Maharra

by J Glenn Bauer

  MAHARRA

  Sons

  of

  Iberia

  A work of historical fiction

  by

  J. Glenn Bauer

  Copyright © 2014 J. Glenn Bauer

  J. Glenn Bauer has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

  First published 2014 by Bauer Photography and Media

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Also by J. Glenn Bauer

  Maharra

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Author’s note

  About the Author

  Also by J. Glenn Bauer

  Warhorn

  Sons of Iberia

  Warriors streamed from the hillsides in ever greater numbers, filling the shore and plunging into the muddy river, spears and shields held high. Warhorns echoed and men bellowed their challenges, confident the young Carthaginian general would end his days on their spears.

  After avenging the murder of his family in a raid, Caros’ attempt to return to a life of peace is tragically shattered, leaving him wounded in body and spirit.

  Young and bold, Hannibal Barca has begun to mass his mercenary army and rumors of war abound. When he defies an old treaty and besieges the pro-Roman city of Sagunt, Caros joins his army, seeking comradeship and a new life.

  From the banks of the Tagus to the battlements of Sagunt; ride with Caros as he learns the way of war and discovers the price of victory.

  Gladius Winter

  Sons of Iberia

  In the winter of 218 BC, even as Hannibal stormed the Alps to invade the Italian peninsula, a Roman fleet landed 20,000 legionaries in the far north of Iberia. Opposing them were the warrior tribes of Iberia, united under the Barcas of Carthage and a young Iberian hero.

  Before Caros returns home from the army of Hannibal Barca, the Carthaginian general entrusts him with a vital order for his commanders in Iberia.

  Evading and fighting Romans across a wild and untamed land, Caros learns just how deadly Rome’s legionaries are. He arrives home to discover that the Romans have already arrived.

  As powerful chieftains in Iberia clamor to attack the Romans, Caros works to restrain them and the Carthaginians until more warriors can arrive. He uses the time gained to prepare his warriors to face the Romans, knowing that failure may well result in a battle that loses the entire war...

  Gladius Winter is a non-stop whirlwind of adventure, adversity and brutal battle.

  Perfect for fans of historical fiction who enjoy tales of the ancient past. Of times when warriors lived and died by the sword and heroes were men and women raised up by their deeds and honor.

  Howl of Blades

  Sons of Iberia

  On a fog-shrouded morning beside a lake in Italia, fifty thousand warriors strain their ears to hear the first tread of Roman boots.

  Soon the silence of the new day will be shattered by screams and awash in blood. The Battle of Lake Trasimene will have started. Carthage and Rome are at war and the bloodshed will not end for many years.

  In Iberia, Barca rule becomes ruthless. A Bastetani village is pillaged. Its people put to the sword. Caros and his companions fight back, but he is accused of the killings and a price is put on his head.

  Meanwhile, in Italia, Hannibal has defeated a Roman army and has his sights set on Rome. First, a hated Roman consul and his legions must be defeated.

  Ride with Caros across Iberia, as he fights mercenaries and allies with Gauls. Voyage with him to Italia and stand with him in battle as the armies of Hannibal and Flaminius fight to the death.

  Prequels to the Sons of Iberia series

  Rise of the Spears

  A fearsome new enemy invades the ancient lands of Iberia. An unblooded warrior sees his clan vanquished. A mother must kill to save her son.

  With the death cries of his fellow villagers still ringing in his ears, Dubgetious is thrown into the world of foreign mercenaries fighting for Carthage.

  Lyda, an accomplished warrior, vows to find her son and free him. With her small band of veteran Bastetani fighters, she infiltrates the ranks of Hamilcar’s army.

  Dubgetious forges an unlikely friendship while Lyda’s plan leads to blood and chaos.

  When an opportunity to defeat and kill Hamilcar arises, both Dubgetious and Lyda must choose between honour and kin.

  Other titles

  The Runeovex Secret

  From beyond the mountains, a bloodthirsty Celt warband invades the land of the Illergete. In a night of terror, the son of a coward finds himself fighting to save the lives of those who scorned him and the girl he loves.

  Orphaned when just a young boy and victimized by his fellow villagers as the son of a coward, Cullha must learn to fend for himself.

  When Celts overrun the village, Cullha leads a handful of survivors to safety while keeping safe the secret knowledge that will change the balance of power.

  A dramatic tale of adversity, battle, and love set in ancient Iberia.

  Prologue

  Rowers plunged their oars deep into the water, their muscles taut as they strained to shift the densely packed barge. Warriors standing shoulder to shoulder crowded every quarter of the crudely built craft and jeered the slow progress made by the rowers. A giant Libyan snarled at the two men manning the long steering paddle fixed on the rear. The cumbersome barge had begun to twist as the river’s current caught it. Pulling and shoving the crude rudder, no more than a young tree trunk, the two men managed to keep the craft from crashing into an identical barge alongside. All along the western bank, similar barges were striking out over the river. Drums and horns echoed across the valley and filling the spaces between was the continuous roar of ten thousand warriors preparing to fight.

