Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  For two days Lyda was occupied with the task of building pyres and sending the numerous dead on to their ancestors. Two days in which she seethed with the need to recover her son. In the long hours of daylight, she toiled with axe and ox to cut trees and haul the fallen trunks to the valley. When night fell, she weighted the curtain of her home and sat in brooding silence, her thoughts filled in turn with fear, anger and despair. On the second night, just as her chin touched her chest and sleep began to curl through her mind, she started awake. Her hand sought her spear and she pulled herself to the edge of the cot, alert for the sound that had brought her to wakefulness. It came again, a scratching on the curtained doorway. She rose and in two strides was beside it.

  “Who seeks me?” She hissed.

  “I, the Herb Queen.” A muted voice answered.

  Lyda grimaced. “I did not send for you. What is it you want?”

  “Vengeance.” A pause. “Much the same as you.”

  Lyda frowned, but released the weighted curtain and drew it aside. “Come in.”

  “My thanks.” A shadowed figure stepped into the dark of Lyda’s home.

  Lyda felt for a lamp and struck a spark, igniting the oiled wick, tamping it to light the room and reveal the Herb Queen. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she eyed the woman before her. She was taller than Lyda and younger by more than a handful of years. Lyda noted that the woman’s eyes were ringed by dark circles and her hair was limp. She exuded an air of despair. No, not that. Rather, a reflection of Lyda’s own feeling of loss.

  The Herb Queen’s eyes roamed the small room, hitching at the empty cot in which Dubgetious would have been asleep, then settling on Lyda’s helmet and shield.

  “Drink?” Lyda lifted a jug.

  The Herb Queen’s eyes refocused and she shook her head. The woman’s hands were clutching her cloak tight to her bosom and Lyda intuitively knew why. Her own fatigue and turmoil fell away and she stepped forward and enfolded the young woman in her arms.

  The Herb Queen’s body went rigid, but after a tense heartbeat her shoulders slumped and then the woman was weeping silently onto Lyda’s shoulder.

  They spoke deep into the night. Owls hooted beyond the curtain, mice scrabbled through the thatch and bats shrilled under the eaves.

  The Herb Queen spoke of Beratza and the love they had found together. She talked of Dubgetious too and it was plain to Lyda that the Herb Queen admired the youth and had not resented Beratza’s desire to lay with him. Lyda held the Herb Queen’s hand tight when she told of the battle between the Bastetani and Hamilcar Barca’s warriors. Of her terror for Beratza when the gates were forced and how Beratza and Dubgetious had fought side by side every step. Tears streamed down the cheeks of both women as the Herb Queen recounted the final horrific moments of the battle when the bastard warriors of many tribes had rampaged through the village. The horrors were as vivid to Lyda as they were to the Herb Queen who had seen Dubgetious fall and Beratza’s violation and death.

  They drank. Lyda poured them cups of strong ale taken from the ale skin hung in a rock cistern dug into the floor of the house. It was icy and carried the scent of barley and yeast. Best of all, it numbed the pain of recollection and vivid images.

  “When do you wish to go?” The Herb Queen asked, tracing the rim of her cup with a finger stained black by the herbs she worked with.

  “I must speak with the warriors who rode with me. Four of them lost kin to the Barca’s warriors. There are two others here who may wish to ride with us.” Lyda replied at once. She had thought long about who she would ask to accompany her, never once considering the woman beside her.

  “You will allow me to ride with?” The usual confidence of the woman was like a memory of a past summer.

  Lyda looked deep into her dark eyes. “It would be an honour to have you ride with us.” She placed a hand over the Herb Queen’s own. “There is no need for you to carry a spear. Your administrations with herbs will be a great gift for I expect that before we return, there will be those of us that taste iron.”

  Chapter 4

  Autumn cold leeched the heat from his body, turned his feet numb and throbbed through his hips and spine. His cloak was of little use as it was damp still from an earlier river crossing. A log popped in a nearby fire, but what heat it gave off was felt by others, never reaching him where he lay on the cold ground and sharp-edged rocks. His shivering would have kept him awake if not the images that pulsed in his mind. He sent a plea to Endovex to bring him peace, to banish the memories, but they remained along with the cries. He turned stiffly, trying not to release the scant warmth from under his cloak. Footsteps crunched closer and a figure loomed at his feet.

