Nemesis

by C. R. May

  Even above the noise of the battle that raged all around him, Solemis heard the panicked cries of his clansmen as they fought their way across to come to his aid, but a snatched glance told the desperate Gaul that they would arrive too late. As the Roman raised his sword to administer the killing stroke, Solemis threw his body back along the spine of his horse. The blade hissed inches above his outstretched body, and Solemis rolled from the back of his mount in one slick movement.

  Lucius spat a curse as his sword cleaved the air and hauled back on the reins as the Roman rorarii on the crest above roared their encouragement. Solemis skipped and ducked as he sought to keep Tantibus between himself and the Roman while he desperately searched the ground for a discarded weapon. Several javelins from the earlier onslaught had fallen short, and Solemis grabbed at Tantibus’ bridle as he guided the horse across to them. The war horse seemed to understand that his master needed help, and he pushed his way between the men as Solemis made a dive for the javelin and rolled back onto his feet.

  Lucius lashed out at the horse with the flat of his sword as he forced his mount through. A quick glance confirmed to the Roman that several Celts had extricated themselves from the fight and were desperately trying to come to the chieftain’s aid, but the distance was still great and he felt the thrill of victory course through him as he knew they would fail. A momentary flash of burning buildings, hanged bodies and wailing women came into his mind as he stared down at the man responsible. The memory flooded him with anger, and his sword came crashing down to sever the metal point from the javelin his enemy had scooped up from the detritus of war. The fight was won, and he allowed himself a small smile of triumph as he brought his blade back across to knock the flimsy shaft of the dart to one side. He knew in his heart that this was the man who had inflicted so much destruction on the people of his city, but he grudgingly recognised the man’s courage as he finally seemed to accept his fate, standing unflinching as he awaited his god to ferry him below.

  Steeling himself for the end, Solemis watched in disbelief as Tantibus turned back and bared his teeth. Rodolfo had tried to describe the ferocity that made an expertly trained war horse such a thing of fear on the battlefields of the southern lands, but this would be the first time that the Horsetail would witness the savagery for himself. As the Roman raised his sword again to take his prize, Tantibus reared and kicked the air with his forelegs. Before the man realised that he was in any danger, a hoof crashed down into his skull, spraying blood and bone in a crimson arc as the decurion was hurled from the saddle. Solemis looked on in amazement as the horse, its blood up, curled its lip into a snarl and snapped at the neck of the Roman’s horse in an effort to reach the body of its rider. The horse was driven aside and Tantibus reared and fell, again and again, pummelling the body of the Roman until it was little more than a bloody smear on the hillside.

  Solemis attempted to push the scene from his mind as he rallied his thoughts. The fight still needed to be won, and although it had taken the war-spite of a horse to save him from certain death Solemis was accustomed to the violence of battle. The gods were forever dreaming up ways in which warriors could lose their lives for their entertainment; death by horse was far from the most bizarre end he had witnessed. Solemis stooped to gather the Roman’s shield and sword, and walking across he remounted as Berikos and Druteos finally came up to throw a protective cordon around their chief. Solemis ran a grateful hand the length of Tantibus’ neck as he shared a grin with his men. Berikos was still staring wide-eyed at the gore spattered forelegs of the horse in disbelief, and Solemis laughed at the sight. ‘Extra oats for someone tonight!’

  Albiomaros had managed to disengage himself from the fight and he led half a dozen men across as the Horsetails began to reform on their chieftain. Before they could arrive Solemis had seized the moment, and he drove Tantibus up the incline towards the now silent ranks of Romans. The joy of victory had been replaced by sudden and horrific defeat and the confidence of the skirmishers had sluiced away like water from an overturned pail. It was the perfect opportunity to hit them hard, and Solemis yelled his war cry as he bore down on the disorganised men lining the hill crest.

