Rise of the Spears

by J Glenn Bauer

  Dubgetious rubbed his bruised hip and shot a glance at Fingers. The messenger winked at him.

  “Now we will put what you have learned to good use.” Berut’s sudden enthusiasm was replaced by a glower. “Do not fail me and if any of you worms think to sow confusion by misspeaking orders, your death will be a thing of pain.”

  Throughout the afternoon, Berut stormed through the camp with Dubgetious and a dwindling band of messengers in tow. He and Fingers were the last two and then Berut gestured to Fingers, beckoning him to where he was consulting with three leading men.

  Fingers grunted and as he stepped away from Dubgetious’ side, he muttered to the Bastetani youth. “Do what you have to pup, no more. Hear my words.”

  Dubgetious sidled closer to hear what was being planned. He was confident the men Fingers was being assigned to were Greek mercenaries. They were not numerous and marched in column with a band of three hundred slingers and spears of the Turduli tribe. Fingers’ job would be to be sure the Iberians understood their orders and followed them.

  The discussion concluded, the men parted, Fingers following the three mercenaries. He looked back at Dubgetious and mouth the words he had last spoken.

  Berut frowned at Dubgetious. “Now who do I have left? Just you, young Bastetani.” He looked Dubgetious up and down. “You have plenty of muscle, but for now all I require is someone who can follow orders.”

  Dubgetious, frustrated at being the youngest, at having to endure the condescension of the others every time he lost a bout and at being last to be placed, snapped, “I have already fought and survived a battle.”

  Berut’s eyes hardened for just a moment before he dipped his chin. “You are right. Perhaps the worst kind of battle to survive.” He offered a hard smile. “You have a fast mind and have learned well.” He considered Dubgetious silently for a long moment before continuing. “You will be one of the messengers attending the General and his aides.”

  Dubgetious was lost in wonder. Wherever he turned, he saw men greater than the graybeards and leading men of his village and clan. Higher even than the petty kings that occasionally ruled. It had been so for the past two days, ever since Berut had taken him to the very centre of the lines, to the command compound in the midst of the Barca army. Now, a new tunic cinched tight at his waist and a pair of sandals of excellent leather, he watched from a half stade away as Hamilcar Barca strode from a large tent followed by a handful of warriors in shining armour. Hamilcar exchanged words with his sons, Hannibal and Hasdrubal, both younger than Dubgetious. Another Carthaginian, Abdmelqart laughed at Hamilcar’s words and passed a remark to a surly man whose name Dubgetious failed to recall. They mounted well cared for horses and circled. Hamilcar lifted his sword and pointed it north. A drum beat began and horns blared in response.

  Berut clapped a hand on Dubgetious’ shoulder. “Now, mount your horse and follow.”

  Dubgetious followed the commanders of the great army of many tribes, his tunic setting him apart from the many others that rode and marched around him. He listened to snatched comments and watched orders been passed to veteran messengers. These too, wore tunics with the symbol of the house of Barca, a ram headed man holding aloft a sceptre. Dubgetious smoothed his tunic and fingered the design embroidered there, his thoughts returning to his people, his mother and father. To Beratza.

  “You! Messenger! Are you deaf?”

  Startled back to the commotion surrounding him, Dubgetious swiftly looked for the owner of the voice and found a warrior glaring at him from just paces away. The man wore chain armour and fine leather. His curled beard fell to his chest, gleaming with scented oils.

  Dubgetious nodded, speechless, not knowing what message or order the man had spoken.

  The warrior spat in disgust. “Find Alkmaeon the Greek. Tell him Hamilcar orders his warriors to take the right.”

  “Alkmaeon the Greek?”

  “Here.” The warrior tossed a small leather pouch to Dubgetious. “You speak the Greek tongue, yes?”

  “I do.” Dubgetious caught the pouch and felt the shape of a heavy disc within.

  “Return to me once you have delivered the message.”

  Dubgetious stammered, still unable to recall who the leading man was. There had been so many strange names to remember.

  The warrior glowered at him. “You do not know who I am? By the gods! You are one of Berut’s messengers are you not?”

  “Apologies. I am newly trained.”

