Howl of Blades Page 4

  “I fought at Sagunt. It was you who rallied our courage and took command when Alfren was injured.” The warrior had no gray in his beard, but the creases at the corners of his eyes were deep and the vivid white scar on his neck spoke of his experience.

  “Greetings. Did you fight through to the end or were you wounded before?”

  The man touched the scar and shook his head with a rueful smile.

  “I was stuck when we were still fighting in the outer city.” His eyes darkened and his expression grew morbid. “I watched the fire take it as I lay bleeding. They say you struck the first spark.”

  Caros looked to the distance where the tax collector and his escort were a blur of shuffling figures. In his mind, the sheets of flame rose again over the outer walls of Sagunt, engulfing half a city.

  “The tax collector.” He gestured towards the fading riders. “I never asked his name.” He threw a leg over his mount’s withers and slid to the ground.

  A gob of phlegm struck the mud between the warrior’s feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “A sorry half-breed. Sired by a Carthaginian official on a Turdetani bed warmer. He is Asril of Gadiz.”

  “And he has visited the village and levied taxes once already since the harvest?”

  The warrior glowered and the men listening snorted.

  “You do not believe us?”

  “I well believe it. I plan to take up the matter with the Carthaginians.” Caros reassured the men.

  “With Hasdrubal himself?” They asked in awe.

  Neugen sniggered and earned a black look from Caros.

  “Hasdrubal and I have some differences. I was hoping gather a more elevated delegation of elders and graybeards to deliver a list of such grievances to the Carthaginians.”

  “You should talk to Alcouses the Elder.”

  The voice came from beyond the men gathered in front of Caros.

  “Alcouses the Elder?” Caros stepped between the villagers. “He lives still?”

  The woman looked at her fellows and then Caros.

  “He lives. He knows of our troubles.”

  “Why has he not done anything then?” Others around her scoffed in scorn. “Just another useless dreamer. What we need are our spears and champions.”

  The woman’s face tightened and Caros extended his hand.

  “Why do you think he can help? Please, if you had seen the misery inflicted on our people in the south by these tax collectors…” His voiced trailed away at the fury that flamed in her eyes.

  “I know you too.”

  Her words were the thinnest of whispers and Caros frowned uncertainly. He would have remembered this woman if he had ever met her, even briefly. She raised her chin and look him square in the eyes.

  “My husband fought at your side at Sagunt.” Caros swallowed a rock that sat cold in his breast, knowing her next words. “Oh, he lives still. He spoke of the Bastetani champion that saved Hannibal Barca’s life. That burned a city.”

  “What is his name?” Caros doubted he would remember the man. There had been so many and the mad days of Sagunt were buried under the cloud of grief that had smothered him after the death of his woman.

  “You would not know him. Even if you did, you would not recognize what he has been made into by the fires of war.”

  The warrior growled at her as did many of the villagers. Others stood closer to her, their eyes hard with silent challenges.

  “I see.” He said slowly.

  She shook her head and the fury that had abated a little was rekindled in an instant.

  “Do you?” She pulled aside her tunic, freeing her breast and revealing the wrapped cheese.

  “This is all I have left to trade for grain to feed my children and the shade of a once strong man.” She covered herself with sharp movements. “Do you have such a hopeless task? Will you be watching your children waste away before spring?”

  “Easy, now.” Neugen was there suddenly. “Caros did not steal your husband’s shade, nor did he stand aside and allow a tax collector to rob you. Think on that a little before you wag your tongue like a spear.”

  Caros shook his head, the blood pounding in the old injury. He grabbed blindly for his mount’s bridle and hauled himself onto its back. The villagers’ voices were filled with anger and faces had grown as black as the mood. Maleric was gritting his teeth while Rappo, who had been helping repack the scattered goods, hoped lithely onto his pony, throwing spears in his hand and a look of disgust on his face.

