“You thought to slip away in the night, Bastetani. Do you know the penalty for that?” The Gaul, their commissar and the Herb Queen’s patient, strode towards her. A torch flared brightly followed by several more. They were surrounded and outnumbered.
Hearing the sudden clamour of her companions and sensing their own blades lifting, Lyda held her hand up.
“Hold!” She cast a meaningful look at her people before turning to the Gaelic warrior. “We are hungry. You know this. We go to find provisions.”
The Gaul grinned. “You go to burn our provisions is what you mean.”
Lyda’s mouth opened in surprise. Had they been betrayed? Surely none of her people had done this, but perhaps one of Chalcon’s?
“Your face condemns you, Bastetani. You will be taken alive to the Carthaginians. The rest we will kill here.” He raised a fist and his warriors hummed from the back of their throats, preparing to kill.
“We planned to burn just a few wagons to cover our tracks. Make it look like hill riders from the Turdetani.” Lyda shouted desperately.
“Liar! Kill them!” The Gaul swung his spear, slamming the haft into her head. Staggered by the blow, she fumbled for her blade, but her vision was clouded and her ears filled with a roar.
Spears lifted and shields cracked around her as the Gauls attacked her small group. Another blow slammed across her shoulders and she toppled to the ground, hearing Tascux’s anguished roar as her senses failed.
Dubgetious, lifted his chin, breaking from his faraway thoughts. The clang of blades carried on the night wind. He was on sentry duty in the middle of the night once again, the wet wood smoking moodily in a brazier, doing little to warm him.
“Do not piss yourself, Bastetani.” A deep voice called from nearby. “It is no doubt just a few deserters caught trying to sneak away.”
He shivered despite the heavy coat he wore over his padded armour. He had seen tens of deserters executed that very morning and their deaths were humiliating and excruciating. Conditions among the warriors must be extreme if men and women were prepared to risk such deaths.
“The sun will be up soon. You ready for what is to come?” His fellow sentry stepped closer, his armour gleaming and his flat face a darker shadow in the night.
For a moment, Dubgetious thought he meant the execution of the deserters until he remembered. Hamilcar planned to storm the Oretani town the following day.
“I am.” He rubbed the crafted hilt of his sword although he knew he was unlikely to be included in the warriors sent to attack.
“Not the fighting bit. They will not send you, yet.” The Libyan sentry laughed. “The fun afterwards? When we get to ransack the place?”
Dubgetious saw Beratza’s face as she fell. Heard her screams fade to gags and retching before gurgling away to silence. He blinked and let his blade slide back into the leather covered wooden sheath.
The sound of fighting had given way to a few yells and hoots and for their sakes he hoped the would-be deserters had died quickly.
Hamilcar Barca sat his mount at the front of a thousand warriors. The eastern sky was birthing the sun of a new day and the Carthaginian warrior had his face lifted, eyes closed and nostrils flared. Breathing in the power of dawn.
Dubgetious sat his mount silently, his mood dark as the night just past. Drums began a slow beat and the silent ranks of warriors, Libyans, Turdetani, Greek and Gaul, began to clap their spear shafts against their shields.
Rousing himself, he looked across the ruined fields towards the walls of the Oretani town, lined with warriors, their spears held ready. He imagined the cold fear coursing through the men and women standing there and preparing to sell their lives dearly to keep their kin free.
Amma’s mount snorted and pranced. “Now, now. You like a good fight, eh?” He patted her neck affectionately and cast a glance at Dubgetious.
“What is it that has so soured on your tongue then?”
“Is it true that Hamilcar ordered no lives spared?” Dubgetious asked.
Amma grunted. “True, but even so they will not all be killed. Those who survive the fighting and looting will be taken as slaves. He wishes the next Oretani town to know that resistance means death.”
The drum beat had quickened and lifted, the massed warriors were roaring and then moving. They spread across the terrain, shields held tight to their sides, spears swinging like pendulums.
There would be other towns and villages once this one had been raised. Hamilcar would not rest until every Oretani was pinned beneath his heel.
