Maharra

by J Glenn Bauer

  Upon entering the settlement, a group of youths lounging in the shade of the palisade sprang to their feet in alarm. A pair grabbed up spears and then stood uncertain, spearheads pointing at the ground.

  He raked the boys with a stare, taking in their threadbare braccae, worn leather sandals and hollow cheeks. Their gazes wandered over Caros’ saddle pack, clothing and the broad sheath holding the Iberian falcata. They swallowed hard, all recognising a warrior and their eyes widened as they lifted to his face. Spearpoints drooped further as their young arms grew limp with fright. The horseman’s eyes were bright and wide, his face square and open despite the plaited beard that grew thickly from his cheeks and chin. Taken together, they formed the visage of a self-assured warrior whom veterans would bravely follow into battle and women would entice to secret meetings. The youths’ gaze was drawn to the thick scar that roped along the side of his head like a misshapen torc of flesh.

  Caros was used to such stares, especially from unblooded young warriors such as these. In a land where war had taken hold and escalated over these last seasons there were many with prominent scars about their bodies and faces. There were few though who could boast of such a livid reminder of how close they had come to death.

  “Greetings. Where might a man find a clean cot for the night?”

  The young warriors stepped forward as a group and the tallest shook his head. “Speak slower. Your tongue is unfamiliar.”

  He was in the far north of the Iberian lands and was uncertain which tribe occupied these high mountains. He tried again, using a dialect of mixed Greek and Iberian widely used between the distant tribes.

  The young warrior grinned. “Ask for Matald at the bake house. She is my mother and can offer you a cot.” He gestured beyond Caros, down a narrow lane that twisted away amongst the mud and stone-built homes and storehouses. “Follow the smell of baked bread and you will find her.”

  Caros smiled at the dark-haired youth. “You have my gratitude. How about stables?”

  With a shrug, the warrior answered. “If your horse does not mind an old cow and a goat for company, you can stable it in the lean-to behind the house.” He was gaining confidence now and stepped forward, his spear lifting as he remembered his duty to guard the settlement. “What business do you have here in Montcal, stranger?”

  Caros did not take exception to the questions. Settlements like these could never be too lax about who came riding out of the hills. “I am Caros of the Bastetani, son of Joaquim. I am a merchant, but today I come as a messenger.” A spark of interest lit in the warriors’ eyes at this news, as he had known he would. He had perfected the art of gaining information from unsuspecting tongues over the past season. He smiled and pointed down the alley. “That way then?”

  The dark-haired leader began to nod before frowning. “Wait! Who is this message for? Hoyos the chief? He is away to the east.”

  Caros turned back, allowing his shoulders to slump in disappointment. “He is? I was told to deliver it to him here.” Caros scratched his head, continuing the ruse. “How will I find him and how far away is away to the east?”

  The warriors exchanged looks until it seemed a consensus was reached. Turning back to Caros, the same youth spoke. “He is at the coast, seven or more days riding.”

  Caros spat into the dirt at his feet and cursed his luck loudly. “Well I would go right away, but my horse needs rest. I’ll leave tomorrow, one afternoon wont make a big difference after all.” He grinned and winked at the warriors and then took on a thoughtful expression. “In fact it might give me a chance to pay my respects to the priestess.” He started as though just realising he had spoken aloud and grinned again at the warriors. “Thank you for the advice. You are fine warriors. When I reach Hoyos I’ll tell him Montcal is in good hands.”

  His words lifted the young warriors’ shoulders and their chests filled out with pride at the compliment. They waved him on with wide grins. Since the night Neugen and he had stumbled upon the acolyte in Tagilit, he had sped across the land as though carried on wings crafted from whispers. Every worshipper he questioned told of a different village, mountainside or cave where he might find the witch. He followed each rumour of Catubodua that came to his ears until at times he thought the gods were laughing at him. He had noticed that many of the worshippers were younger warriors or older women. He therefore made it a habit to approach the young men first. Their initial mistrust could usually quickly be quashed with a well-told story or liberal amounts of the local drink, be it beer, ale or wine.