  “Get your hand off your little spear and take a turn on watch.” The gruff order was punctuated by a painful kick delivered to his knee.

  Dubgetious jerked and hissed at the pain the kick ignited. Sitting quickly, he drew his legs up to avoid a second kick.

  “I have no spear.” He stood.

  “No need for a spear and even if there was, you would be a fool to think I would put one in your hands.” The Turdetani warrior bared his teeth and laughed aloud, engulfing Dubgetious with breath that reeked of offal.

  “Where?” The Bastetani youth asked.

  The Turdetani pointed at a row of wagons. “Circle them until sunrise.” His hand shot out, ensnaring Dubgetious by the elbow, squeezing with brute force. “If so much as a single ear of corn goes near your mouth, Bastetani, I will knock your teeth down your throat to fetch it back up.” Dubgetious stood silently and the Turdetani shook his elbow, trying to draw a protest of pain from the youth. Failing to do so, he thrust Dubgetious away. “Get on with it.”

  Dubgetious snatched up his cloak and tossed it over his shoulders before stalking off to the wagons. The very wagons that had been loaded with produce plundered from his own village. He thought he could smell the scent of newly smoked hams, but for once he had no appetite. He had watched hams, amphorae of oil and grain sacks been taken from stony faced villagers and stacked high in the wagon beds, leaving them precious little to survive on until the following season’s harvest.

  He had been awake since then and the sun was high when the column halted. Dubgetious sank to his knees at the side of the track the moment word was passed down the column. Since joining the Barca’s army, he had eaten nothing but a handful of over-ripe berries picked as he marched and a sliver of crust dropped by a wasteful Turdetani. Lightheaded and weary beyond measure, his eyes were closing when a Turdetani kicked him in the back. Dubgetious, wearing only his tunic, felt his skin split and fiery pain lit up his back as the hard-edged sandal struck. Snarling, he spun and caught the warrior’s foot with both hands. With a furious heave, he threw the man off balance. The warrior fell and Dubgetious dropped on him, his fist raised to slam into the bastard’s already crooked nose.

  A hand stayed his. “There are bad ideas and worse than bad ideas, Bastetani.” A tall warrior spoke, his fingers curled around Dubgetious’ wrist. “Hitting that creature is well into the very worst of ideas.” The warrior’s face was a mere shadow, but he spoke with deep authority.

  The Turdetani bucked and threw him. “I will flay your hide you worthless goat shit.” The Turdetani dragged a pitted bronze blade from a mangy leather sheath.

  “You will not! He is needed.” The other spoke. Dubgetious tried to make out the speaker’s features. “Here, you look like you are about to spew your water. Have you been fed?”

  Dubgetious’ eyes flicked to the Turdetani glowering at him and then back at the speaker. He shook his head. “Not since we gave our service to the Barca. None of us have.”

  The speaker stepped towards the Turdetani. “You play a dangerous game. No doubt you are selling their provisions on. Warriors need food so be sure these people all get their allotted rations.”

  Suspiciously, Dubgetious watched this dark-skinned warrior, darker even than the most sunburned Bastetani. He was tall, lanky even, but Dubgetiou
s knew such men often possessed muscles like cords of iron. The warrior turned to gaze at Dubgetious, his eyes black and close set with a large hooked nose curved over a thick, well-groomed moustache and beard.

  “You are the boy that spoke Greek to the general. Do many of your people speak that tongue?”

  Dubgetious shook his head. “No. I learned it from my mother.”

  “Well more fortune to you. How about horses? Ever ridden?” Dubgetious nodded. “Ah, the son of a leading man then. Well, we have need of messengers with an understanding of Greek. Are you willing?” Dubgetious hesitated, unprepared to be separated from his fellow Bastetani. Seeing his doubt, the warrior frowned. “You will receive a silver stater every tenday once you are accepted. More immediately though, you will sleep in a decent tent, get a new tunic and sandals and best of all, good rations.”

