Driven backwards by the press of people trying to scatter from the sudden attack, Maleric roared in anger and bulled forward.
Neugen’s small knife flayed a warrior’s cheek to the bone, but before he could take the man’s eye, another was there. Grunting, he had no choice but to stagger backwards with a spear point flicking for his eyes.
He backed into a wall, and the spear wielder thrust. The blade slammed into the planking beside Neugen’s cheek as the attacker took a blow from Maleric, his thrust ruined.
Neugen drew his sword as the warrior struggled to free the blade from the heavy plank.
Caros drove his knee up, hoping to double over the warrior striking at him with a wickedly curved falcata, just as well forged as his own. Instead, he struck the man’s thigh.
Off balance from the attempt, he drew back quickly to avoid the slashing blade. His back foot came down and trod on a wooden jug spinning in the dirt and spilled ale. His foot went out from under him and next he was on his back. In a heartbeat, a heavy sandal was on his right wrist rendering his falcata useless.
He grasped for his short knife with his left hand just as a powerful kick took him in the ribs under his left armpit. His arm went dead, the pain drove thought from his mind as his chest constricted. He heard Maleric roar and there was a sudden milling of feet and the impacts of fists and elbows. For a heartbeat he expected to be lifted to his feet by the Gaul. His hopes were smashed with another blow to his stomach. A kick alongside his head had his ears ringing and his mind slipping away into a swirling vortex of gray mist.
Chapter 17
Maleric was a bull of a man, with arms the size of a large man’s legs and thighs like tree trunks. With main force, he shoved aside several panicked villagers to reach his companions. Caros was down and he roared as he saw kicks rain down on the young Bastetani warrior. A spear blade passed through the greased hair of his mustache and he snarled, twisting to get his hand on the arm that wielded it. Instead, another buried itself in his back just as an elbow caught him under the chin, rattling his sight.
He closed his mighty hands around an arm and swung the body attached to the other end like a sack of clay, clearing space. Men were scythed down, tripped and colliding with one another as they backed away and dodged their unfortunate fellow’s body. In the space created, Maleric saw Caros, eyes rolling in his head, being dragged through the mud by his heals, head bouncing limply between outstretched hands. Maleric swung a kick into the gut of the man he had gripped, lifting his body off the ground, to land unmoving at the feet of the encircling warriors. Grasping the opportunity, Maleric drew his long sword from the sheath buckled at his back.
“Maleric!” He twisted, snarling as figures emerged from another side street. “Come, Maleric!”
Neugen was at the mouth of yet another street and beckoning to him urgently. The big Gaul ignored him and roared at the warriors running at him. A torch sparked and burst into flames. Darkness had come on fast and now in the flickering flare of the torch and another as more were lit, Maleric saw these were more than tribal warriors. Their cloaks flapped aside to reveal polished leather and chain mail. Each of the new attackers carried rectangular shields and unsheathed short swords. Maleric knew only too well the damage these men could inflict and he thanked his gods, their charge was premature. His top lip curled and he, twirled his heavy sword with ease.
“Maleric, we must find Caros!” The words reached him, but his eyes narrowed on the approaching Romans. There were six, not so many and for all their polish and shine, they were short little bastards. A rock slapped into Maleric shoulder and bounced away.
Neugen bawled, voice hoarse. “Leave them, follow me!”
Maleric reared up, his shoulders raised and his blade high. He threw his head back and bellowed the deep war cry he had learned as a weaned pup on the hills and forests of his tribe, the Boli. The Romans’ eyes widened and they pulled up short, quickly clapping their shields closed like a gate before them.
Maleric wanted their blood, but he was no fool and besides he respected the Bastetani lad. There was an air of legend about Caros, and he would save him if he could.
He pointed his sword at them. “Another day!” he vowed before turning and sprinting after Neugen who was cursing him.
“Come you great boar! We have lost Caros in the dark now.”
“Did you see? Those were Romans, but I swear I could have taken them.” Maleric was barely panting.