  The rich aroma of fresh breads flooded through the alley on a gust of warm air. Caros lifted his head and inhaled deeply, his mouth watering. Just as instructed, he followed the delicious aroma to the bakery where he found Matald. The dour lady dusted her flour-coated hands off on her dress and glared at him when he asked after a room. “That fool! As though we do not have enough to do already.”

  Caros’ eyebrows rose and he cocked his head. “I will pay now if you wish, otherwise I will find another place. Perhaps one of your number here…” He glanced around at the motley collection of women, most aged beyond their years by the hardships of the seasons. Some looked away and others stared back belligerently. He felt as though they would run him through with their stares. The hair lifted at his neck and his heart beat faster. He began to pull his purse from under his tunic when from a nearby alley, a warrior appeared followed by a boy child and a young woman. The warrior’s drawn face seethed with anger and resentment. Caros paused as the women turned as one to glance at the three. With their attention briefly diverted, Caros studied the hands of the women, their age and clothing. He noticed the deep baskets piled high with bread baked that day. As though sensing his thought, Matald spun back to him and shot out her hand, palm up in front of her. “I have work to do, where is your coin?” Caros smiled and dropped two silver staters into her palm. “Come then, bring the horse before its piss splashes the bread.”

  “May I have a loaf of bread? It has been days since I had a bite of hot bread.” She was already hurrying into the settlement and snapped over her shoulder that he could take just one.

  Caros grabbed a loaf fresh off the stones and juggling the hot bread in his hand, started after her, his mare at his shoulder begging for the bread. While blowing on the hot bread, he watched the warrior and his family. Unease settled on him and he resolved to be extra vigilant while here.

  To his relief the reluctant hostess departed the moment she had shown him where to stable his mare. Her monosyllabic answers had begun to annoy him and he itched to take a good look around the settlement. He walked tall through the rough paths that were the settlement’s streets. He kicked out at the village dogs brave enough to lunge at him, teeth bared, as he passed. A squall from an infant rose over the typical sounds of life in a settlement. He heard the men before he saw them, their deep voices rising and falling in indolent conversation. He crested a short steep path between two raw adobe walls and saw below him a scattering of men sitting beneath the shade of a tree growing beside a cantina. This was the place he sought. He ambled casually down the path towards the cantina and pasted a smile across his face. Two of the younger men spotted him and their conversation died. They eyed him suspiciously and one uttered something causing the rest of the men to glance up. Silence descended over the cantina. An aging man appeared at the doorway, the proprietor. Caros raised an arm, waved exuberantly and called out a greeting while quickly tallying the men. He approached deferentially and addressed the group as a whole, “Greetings, warriors of Montcal. I am Caros of the Bastetani, carrying a message for your chieftain, Hoyos.” As he spoke, he sized up the men. Most had sat up a little straighter to observe him while two had risen to their feet. Beside these two, he noticed a seated warrior with his broad back to Caros. Once Caros had introduced himself, this warrior tuned his head slowly to rake Caros with deep-set eyes beneath a high forehead. His mustachio was plaited and merged with his well-kept beard, also plaited. He wore his black hair loose,
so it fell like a veil across his shoulders and over half his face.

  Caros gestured to an empty bench. “May I join you? It is a cool afternoon and my blood sings for a cup or two of strong ale.” He smiled widely at the man who sat silent; meanwhile his blood ran to anger at the poor manners shown him by these men. He looked to the bald proprietor, thinking to send for ale enough for all the men. Perhaps a free drink on the unwelcome stranger would ease their hostility. The proprietor cocked and shook his head quickly before backing into the cantina. Caros was baffled at the reception, even hostile men would want to at least exchange news, especially with one who carried a message for their own chieftain. He held up his hands. “Please accept my apologies, I did not mean to intrude upon your meeting. I shall leave you in peace.” He inclined his head and turned away, aware of the warriors’ eyes on his back as he walked away. He was treading dangerous ground here. It could be that the village had all gone over to the worship of the ancient and bloodthirsty goddess. His long strides quickly took him back over the rise and into the settlement. Behind him, curses sounded and a growing clamor was silenced by a single deep voice.

