue of dry land and towards the marsh.

  Caros hacked where he could, kept his shield up and his belly taut. Maleric was struggling with his long sword to do any damage. Those warriors in the second rank armed with spears were doing better. They had the luxury of being out of reach of the Roman swords and were able to thrust between their men at the Romans’ eyes. The warriors in the front rank who had such spearmen behind them, were able to use the distraction and get their own blades past the legionaries’ shields.

  For all that though, the Iberian warriors were falling fast and the Romans rarely.

  Caros felt a shudder through the line. There was a moment when a roar issued from the Roman line on his left and then the Turdetani were reeling.

  “Maleric!”

  “The line is done for!” Maleric was panting, his cheeks crusted with blood. His eyes never left those of the heavy-browed Roman legionary he had been trying to gut for an age.

  “Start falling back. Two steps at a time. Spread it down the line.”

  Maleric feinted and thrust, his sword point opening the Roman’s brow and folding flesh back to show the white of bone and fat before a wave of blood flooded the sight.

  The Gaul smiled grimly, “You should have stayed home today Roman. Now my sword has a taste for your blood and for all that you are a true fighter, it will get it.”

  Maleric drove his shield harder still into the legionary’s. The Roman let loose a string of profanities and screamed to his comrades for aid. They saw what was happening, but each man along was locked in his own personal dual. Maleric roared and twisted th
e Roman’s shield to the left a mere finger’s span. It was enough, and he drove his long sword past the Roman’s feebly thrust gladius and into the man’s thigh. The Roman sobbed and hissed, but tried harder still to kill Maleric. He punched his gladius over his shield and twisted, trying to get some sharp edge into his killers’ flesh.

  Sensing an opportunity, Caros pushed hard against his opponent’s shield, “Maleric, mark this chance!”

  The Roman shoved back harder, and Caros gave a whole stride, unbalancing the Roman. The legionary before Maleric was still standing, but bleeding out fast and posed little danger. The Gaul saw instantly what Caros had done. The Roman fell forward a step, leaving his left side exposed, his shield arm high. The Roman bent his face, tears of rage and impotence swelling his eyes when he saw Maleric and the Gaul’s bloodied sword aimed at him. Maleric made it fast, the blade punched underarm through salt-stained linen, between ribs and into that vital fist of beating muscle.

  “Maleric! Beware!”

  The Turdetani line ruptured and turned to liquid.

  Caros spun as a Roman came from his side where moments before a Turdetani warrior had been holding his own. The man thrust the bronze shield boss at Caros in a feint before quickly slamming his shield’s lower edge at Caros’ forward knee. Dropping away from the sudden attack, Caros hooked his own shield over the legionary’s and pulled, the man turned with the force, demonstrating his experience.

  Caros watching the dark, calculating eyes over the shield rim, nearly missed the quick-silver flash of the gladius thrust at his belly.

  “Bastard!” Caros batted his shield high, the force ringing agony through his elbow where the padding had slipped. He dismissed the pain and pivoted on his right hip, bring his falcata around in a scything blow that would take an oxen’s head. The sword hacked deep into the legionary’s shield, taking the man’s arm between shoulder and elbow.