  “Curses. Win a battle with this we will not.” The warrior rolled his eyes. “I am Hasdrubal.”

  Knowing he had failed an important test, Dubgetious tucked the message pouch inside his tunic, dreading Berut’s reaction when he learned that he had forgotten the name of one of Hamilcar’s leading generals.

  He rode past a column of warriors who were goading one another as they pressed forward up a steep hill. Their taunts turned on him as he rode by and he urged his mount on faster. A familiar shrill trumpeting echoed over the hills as he crested the rise ahead of the warriors and pulled on the reins of his mount. Oretani warriors occupied the next hill and there were many hundreds, perhaps thousands even for more appeared with every heartbeat.

  Remembering his purpose, Dubgetious wheeled his mount, seeking the Greeks and the one called Alkmaeon. He had no idea where to find him. The warriors he had passed were coming within range and a slinger sent a rock bouncing at the feet of his mount, causing it to whinny and rear back on its hind legs. Dubgetious held on grimly even as the warriors laughed and jeered him.

  Angry now, Dubgetious glowered at the slinger, a tall man dressed only in braccae, his chest bare.

  “I am a messenger for the Barca. Do that again and your sack will find its way down your throat.” Dubgetious growled.

  “Ho! Big threats from a little sack with no spear!”

  Dubgetious was conscious of the time wasting away and the enemy gathering at his back. “I seek the Greeks. Alkmaeon?”

  The slinger looked at his fellows as they crowded closer, eyebrows raised. “Should we tell him?”

  “Go on. He looks a good sort and maybe he will dip his head under your tunic.” Dubgetious turned crimson as they laughed. He gritted his teeth and was about to drive his heels into the mount’s flanks when the slinger held up a hand.

  “No, we jest young fellow. Alkmaeon, eh? The Greek?”

  Hopeful, Dubgetious nodded.

  The slinger pointed to the rear of the column. “He and his kind are back at the rear. Best hurry along with that message.”

  “My thanks!” Dubgetious sent his mount scrabbling down the track, furious that he had passed the Greeks somehow. He heard the laughter of the slingers at his back but paid them no heed.

  He reached the bottom of the hill and a warrior stepped into his path. Dubgetious pulled hard on the reins and again his horse went up on its hind legs.

  “Why do you bar a messenger’s path?” Dubgetious shouted, frantic now.

  The warrior shook his head and pursed his lips. “They sent you to the rear to look for the Greeks. You will not find Alkmaeon there. He and his column are marching along that tree line east of us.” The warrior pointed and Dubgetious saw a column of warriors that looked very much like the Greek mercenaries.

  “Then why send me to the rear?”

  “You do not know what they say about the Greek’s love of men?” The warrior shook his head. “Never mind. Best go before someone thinks you have stolen away on that fine mount.”

  “Thank you!” Dubgetious’ nerves were taut as he spun his mount to the east. Racing across the face of four columns, he endured jeers and laughs from all sides. His head pounding and tears of anger in his eyes, he galloped his mount to the head of the Greek column where a knot of warriors rode.

  The Greek, Alkmaeon, took the message pouch from Dubgetious and weighed it before tossing it back. “I am to take the right he says? It is good then that I was doing just that.” He eyed Dubgetious and his lathered mount. “You spe
d here fast to tell me this. Could you not tell I was already on course?”

  Dubgetious opened his mouth to answer, but no words came to him. He felt humiliated all over again. The Greek’s lips twitched as though reading his thoughts and the warrior edged his mount up beside Dubgetious, leaning close to him.

  “We all make mistakes. It is the lessons we learn from them that count.” He turned and signalled to his column to continue, leaving Dubgetious blinking beside the marching men.

  Chapter 6

  The battle was short. Dubgetious, having returned to confirm to Hasdrubal that Alkmaeon had received the message, trailed after the commanders led by Hamilcar. From the crest of the hill he had ridden up earlier, the battle lines were clear and with an ear out for any new orders, Dubgetious watched the warriors close to within spear throw of the enemy. The Oretani held the higher ground and refused to surrender it as three ragged lines of Turdetani warriors advanced on their centre. Spears flew and slingers on both sides ran into the ground between the lines to hurl their slingshot at the enemy. Warriors fell sporadically and were dragged back by their kin. The Turdetani levies refused to close with the Oretani and Dubgetious heard Hamilcar’s oaths from where he sat ready on his mount. Two messengers were dispatched to the flanking columns, the Greeks on the right and a force of horsemen on the left.