  Returning to the gate through which he had arrived, Caros was heartened to see the same young warriors lounging beside it, exchanging bored words with the women returning from the fields. The women filed through the gate chatting quietly, nursing aching backs and tired from a hard day preparing the fields for spring. They fell silent when they spied Caros and passed as far from him as possible, none so much as catching his eye. A call came from the young warrior who had spoken with him earlier. “Hoy Caros! Did you get lost?” The warrior said something to his companions and rose to walk over to Caros.

  Caros smiled indulgently at the young, dark-hared warrior. “No, I just wanted to say thank you. Your mother agreed to let me use a room for the night. I appreciate it, by the way you never told me your name.”

  “I am Chartus son of Charrtaxus.”

  “Greetings Chartus, son Charrtaxus. So where is your father then?”

  “My father crossed the Land of Saur two seasons ago. He died in battle with the Celtiberi.”

  “Ah, I see. May his shade cross swiftly to Endovex.”

  “Endovex? Have you not heard that our shades are now claimed by the old goddess?” He looked sideways at Caros whose face had frozen. Chartus nodded sagely. “The priestess came this winter. She wears a cloak of raven feathers and a crown of beaks. She has a body that makes you hard and eyes that make you want to piss your braccae.”

  Caros stuttered for a heartbeat. “What goddess?”

  Chartus spat. “Catubodua.”

  Caros’ gaze was fixed on the spittle splashed in the dust of the road. “Her hair… it is the color of warm blood?”

  “The shade of red embers. She has many of the men here licking out of her hand.” A quick frown appeared. “You know of her?” The young warrior had an easy confidence and natural honesty that was easy to like.

  Ignoring the question, Caros asked, “I stopped at the cantina. The warriors there refused to greet me. Is this how they usually treat travelers?”

  Chartus’ shoulder lifted and dropped. “I should have warned you. Some of our young women have disappeared recently and many are afraid, suspicious of strangers and one another. There have been fights and blood spilled…unhappy times.” He looked at Caros with a strange expression. “One of these women was the girl I had hoped to take as my wife.” He looked to where his companions laughed at some jest as they played their game of dice in the dirt and then fixed Caros with a hard look. “You know it is this Priestess of Catubodua. Her followers have taken one you love?” The expression on Caros’ face was all the answer Chartus needed. “It is unnatural. Hoyos has no idea what to do. He is too afraid to confront her for he has no idea how many of the warriors will support her.”

  “She resides here in the settlement?” His mouth was dry with anticipation.

  Chartus pursed his lips. “There is a shrine she ordered built. It is beyond the settlement on a hill overlooking the rising sun. She keeps to it and villagers take food to her there.”

  “Do you know her name?” From the description Chartus had given, he was sure it was Carmesina.

  Again, Chartus spat, confirming to Caros the young warrior’s faith still rested with the more benevolent gods. “Carmesina, but do not mention it.”

  “It is true she is responsible for the death of the woman I loved. I must confide to you Chartus, I carry no message for Hoyos. I seek instead to resolve a blood-debt owed to me. I have searched for this priestess for some time now. Will you show me the way to this shrine?”

  Chartus’ eyes flickered nervously and his faced paled. He turned to eye his companions who occasionally threw curious glances their way. He turned back to Caros and with his voice lowered, answered. “It must be by night. By day we will be seen and Hoyos was wise to mistrust many of the men here.”

  Caros smiled grimly. “It is fortunate that I reside at your home then. I’ll leave it to you to judge when to leave as you know the distance we need to travel.”

  The moon was setting over the western mountains when the two paused in the deeper dark of a stand of trees. An owl hooted and a heartbeat later floated by on silent wings. Caros’ mare held steady while Chartus had to pat his own to still its nerves.

  “This is the place.” He whispered once his horse had calmed. They were at the foot of a hill, which rose gently before them. “You see the track leading to the shrine.”

