The Celtiberian’s Tale

Copyright © 2019 M. J. Kurzrok.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-8127-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8125-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-8126-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019913159

Archway Publishing rev. date: 11/04/2019

CONTENTS

Prologue

PRIMUS

The Child

Book 1        The Raiders

Book 2        Escape

Book 3        The Assembly

Interlude I

SECUNDUS

The Youth

Book 4        A Time For Reflection

Book 5        The Sword And The Emissary

Book 6        The Promise

Book 7        Enlistment

Book 8        Gisgo The Carthaginian

Book 9        A Secondhand Garment

Book 10      A Message Of War

Book 11      The Falerica And The Funeral Pyre

Interlude II

TERTIUS

The Messenger

Book 12      The Strategos And The Sophist

Book 13      The Syrian

Book 14      The Long Walk

Book 15      The Iberian Women

Book 16      Water On The Sand

Book 17      First Fruit

Book 18      Childhood’s End

Interlude III

QUARTUS

The Journeyer

Book 19      The Dream Serpent

Book 20      Catalonia

Book 21      The Bloodless Battle

Book 22      The Rhone Crossing

Book 23      The Choice

Book 24      The Hollow Square

Book 25      Elephants And One Dead Numidian

Book 26      The Assent

Book 27      The Alpine Whore

Book 28      Cisalpine Gaul

Interlude IV

QUINTUS

The Warrior

Book 29      Butcher’s Work

Book 30      Skirmish On The Ticinus River

Book 31      Mago’s Hammer

Book 32      Survivors Of The Flames

Book 33      Death And Betrayal

Book 34      Redemption By The Lake Shore

Book 35      A Life Reclaimed

Book 36      Allu’s Army

Book 37      The Wine Skin

Book 38      The Great Battle

Book 39      The Ruins Of Cannae

Book 40      Ares Feast

Book 41      The Merchant Prince Of Carthage

Book 42      The Face Of Carthage

Book 43      Presentation Of The Rings

Interlude V

SEXTUS

The Chieftain

Book 44      The Way Home

Book 45      Homecoming

Book 46      A New Obligation

Book 47      Cartagena

Book 48      Hope And Defiance

Book 49      The Staff Of Rome

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

In the Five Hundredth and Eighty-Ninth

Year after the Founding of Rome

DLXXXIX Ab Urbe Condita

(164 B.C.E.)

In the Consulship of Antonius Manlius Torquantus And Quintus Cassius Longinus

T he traveler called for a halt beside a shallow stream with a thick copse of stunted trees offering some meager shade. With four of the lightly armed Romans keeping watch while the camp settled in for their mid-day meal, he walked some distance apart, to the top of a small knoll, and found his thoughts drawn back to the question of which name he should use in his writings for this vast and beautiful land.

Romans referred to the territory as Hispania which was Latin for the Greek word Hyspasia, meaning the land of the setting sun. The mystical lands located on the eastern edge of the world, visited by both Heracles during his labors, and Odysseus on his journey home to the rocky shores of Ithaca and into the arms of his long suffering but ever faithful wife, Penelope.

Neither name sat well with him, tasting bland on his tongue.

A better choice, he thought, was the name Iberia, derived from the Iber River that flowed southeast from the central highlands into the middle sea; the River known as the Ebro by the Romans. He liked the sound and texture of the word, containing an element of foreignness for novelty and authenticity. But any reference to the natives as Iberians, literally meaning People of the River or River People, excluded the Celts and their progeny of mixed blood, known as Celtiberians. That would be like referring to all people of Greek heritage as Lacedaemonians. Identifying a region by one tribal group to the exclusion of all others seemed, somehow, intellectually dishonest.

His preference was the Punic word Spania, meaning the Hidden Land in their Semitic tongue, but he knew his patron would never condone its use. The wounds suffered in the last war with Carthage were still raw. Roman prejudice against all things Punic was just too strong.

Riders coming, called one of the sentries.

What now? He thought, annoyed by this disturbance. Looking up, he recognized the guides provided by the Magistrate in Carthego Nova. They were rarely seen, except when the way became uncertain. Still, they were riding hard, and that could be a cause for concern.