A flurry of movement on the town’s walls saw a thin cloud of arrows lift into the air. They caught the sun’s rays at the apex of their flight, glinting as they hung for a brief moment there before swooping towards the onrushing army.
The arrows did little against so many. Warriors snapped them from their shields or saw them glance from their armoured chests. Some few caught one in the flesh of the face or neck. The killing only truly begun at the foot of the walls.
By midday, Hamilcar’s army had had enough. A ridge of dead were piled at the base of the town wall. Shattered ladders protruded from between tumbled corpses. Blackened skulls leered out of crushed helmets. Smoking pyres of corpses lay where they had fallen, burned by fired oil.
The Carthaginian leading men stood in a circle, fists on hips and faces red. Hamilcar Barca was unmoving, head lifted towards the town walls. Words were raised and then Hasdrubal spun away from the General, calling for his mount.
“He will not send any more of his warriors to the wall.” Amma’s voice was grim. They had sat together through the morning watching the warriors’ vain efforts to either scale the walls or smash through the gates. “He will go back to Gadiz now and leave Hamilcar with half the number of warriors.”
Ignoring the observation, Dubgetious turned to Amma. “Why not use the oliphants to breach the gates? They are armoured and strong enough are they not?”
Amma laughed. “Always thinking, you!” He shook his head. “They are far too clever to be used so. They would shy away from the gates and present their flanks to the enemy.” His face clouded. “It would be a terrible waste.”
Dubgetious laughed bitterly. “The oliphant, it seems, are wiser than the three hundred dead warriors laying at the walls. And more valued.”
He jerked at his mount’s reins, wanting to be away from the place. Amma’s hand closed on his arm.
“Look!” The warrior was staring at the gates of the Oretani town which were swinging open. From within, a single man exited.
A hush fell over the Punic army as he appeared, every eye following the solitary warrior’s steps as he strode purposefully out of the gates.
Looking at Hamilcar, Dubgetious saw the warrior leader nodding, a smile of victory creeping across his lips. The Carthaginian turned to the leading men clustered at his back and he caught sight of Dubgetious. He pointed at the Bastetani and cocked his finger. Dubgetious dismounted hurriedly and made his way swiftly to Hamilcar.
“You are the Bastetani who was rewarded by Eshmun are you not?”
“I am. Dubgetious of the Bastetani.” Dubgetious was bewildered that Hamilcar knew this.
Hamilcar nodded. “I remember you. Dubgetious, son of Venza.” He scratched a louse from his beard and cracked it between his thumb and finger, eyes still on Dubgetious. “Yes. You will do very well. Accompany me.”
There were protests from the Carthaginians and one, a youth younger than Dubgetious even, spat at him while another of similar age made to slap him. A third stopped them, stepping between Dubgetious and the others. “Respect your father’s command if you wish respect in return.” Hannibal, son of Hamilcar, waved Dubgetious on with a grim smile.
Lengthening his stride to make up the distance, Dubgetious followed Hamilcar Barca across the bloodied battlefield to stand before the Oretani’s single envoy. Hamilcar was already talking when Dubgetious stopped at his shoulder, ignoring the feeble gasps of a dying Turdetani nearby, he stared a
t the envoy. Dressed as an Oretani, a bloodied gash over his cheek to prove he had fought on their wall, the man stood tall and proud.
“We seek to hear your terms. If they are within our means, perhaps we can end this bloodshed.”
Hamilcar grinned. “My terms are what I originally offered, except I will now have five hundred more warriors from your town.”
The envoy’s eyes flicked to Dubgetious and recognition flared in them.
Chapter 16
Cool water trickled through her lips, tasting of wild spring grass and sun. She reached her hands towards the burning orb in the firmament, feeling its promise of life strong within her. As she did, a dark cloud appeared and covered it. A thousand and more ravens swirling above her, their talons raking her arms and their raucous cries thundering in her head. She gave a great cry and flung herself at them, determined to feel the warmth of the sun again.
“Hush! Now, hush. They will hear you and come.” The frantic whisper reached her.
“Herb Queen.” Her voice was hoarse. Her heart hammered and she came close to emptying her stomach.