  As he reached the brow of the hill he could see that the rear ranks, the natural gathering place of the weaker and less able, were already streaming away into the safety of the trees. A robust assault here would keep them running all the way back to the city, and the young chieftain yelled again as he plunged into their ranks. All it would take was a well-coordinated counterattack to bring him down, but Solemis hacked like a madman to left and right, and the demoralised men shrank back before his vicious onslaught. Within moments his clansmen were up with him, and they screamed their war lust as they drove a wedge into the enemy line. All of a sudden they broke, streaming away as the Horsetails chased the fleeing Romans into the wood, their longswords swinging to hew the fugitives down by the score.

  Solemis curbed Tantibus at the base of the slope and hauled on his reins as he looked back up at the fighting. Large numbers of men at the rear of the main Roman position had watched the fate of their flank, and Solemis knew that a decisive strike there could decide the fight. Gathering his men he blinked the stinging sweat from his eyes, pointing with his sword as he called out to them. ‘Back! Back! Hit them again!’

  Cantering across the back slope of the hill he watched with savage delight as hundreds of the Roman skirmishers began to stream towards the safety of wood, casting aside their weapons in their haste to reach safety. Tantibus leapt a dip in the hillside as he climbed back towards the fray, and Solemis glanced down in wonder as he recognised the impression in the grass made by his torso only a few hours before. The brow of the hill came up quickly and he saw the familiar sight of Caturix’s helm less than twenty yards away as it swept to left and right in time with the scything arc of his blade. The hill was almost theirs; a final push and it would fall.

  Eleven

  They were less than a day away from the castro when the horsemen appeared on the low ridge line to the south. Philippos’ young eyes had been the first to pick them out against the browns and greens of the grassland that the locals called the meseta; the carter, Caciro, had cursed the delay caused by the broken wheel as he scourged the oxen. Catumanda twisted on the bench and looked back as the riders shadowed the road. ‘Who are they?’

  Caciro turned his head and spat into the dust before replying. ‘Lusitani. It is best that you ignore them and hope that they have better things to amuse themselves with. The boy can keep an eye on them for us.’ He moved his head to the side and called over the rumble of wheels. ‘Philippos: just watch them and let us know if they look to be heading this way.’

  The young Greek rested his back against the side panel of the wagon and settled down as if unconcerned by the sudden appearance of the armed party, and Catumanda smiled at the boy’s composure. The druid moved a hand inside her tunic and ran her fingertips across the handle of her new moon blade. She had not yet had the opportunity to use the blade in anger, and she found to her surprise that she was hoping that the riders would attack.

  They had been travelling east now for almost two weeks. Olindico had escorted them back to the smithy where Uxentio had proudly presented the finished blade to a delighted Catumanda, before the druid had arranged their onward passage by boat. The same River Dubro that emptied into the sea at Cale cut through the uplands of the interior, almost to the great hill-fort at Numantia. The sheer-sided walls of the valleys and canyons through which the great waterway passed had kept the little party safe from the bandits and war bands that plagued Iberia, and the watercourse had led them unerringly towards the Greek trading city that was their ultimate destination.

  Emporion lay on the north-eastern coast of the great peninsula, and Olindico had assured his fellow druid that she would find a ship there to take the young boy home to the Greek settlements on Sikelia. Transferring to the cart as the river grew ever narrower and wilder as it neared its source, the pair had
been delayed by a broken wheel. Now it would seem that the gods were to provide one more delay before they reached the safety of the castro. Philippos called out from the bed of the cart as the oxen laboured on. ‘They are coming down off the ridge and moving towards us, Caciro.’

  With all his hopes dashed the carter drew back his arm to whip the lumbering oxen on. Catumanda touched his arm, causing him to pause in mid action. She raised her voice above the rumble of the wheels as he did so and leaned in. ‘How far is it to the castro?’

  Caciro looked confused for a heartbeat but finally answered. ‘Six… seven miles. Why?’

  She glanced across his shoulder at the oncoming horsemen. The whites of their faces were already visible, they would be up on them in no time. ‘It is senseless to run, and we can’t outdistance them anyway. Keep to a steady pace and tell me all that you know about them.’