  The villagers were shouting amongst themselves. Some pointing their pitiful blades at one another, others at Neugen who stood unarmed among them. The woman had fallen back to the edge of the shuffling group, her face gray and a hand at her mouth. Her eyes were on Caros and he read in them her acknowledgement of the futility of her battle.

  “Enough!” Caros had taken a breath and barked. The villagers froze before the first echoes of the bellowed command reached back to them from the hills.

  “This pointless squabbling does no good. I will speak with the elder. I will see that the Carthaginians in Qart Hadesht reduce the taxes and appoint honest Bastetani to ensure you are no longer robbed by thieving Turdetani.”

  “These promises have been made to us too many times to count. What makes you think you can accomplish these things?” An angry villager with wild eyes shook a fist in the air.

  “I will do this! Even if I have to write to Hannibal Barca himself.”

  Tagilit, the Bastetani peoples’ chief town, sprawled across the south facing slope of a gentle sided hill. The town was encircled by a stone wall built on the spoil dug from a deep trench and topped with a palisade of timber. Within this defensive perimeter, the citizens lived in tightly clustered beehive shaped homes built of stone or timber or both. The main roads were paved with rough-cut stone while the narrow alleys between the dwellings were for the most part compacted soil, dung and whatever was swept into them.

  The riders slid from their mounts before a two-story high timber and mud barn. Horse manure and rotten hay met the soles of their sandals as a trio of filthy youths rushed from the dark maw of the barn.

  Neugen flicked a coin into the air and smiled as one of the lads snatched it in a grubby hand.

  “Make sure they have dry hay to sleep on.” He laughed.

  “I will rub them down and ensure they are fed well.”

  Rappo would rather open his veins before letting another care for his pony. He clicked his tongue and led his mount to the barn while the youths took the reins of the other’s mounts and followed, rolling their eyes.

  “We will be across the way, Rappo.” Caros called after the Masulian who acknowledged with a wave.

  “He knows it is just a beast, right?” Maleric snorted. “Not a mystical creature that turns into a woman by night.”

  Caros was silent as they padded across the road and ducked into the taverna. Neugen sauntered over to a wizened graybeard sitting on a chair at the foot of a ladder that led to a loft above.

  “Greetings, Glaphux. You still drawing breath then?”

  The old man scratched his armpit and appeared to dislodge something buried there which he sniffed. His milky eyes swiveled to stare at the men and he cocked his head.

  “Young Neugen. You given up working out how to put a child in your woman’s belly yet?” He cackled, or tried to, but instead coughed wetly for some heartbeats.

  Caros slid onto a bench in the smoke-filled room, rank with the funk of men who had been drinking all day judging from the number of those slumbering on their forearms.

  “The deed is done, old man. I will be sure not to name the child after you.” Neugen took a deep breath and looked at the woman stirring an iron cauldron hung over a firepit. “A copper for four bowls of whatever you are stewing.”

  “Where have you been, Neugen? Your wife is here every other day seeking word that your heart still beats.” The woman knocked the wooden paddle against the rim of the cauldron and set
it aside. She lifted four bowls from a stack under a table.

  “Make sure they do not leak, Heln. I put my best tunic on to visit.”

  “What sort of place do you think I run here?”

  In answer, dust and hay fell from the ceiling and the persistent thumping from above grew in intensity. A strangled gasping followed, climaxing with a loud groan.

  Maleric’s eyes were fixed on the dimly lit loft, his lips wet.

  “You still have that rat problem, Heln.” A larger piece of the ceiling fell. “Got a lid for that pot?”

  The woman ignored Neugen and began scooping stew into the bowls.

  Neugen slapped Maleric’s shoulder. “You should eat first. The rat upstairs will be there all night.” He ignored the table Caros was sitting at and wove through the array of benches to a table set near the firepit. Two bleary eyed men sat hunched over their bowls of fermented barley beer.

  “Move on.” Neugen’s voice was cold as the winter rain that had begun to fall in the street outside. The men slid from the benches and skulked to the next table, pretending to ignore the leaking roof above it. Neugen gestured to Caros and Maleric who slid onto the benches.