  The Greeks marched forward, taking an easier slope toward the Oretani who began to mass on that flank. Dubgetious watched in fascination as the Greek warriors beat their spears on their shields and made steadily for the Oretani in a column twenty warriors wide and a hundred deep. Oretani spears began to fly, rising and dropping among the Greek warriors. Now the Turdetani pressed forward, encouraged by the fearlessness of the Greeks. The Oretani noticed and a hundred or more of their warriors charged the Turdetani, old enmities surfacing. Dubgetious thought the brave Oretani would quickly be cut down by the more numerous Turdetani, but was surprised at how easily they hacked their way into the Turdetani who at once faltered.

  The Greeks were within strides of the Oretani, their trail littered with men speared by the numerous Oretani spears launched at them. The Oretani facing the Greeks backed up, keeping open ground between them and the now visibly labouring Greeks. Dubgetious jumped as a hand clapped his shoulder. He turned wide eyes on Berut who frowned at him.

  “See how we crush our enemies, Bastetani.” Berut shoved a chin towards the warriors, his eyes glinting in the weak sun. “You were given a message to deliver?”

  “I was. By Hasdrubal.” Dubgetious kept his eyes on the unfolding battle.

  “The Oretani think we will cower from their few spears. They will learn in moments what a real battle is.” Berut pointed off to the west.

  A flutter of movement there caught Dubgetious’ eye and then was gone, leaving in its wake a smudge of dust. He squinted and noticed the dust growing and in the next moment a line of horsemen crested the rise, riding hard at the Oretani’s right flank. They stood rooted for a long heartbeat as the riders poured over the crest in ever-increasing numbers.

  Now the Greek column, all but on its knees with exhaustion moments before, leaped forward, all pretence of exhaustion gone. Closing the gap the Oretani had carefully maintained in two bounding strides, they plunged their long spears into bare chests and shrieking faces.

  With the horsemen pressing their right and the Greeks assailing their left, the Oretani lost their nerve. They broke, fleeing in groups, kin and clan racing for the higher hills at their backs and the dense tree line there.

  “See there, Bastetani! Hamilcar is unstoppable!” Berut’s mount skittered, sensing the excitement of its rider.

  More yells and jeers sounded from around him and Dubgetious realised the other messengers, his fellow trainees, had returned. He spotted Fingers and gave him a brief nod.

  Berut cursed and Dubgetious’ eyes went once again to the scene being played out before them. The Oretani, lightly armed and with no heavy armour had disengaged from the Greeks and were scattering into the trees at their backs. This was by far the largest concentration of their warriors.

  The horsemen had dispersed the enemy at their front and many were now hunting down fleeing groups of warriors, hurling their light spears at close range into the running Oretani. Dubgetious gasped when he saw a spear pass through a warrior’s back to emerge an arm’s length from his chest. The warrior crumpled in a heap of flailing limbs. The same horseman had another spear in the air less than a heartbeat later, taking another warrior through the neck. Dubgetious’ mouth remained open, awed at the horseman’s speed and accuracy with the spears that were barely longer than an arrow.

  He blurted the question that formed in his mind. “Who are those riders?”

  Berut spat. “Masulians. When they are not fighting Carthage, they are taking its silver to fight its enemies.”

  The hillside the Oretani had occupied was now just a pall of dust from this distance and little could be seen of the fighting, but the Oretani were no longer a threat. Already horns were sounding to gather Hamilcar Barca’s army. Another victory to the Carthaginian. Dubgetious shook his head in wonder and thought of Batrun’s folly in trying to stand against such a formidable force as this one. Was there a single tribe that could prevail against such numbers and skill? No, thought Dubgetious. Impossible.

