Gladius Winter Page 8

  Maleric pressed against Caros from the rear. His body in motion, shield and sword swinging.

  “We are broken! It is the marshes or the blade now, Caros! Do you have a plan, or do we flee?” Maleric’s voice drummed with fatigue.

  The fight was now a melee of larger Roman units surrounding clusters of Turdetani. Their short swords always probing and hunting soft gut.

  “Turdetani to me! To me.” Caros roared as he blocked stab after stab. Three legionaries pressed in on him. Their swords stabbing. The Romans closed and Caros roared again in anger. “Turdetani to me! On my voice!”

  He listened with desperation for any sign of the Azulay and Gunurst. The nearest groups of warriors shuffled closer linking with Caros and Maleric, drawing more Roman shields to them.

  His sword arm felt as if it were strapped to a boulder too heavy to lift. It was all he could do to hold the Romans at bay with his shield, let alone lop a head from a neck.

  The Roman shields filtered around their sides, beginning to encircle them.

  “Draw back towards the marsh.” A burly, blood-stained warrior looked back, his shield lowering. Like a striking serpent, a gladius flashed out slicing the man’s cheek.

  “Shields up! Keep your eyes on the enemy!” Caros shouted, his eyes locking onto those of a grizzled legionary squarely in front of him. Caros stabbed his falcata at the man, who weaved casually out of the way and laughed at him. The man shouted to his fellows in Latin and Caros made out the meaning. They were convinced these were dead men in front of them.

  He took two steps back, guiding the warriors either side, ensuring the rest kept pace and stayed solid.

  Dredging up childhood memories of the foreign words, he shouted to the legionary, “Grandpa! Yes, you with the goat’s asshole for a mouth.” The Roman gaped. “Give my thanks to the shades of the fifty Roman horse we slew in the north. Their blood ran thick and our blades were happy for it.”

  There were more knots of Turdetani holding out across the spit of dry land, all slowly edging back to the marsh or else already encircled. Caros thought maybe half the Turdetani still stood. It was a massacre and as yet, not finished.

  The legionary’s eyes grew yellow with rage and he repeated what Caros had said about the deaths of the Roman riders. The Romans growled as one and renewed their attack.

  “What did you say to them?” Maleric yelled.

  “Told him you fancied him like a Greek sailor.”

  “That all? Touchy bastards.” The Gaul punched his shield into a Roman shield then feigned slipping. The legionary was only half fooled and pulled his shield closer. Maleric struck. Plunging his sword through the man’s sandaled foot. Ugly as it was to inflict, it took another enemy out the fight.

  The marsh was at their backs. The Romans could still encircle them, but then some would have to fight while wading in mud up to their knees.

  They traded blows, steel ringing on steel and the continuous drum of iron striking shields made for a war chant that stirred the blood to a frenzy.

  The Romans were blood-soaked and dripping sweat. Caros and the remnants of the Turdetani, gasping with exertion and bleeding from cuts to every part of their bodies.

  A trumpet sounded. The grizzled veteran spat in anger. Forgetting Caros’ knowledge of Latin, he called to his fellows. “Pull back! Time to end these worms with sling and pilum.”

  Caros immediately shouted a warning to the survivors, making sure even those of the other groups would hear. The Roman realized his mistake and growled at Caros with hate filled eyes.

  Caros smiled back and mimed licking his blade, infuriating the Roman even more. The man spun to his rear.

  “Pilum here! Bring me a pilum now!”

  Caros was already moving. The Romans had fallen back a handful of paces and were still moving. Some had their eyes cast down to watch their steps. Other were too preoccupied with thoughts of the coming slaughter or just battle weary. Two leaps and Caros was on the Roman. He did not strike him down, but slapped the flat of his sword across the man’s helm, putting a ring in his ears that would deafen him.

  The Roman spun, his gladius already spitting forward in that deadly underhand strike. Caros locked eyes with the man and grinned. His falcata, suddenly light as a feather, ate the man’s leathery neck and took his head, bowling it amongst his startled companions.