Neugen ignored Maleric, instead, blade drawn and eyes casting about, he listened to the guttural shouts of Lacetani villagers. Their warriors would be about as well now in addition to the Ilerget that had ambushed them.
“This way.” He followed the sound of curses, hoping his choice was the right one. He heard Maleric move behind him and was astonished by how light the big warrior’s tread was.
The Romans were snarling at their backs, the Lacetani were howling at their flanks and somewhere ahead, a den of wolves had Caros in their jaws. It would take more than just the pair of them to make headway in this fight.
Caros came to as he was dragged unceremoniously over rock and mud. His shoulders were burning and bruised, his head lit like a torch from within and his ribs cut like knives. He kicked out and freed a leg, immediately twisting to plant it in something soft and vital. Instead, he received a kick to the head that sent him falling through nauseating clouds of red and black.
The motion eased and his legs were dropped. Wincing and scrambling, he heaved bile from his belly. Rough hands stripped his belt and scabbard from him. His helm was torn from his head and purse snatched from within his toga. Even his soiled and filthy cloak was stripped from his shoulders so that he was left in only his tunic, underclothes and sandals.
He wiped blood and dirt from his eyes and face with the sleeve of his tunic and cracked them open. Pain flared at the bright torchlight and he lifted a hand to shield his sight. Vicious laughed filled his head and a kick caught him in the back. He scrabbled with his hands and found stone beneath him, at his side, and back. The men’s laughter receded along with their footsteps, followed by the scrape and thud of a heavy wooden door.
In the silence that grew, he sensed a presence close at hand and caught his breath. There! Ragged breathing and a thick gurgle of fluid, even the rumbling and working of a man’s belly denied food.
It was bitterly cold and whatever cursed place had been allotted as his cell or tomb, was built of rough stone, slick with damp. Caros’ belly burned while his head swam so it was an effort to raise himself to his knees and slowly get his feet under him. The timbre of the breathing grew to a strangled gurgle before breaking into a violent coughing fit. Certainly a fellow captive, perhaps Neugen or Maleric, though he could not see the big Gaul being taken alive.
“Neugen?” He felt a sense of deep despair that he had dragged his old friend into this. That feeling was tempered somewhat, knowing that at least Beaugissa was safe back at the encampment, tending to Rappo. He reached a hand out into the black and touched a body, burning hot with fever.
“Neugen!”
Another drawn out cough ended and the man’s breathing eased. “I know the name, but I am not him. Is that Caros?”
The voice was Simnon’s. “Simnon? How are you here?”
“So, it is Caros. The great Roman killer, now my fellow captive.” The Vascon warrior laughed bitterly. “Unless you have come on a hero’s quest to rescue me?”
Caros slumped to the stones. “The Ilerget took me. They have turned to the Roman side after all.”
“There is a surprise.” Sarcasm rich in his voice. “When were you taken?”
“Just now. In the market.”
“You came here?” Simnon’s voice rose in surprise. “Did you not see the Romans?”
“A few horses I thought might be theirs, but too few to worry with.”
Simnon sniffed and cough. “They took me yesterday.” He paused, “I think.” A shudder violently wracked his body. Caros could hear the bo
ne-like rattle of the man’s teeth chatter.
“You never tried to return home, did you? Back to the Vascon lands?”
“I couldn’t. I couldn’t face the looks I’d get. Instead I joined with some Lacetani. A pair of brothers with three big sons.”
Caros shook his head. “So? You six decide to take on the Romans all alone?”
Simnon snorted. “Not just the Romans. The Ilerget as well. Indibilis is burning and killing as fast as the Romans, faster even.”
Caros squinted. “Killing whom? Lacetani?”
“Lacetani, Illercavone, even some among his own that he has a grievance with.”
Caros cursed. The villages raised, the scattered bodies, the fear at every village gate. It was not only the Romans that every man now feared, but warriors dressed as themselves. Fellow Iberians. It was easy to see how they could have laid the blame at the feet of the Romans. Now that Simnon had spoken of it, Caros could see how Indibilis, mad for war and blood, might loose his warriors to sow chaos. While he thought, Simnon spoke on.