  The sun broke over the lip of the valley and lit the river as the flotilla crawled towards the eastern shore, reflecting from thousands of helmets and spearheads. The Libyan glared over his men to the far bank and his lips curled back viciously. The enemy was already assembled. Rank upon rank of bare-chested tribesmen, their spears jabbing into the air and their faces contorted with battle-lust. Some climbed to the top of their hastily constructed palisade to cavort and beat their chests, inviting their battle god to take root in their hungry warrior hearts.

  “When we ground, you bastards move! Get off and up that bank!” The Libyan roared, his voice carrying across the water. “If the man in front falls, you bloody well step on him and keep going!” He surveyed the taught faces that glanced back at him and saw the fear and anger stamped on each. They had a damnd good reason to be fearful. Facing them was an unknown enemy, set behind a log wall overlooking the spot they would land. Men would die in droves as they tried to scramble over the muddy lip of the riverbank and then they would be confronted by that wall of felled trees. Looking up and down the river, he watched as barges pulled ahead and others lagged. His was the closest to the enemy shore by a full length. He threw a mock salute at his counterpart on the nearest barge, inciting the man to roar at his rowers. Hannibal had promised good coin to the warriors on the first barge to ground on the opposi
te shore.

  Looking back at the enemy, he saw that the warriors parading on the log barricade were hopping down. He grinned and hefted his shield. “Shields up! The arrows’ kiss is on the way!” He glared at the two men on steering duty. “I would not watch if I were you. Keep your eyes on the river and do not bloody let us spin.” The two spat into the river and muttered incantations, their fingers no doubt itching to rub at the amulets about their necks.

  The sound of a thousand strummed bowstrings cracked through the morning air, loud enough to startle a covey of fowl. The arrows fell like rain, splashing into the river in front of the barge; drawing closer and then they were thudding into wood. Shields drummed under the constant impacts and unguarded rowers toppled into the river. The Libyan raised his shield high and smiled as it quivered and shook under the volley of arrows striking it. One of the steersmen grunted at the thudding impact of an arrow in the rudder alongside his hand. “Steady! Keep her straight. Nearly there, nearly… Now!” The Libyan howled as the underside of the raft ground into the riverbank. His men roared and surge upright, the front ranks leaping across the brown water to land in the mud. The warriors behind shoved forward while arrows fell amongst them. Men cursed and fell from the sides as they jostled one another. Some found their footing and pulled themselves towards the shore, others thrashed about as they were carried by the current into deeper water before sinking from sight.

  Barges were grinding onto the shore all along the bank and the booming voices of their Captains rose above the roar of the warriors as they threw themselves at the sheer sides of the riverbank. They had brought short ladders, but these quickly became the focus point for enemy archers who shot down any man who appeared over the lip.

  In no time, the narrow riverbank below the lip was slick with blood from the hundreds of men already slain and wounded. The first wave of rafts were hastily pushed back out into the current to be swept away, many carrying the bodies of those killed before they had set foot on the enemy shore. Another broad line of rafts surged into their places and two thousand warriors erupted onto the already cramped bank. They lifted their shields to shape a canopy of protective wood over their heads while others tore at the sheer embankment or alternately stacked the dead to form ramps.

  The Libyan pushed his way through the masses of stinking and terrified warriors. Libyans, Gauls, Greeks and Africans. At the river’s edge, he waved his sword and another line of barges closed on the enemy shore. From their decks rose return volleys of arrows.

  The enemy now had a choice of two tempting targets. They could continue to rain death down on the packed ranks of warriors below them or aim for the easier targets of the Carthaginian General’s archers on the barges. To a man, they lifted their bows to shoot at the archers out on the river. The Libyan Captain grinned, his face bestial with unleashed brutality as the enemy arrow storm dwindled to almost nothing. He roared his command and four thousand men roared back.

  In an untamed flood of tight-lipped fury, the warriors surged over the lip of the bank. Their comrades boosting them over the lip by the hundred. In a heartbeat, the Volcae were in a fight to the death to keep the attackers from crashing right over the wall of logs.

  All along the line of the log wall, spears flashed. The Libyan captain shouldered through his men to the front of the line. Eyes gleaming with anticipation of the killing to come, he had no sooner made his way to the wall when the first opportunity arose. A tribesman, screaming a torrent of curses, stabbed at him with his long spear. With casual ease, the Libyan dropped his shield and grabbed the shaft of the thrusting spear. With a sharp tug, he pulled the startled warrior onto his spear as he drove it forward. The spearpoint punched through the warrior’s eye and into his brain, killing him in an instant. The Libyan roared and leaped onto the log wall clutching both spears. He rammed and thrust at upturned faces, gashing and piercing indiscriminately. His men followed him onto the wall and following his example, leaped into the dense mass of warriors.

  The Volcae rallied and struck back, their numbers hemming the Libyans into a tight knot. The captain fought like a daemon, but his spears were shattered, first one and then the other. Snatching a fallen shield from the ground, he drew his sword. His men fell about him, stabbed through or hacked down. As the last fell, the captain snarled and rolled over the log berm, taking a deep wound to his arm as he did so. Clutching the deep cut, he bellowed to the warriors still on the wrong side of the log wall. “Get over that damnd wall!” He snatched a spear away from a shuffling, bleeding warrior and kicked the man sprawling.