  Maleric led the cheer behind him and the Turdetani drummed their shields and gave whoops of battle joy. Caros howled his war cry, ululating as he fell back from the rest of the Romans who hurtled after him. Maleric and the Turdetani were ready and took the impact with a great splintering of shields which again locked the two sides into a desperate death match. The trumpet blared again and again, unnoticed or ignored in the blood frenzy.

  Caros behind Maleric, bracing the big Gaul even while stabbing over his shoulder, noticed the trumpet call falter and end.

  A rapid drumming worked its way through his sandals followed by a fragmented line of Roman slingers and archers bursting into view. Emerging from behind and slaying them by the handful, came the Masulian and Oretani horse. More mud than skin and hide, they were a sight of rampaging glory. The legionaries only knew of them when the first Masulian short spears were punching through their iron and leather armor, skewering their lungs and guts. The Romans fell like scythed grain. Those that turned, were stabbed through by the resurgent Turdetani. Caros, with Maleric at his side, led the warriors into the slaughter and sent the Romans to their god, Mars.

  The clash of arms faded and warriors dropped to their knees to pant and sob, limbs shaking with exhaustion and strain.

  One last stand of Romans stood together. Three of the hundred. They held their swords and a single shield before them, bodies wracked with tremors. They were backed into a cramped gully, to their front, warriors set on butchering them and coming quickly to the gully sides above their heads, more hard-eyed killing men. Caros shouldered aside his warriors, large and small, until he faced the three, blade dripping crimson to pool in the trampled dirt.

  In Latin, “You are the last. I can spare your lives, or you could die now.”

  The men’s eyes widen, showing yet more white. Their throats worked as they tried to swallow. Caros eyed one in particular. The Roman looked afraid as any sane man would, but he had an air of courage. The man muttered to his fellows who at once drew themselves up.

  “I am Centurion Natalinus. To what end?”

  “To what end would I spare your lives?” Caros barked. He held his arms akimbo, showing his broad chest, blood and gore caked him from chin to knee. Sheathing his sword, he removed his helm with his sword hand.

  “My blade could still drink your blood, but you are defeated already.” He propped his helm under his shield arm and wiped his hand through his matted hair, squeezing sweat out of it and clearing his brow.

  The Roman’s eyes were drawn to the livid, swollen scar that pulsed along the side of Caros’ head, stretching from temple to behind his ear.

  “I will let you and your two men live and return home provided you surrender your swords.”

  The Centurion stared at Caros before sweeping his gaze across the scene of carnage beyond. Romans and Iberians lay like so much flotsam cast onto the shore after the sea gods had wreaked a flotilla.

  “Who are you?” The Roman’s voice held equal measures of respect and horror.

  “My war name is Caros the Claw. I am a son of Iberia, friend of Hannibal son of Hamilcar, and since last summer I am your enemy Roman.” He growled these last words through a mouth dried by battle. “Surrender your swords, go home, and tell your countrymen that the sons of Iberia fight like none you have fought before.”

  The Roman’s throat convulsed and his face darkened.

  Caros swept a hand across the battleground. “Your men here today were not the first. It was I and my warriors that slew without mercy every rider of your horse just days ago. Where Romans stand before my men and I, they will die.” Caros slapped his helm back onto his he
ad and rested his hand on his sword hilt.

  The Centurion stepped forward, his eyes on Caros. Slowly he lifted his gladius and squinted down the blade at Caros. With a shove he drove the blade point first into the ground at Caros’ feet. He stood tall and placed his iron soled sandal against the hilt and pushed the sword over so the hilt rested between Caros’ ankles.

  The meaning was clear. Centurion Natalinus had marked Caros. Caros inclined his chin a fraction in recognition.

  Chapter 7

  The last of the weary wounded limped down the trail, their faces drawn and eyes feverish. Still, they raised their spears and swords to him as they passed. Hailing him for leading them to an impossible victory against Rome’s legendary iron-hard legionaries, but above all, for bringing them back home to their land and people in the northern reaches of Iberia.

  “Turned out to be useful enough after all, these Turdetani fellows.” Maleric grumbled through his beard.