“We were sure we could pull off a few kills. You know, a guard here and there. A handful of lost legionaries in the hills.” He cleared his nose with force. “Never got to it though. Walked right into the bastards.”
“Who captured you?” Caros asked.
“That bitch that clings to Indibilis. The one whose daughter the lad bounced.” Simnon wheezed a pained laugh from his throat. “I took a spear through the leg. Not a bad wound really, but it slows you down when the spear will not pull free. The others were killed outright by the spears or too badly injured to bother with, so their throats were opened.”
“So the Ilerget took you and delivered you to the enemy? For coin?”
“No, they took me and dumped me in the path of the Romans. Like a lynx drops a wounded rabbit among her kittens. Except, she is no lynx. More a serpent.”
“Did you see her with your own eyes?”
“I did, Caros.” He shivered and groaned for heartbeats before rousing himself. “She hung a pouch around my neck herself.”
“A message to the Romans, yes?”
Simnon hissed and spat. “I said a serpent. The pouch held six thumbs cut from the right hands of Roman warriors. There were also Roman coins and a family ring.”
Caros’ breath froze at the implication.
“I hear your heart from here. Let me tell you, when the Romans upended that pouch before me, I thought Ensillia had done me a favor and they would take my head right there.” He coughed out a laugh. “You were right to fear their discipline for that is all that stayed their hand.”
“Do you know what these Romans plan to do?”
“With us it is certain, Caros. They will kill us as a message to any who think of rising against them.” Simnon wept silently. “Not that much different from your Barca friends, really.”
Caros’ found the man’s shoulder and squeezed.
He heard the scrape of heavy boards on stone followed by the murmur of voices. The wind rushed with greater force into the cell, making him wince. Nestled against his side like a child, Simnon murmured incoherently, his feverish body slick with perspiration. Caros pushed himself upright a heartbeat before the torches appeared.
“Wake up you slimy shites!” The voice held the promise of violence and this was made more so by the Latin tongue.
Caros could see nothing of the Roman other than his hand holding high the spitting torch.
“Get him on his feet or carry him. Either way will do.”
Keeping his eyes on the shadows beyond the light cast by the torch, Caros shook Simnon until the warrior stirred. He got a hand under the man’s arm and dragged him upright.
“Good. Now come along.” The Roman retreated and Caros lumbered out of the stone cell and short entrance passage into the fiercely cold night. He noticed a sliver of light in the east. Nearly dawn. He did not see the blow coming, just felt the explosion of pain in his lower back.
Both captives fell. Caros coiled into a ball of agony, feeling piss dribble over his thighs, helpless to stop it.
More torches were arriving, accompanied by the tramp of iron-studded sandals.
A figure appeared and he lashed out with a heavy kick, but instead a spear end took him in the gut, winding him and forcing him to suck like a dying man for air. Roughly, his hands were twisted behind his back and bound tight. Simnon made no sound, other than to grunt and gasp as he was stripped to his small clothes, and manhandled to a splintered wagon wheel set against a rock wall. Here, their captors lashed him spread-eagled to the splintered wood, his naked back and legs pale in the pre-dawn gloom.
The Vascon warrior slumped senseless against the ropes and Caros cursed when an Ilerget warrior dashed a pail of water over Simnon, who jerked and screamed as though it were a bucket of coals.
Caros snarled at the warrior, “Coward! You are a shame on your people!”
The Ilerget bared his teeth at Caros. “You are as good as carrion, Bastetani. What do I care for your insults?” He threw a lewd gesture at Caros, eliciting laughter from four more Ilerget standing in a rough circle around the captives.
Caros panted, exhausted for no good reason. He strove to control his breathing and looked on as a Roman unfurled a long leather whip. The smell of oiled hide rose briefly before being flicked away by the wind. Caros looked around in desperation. Only the open sky above and the rough stone walling them in. One of the walls, the eastern, had crumbled to half its height. Six Romans and five Ilerget renegades filled the space between the walls, their eyes hungry for blood and death.