  Heln came over with the bowls of stew.

  “Who is the extra for?”

  “A foreign prince. He will be here in moments. I suggest you bring us a loaf of your freshest bread. It is the kind of fare he would expect.”

  The woman appraised Neugen uncertainly while he looked at her with wide eyes, daring her to doubt him. With a grunt of disgust, she slapped the fourth bowl down and produced a loaf of bread, rich with aroma. She made to beat Neugen over the head with the loaf before shaking her finger in his face.

  “Go see your wife once you have eaten.”

  “You know, it could have been you, Heln.”

  The loaf was harder than it looked and Neugen laughed while rubbing his head.

  Heln brought a bowl of warm water and set it before them.

  “A prince?”

  The three men rinsed their hands and began to tear chunks of bread to dip in the stew.

  “Would I lie to you, Heln? Never!”

  Rappo appeared at the entrance, wiping his hands down the front of his sweat stained tunic, complete with a hem dark with horse shit. He had wrapped his scarf across his face to shield his eyes from the wind-chased rain.

  “There he is!” Neugen hissed. “Quick, Heln! Bare your right ti… uh, breast. It is the custom among his people and he will thank you with coin.”

  Maleric choked and Caros shook his head.

  The woman glared at Neugen suspiciously as one hand rose uncertainly to her tunic.

  “Look at him, Heln. I told you he was from a foreign kingdom. Do it quick before he feels insulted.”

  Rappo spotted them and began making his way towards their table, his scarf tight about his throat and lower face.

  Heln held the tracing of her tunic in her hand and was about to pull it down and release one of her ample breasts when Rappo pulled away his scarf, revealing his youthful features. Unmistakably foreign, Heln almost tore her tunic front as she fumbled to release her breast. Rappo rocked to a halt, amber flecked eyes growing wide.

  Neugen, shaking with mirth exploded with a roar of laughter, collapsing against Maleric who was hard-pressed not follow suit. Caros put his bowl down and rubbed his eyes with a sigh.

  Heln screeched her fury, tugging her tunic into place and rescuing her modesty. She spun and grabbed up the wooden paddle from the cauldron and swung it at Neugen who had the presence of mind to slide beneath the angry blow.

  “Heln!” Neugen held up his hands. “How could you believe me! We grew up together; you know what I am like!”

  She glared at Neugen and then at Rappo who had wisely put two tables between him and the wild woman.

  “You a prince?”

  Rappo’s eyes widened in surprise and the men’s laughter woke even the most hard-of-hearing drunkard there.

  Over the next days, Caros visited with those elders of the Bastetani that lived in Tagilit, determined to drum up a delegation prepared to confront the Carthaginian command at Qart Hadasht. He was gratified to find that they were just as eager to address the punitive taxes and seek recompense for the depredations of rogue tax collectors such as the tax collector they had encountered on the road to Tagilit, Asril of Gadiz.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day, he found himself before the home of the most influential of the elders, Alcouses, a man of over eighty years. This was a man who had treated with Greeks and Carthaginians for many years and was revered among not just the Bastetani, but many neighbouring tribes of Iberians.

  A youth led Caros through the building’s central room and hearth and out into a courtyard of cobbles, overshadowed by an ancient vine, now almost leafless this late in the year. The sun, bright in the blue sky, warmed the courtyard which was sheltered from the biting wind.

  Alcouses the Elder, sat erect on a wooden bench, his wiry frame covered in a thin tunic of fine woven flax.

  “Greetings. Thank you for agreeing to permit me an audience. I am Caros, son of Joaquim.”

  The old man cocked his head, eyes bright. The youth that had led Caros to the courtyard, moved to stand beside the elder.

  “Greetings, Caros son of Joaquim.”

  The elder’s speech was wheezy and breathless, the words whistled through his toothless gums. He lifted a hand that trembled like a feather adrift on the breeze and gestured to Caros to sit.

