Howl of Blades Read online

  “I saw that you filthy Gaul!” An elder yelled from within the passage.

  “Maleric. Please.” Caros almost begged. “Just a few more days.”

  “Well, they are sorted out for the rest of today, so…” The big Gaul looked about with raised eyebrows, taking a keen interest in the chaotic rush of people. Iberian traders with their homespun tunics, dark skinned warriors wrapped in leather and women in groups carrying amphora filled the streets between wagons, handcarts and mules. Across the street, two imposing spearmen guarded a wealthy Carthaginian who reclined on a litter born by heavily muscled servants.

  “This looks promising. What shall we do first?”

  “I need to set up an appointment with Hasdrubal Barca.”

  Caros sniffed his tunic and rubbed futilely at food stains on it. His sandals were muddied from the road and his legs stained with horse sweat. The Carthaginian officials were unlikely to give him any consideration looking and smelling as he did.

  “First, we find a bath house and wash.”

  The Gaul’s eyes narrowed and his lips turned down.

  “We? No we about it. If I want to wash, I will use a bucket or take a swim.”

  Caros eyed his companions clothing, the woolen braccae, stitched and re-stitched numerous times, the tunic that had born countless generations of lice and a fur cloak.

  “Sure? The water is warmed and poured over you by women such as you have never seen.”

  Maleric gave Caros a shrewd look and shook his head stubbornly.

  Caros laughed. “It is the truth. Think of all the women you will woo once you are washed and greased.”

  “I do not need to wash to impress a woman.”

  “Perhaps not where you come from, but look around.”

  The Carthaginian was at the door to a mud-brick building which opened at that moment. A pair of women wearing diaphanous robes that left their breasts and much else exposed, ushered him in. Maleric’s eyes bulged and he cleared his throat.

  “Without a proper wash, that is as close as you will get to women as beautiful as that.”

  Maleric glowered for a moment. “You had better be right.” He pulled his tunic away from his broad chest and sniffed. Eyes watering, he sighed. “Where are these baths then?”

  Caros turned on his heel, hiding a grin.

  “They were not that remarkable, you know. Sew a man’s cock away in his braccae for long enough and any hag becomes a beauty.” Maleric mumbled.

  Maleric’s grin was fixed in place beneath his trimmed and freshly greased mustachios. He lingered for a heartbeat at the exit from the bath house, inhaling the exotic aromas used in the cauldrons of heated water.

  “What?” Caros almost snarled. “One bath and suddenly you do not leave?”

  He was still weighing his purse, disgusted at the extortionist cost he had been forced to pay.

  Maleric’s grin widened. “I cannot believe you paid five staters to be rinsed like a child.”

  “For us to be rinsed… to bathe, have our hair trimmed, and our clothes washed.”

  “Did you see their faces when they lifted my braccae?” He barked a laugh out loud. “Sheer bloody horror. I hope they killed all the lice.”

  Caros was pretty sure he could already feel a new generation of the bloodsuckers crawling from the seams.

  “Time to make that appointment.”

  The sun was bright overhead, its warmth reflected off the mud-brick walls of the buildings lining the street. Here in Qart Hadasht the winter was milder than inland at Tagilit. Caros felt a surge of optimism. He was certain that with the elders to vouch that the Bastetani were being robbed by the tax collectors, Hasdrubal Barca would make amends. It was not in the interests of the Barca clan to have the people they relied on for their wealth and their manpower rebellious. Especially now that the Romans were so close and not just a distant threat far over the sea.

  Following directions given along the way by passersby, they arrived at the entrance to the official residence and administrative offices of the Carthaginians.

  A troop of Libyans in white tunics and shining bronze chest pieces guarded the heavy wooden gates. Most sat on benches making small-talk in their own tongue. A pair stood before the gates, periodically admitting petitioners, messengers and servants returning from errands.

  The pair straightened when they spied Caros and Maleric approaching. One of them snapped his fingers to get the rest’s attention. In a moment they were all on their feet, spears at the ready.