  Caciro hesitated. Everything told him to delay the confrontation for as long as possible, but the wisdom of the druid’s words was undeniable. He lowered the goad, his pallor betraying his anxiety. ‘They will be young warriors led by a war chief, elected from among their number. They roam the land like a pack of wolves with no settled home. A few of the tribes speak our tongue but those further south,’ he spat in disgust, ‘babble away in gibberish, and they are practically feral. They are bound to this leader by a code of honour which they call devotio. It is the most important thing to them – it is far more important than their lives that they uphold this. Whatever you do,’ he glanced down to the place where he knew Catumanda kept her moon blade hidden, ‘do not kill the chieftain unless you intend to kill them all. They will be honour-bound to kill you, even if it means their destruction.’

  Philippos’ head appeared as he thrust it between them. ‘They are splitting up. Three of them are going on ahead while the others are still coming straight for us.’ He threw Catumanda an impish smile. ‘Are you going to kill them all?’

  She pushed his head back and stifled a smirk. Despite their numbers she was confident that she could if the need arose, and she was proud of the boy’s confidence in her. The three outriders came into view, sweeping around in an arc to cut them off as a pair of hoopoes clattered into the air before them, their distinctive orange crests flashing in the late afternoon sun as they beat the air with panicked wings.

  Catumanda glanced behind. There were four further Lusitani there who split up into pairs as she watched, taking up positions a little way off each corner of the tailgate. Each man, she could now see, still wore circlets of leather around his head, and she relaxed a little. She knew that this was where the warriors of Iberia stored their slings, and the fact that they were still stowed away gave her hope that there was discipline among them. The deadly accuracy of the Iberian slingers was legendary even to a lass from the north, and she was acutely aware that they could have remained at distance and picked them off with ease if they had wished to do so.

  Ahead, the three others had gained the road and taken up a position to halt their progress, and Catumanda watched as Caciro hauled at the reins and brought the great beasts to a halt twenty paces away. The riders walked their mounts towards them and Catumanda studied them as they approached. For an irregular war band the men were dressed remarkably similar; these men were obviously more than a band of cut throats. Each of them wore a war shirt made of small bronze plates over a short tunic and calf-length leather riding boots. Arm rings in silver and gold encircled their upper arms, and each warrior wore a bowl type helmet in bronze. The man who was obviously their leader wore an iron helm, tall and crested, and Catumanda saw from the typically Celtic swirls that decorated its cheek pieces that it alone must have been a spoil of war. Although armed with a long spear known as a falarica, she saw that each man also carried a single edged sword, the falcata, suspended from a baldric. A small round buckler-type shield known as a caetra lashed to the saddle horns completed the warriors’ arms.

  Catumanda watched the other riders move up out of the corner of her eye as the leader addressed Caciro. ‘What is in the wagon my friend?’

  Caciro cleared his throat, and the druid heard the quiver in his voice as he replied. ‘Salt from the coast, mainly. Plus a few barrels of wind-dried and salted fish.’

  The Lusitanian nodded and spoke to one of his men in what Catumanda assumed must be this language called gibberish, and she felt the carter sag a little beside her. Turning back, he addressed her directly. ‘You are a druid, yes?’

  She glanced at her distinctive holed staff that was resting against her shoulder and pulled a mocking smile. ‘You are very observant, for a bandit.’

  Catumanda felt Caciro stiffen at her side but their priorities were different. He was hoping to get away from the situation with his life, and if possible with a little of his valuable goods. She, on the other hand, was spoiling for a fight. She felt as if she had abandoned any control over her destiny the moment that she had set foot on the Alexa, back on the foreshore at Isarno. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling, and she had resolved it was one that would end here, now.

  The Lusitanian snorted softly at the insult and smiled. She could see why he was the leader of the band – sensible, level-headed and calm. He spoke again to his companion in the language of his people, and the man urged his horse forward with a slight pressure of his knees. ‘We will each fill a bag with salt and share a barrel of fish between us as a token payment for the use of our road.’ He paused to emphasise the menace that backed up the words. ‘With your permission.’