  Dubgetious’ stomach lurched, reminding him of his hunger. Unsure of what new challenges he would face, but unafraid of meeting them, he rose, dusted off his filthy tunic and nodded. “My name is Dubgetious, son of Venza. You have not told me your name.”

  The blow was sudden and vicious. The warrior did possess great strength and he was fast too. His cheek split across the bone and Dubgetious lurched back, eyes rolling.

  “Pay attention to the way you talk to me, Bastetani.” The warrior smiled coldly. “I am Berut of Sulci. Follow.”

  The Sulcian turned and walked on into the throngs of warriors pushing up the rutted tracks.

  The Turdetani spat and gave Dubgetious a malicious leer. “You think you are getting a cosy task.” His head shook as he laughed. “You will be begging to come back to our lowly ranks by sunrise.”

  Dubgetious shrugged and threw a vulgar gesture at the Turdetani before following Berut through the ranks of newly levied warriors. He remained silent, blood trickling unfelt from his swollen cheek, as the warrior sought out more who could converse in Greek. He was joined by three men and two women whom Berut decided held promise. All were older than him and all came from places to the south or west of which he had never heard.

  As they trudged along sullenly in Berut’s footsteps, Dubgetious tried to get a measure of the warriors that followed Hamilcar Barca. Since Berut concentrated his search amongst the newest arrivals, Dubgetious saw large numbers of Turdetani and many Turduli. These were warriors who had opposed Hamilcar Barca and been defeated like his own Bastetani.

  Towards evening, as the column slowed and spread out to build their camp for the night, Berut led the silent company through lines of warriors that came from far shores, greeting many by name. A crowd was growing around a circle of wagons, clamouring for rations. Berut bulled his way to the tailboard of a wagon guarded by two large warriors wielding clubs and fierce expressions.

  “I requisition a tent and clothing.” He turned to Dubgetious and the little group of silent strangers, appraising their tattered clothing. “Six tunics, pairs of sandals and belts. Oh, cloaks and blankets too.”

  Dubgetious thought the warriors would send Berut off with a curse, but one of them hopped from the back of the wagon and held out a hand. Berut pulled a pouch from within his tunic and dropped two silver staters into the outstretched palm along with a lead disc etched with symbols. Dubgetious shook his head in wonder for his mother had spoken of symbols that meant words and shown him some.

  Berut signalled Dubgetious forward along with another sturdy man. “Select a tent from among this lot.”

  Dubgetious glanced at his fellow who was eyeing him and nodded. Together they clambered onto mounds of folded tents, avoiding those with obvious damage and those that stank of rotted hide. Dubgetious pulled a goat hide tent free and rolled it over. It stank less and had fewer rips than the others he had examined. His companion looked over and shrugged.

  “Best of the lot I guess.”

  Dubgetious jumped to the ground and his companion laid the folded tent on his broad shoulders. It weighed as much as a full-grown warrior, but Dubgetious merely grunted and shifted it to a more comfortable position.

  The others had been busy collecting their new clothes and bedrolls and now Berut hustled them all closer to the centre of the camp. He halted them and turned, examining the half-erected tents nearby and the manner of men and women building them and lighting cook fires. Satisfied, he pointed a finger at Dubgetious.

  “You and your new fellows will set the tent up here.” He gestured to the two women. “You and you, come with me to fetch your meals. Tomorrow you will collect dry rations and prepare your own food.” Berut led the two silent women off to another circle of wagons.

  Dubgetious let the tent drop to the hard ground, raising a cloud of dust. He looked at the three men standing in a circle, every bit as lost as he was.

  “I have slept under my cloak for four nights and I do not care how bad this thing smells, I am going to sleep well within it tonight.” He grinned.

  The others looked on, faces emotionless. The man that helped select the tent reached under his tunic and scratched between his legs for a moment. “I almost pity the tent, because it is about to be overrun by the hungriest bastard lice in Iberia.”

  The others scratched in sympathy and grins spread on their dirt encrusted faces. Laughing, they began to unfurl the hide walls and count out the poles.