  “Twenty-three warriors from sixty.” Caros had counted them a final time as they trudged away. He knew the numbers well enough and had mourned the death of Lebita, their leader and the rest of their sword-brothers for the seventeen sunrises since the battle on the spit. “A heavy cost. One our peoples can ill afford.”

  Maleric cracked his knuckles. “Are all you Bastetani so jubilant in victory? Victory, no matter how costly, would see us Gauls still drunk all these days later. Speaking of which…?”

  Caros grinned. The sun was the comfortable warmth of autumn and he was back in the lands of the Iberians. Within days they would reach the camp of General Hanno’s forces where he could deliver the orders as Hannibal had charged him to.

  “We will reach the villages of the Vascon before you lose your thirst.” Caros laughed.

  “The Vascon.” Maleric tried the name out. “Odd these names of you Iberians. Friendly?”

  “Depends on their mood.” He nodded to Azulay who trotted his horse to a halt beside the two men.

  “Greetings, Azulay.” The day was still young and the Masulian horsemen were ready to strike off south to New Carthage for their final trip home to their people in Africa.

  “Greetings, Caros the Claw.” The Masulian had on a formal air as he prepared to say farewell. “It has been a great honor to ride with you. My nephew Aksel was true to his word when he told me I could trust to your leadership.”

  Caros extended his arm, and the Masulian gripped him below the elbow.

  Squeezing Azulay’s arm, “Your own leadership and the bravery of your riders twice gave us victory. No small feat against the Romans. I will always remember this.”

  Azulay released his arm. “Rappo has decided he would prefer to remain and ride with you. If you would have him?”

  Caros spoke frankly. “You know there will be some bloody battles ahead if the Romans do come to our lands. I would be glad to have him ride beside me for as long as it suits him. There is likely to be a need for young warriors like him in the days to come.”

  The following day Gunurst too departed, taking with him the Oretani riders.

  “I look forward to fighting beside you in the times ahead Gunurst. It may be that we will need fighting men like you and your Oretani if the Romans do come.”

  Gunurst closed his eyes and threw his head back, taking a deep breath which he held for a time. Exhaling noisily, he looked across at Caros.

  “Smells good to be back home.” He slapped a heavy hand down on Caros’ shoulder. “You are a fine warrior Caros the Claw and you have Hannibal Barca’s respect. Remember though, if these legionaries of Rome bring war to our shores, they were not the first.” Gunurst released Caros and turned his horse, taking another deep breath. “It will be good to see my kin and to have my eldest boy returned to me.”

  The remark was not lost on Caros. Having wadded through blood together, he was saddened to wish the old warrior and his fellow warriors farewell.

  “Ride well, Oretani!” Caros called after the departing column. He watched them wind off down the path, their voices merry with thoughts of seeing their kin and friends soon.

  “I so not think Gunurst much cares for your Barca friends.” Maleric raised an eyebrow.

  Caros shook his head. “He would not. His eldest is held in Cartagena to ensure that he and his people do as commanded by the Barcas.”

  Maleric spat. “Is that then what he meant! I have heard of this practice. What of you? Do they hold one of your own to ensure you do their bidding?”

  Caros sighed. “I have no family close enough to be considered a useful hostage.” He smiled grimly. “I fight the Romans because one heel on our throat is already one too many.”

  Maleric smoothed his mustache and his hand drifted inexorably to his throat and the welts burned into his flesh there. “No people should be subject to Rome and from what I have learned, Carthage and the Barcas are little better.”

  Caros eyed the warrior that had come from the north. He knew there was some unsaid business between Maleric and the Romans, and unsaid it would remain unless Maleric decided to speak.

  The Gaul grunted and dropped his hand to his reins. “Well that leaves just us three brave warriors.” He laughed. “Shall we go find these Vascon friends of your and drink their ale?”

  “Vascon? We fought the Vascon just this spring.” Rappo eyed Maleric, unsure if he was serious.

  Caros grimaced and shrugged. “Hannibal did. My battles were still further east.”

  Maleric glanced from Rappo to Caros. “You fought them just this spring?”

  Caros coaxed his horse forward, forcing the others to follow.