  “Looks like they have heard of me then.” Maleric mocked.

  Caros slowed and held his hands apart, palms up.

  “I wish to see Hasdrubal Barca.”

  “Who are you?” The leading man stepped forward, dark eyes measuring Caros before flicking to Maleric. “And who is he?”

  “I am Caros of the Bastetani. My companion is Maleric of the Boii.”

  The Libyan was already shaking his head.

  “You are wasting your time. The Barca general will not see you.”

  “I have brought a delegation of elders with important matters for Hasdrubal’s attention. Who must I speak with to gain an audience with the general?”

  The Libyan shook his head once.

  “The general is not interested in your tales. Every day is the same with you Bastetani.” He gestured for them to leave.

  Caros began to reach for his purse, wondering if he had enough silver on him after the cost of the bathhouse to persuade the man to admit him. If not, it might take days to find the right official and get their names listed.

  At that moment a pair of litter bearers appeared, their bodies covered in a light sheen of perspiration and they jogged in step towards the gates. Between them, lounging in the palanquin, was the Carthaginian they had seen earlier that day. The man’s eyes were half closed as he drowsed.

  “Look who it is, Caros.” Maleric dug an elbow into his ribs. “Now that is the face of a man who has had more than a bath.”

  Before the Libyan had a chance to intrude, Caros was moving. The Carthaginian’s spearmen had relaxed their vigil as they neared the gates and the many guards there. Slipping deftly past them, he was at the side of the palanquin before they could intervene.

  “Tanit grant you peace. Greetings from Tagilit.” He used the formal greeting of the Carthaginians, invoking their beloved deity, the goddess Tanit.

  The Carthaginian’s eyes snapped open and his right hand closed on the bejeweled hilt of his sheathed dagger.

  “Halt!” He called to his bearers who stopped mid-stride. The Libyan had his spear pressed into the small of Caros’ back while his men shuffled to fan out around both him and Maleric, spear points a muscle’s twitch from drawing blood. The two bodyguards growled and grabbed at Caros, but Maleric growled right back and blocked them.

  “Apologies commissar. I was just sending these two off. Another pair of Bastetani troublemakers.” The point of his spear twisted at Caros’ back, catching the fabric of his tunic.

  “Not so commissar. I bring a delegation of elders from Tagilit seeking an appointment with Hasdrubal Barca, whom I know and who knows me.” Caros heard fabric tear and felt the cold sting of the Libyan’s spearpoint against his skin.

  “Hasdrubal Barca knows you, eh?” The Commissar had the good humor to laugh.

  Caros smiled disparagingly. “I expect that sounds farfetched, but I assure you it is true.”

  A flicker of impatience crossed the Carthaginian’s face. Caros grunted as the spear pressed deeper. It was clear he did not believe a word he said.

  “If I were you, I would let the Bastetani elders see Hannibal’s brother or else he will make your life a bloody misery. That, or go crossing Cisalpine to visit Hannibal with your name. They are good friends after all.”

  Maleric’s use of Greek had improved, but to the commissar it must have sounded barbarous. The man’s eyes turned cold as obsidian and his oiled brows creased.

  The Libyan was a breath away from skewering Caros
when the commissar held up a hand.

  “Escort them inside and be sure they are unarmed when I see them.”

  After the disgruntled Libyan had ordered them to leave their blades at the inner gate, they were handed over to a thin man suffering with a raw nose and red eyes. He peered at them dubiously.

  “Commissar Ahirom is an important person. You are fortunate he has agreed to speak with you. Follow me.”

  The interior of the complex was a myriad of low buildings, paved walkways and gardens. It seemed an army of servants existed to polish tiled floors and sweep thick rugs. Men and women worked in the gardens, clearing foliage and cleaning ponds. Stern faced sentries watched from vantage points; long spears cradled in their arms.