  Their role, the Sulcian explained on the morning of their first day, was to deliver messages and orders to those who did not know either Greek or the common pidging Greco-Phoenician dialect. The veteran warriors in Hamilcar Barca’s army had an easy patois that allowed them to converse despite their diverse cultures. The growing numbers of Iberian levies unable to follow orders were already the cause of friction in the camp and would cause confusion in battle.

  “Of you Iberians, Hamilcar Barca, The Thunderer of Carthage, expects his orders to be delivered word for word to those that do not speak in a civilised tongue.”

  In the days that followed, Dubgetious and his fellows were introduced to life in the Barca army and shown what was required of them. The Sulcian remained cold and commanding, expecting them to obey him unquestioningly. As Dubgetious had quickly discovered, the warrior used his fists at the slightest offence and each of them nursed bruises and swellings. For Dubgetious’ part, he was astounded by the order in the centre lines of the command, in the efficiency with which Hamilcar Barca and his leading men led the army and supplied the needs of the men and women who fought for the Barca’s aims in Iberia.

  The Sulcian’s cold hostility never thawed, not even as they became adept at identifying Carthaginian symbols and recognising orders trumpeted across the heads of the thousands of warriors. Dubgetious learned a little more of the warrior and his origins each day. Named Berut of Sulci, he was not a Carthaginian as Dubgetious had presumed, but had been a citizen of the city of Sulci on the island of Sardinia. The names meant little to Dubgetious, but the anger he saw in Berut’s face when he spoke of a faraway people who had stormed and sacked his city was frightening in intensity.

  Chapter 5

  The warrior feinted to her right and just as fast, came back at him off her right leg, shield held high and practice spear thrusting at his left thigh. Dubgetious twisted away and slapped his own spear down on her helmet, except she had anticipated his strike and instead, it was the rim of her shield that struck, taking him on his hip. He cursed at the pain and fell back with a gasp.

  Berut laughed while the others drummed their spears against their shields. The woman, a stocky warrior of the Turdetani, grinned at Dubgetious and flicked her wrist, making an obscene gesture. He sighed and limped from the circle. A warrior of the Turduli people stepped past him with a grin, ready to prove he could defeat the Turdetani woman. Dubgetious grabbed a waterskin and upended it over his mouth, gulping down the vinegar water. He was the most powerfully built of the messengers Berut had gathered and the youngest, yet he always lost in their occasional afternoon bouts. He sat down heavily and a greasy-haired fellow leaned close, fetid breath on Dubgetious’ cheek.

&nb
sp; “You lost to her on purpose. She has you by the sack, yes?” Fingers, so called because he only had eight of his ten fingers left, sniggered good naturedly.

  “I lost because… gods, I lost because she is better than me.” Dubgetious slapped his helmet in frustration. “You all are!”

  Fingers shoved his left hand in Dubgetious’ face, displaying the maimed limb proudly. “I too lost a fight or two, but I learned. That is all you have to do.”

  “Well I seemed to have learned well how poor a warrior I am. It is a good thing we messengers are not required to fight.”

  Fingers frowned. “You just need to be better than you were the time before.” He gripped Dubgetious’ nose with his maimed hand and tweaked it with a jeer.

  Dubgetious pushed the man’s hand away. “I would prefer not to lose any body parts while I am learning.” He rubbed his bruised hip and lifted his tunic to see a purple bruise spreading there.

  A horseman called from a distance and trotted on towards their little group. Berut rose to meet him and Dubgetious watched for a moment before his attention was claimed by the whack of spear on shield and the grunts of the two warriors sparring.

  “Watch their feet. See how they keep their balance? The first one to miss their balance will be the loser.” Fingers nodded sagely.

  Engrossed in the even contest, Dubgetious winced as Finger’s elbowed him in the ribs, drawing his attention to their leading man and the rider.

  “Something is up. Look at the bastard’s face. Like a pair of virgins just lifted their tunics for him.”

  It was true that Berut’s face was glowing with excitement. The others also noticed, even the two warriors sparring. Their blows faltered then stopped. The rider turned his mount and trotted away leaving Berut wringing the hilt of his sword. The warrior from Sulci spun around and smiled widely at them.

  “Who here is of the Oretani? None? That is good.” Berut clapped his hands loudly. “It is good because they wish to make war with us.”