“Drink.” The young woman pushed a clay bowl into her hands.
Lyda lifted it to her lips, thirsty beyond imagining. She drank until it was dry, her eyes darting around the latticed branches that formed the cage in which she was imprisoned. She let the cup fall and clenched her fists. All her companions dead and her son forever beyond her reach now.
“You must wonder how the Gauls knew your plan?” The Herb Queen’s question brought Lyda’s face up. So, someone had betrayed them.
“A couple of children, those feral creatures that sleep among the livestock, heard your talk of burning wagons and taking provisions. They sold your words for a bowl of soup each.”
Lyda sighed with relief. She could not have stood to learn that one of her companions had done so.
“As for the Gaul, I will tell you what ails him. An evil shade entered a wound in his thigh and settled in his sack. He makes taking a piss sound like birthing a child.” The Herb Queen’s eyes shone in the dark.
“He punishes you as well?” Lyda had not included the Herb Queen in her plans to raid the Punic supplies and was saddened that the young woman might be punished.
“No. He dare not. I have been able to weaken the grip of the Shade and the bastard can stand now when he takes a piss.” She gathered her cloak tight about her as wind keened through the cage. “Dubgetious is alive, Lyda.”
The words were like a breeze on a dying ember, lighting Lyda’s spirit. She gasped.
The Herb Queen smiled, her beauty appearing as though from behind a mask. She caught Lyda’s hand and raised it to her cheek where a tear flowed. “It seems he has found favour with the Carthaginians.”
“My son. He serves them willingly?” Her voice hitched. “Tell me you know of a way I can escape here and find him.” Lyda’s face took on a new determination and she gripped the Herb Queen’s hand fiercely.
“Warriors will come to release you at the night’s darkest. They are from our village.”
“What of Tacsux and the others?”
The Herb Queen shushed her. “They are slain. Lyda, you made a promise to Chalcon. Honour that promise and go to Orissus. Tell him that half the Barca’s army has retreated. Now is the time for the Rising of the Spears.”
“And Dubgetious? What of him?”
The Herb Queen fixed Lyda with a hard stare. “The gods willing, you can find him afterwards, but before then, Hamilcar must be defeated.”
The Bastetani warriors came as promised. Silent as lynx, they swept through the dark, opening the throats of the few slumbering sentries and cutting the cords that held the cage door fast.
There were just eight and all carried the same haunted look as they dragged Lyda free and cut the bonds that tied her hands and feet.
Only one spoke. “Lyda. Greetings.”
“Thank you. Are you remaining here, or will you accompany me?”
“We have had our fill of this place. You wish to go to Orissus?”
Hardening her heart, Lyda nodded. “That is what I must do.”
“Then we should go now.”
They stole from the camp in short, creeping bursts, wary of the sentries patrolling the margins and foregoing the lure of the horse lines. They would have to go on foot and with very little by way of food.
Once beyond the lines of Hamilcar’s depleted army, they quickened their pace, using the feeble glow of the moon to track a path through steep rock and thorn growth. Creatures scuttled from their path and once they heard a boar and piglets crash away from their presence.
“Wonder there is a living thing left. Seems we have eaten every kind of creature these past days.” The speaker grunted.
“We are heading east not north towards Orissus’ stronghold.” Lyda was watching the stars and moon.
The warrior in front of her waved a hand forward. “There are more of us waiting.
She had taken a spear from a slain sentry along with his belt and short knife. Now she gripped the spear tight, wary of a trap, but her caution was unnecessary. A night jar called and the warrior adjusted his course, making for it.
Lyda frowned in recognition, but followed mutely. Moments later two figures rose from behind a thorn bush, faces pale in the moonlight.
“Lyda?”
Tucsux embraced her tightly and as he did, she felt his body stiffen with pain.
“You are injured!” She pulled away in concern.
“My arm. It is surprising how difficult killing Gauls can be.” Tucsux replied.
Lyda shook her head and turned to the second figure. “Cenos? You live.”
“Does not feel like it. I am injured to, so do not expect a hug.” The warrior nevertheless stepped forward and hugged Lyda.