A smile came over the traveler’s face when he noticed Demetrios herding together all of the servants and scribes to huddle amid the pack animals. Two contubernium of Velites, sixteen light armed men, even Romans, would make little difference should real trouble find them. If he’d reassured Demetrios once, he’d told him any number of times that as the invited guests of the Celtiberi, the dominant tribe in the region, there was little concern for their safety.

He found his head scribe’s timidity to be an endearing quality, if not somewhat amusing.

With a wave of his arm to gain their attention, the riders made straight for the traveler, reining in almost at his feet.

There has been a death, the lead rider said, somewhat short of breath. He was the younger of the two, but carried himself with more bearing.

We leave you now to rejoin our people. Proceed in that direction, he continued, turning in his saddle and pointing to a break in the distant foothills. Once you enter those hills, you will be in clan territory. Pass through the first valley you find and continue on the trail at the far end. The way is marked. Within two days you should reach your destination.

Without waiting for a response, the young man reined over and gave his horse several vigorous kicks with his heels. Both riders quickly became specks on the horizon.

Demetrios, the traveler said, turning to his old friend now standing beside him. Did you notice he spoke Greek?

Where do you suppose he learned our language? Demetrios replied, continuing his master’s thought.

I’m more concerned about what may have been said in his presence.

Two more days, Demetrios said, repeating the young riders’ words. Did you hear what he said? Two more days and we can finish this business of yours and head home.

It had indeed been a long journey, set in motion several years before by Lucius Aemilius Paullus, Senator and former Consul of Rome. It began with the utterance of four simple words. Send for the Greek, he had said to his steward one balmy autumn day. The traveler’s first steps had been in response to that summons.

It has come to our attention that you are a man of letters and accomplishment, possessing an abiding interest in the history of we Romans, the senior patrician began, speaking the fluent Greek of an Athenian.

I have a commission in mind, a project to record for posterity the accomplishments of my kinsman, the late Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus.

A most noble and worthy undertaking, conceded his guest.

"It would require the right person, I should think. Someone willing to travel throughout Italia, both Gaul’s, and even distant Hispania. This man would be required to traverse the Alps and sail to the island of Trinacria; even going to distant Africa if necessary, for the sake of accuracy. Such a person must have a grasp of matters both political and military, possessing the necessary tact to converse with Romans and Latin’s of all classes, both Patrician and Plebeian.

"But above all else, the man I choose must know the difference between fact and fancy. He must be capable of ferreting out the falsehoods being circulated about the Great One since his death and discard them as unfit for the eyes and ears of future generations.

My dear sister tells me you are such a man.

The last was left hanging, posed more as a question than a statement.

After a suitable pause to convey the impression of considered reflection, the Greek replied.

"The Lady Aemilia does me great honor.

"The noble Publius Cornelius Scipio, awarded the agnomen Africanus by the Senate and People of Rome for his conquest of Carthage, and the first Roman to be declared Imperator by his victorious legions, a Senator of the republic, elected Counsel three times, appointed to serve as a Censor by his peers, and proclaimed Pater Patria or Father of his Country in celebration of his accomplishments. Such a man deserves nothing less. Posterity needs to know not only of his achievements, but how his vision shaped the course of history.

It would be my honor to undertake such a commission.

The last was accompanied by a slight bow from the waist, his right hand over his heart.

Any manuscript would have to be submitted for my approval before publication, Lucius added, impressed by the strength of character he perceived in the Greek’s bearing. This was a quality he found in superior men throughout the world regardless of their origins or nationality.

Receiving a nod, Lucius was pleased.

It would seem we have an understanding then.

In truth, the idea of composing such a history had originally been the Greek’s, conceived years before when he’d been brought to Rome as a political exile for supporting an anti-Roman faction in his homeland. Having guest status, he was able to mingle with the more enlightened circles of society.

There was a craving, he found, for all things Greek. A man who couldn’t speak the language or have even a passing familiarity with the writings of Aeschylus or Sophocles was looked down upon as a rustic provincial.

Using his heritage to full advantage, he lamented the lack of a Herodotus or a Thucydides recording Roman achievements, testing the waters, as it were, in search of a patron. His efforts came to the attention of Aemilia, wife of the late Publius Cornelius Scipio.