Simnon’s eyes were open, staring at Caros. His lips, pressed hard against the weather-gouged wood, moved. The second time he tried, his words came out in a despairing plea. “Take Beaugissa home.”
The whip sang and cracked like a spear thrown by the god of the javelin himself. Simnon’s body stiffened as though struck by lightning, a dark line appearing across his back. As blood welled and trickled from the lash torn wound, the whip bit again, flaying flesh and sending the freely running blood spraying into the air. This pleased the Romans and two of them began to place wagers on how soon the whip could flay the barbarian’s hide entirely from his back.
Caros watched unblinking when Simnon clamped his jaws down and gritted his teeth. In moments, blood began to foam from his mouth, blackening his matted beard. Two strikes later, one of the Romans gestured for the whip bearer to stop. He grabbed Simnon’s hair, jerking his head back viciously.
“Whoreson! The piece of shit bit off his own tongue and tried to choke himself to death!”
The Roman with the whip, rubbed a hand over his brow. “No wonder he was not screaming. Thank Fortuna for that. Here I was, thinking I had lost my touch!” The others laughed. “I have it!” He crowed as he hooked the end of Simnon’s tongue roughly out of the man’s mouth. Thumping the heel of his palm into Simnon’s bloodied back, he was rewarded when the Vascon warrior gasped awake and began to weep.
That was the last sound he made. He rode the pain of another ten lashes. By then, the white of his ribs was evident in more than one place. Of skin, there was none left on his back. His small clothes, sodden with blood and strips of flesh, had ridden down to the man’s knees and his buttocks, cruelly exposed, were similarly flayed to mince.
“That is about it for this savage.” The Roman tossed aside the whip and took up his waterskin.
The Ilerget had clustered together beside the eastern wall and from their faces, Caros could tell they were amused and excited by the bloody death.
The legionaries clustered around Simnon’s limp form and used their eating knives to measure the deepest lacerations. This last act they did with one eye on Caros, goading him so they could enjoy the Bastetani’s horror and fear. For his part, Caros wanted to empty his stomach at the sight of a strong man reduced to the thing that hung lifeless from the wagon wheel. He wanted to weep for the loss of another of Beaugissa’s companions, another son of Iberia. His face remained frozen a
s hard as the rock beneath his knees. They would have to tear hard and long at his body to feed on his pain or fear.
Like children bored once the fallen fledgling has ceased to move, they turned from Simnon.
“You want to eat first then garrote him, Optio?”
“No. I do not want the centurion’s displeasure. He has a cold heart, so I want this one finished off now.”
“Fine, but Cassius can do it, I washed this tunic threadbare just yesterday to remove all the bloodstains.”
Pulling a knotted leather cord from within his tunic, the speaker tossed it to another. The Roman named Cassius, flexed it into a loop, pulled Simnon’s head away from the wagon wheel and slipped it around his neck. He drew his short knife and inserted the handle through the two loops at the ends of the garrote. He hummed all the while, and continued to hum as he turned the knife, drawing the leather deep into Simnon’s throat.
Caros had thought the brave Vascon already dead, and so he nearly cried aloud when Simnon’s eyes flew wide and his arms bulged against the ropes. He heard the Ilerget warrior’s sharp intake of breath, followed at once by cursing and spitting.
The Roman legionaries and Ilerget warriors watched as Cassius grunted with effort now to tighten the stiff cord. A sudden splatter on the cobbles caused the Roman to laugh and sidestep.
“Bastard nearly shat on me. Was expecting it though. Nothing like experience to teach you how to keep out of the shit, eh!”
The optio glanced around and stiffening, called the others to order with a sharp command. The legionaries drew up straight and stiff while the Ilerget stood tense.
Caros, on his knees, elbows tied tight behind him, shivered as a figure wearing a helm topped with a transverse crest, stepped from a dark street into the small yard.
The senior Roman, stared at Simnon’s bloodied corpse without expression.
“Did he die well?”
The legionaries glanced at one another and nodded.
“He tried to cheat us by biting off his tongue, but yes in the end he died well for a barbarian, Centurion.” The optio answered with equal measures respect and fear.
Gladius Winter Page 22