“Just the three of us then?” Lyda whispered.
“That will have to do. Besides, we have these eight who are hungry for revenge.” Tucsux grinned in the dark.
“You are right. It will do. No horses though, can you manage?”
Cenos snorted. “We eat Gaelic iron and shit it out like iron filings. Can we go now?”
Lyda laughed, her mind cleared and her heart beat with a warrior’s pride.
“To Orissus. Let us bring his Spears down on this Thunderbolt from Carthage.”
The gates of Castulo behind them, the small party of weary warriors savoured the smell of cooking, of oils and meat. The aroma of baking loaves flooded their mouths with saliva as they strode forward, surrounded by the burly, well-armed Oretani warriors that had found them a day’s march south of the Oretani city.
The Oretani leading man stood when they rounded the corner and came to an open court outside his large stone and timber home. Orissus was a shorter man than Lyda had imagined he would be, but what he lacked in height he made up for with a chest few could close their arms around. The cold wind did not seem to trouble him for he wore only braccae. Unusual, but no doubt learned from the Celti people to the north.
One of the Oretani warriors escorting Lyda and the others went ahead of them and spoke quietly to Orissus who listened while watching her approach.
She stopped two paces from him and ground the butt of her war spear into the chipped rock ground.
“Greetings, Orissus. I am Lyda of the Bastetani.”
“Greetings, Lyda of the Bastetani.” Orissus voice was rich with confidence. A good voice for turning minds and hearts to his will. “You come from the south I hear. How fares our foe?”
“Poorly. Will you fight him?” Lyda had thought long on what to say to the leading Oretani warrior, the man that could raise tens of thousands of Spears with one word. The words she spoke were not what she had planned.
The Oretani warriors escorting her stood as still as mountains. The hands and tongues of the women and children sewing garments nearby stilled. The hairless cur lounging beneath a broken handcart stopped licking its sack.
Orissus leaned forward from his ankles. His eyes bored int
o hers and then he straightened and flexed his great chest.
“Can I defeat him, Lyda?” His voice remained even, no insult taken at her abrupt challenge.
“His army has halved. He has maybe three thousand Spears.”
“He has oliphants. He has two thousand horsemen as well.” Orissus answered her, proving that he had eyes on the Punic army and knew their numbers as well as she.
“All hungry. All facing a wall they have not breeched. Put your Spears on the hills above them and they might fight, but it is more likely they will retreat.” She spoke candidly, suspecting the Oretani would respect nothing less.
“My warriors do not fight in the winter. It is not right to summon them from their valleys and hills to die in the cold season.”
Lyda lifted her spear, causing consternation among the watching warriors, but Orissus stood unmoving. She pointed at the watery sun behind a veneer of winter cloud.
“There are no seasons while Hamilcar Barca tramples us beneath his heel, turning our very kin against us.”
“You speak of the Turdetani fighting now for the invader. They are poorer of spirit than I credited them.”
“My people too have been made to fight his war. My son even.”
Orissus grunted. “You are hungry I think. We will feed you and your few warriors.”
“We would rather starve than eat with the man who allowed Hamilcar Barca to rule us.”
Curses erupted from Orissus’ warriors and more than a few stepped forward, anger etched on their broad faces.
For the first time, Orissus smiled. “Lyda of the Bastetani. How could I face my dreams if I allowed you to starve?” He stretched his arms wide. “You want me to send Hamilcar Barca’s shade screaming into the lands of the dead? Very well. I will raise a great host of Oretani Spears.” He brought his thick-fingered hands together with a thunderous clap and smiled again, the skin around his eyes folding. “First though, we eat.”
Chapter 17
Black mud sprayed from around the warrior’s body as he slammed backwards into a pond of stinking water, sword spinning away and eyes rolling backwards. Dubgetious did not hear the blast of breath from his lungs nor the choked cry as the man landed. He was already wheeling to his left, bent low over his left knee, shield and falcata slashing to that side as one weapon. Warriors cheered as another fighter crashed to the ground, his legs cut from under him, his face a mask of pain.
Rise of the Spears Page 11