A woman of extraordinary accomplishment herself, the Materfamilias of the powerful and influential Cornelii clan and unofficial matriarch of Rome’s intellectual society, Aemilia embraced the idea. Unable to commission the project herself – such a thing would be unseemly for a woman - she raised the topic to her younger brother, Lucius Paullus with such subtlety that he came to believe he had conceived it on his own. Once he announced his intention of sponsoring a scholarly inquiry into the recent war with Carthage, Aemilia happened to know just the right person for the task.

What will you need to complete this project? Lucius Paullus asked.

Letters of introduction to the patrician families, access to military records, permission to leave the city, and the necessary finances, was his ready reply. He was well prepared for this question having planned for the project over the years against this day.

You shall start immediately, Lucius pronounced. It pleases me to accept you as my client. I shall arrange for the necessary travel permits and provide you with letters of introduction. You shall also receive my personal letter of credit to draw against as needed, subject, of course, to a full accounting.

The formality of the statement was left hanging just long enough to reinforce the speaker’s sense of dignity.

If there is nothing else, you may go with my best wishes. I look forward to reading your manuscript.

With a slight but no less sincere bow, he turned to leave when Lucius Paullus interrupted him.

Before I forget, you must promise to visit in your travels a certain individual who dwells in the interior of Hispania. My secretary will give you the particulars. You will enjoy meeting him, I promise you. His is a story most remarkable.

It shall be as you wish, said the Greek, his thoughts elsewhere. Here was everything he could have hoped for. He silently vowed to author an accurate and enduring account for generations to come.

And begin immediately he did, starting his inquiries with the noble houses of Rome. As word spread of Lucius Paullus’ sponsorship, many prominent families insisted on having the Greek dine with them to hear of their exploits. Indeed, the most difficult aspect of the commission during that first winter was abiding all the after-dinner war stories.

If words were swords and spears, the Greek lamented to Demetrios one evening, after a particularly boring dinner engagement, Hannibal would never have crossed the Alps.

As a client of Lucius Paullus, the manner of his conduct reflected upon and would undoubtedly be reported to his patron. So he quickly learned to smile frequently, yawn discreetly and feign interest hearing how each of his hosts almost single-handedly saved the Republic.

The real story of the war was learned over the rims of wine jars held by the scarred veterans who frequented the humble taverns in the back streets and dark corners of urban Rome. These were the times he enjoyed the most, reminiscing with men who had actually held a scuta – the stout Celtic shield covering a man from shoulder to knee - while shouting at Hannibal’s mercenaries when the order to attack was given. Those conversations carried him through the first years of his commission while he awaited permission to leave the city.

An unforeseen benefit of his patronage was meeting Lucius’ son, who had been adopted into the family of the Cornelii Scrimptions, later to become known as Scipio the Younger, or Scipio Aemilianus. Despite their differences in age, both men appreciated Hellenistic culture and shared a common interest in civics, military science and a love of history. His patronage was to last a lifetime and stand the Greek in good stead when it came time to publish his work.

True to his word, the Greek became a traveling man, determined to view everything first hand and speak with anyone who had personal knowledge of the times.

As no good story goes untold, especially when there is plenty of wine to loosen the tongue, all he had to do, he quickly found, was stop at any local inn or tavern in a region touched by the fighting and start making inquiries. Veterans of Hannibal’s war would soon appear, eager to share his wine and reminisce about their time under arms.

Such men inevitably brought with them some memento from the war, such as a medallion awarded for valor, a well-worn crimson war cloak, or perhaps just an old scar. The one thing these withered legionaries all held in common, beyond their obvious sense of pride, was a distant look in their eye, as though they had grown accustomed to staring at the past.

Beyond the memories of veterans, each legion kept its own records of enrollments and discharges, punishments and rewards, deaths and desertions. The Romans were nothing if not consummate record keepers, earning the epithet: A nation of shopkeepers.

Reviewing those records gave the Greek traveler a true picture of troop strengths and composition.

Even the land itself had a significant story to tell.

Hearing a veteran tell of a famous engagement is one thing. To actually stand in the footsteps of a man like Fabius Maximus pondering whether or not to join battle, is quite another. He enjoyed nothing more than walking the narrow pathways above the north shore of Lake Trasimene, or across the level plains beside the Aufidus River, to reconstruct troop deployments and the course of the fighting.