  “I am told you wish to appeal to the Carthaginians to reduce the taxes and levies they impose on our people.” He smacked his lips, nodding his round hairless head that tottered on a thin neck of loosely folded skin, mottled with age.

  “Why?”

  Nonplussed, Caros frowned. “Why?” He glanced at the youth who stared east, his face shadowed.

  “Bastetani suffer excessively. I have seen many who have been left with naught but the filthy tunics they will die in and yet the tax collectors still want more.” He stopped, confused at the smile that spread across the old man’s face and wondered if perhaps age had robbed the man of his senses.

  “I hear you. I hear you. My heart is heavy with the tales I have heard told. Even here in Tagilit, our people are forced to give more and more. Yet, I ask this; did we not invite the Carthaginian Barca to build his home among us?”

  “We did not invite them to our shores. We fought the Carthaginians and made a peace with them.” Caros argued.

  The old man leered and turned his bright eyes to the blue sky.

  “Your father was a merchant. He grew wealthy trading with the Carthaginians. I know this.” He turned his gaze on Caros and his smile dimmed. “You served the son of Hamilcar, Hannibal Barca, even claim his friendship. Do you understand the nature of your service and friendship?”

  Caros paused and thought of the battles he had fought to further the Carthaginians cause. Choosing his words with care, for now he was sure the elder was leading him along a path, he answered. “I serve the needs of both the Barca and our people. We have grown wealthy through our relationship with the Carthaginians.”

  “Yet they have trampled upon us to further their dearest cause; the elimination of their rivals.”

  Alcouses leaned toward Caros. “That is the Barca’s true purpose. All else is mere dust on their sandals.” He leaned back and closed his eyes briefly. The youth lifted a simple wooden cup and placed it the old man’s hand, closing gnarled fingers around it. He sipped its contents slowly before speaking again. “I applaud your zeal, Caros. Take a delegation to Quart Hadasht and do what you can to lessen the hardships of our people. Know this though; one day the viper must be crushed beneath our heel or it will sink its fangs into your breast.”

  Chapter 4

  The village was a charnel house. Dead were strewn in pools of blackening blood among their beehive homes. The screaming had stopped although the slap of flesh on flesh still sounded from within a few dwellings where warriors sated their ani
mal lusts on the remaining few captive women. Furniture and bedding was tossed from others as men ransacked dwellings, searching for anything of value. Others crowded around a large fire lit in the center of the village, drinking what ale or wine they had found. A large boar roasted on a hill of embers set next to the crackling flames.

  Beyond the flickering light of the flames a wagon was drawn up, the oxen still in their traces although a pair of youths were dumping armfuls of fodder before the beasts.

  A dark-haired warrior wearing a black tunic sat on a bench beside the wagon, a smaller fire alight at his feet. Across from him Asril of Gadiz, the tax collector, crouched over a box of trinkets, jewelry and charms taken from the villagers.

  “I am glad to have found you, Berenger. The last warriors provided to escort me lacked the will to enforce my authority.” The man beamed an oily smile at the warrior in black.

  Berenger held a well-made blade loosely in his hand, staring down the length of shiny metal from tip to hilt. It was as long as his hand and had been crafted by a master weaponsmith. The balance was exquisite and the deer horn hilt elaborately carved with a hunting scene.

  He flicked the blade into the air where it spun twice before falling neatly into his palm. It would fetch a good price in the right market. He would keep it only that long for as good a blade as it was, the warrior already possessed an equally well-made short knife along with a heavy sword that had served him well.

  He glanced up at the tax collector who seemed to be waiting for a reaction from him. In truth, the man was a repugnant individual with no spine and less imagination. Berenger would dearly have liked to have put the blade to use peeling the skin from the man’s face, but he was no fool. The tax collector gave Berenger legitimacy and allowed him and his band of butchers the opportunity to sack almost at will.

  “The people in this region hold little wealth. How long do you intend remaining here?”

  They had been working their way through remote villages of Oretani for over a score of days, ever since Berenger had been assigned by a harassed Carthaginian commissar to escort the Turdetani tax collector.