  “Libya! To the front!” He called his rallying cry and physically dragged warriors to the wall. With brute willpower, he mustered the recalcitrant warriors and forced them to leap the log wall. Still the Volcae held, their spears and blades cutting down the brave and cowardly alike. The bodies of the attackers now lay in deep drifts and the Captain, giddy from blood loss dropped to a knee. Looking along the wall in both directions, the situation was dire. Nowhere had Hannibal’s best warriors managed to breach these tribesmen’s defences. Grimacing in pain, he looked at the barges still beached along the bank. They could still flee, like curs with their tails between their legs. His veteran ears picked up the discordant call of distant warhorns and he frowned, perplexed. He stood and swayed dizzily. The enemy warriors were thinning from the wall, those that still manned it, snatching hurried looks over their shoulders.

  The Libyan smiled his trademark snarl and called for a new sword.

  Chapter 1

  Cresting the rocky, sun-blistered slope, the horseman reined in. Stretched below him was a wide plain at the foot of the high northern mountains. Crouched amongst the foothills on the far side of the plain was the settlement he was making for. Noon and the sun appeared from behind thinning grey clouds, lighting up the settlement. Caros mouthed a quick thanks to Endovex for bringing him here. He lifted a waterskin to his dry lips as he stared at the settlement. Was it possible that this settlement was home to Carmesina, the priestess who had bought his woman from a mercenary in order to sacrifice her? Throughout winter, he had ridden the land in pursuit of this priestess few would even admit was alive. He had ridden from village to fortress to walled settlement, sleeping in freezing mud some nights and in the homes of chieftains on others. He rode wherever the rumours pointed, following the slimmest hints, untroubled by the dangers.

  The dust and smoke from Sagunt had still been in his hair when he had arrived at Orze, his home village. He had honored his promise to build a stout palisade around the suffering village. His silver had paid for the construction and in a short while the work was well underway to the relief of the villagers. With the war behind him, he had time to rebuild the horse herds his family had been breeding. Neighbors had been caring for those mares he still owned and gathering them all back to his lands had lifted his heart. Walking the grounds and hearing their whinnying as they greeted him, was soothing. Then he had traveled up to Tagilit where he bought a handsome stallion. On that day, he had overheard a whispered word that made his blood run cold.

  “Catubodua…”

  At first, he doubted he had heard correctly. The cantina was busy with warriors and levies loudly enjoying their food and drink. He scrutinized the men seated nearby and strained to hear their words above the general noise. A powerful blow struck his shoulder and he winced and laughed at Neugen.

  “First time I see you in a season and you act all bored after one cup of ale! Which I paid for I would like to add.”

  Caros laughed, his attention returning to his friend across the drink-stained table. “Ha! Still slap like a girl I see. Life is too soft here in town to do you any good, come down to the farm for some real work.”

  Neugen smirked at Caros. “I wager the women around here punch as hard as any of you soft southerners down south!” His expression changed and he continued. “The Romans are angry, Caros. Word is their leaders want Hannibal’s head on a stick.”

  Caros had heard little of the outside wor
ld’s doings since returning to the farm after the fall of Sagunt. Usually any news received was so distorted that it gave the barest hint of the truth. Roman legionaries had been sighted everywhere from Gadir in the south to north of the Ebro. All just rumours.

  “And is Hannibal considering obliging them?”

  “Says he will saw his own head off with his sandal straps just to make the toga-tits in Rome jiggle.” Neugen banged his cup down. “What do you think? Hannibal wishes to bathe in the blood of Rome!”

  Caros grunted distractedly, his thoughts returning to the name he was now certain he had heard. He leaned forward and with voice lowered asked, “You ever hear rumours of that witch of Catubodua around here?”

  Neugen had leaned forward in anticipation of his friend’s words, but on hearing them recoiled, his face turning red. He spat at the floor to ward off the evil loosed by talking of her.

  “That bitch! No, nothing of her, but there has been some talk of worshipping the goddess she served.” He drank deeply and then quickly refilled his cup, avoiding Caros’ stare.

  Caros shifted his attention to a young warrior nearby, just sprouting his first chin hairs. The youth, sitting with three companions of similar age had swiveled his neck to watch Neugen. Caros feigned interest in the serving woman while eyeing the youths surreptitiously. The lad’s eyes narrowed, he elbowed the warrior next to him and whispered. Both turned to stare at Neugen’s back.

  Caros grinned ruefully as he threw back his remaining beer. Wiping a hand across his lips, he caught the youths’ attention and lifted his empty cup. “You lads get to do any fighting with the Carthaginians?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the first answered sullenly. “We were levied too late to reach Sagunt before it fell. We are ready for the coming war though. It will be the legionaries of Rome next and we will drink their blood.”

  Caros avoided Neugen’s questioning look. “Ah, that is a pity. Strapping fellows like yourselves. We could have used a few more like you lads. Not so Neugen?”