On many occasions during his travels, the Greek came upon tangible evidence of the conflict in the remnants of a fortified encampment, a war scared village or farm, or perhaps a burial mound. Seeing the lay of the land himself gave context to the forces involved and the tactics employed. At times, especially around dusk, he came to believe he could almost feel the clash of arms that had occurred all around him.

Now, many years later, the Greek traveler found himself nearing the end of his journey. Only Africa remained to be visited, and that might never be possible with the looming threat of a third Punic War, not with Marcus Porcius Cato incessantly calling for the destruction of Carthage. ‘Delenda Est Carthago,’ Cato would shout, whenever he found the occasion.

Most of the story of Hannibal’s War had already been written. All that remained was his promise to visit the mysterious man with a remarkable story in the highlands of Central Hispania.

As promised, in the evening of the second day, the traveler’s party entering the cultivated lands beside the village of the Horse Clan. Situated on a high plateau, backed up against a steep cliff face with the mountains behind, the settlement was enclosed by a wooden palisade rising from stone walls. Only one entrance was visible, located at the top of a long gradual incline, decorated with numerous representations of the horse, both in wood and stone, putting the traveler in mind of the Lion Gate at Mycenae.

Inside, dwellings with high-peaked thatched roofs, many two levels high, were aligned several deep along a broad stone-paved roadway. Gutters carried off rain water, and gardens of vegetables, spices and flowers surrounded each home. The traveler was greeted with a vibrant display of color and a viscid earthy smell. Everything appeared well tended and in good repair, lending a sense of prosperity to this village of the Horse Clan.

This place could house a legion, Demetrios observed, surprised by the sheer expanse of the settlement.

The visitors were shown to an open grassy area beside a roman-style fountain providing running water and an under-ground sewage line. A roofed pavilion with tables, benches and a fire pit was on site for their use.

As his servants went about setting up their tents, one could not help but notice how little movement there was for a village of such size. Hardly a spoken voice could be heard in the distance, casting a pall in the air, as though the entire village was in mourning.

The death must be someone of importance, said Demetrios, voicing his master’s thoughts.

A clan chief or elder, at the very least, the traveler agreed.

I pray it was not the man you’ve come so far to see.

Dawn brought the sounds of movement and many voices spoken in hushed tones. Outside, villagers were gathering along the central roadway, all heads turned toward the largest structure visible, situated against the mountain’s face. After directing Demetrios to remain with the rest of their party, the traveler took up a place with the others.

All became quiet when a cart on four wheels, decorated with flowers and garland, was brought to the front of the dwelling. A group of men emerged moments later carrying a body wrapped in white linen. They gently placed their burden down with care and took up positions behind the cart. Several handfuls of women and children followed them outside. Younger women were supporting their elders with children clutching skirts for guidance. Their attire was unadorned, their heads and faces veiled.

The last person to emerge was a weathered man of indeterminable years, dressed in a well-worn simple hooded black cloak, called a sagum. He proceeded to the front of the cart leaning on a gnarled walking stick. With but a moment’s hesitation, he set off, without giving any directions or even turning to see whether he was being followed. The others of his household trailed behind.

Holding the lead ropes of the horses pulling the single-yoked cart was the youthful Greek speaking guide.

As the procession passed, and he was able to get a good look at the old man, the traveler intuitively knew this was the person that he came so far to see. There was intelligence in his eyes, and an undeniable dignity in his bearing. His face held the look of having witnessed history in the making.

In that moment, his entire journey seemed worthwhile.

The old man led the procession out of the village, past the cultivated farm land and into the forest. A good portion of the morning was spent hiking to a clearing in the woodland where a large crypt had been carved into a gentle hillside.

By the time the traveler arrived, with the last of the villagers, the cart bearing the linen-wrapped body had been backed inside, the horses unhitched and led away. Visible in the narrow space was a collection of personal items, giving the impression that a woman was being interned. But off in one corner was a warrior’s leather corselet and helm, set out for display on a wooden stand.