  Maleric whistled at opulence while Caros struggled to imagine the enormous wealth required build and maintain it. Teams of builders were constructing new buildings and craftsmen worked at laying colorful tiles in intricate patterns, pressing each piece carefully into place.

  The minor official entered a spacious hall ahead of them and gestured impatiently for them to take a seat on one of the benches that lined the walls.

  “Where is Ahirom?”

  “You will wait here until you are called.” He dabbed at his running nose with a folded linen. “Your names?”

  “Caros and Maleric.”

  The official made a sound at the back of his throat and disappeared through a doorway.

  The benches were occupied by petitioners awaiting their turn to see some or other official. Finding an unoccupied bench, they sat. Many of the petitioners dozed on the cold stone seats. A few others gave them a disinterested glance before retreating back into their own thoughts.

  From the air of apathy, Caros guessed they might be kept waiting for a long while. He was wrong.

  An elderly servant appeared at the head of the hall and with a firm voice called their names.

  He led them into a smaller room. “Remove your sandals and follow.”

  Maleric cursed softly and Caros shrugged. Their sandals untied and left at the door, they padded behind the servant into a larger room warmed by three braziers and numerous lamps.

  Ahirom was standing beside a brazier, crumbling pieces of bark into the licking flames. These flared and burned green, giving off a heady aroma.

  “The bark of a tree from beyond Antioch. It is said to ward off evil dreams.” He flicked the last of the fragments into the fire and breathed deeply. “I do hope the cost was worth it.”

  Caros sensed Maleric about to respond and spoke quickly.

  “Thank you for agreeing to hear me.”

  Ahirom made a rolling motion with his wrist. He wandered across the room to a shrine and tested it for dust with a finger. Satisfied, he turned to his guests.

  “These elders who wish to petition Hasdrubal Barca, do they have any idea how busy he is?” His dark eyes were shadowy pits beneath his brow.

  “They have travelled far to see the general only because they have no other options.”

  As though Caros had not spoken, Ahirom continued.

  “The Romans have brought war to the lands of Iberia and threaten everything we have built. With Hannibal Barca gone, his brother must maintain these lands.”

  “This is why the elders are here.” Caros spoke quickly.

  The Carthaginian blinked, stared and pursed his lips. “Explain.”

  Caros had thought long on what might compel the Carthaginians to ease the taxes and rein in their commissars. It was unlikely that a simple plea of poverty would fan an ember of concern in their hearts. Above all, Carthaginians desired ever greater profits.

  Now that Caros had the opportunity to test his approach, he paused to be sure he took the right tone with this self-important official.

  “The Bastetani were among the first to answer Hanno’s call when the Ilerget broke their faith and left his army. A thousand and more of my people rode north to fight the Romans.”

  Caros gauged the effect of his words on Ahirom. So far, the Carthaginian looked bored.

  “They shed their blood in that battle. Many hundreds of them dying for Carthage.”

  Ahirom looked down his hooked nose, a sneer distorting at his lips.

  “Their efforts and lives were wasted. The Romans defeated them did they not?”

  Caros dipped his chin to hide his expression lest the Carthaginian see the flash of hate in his eyes. Despite the anger the Carthaginian’s words provoked, they gave Caros the opportunity he wanted. He looked Ahirom in the eye.

  “Yes, the Romans won the battle and now twenty thousand of their legionaries threaten all that the Barcas have achieved in Iberia. Would it not be a wise to ensure my people remain opposed to the Romans?”

  The Carthaginian’s face turned to marble, eyes growing dark under heavy lids. For a long moment he glared at Caros, his shoulders rigid.

  When the air had grown so thick that Caros thought the man would shatter with anger, Ahirom at last expelled a long breathe.

  “You have honeyed your threat and not very well. The Romans will be defeated, both here and in Italia. Then those who turned against Carthage in her time of need will feel the consequences of our ire.”

  Caros shook his head.

  “You hear a threat I did not express so let me speak more plainly. The Bastetani stand ready to fight the Romans. Starve them, throw them from their homes, and by the coming of spring you will have reduced the numbers of warriors able to fight.”