  Catumanda felt the sense of relief that emanated from the man at her side that he would escape the meeting with the heavily armed band with so little loss. Caciro eagerly accepted. ‘Yes! Yes! Take as much as you need.’

  As the horseman drew level the druid moved her staff across to block his path, holding the leader with her gaze. ‘No – that will not be possible.’

  The man checked his horse and looked back for instructions. Catumanda felt the carter deflate like a pricked water skin at her side as the Lusitanian hardened his face. In truth, the druid recognised that the man had asked for as little from Caciro’s stock as he dare without losing the respect of his men. She had no doubt that it was out of regard for her and her relationship with the gods, but the challenge had now been made and a death must inevitably follow. The Lusitanian made one last attempt at avoiding bloodshed and Catumanda, to her surprise, found herself beginning to sympathise with his position. She steeled herself to finish what she had begun as he addressed her again. ‘I believe that the goods belong to the man sat beside you. He seems more than willing to make a gift of what little we ask.’

  She fixed him with a stare, repeating her challenge with menace. ‘No.’

  Pushed beyond the limits of self-control the Lusitanian’s face flared with anger and he snapped a command. Immediately the horseman at her side clicked his tongue to move the horse forward, but Catumanda swung the staff back and around as he did so. As it swept through the arc she let the shaft slide through her hands until they gripped the stave at its base. In a blur of movement, the staff whispered through the air to strike the warrior on the rear of his helm with a mighty crack. Taken unawares the raider shot forward to strike his face on the neck of his mount, before slipping from the saddle and slumping to the roadway in a cloud of dust. A deep-throated cry rent the air as his companions drew their falarica, and Catumanda raised her voice to cry above the hubbub. ‘The goods are available!’ She waited as the chieftain held his arm out to placate his men. ‘At a fair price.’

  The chieftain glowered at her but waited for her to continue. They both knew that Catumanda was solely responsible for the stand-off, and she could sense his anger as she stated her terms. ‘I want to fight one of you.’

  Caciro poked her to gain her attention, but her mind was set and she shrugged him aside. She knew which warrior opposite would answer the challenge, and it was not the chieftain – he looked far too canny.

  As the leader translated, the Lusitani
shared looks of bemusement at the unexpected demand. One of their number however brightened immediately, and Catumanda watched as a gap-toothed grin cut a line in his beard. The face above the beard was puffy, still bearing the pock marked scars of some childhood disease and framed by lank hair the colour of crow wings. An angry scar ran vertically across one eye, the pale unseeing orb adding to the sense of menace that cloaked him as the man accepted the challenge and slipped from his mount.

  Catumanda handed her staff to Philippos and hopped down from the wagon, drawing her new moon blade as she did so. Her opponent emerged from behind his horse, rolling his shoulders and jabbing with his spear as he loosed muscles and joints stiffened by a day in the saddle. As Catumanda went through her stretches and practice sweeps the Lusitani chieftain called an instruction to his man: ‘falcata!’

  The man glanced across and shrugged, confident of victory over the strange-looking girl before him. By the time that he had returned from swapping the weapon Catumanda was prepared. Dropping into a crouch her body swayed from side to side as she rolled on the balls of her feet, fixing her eyes on the Lusitanian like a snake about to strike.

  Surprised at her prowess her opponent circled warily as he began to swing the curved blade in short circular movements. All at once he snapped forward, amusement dancing in his eye as he made the girl jump back. A rumble of laughter and cries of encouragement came from his mounted brothers as the warrior made Catumanda dance away from a series of feints, and she watched closely as confidence returned to his movements. Little more than a knife, the moon blade had none of the reach of the Lusitanian’s sword, and the warrior drove the druid back in a series of slashing attacks. The other raiders were shouting now, egging on their man as his superiority became obvious, and the girl ducked and swayed away from his powerful strikes.