When all were gathered and peace had settled in, an older man with flowing white hair stepped forward. With all eyes upon him, he began chanting in the language of the Celts. His voice was animated by passion, his body movements an intricate sequence of twists and shrugs, accentuated by gesturing hands which he periodically raised to the heavens. The villagers stood in silence, heads bowed, allowing the discourse to wash over them.

After his words were spoken, the holy man placed a sprig of evergreen on the linen-wrapped body and joined the ancient one at the edge of the crypt. One by one the villagers began filing past, gently tossing sprigs of evergreen onto the cart. Some lingered to say a prayer or voice a final good-bye. Others broke down and cried. Many had to be supported as they were led away. Impassive throughout, the old man barely responded to the condolences of his kinsmen.

In all of his travels, the Greek had never witnessed a more sincere display of respect for the newly departed. The sense of loss was palpable.

As he turned to leave and follow the others back to the village, his last sight was of a body covered in a shroud of evergreen.

Late that afternoon, their youthful guide came to speak with the traveler.

My grandfather apologizes for his lack of hospitality, he began in very passable Greek. He asks you to share the evening meal with the men of our family.

There was a decided tone of formality in his voice, bordering on insincerity, as though this young man was performing an unpleasant task at another’s bidding.

Food and drink shall be provided for your servants and companions.

On their way, the traveler attempted conversation.

Who is your grandfather, the village chief?

No, the village chief is my father. His name is Cyngerix. My grandfather is the man you have come to see.

Tell me, young man, he continued, how is it that you speak the language of the Greeks?

His words brought the youth up short. He turned to look into the traveler’s eyes, barely masking his distain.

You thought to find us stammering barbarians?

Take no offense, young man, he responded. To hear my native tongue spoken in this far-off land took me by surprise. Surely you can understand my curiosity. I mean no disrespect.

The apparent conflict within him subsiding, the young man replied.

There are many among my people who do not share my family’s feelings toward the Romans, and it’s no secret that you’ve come here on their behalf. It would be best if you kept to yourselves and leave as soon as possible. I mean you no harm, but there are some who would dishonor my family’s hospitality.

With that, he turned and walked off, inviting no further conversation.

The traveler was taken to the large structure at the far end of the village where the burial ceremony had begun. Inside, one great room was partitioned into several separate living areas by handsomely decorated woolen hangings. One tapestry was of a life size dapple gray horse captured in full stride. A raised circular hearth lay directly below the roof apex. Women were busy about their chores, with a handful of children occupying themselves off to one side. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air, barely masking the closeness of many people inhabiting the same space for many generations. A variety of weapons were stacked against the wall or hanging on pegs by the entry.

As he entered the room, everyone stopped what they were doing to turn in his direction.

I bring our guest, announced the youthful guide, as he unstrapped his sword and placed it with the others by the door.

An imposing figure of a man arose on the far side of the room.

I am called Cyngerix, Chief of the Horse Clan of the Celtiberi, he said, also using the language of the Greeks, although his accent and annunciation made him difficult to understand. Do us the honor of sharing our evening meal.

Greetings to you, Chief Cyngerix, the traveler replied. May the gods smile upon you and your family in all of your endeavors.

Well said. Come, sit here beside me.

He crossed the room accompanied by the stares of the household and joined the men, taking a seat where indicated. An awkward silence followed, as though he was intruding upon some private occasion.

Throughout the meal, the men ate little and spoke hardly at all. The emotion of the day hung heavily in the room. The traveler demonstrated respect by not intruding upon the occasion. If there was one thing he’d learned in all of his travels, it was to respect his host’s customs and idiosyncrasies.

When the table was cleared, Cyngerix rose and addressed his guest.

My father asks you to join him here two hours past sunrise. Staxus shall take you back to your people. It was my honor to welcome you into our home.

Cyngerix then abruptly turned and retreated behind a curtain. The others also departed, leaving him alone. Staxus stood by the entry, strapping on his sword.

It was as though the entire event had been staged for the sake of convention rather than from a genuine interest in sharing a meal with a desired guest.

The traveler reappeared the following day, two hours past sunrise as requested, accompanied by Demetrios and several scribes. He was shown to the area where the meal had been shared the night before. With a nod to Demetrios, the scribes took seats and set out ink, quills and rolls of parchment to record the interview. If the conversation was found worthy, a composite version would be transcribed onto seasoned vellum for retention.