  Ahirom’s features slowly creased into a broad smile and he shook his head.

  “I happen to share your view.” His smile died quickly. “I will arrange for these elders to make their petitions. If I were you though, I would caution them not to leave any doubt as to their allegiance.”

  Caros measured Ahirom’s words carefully.

  “They will speak of the over-zealous tax collectors reducing the taxes. There are villages that have been taxed twice or more. They will want recompense.” He shook his head. “I will caution as you advise.”

  Ahirom cracked a knuckle and pursed his lips.

  “Then you will find that Carthage has their interests at heart.”

  “There. You arranged for your elders to make their petition. Do you think anything will change?”

  Maleric strode beside Caros, the Carthaginian administrative buildings falling away behind them as they returned to their lodgings. The big Gaul’s voice was filled with skepticism.

  A band of Greek mercenaries had occupied a square where they sat bare chested and shouting advice to a pair of their fellows locked together and straining against one another.

  Amused, Caros stopped beside other onlookers to watch. With a deep grunt, one of the Greeks pivoted and, in a heartbeat, floored his opponent.

  “What more can I do? The elders will be heard and their grievances are sound. If Ahirom’s sentiments are shared by his fellows, then they will see the sense in reining in the tax collectors that are plundering the Bastetani.”

  A second pair of Greeks sprang up and clad only in their smallclothes, began to circle one another.

  Maleric watched with narrowed eyes as the pair charged one another and grappled.

  “I am just a lowly Boii far from home, but it seems to me the Carthaginians have a curious ability to use others.” He turned his narrowed eyes on Caros. “They will make all the right noises, but in the end they will do what enriches them.”

  The Greeks huffed, shoulders locked, heads down and a cloud of mist rising from where their faces bent close together. They heaved, hands slapping and twisting, feet sliding. One man found his grip and lifted his opposite who squirmed and fought against the inevitable. The bout ended with one man breathless on his feet, arms raised and the other winded and defeated.

  Caros shook his head. “There is enough here to enrich them without leaving my people groaning in the dirt. If they do not see that, then despite my assurances, the Bastetani will fight back.”

  The following day, a messenger arrived at
the lodging hall bearing a copper lozenge inscribed with the symbol of Tanit. He lifted the lozenge over his head and pitched his voice to be heard by the many men, women and children who sat on the benches strewn around the yard.

  “In the name of Barca, the elders of the Bastetani are required before the General Hasdrubal and his council at noon tomorrow! Are these elders here among you?”

  Rappo heard the call and raced to the rear of the lodge where Caros, Neugen and Maleric were lounging in a yard warmed by the sun and sheltered from a cool breeze.

  By the time they returned to the front of the building, the elders had gathered around the messenger and were haranguing him with questions.

  “You bring a message for the elders of the Bastetani?”

  Caros strode through the older men who parted, their queries drying up.

  With a barely concealed sneer, the messenger replied in Greek. “I do. They are to kneel before General Hasdrubal at noon tomorrow.”

  “They are to deliver petitions, not kneel.” Caros snapped in response. “These are the elders. They will be there.”

  The messenger shrugged and began to turn away “If not, they forfeit their frivolous petitions and…”

  Caros snatched the man’s jaw, crushing bristles and skin against bone in his fist.

  “Frivolous they are not. Are you not forgetting something errand boy?”

  As he spat the words into the suddenly wide-eyed messenger’s face, he reached for the copper lozenge and ripped it from the man’s limp grip.

  “Now return to your masters and tell them the Elders of the Bastetani, close friends of mighty Carthage, will be there.”

  He thrust the man backwards and even as the messenger flailed for balance, Neugen’s leg hooked his ankles and sent him sprawling.

  The messenger scrambled up from the ground and limped from the yard, casting one last withering look back over his shoulder at Caros.

  “There are better ways to ensure the petitions succeed, but that was entertaining!”