  “Makes little difference. Carthage rules here now and Hanno has an army in the field. The Vascon will not risk another lost battle again so soon.” He sensed Maleric and Rappo exchange glances at his back. He was also conscious of the pouch containing Hannibal’s letters heavy against his skin.

  The Vascon found them. Caros had resisted Rappo’s offers to ride ahead and scout the trail and so the first indication of their presence was the cry of a lynx.

  The cry was out of place and echoed hollow in Caros’ ears. His horse took another two paces before his awareness snapped him alert.

  He lunged and caught Maleric’s wrist. “No weapons!” He hissed into the Gaul’s bewildered face.

  Beside him, Rappo’s eyes went wide as looked hard at the bush and rocks ringing them.

  They materialized silently from all sides. Warriors with sling, spear and sword. Caros reined in his mount gently and allowed Maleric and Rappo to close up.

  “These are the Vascon, Caros?” Rappo more asked than told, but his voice remained calm.

  “Looks like it.” His eyes tracked warriors ranged in the rocks and bush on both sides of the cart trail. It was a good place for an ambush he conceded. The warriors had not loosed a shot or rattled a blade, instead they glared belligerently at the riders trapped in their midst.

  “You going to speak to them?” Maleric asked quietly from the corner of his mouth.

  “They got in our way. Let them talk.” Caros growled. The spearmen amongst the warriors stepped closer. Their dark eyes fixed on Caros.

  He raised a hand to his helm, noting the men that flinched when he did so. Removing it, he revealed the livid scar on his head. The spearmen closest paused at the sight and muttered to one another.

  Heartbeats later a tall, wiry man emerge from amongst the sword bearers. He carried himself confidently, a good round shield on his arm, a heavy falcata in his right grip. Chain armor hung from his shoulders to his thighs, tightened at his waist with a belt of dyed leather. All the trappings of a leading man.

  “These are Vascon lands. What brings strangers such as yourselves here?” The warrior’s words were hot with suspicion and the leading man, if that is what he was, had not given his name.

  Insulted Caros growled, “You have a name, warrior of the Vascon, or shall I just call you the warrior that died without a name?” Caros leaned forward with easy indifference.

&nb
sp; The Vascon’s eyes flashed and his lips thinned beneath his whiskers. “I am Knurlad, a leading man among the Vascon.”

  Knurlad looked hard at the scar Caros wore. It was a known wound among the Bastetani and even warriors of other Iberian people.

  “My war name is Caros the Claw. These are Maleric and Rappo, both sword brothers of mine.”

  Caros’ war name went through the Vascon like a heavy wind through tall grass. Everywhere warriors were standing taller to better see and the hum of curious voices grew.

  “It was said that Caros the Claw rode north in the spring and from there into the land of the Gaul?” Knurlad looked closely at Caros as he spoke.

  “It is true. I also fought with Hannibal’s army on the Rhône. He marched on to defeat Rome while I have returned just these last days.”

  A burly man armed with a heavy spear stepped forward, his eyes burning, “While your master has marched away with the blood of our people still bright on his sword and our gold heavy in his wagons, the Romans have brought swords to visit death on our people.” This was a man with no love for Carthage and a bitter hatred of Rome. Warriors hooted at the man while others cheered him.

  Knurlad raised his blade and shouted for silence. The warriors grudgingly relented and Caros watched as some even turned to file off on the path they had been following, their interest lost. They looked like men and women with their pride battered shapeless and all the while Caros recalled the tramp of the legionaries iron-studded sandal and the wall of red.

  The Vascon leading man shoved his blade into the decorated wooden scabbard. “You know then that Rome has sent her legionaries?”

  “I had hoped they would not come, but Hannibal Barca foresaw they might. I carry orders for his generals Hasdrubal and Hanno and you know the power of the Barcas. They will defeat these Romans.”

  Knurlad grimaced. “Hannibal Barca may be powerful, but he is far from here by your own words and many of my people suffered when he attacked us in spring.”

  “He offered terms which your people refused.” Caros let a trace of warmth into his voice. “I have heard the Vascon warriors fought like warriors of legend and only gave when they were outnumbered many times over.”