  Hamilcar Barca ordered the army to march north that very afternoon, surprising Dubgetious once again. Victories should be celebrated. Ale drunk, beasts slaughtered and roasted. Men and women should dance and couple. At the very least, the fallen should be sent to their ancestors on pyres and the wounded given time to rest and recover or die so that their shades could travel through Saur’s lands. He was helping his companions dismantle their tent and load a wagon with their provisions. A deep groan from the far side of the wagon stopped them where they stood. Fingers put a finger to his lips and quickly leaped onto the wagon. His jaw fell as he stared at what lay on that side.

  “By the gods. What are you doing? Get him to a healer!” Fingers shouted.

  Dubgetious sprang around the tail of the wagon and stopped short. Two blood besmeared warriors were dragging a third between them. Dubgetious had seen the horrors caused by blades wielded in battle, but the sight of the bare-chested warrior hanging limply between his two kin shocked him into silence. The warrior’s torso was flayed wide open, ribs gleaming white amidst pink sinewy flesh.

  The stricken warrior chose that moment to lift his chin, eyes bright with pain and the knowledge of impending death. The slinger that had made a fool of him locked eyes with Dubgetious. The Bastetani youth lifted a hand and made a gesture to Endovex to guard this man’s shade across the land of death to which he was surely going soon.

  “There are no healers you goat-turd!” One of the dying warrior’s kin snarled.

  Fingers scrambled off the wagon, his face flushed. “Then end his agony.”

  “What is it to you? Get out of our way.”

  Fingers stared in horror at the ruin of the slinger’s body and stepped hastily aside, allowing the men to proceed.

  “Find your Greek, young messenger?” The slinger slurred as he passed and his eyes fixed on Dubgetious, a crooked, pain-wracked smile on his face.

  Dubgetious dipped his head in respect. If he were ever so injured, he hoped that he too could show such courage.

  The companions followed their wagon on their newly granted mounts. None uttered a word as they crossed the killing ground, passing first the bodies of the Greek and Turdetani warriors and then the thick tumble of Oretani corpses. There were figures sliding between the dead, shrouded and furtive even in the harsh afternoon glare. Small blades glinted in their hands as they worked and Dubgetious shivered when he heard a plea for mercy from a fallen warrior cut short by the scavenger’s blade.

  “Scum!” Fingers spat and fidgeted at his belt for the blade he would have carried if he were permitted.

  “Where do they come from?” Dubgetious asked.

  Fingers stared at him for a
moment, surprise on his face. “Where do they… they are our camp followers.”

  The Turdetani messenger woman who had bested Dubgetious in training rode up beside him and grinned humorously at him. “Good reason not to taste iron.”

  Dubgetious vision of war was changing with every step he took in Hamilcar Barca’s footsteps.

  Berut signalled to Dubgetious from up the column and the Bastetani kicked his mount into a canter, glad to flee the shades that lurked in that place.

  The Sulci warrior’s glare was filled with malice and Dubgetious guessed Hasdrubal had spoken of his ignorance. He drew up beside the warrior, teeth gritted with apprehension. There was no telling what punishment he might receive, but it would be harsh, he was certain.

  “You are to ride to a Turduli village north west of here and deliver a message to Eshmun, the Carthaginian commander there.” Berut shoved the familiar message pouch into his hands. His voice lowered to a lethal hiss. “You failed me today and I will not forget that. Fail to deliver this message and I will have the skin whipped from your back.”

  Dubgetious swallowed, his mouth dry, and took the pouch. “I do not know the country here. Does this village have a name?”

  Berut gestured with his chin at two riders walking their mounts nearby. “They know the road. Follow them and do not be delayed.”

  Dubgetious looked at the riders that were to accompany him. They were Masulians, the riders from Africa so skilled with their throwing spears.

  “You should reach Eshmun by sundown tomorrow.” The warrior whistled and the Masulian riders glanced over their shoulders at him. He rattled off orders in a tongue that was incomprehensible to Dubgetious and then with a final piercing stare at him, turned away.

  The Masulians turned their mounts and circled him, their expressions hidden behind the linen that covered their faces and heads, leaving only their eyes visible.

  Cold fingers traced up Dubgetious’ spine and he wondered if Berut had ordered these two to kill him. He hefted the message pouch in his hand and dismissed the idea. If he had wanted Dubgetious dead, he could just as easily have killed him in front of Hamilcar. Dubgetious had no illusions about his value in this army.