  Caros could just make out the lighter shade of the path winding through the rocks that dotted the rise. The hillside was open with no substantial growth to mask an ascent. Anyone on watch would quickly notice even a dismounted man approaching. “There must be a path with more cover than this?”

  Chartus pointed to the southeast. “The back of the hill is too steep for a horse and too dangerous to climb in the dark. If you do not break a leg, serpents will finish you. They thrive there.” He shuddered and spat at mention of the reptiles. “Make your way to where the cliffs edge this slope and you might just be able to coax your mare up the old goat trail there.”

  “Sounds perfect.” He flashed a confident smile at the bemused young warrior. “You’ll remain here until I return?”

  Chartus hefted the warhorn Caros had given him. “Two long blasts if any warriors approach.”

  The goat tracked proved difficult to find and often petered out among the fissures and loose scree. More than once Caros thought he heard sibilant threats issuing from the deep cracks in the broken ground. His mare followed obediently, her head bobbing as she picked her way up behind him. The broken ground flattened and then fell away gently before rising again a short way to the summit. This created a shallow depression and its use was easy to recognize from the cloying stink of decay. Choosing to skirt the rot filled ground proved difficult for after a short distance it gave way to a steep cliff. The rock over which he trod was slick with decay and flies rose in furious waves. With his breath held fast, Caros inched across and then waited patiently as the mare followed, her hoofs clopping with surety against the rock. He grimaced at the sound, which seemed to explode into the dark. He waited cautiously once she had crossed, his hand caressing her neck absently as his ears sought sounds of alarm from the shrine. Chartus had said there might be one or two men here. The priestess rarely allowed a man to touch her, but she often watched as village men mounted her serving women or so went the rumour among the village youths. It was possibly just a lustful fantasy, typical of young men, but Caros could well imagine the priestess kept a small number of warriors close. For this reason he carried two darts in his shield hand with a third held ready in his right. Its shaft was shorter than his forearm and weighted with lead behind the iron blade, a blade honed to a lethal point, designed to penetrate deep.

  Dawn was teasing away at the night. A rooster crowed half-heartedly and Caros knew he must hurry before any early risers left their cots. Leaving the mare hidden behind a thicket,
Caros crossed swiftly to the nearest of three buildings. Rectangular and built of stone and adobe, with a deep thatch roof, it looked to be a dwelling place for the worshippers. Shifting to stare beyond the corner, Caros saw the two remaining buildings. One was a small squat place, built entirely of adobe. A solid looking door was the only feature and this was closed tight, a thick drop bar rested in its brackets, preventing the door from being opened. Barred from the outside, it could only mean one thing and in his heart, the last whispers of doubt at his actions evaporated. The final building was the newest and built of wood, the raw timber of split saplings still leaked sweet smelling gum. The shrine had three walls, the fourth side opened onto steps dug into the hard earth and faced east, allowing Caros only a partial glimpse into its heart. He squinted for a long while and then spat. The indistinct shapes there revealed no movement.

  Half crouching in the grey of first light, he ran swiftly to the barred door of the smaller building. He paused at the door and double-checked over his shoulder. There were no sounds from the larger building where he suspected the priestess resided with her guards. There were also no dogs and for that he had already thanked Runeovex. He sheathed the dart in the leather loop attached to the inside of his shield and using both hands, lifted the bar out of the brackets, trying not to bump or scrape it any more than necessary. He set it down to the side and saw the half circle worn into the earth. The door dragged. His eyes flashed with anger as he first lifted the door on its leather hinges and then pulled it open as quietly as possible. The smell of shit, blood and sweat poured from the dark hole. There was such a malignancy in this place that he stepped back, his shield arm lifting. He relaxed his right fist where it clutched at the pommel of his sheathed sword and cursed himself quietly. Ducking low, he stepped through the doorway, straining to pierce the gloom. The stink had dissipated only a little through the open door and by the little light that came in Caros could see only vague forms. His hearing rather than his sight told him what lay on the cold stone floor. Gasps of fear, the chattering of teeth and the splash of piss. Children.