Accompanied by his walking stick, the old man entered the room. Several moments of silence followed as he arranged himself before looking up to address his guest. When he spoke, his voice was that of an orator.

You have come a great distance to speak with me, client of Lucius Aemilius Paullus, he began, fixing the traveler with his eyes. His language was Latin, spoken without the hint of an accent. You have come far seeking the whole story of one man’s ambition, what I like to call Hannibal’s War.

Pausing while he reached for a cup of wine, there was no hiding the hint of a smile in the corners of his eyes. Switching to the language of the Greeks, he continued.

Lucius charged you with creating a narrative to glorify his family and the gens Cornelii. But you are a scholar, not a man to be constrained by his patron’s narrow-mindedness. And so you have been seeking to record an accurate account of what the Romans call their Second Punic War.

How is it you know so much about me? asked the traveler, caught completely off guard. Nothing he imagined could have prepared him for this meeting.

"All in good time," the ancient one said.

I was told that yours was a story most remarkable. Now I see this must be true.

Who told you, Aemilia?

No, Lucius Paullus.

Ah, and I’ll wager the father of Scipio Aemilianus made you promise to come all this way to speak with me.

Seeing his answer in the traveler’s eyes, he said, I thought so. I met Lucius Pallus when he was a young officer on his first campaign, about the same age as my grandson Staxus. But yes, I can agree that my story is a remarkable one. The real question is whether you are willing to listen with an open mind? Whether you can credit the words of a barbarian?

I am just a humble traveler on a journey of inquiry. My presence here should be proof enough of my good intentions. If not, I have no words to convince or persuade.

Good, said the ancient one, inwardly pleased.

Years ago, more than I like to count, I made a promise to my patron’s widow, the Lady Aemilia. You see, I too am a client of the Cornelii. I gave my word at the death of her husband, should she ever have need of me…

The sentence went unfinished as the old man welled with emotion. He paused to take another drink of wine before continuing.

As fate would have it, the only service I am asked to perform is to share my life story, with you it seems, for the sake of posterity.

The Lady Aemilia was a remarkable woman.

And a good match for Africanus. That she selected you for this task is quite a recommendation.

As the traveler began his reply, the ancient one interrupted him.

I know what you’re going to say. It was Lucius Paullus who accepted you into his patronage and set you on your journey. No, that man never had an original thought. Aemilia must have put him up to it. Even though she too has left this life, I would respect her memory by keeping that promise. However, I have a condition.

Name your condition.

"You must allow me to tell my story in my own way, without interruption. I will not be questioned like some litigant in a Roman court. It is my story, the story of a Celtiberian, and I offer it to you freely. Once I have spoken, for I will share it only this one last time, the story of my life shall be yours to do with as you please.

Is this acceptable to you, client of Lucius Paullus?

I can honor your condition.

Then, if you are ready, we shall begin.

The old man took one more deep drink from his wine cup, using both hands. Setting the vessel down, he rolled his head back and began speaking.

"On his life’s journey, from the waters of creation to the flames of the funeral pyre, every man encounters the Fates, those three capricious sisters, who spin, weave and snip the threads of his life into patterns of their own design. No two tapestries are ever the same, just as each life is unique in its own way. Even the slightest variation of color or texture can bring a man great joy, or remorseless sorrow. Trials faced or decisions made may seem inconsequential at times, or touch a man in ways both apparent and profound.

Such an event befell Allu the Celtiberian, in the spring of his twelfth winter.

PRIMUS

THE CHILD

In the Five Hundredth and Thirty-Third

Year after the Founding of Rome

DXXXIII A.U.C.

(220 B.C.E.)

In the consulship of Marcus Valerius Laevinus

And Quintas Mucius Scaevola

BOOK I

THE RAIDERS

A llu awoke at first light, a good hour yet till sun rise. Arising so early was a habit he enjoyed, a quiet time for his thoughts. Calm and reflective by nature, he was not one of those boys always under foot or in constant need of direction.

He was alone that morning, having heeded his father’s words: Select your sleeping place with care, apart from the others and away from the fire. Should trouble come, this is where it would find you.

Cyngerix was a discreet man with little time for his children. As clan chief and village headman, he had responsibilities beyond providing for his family, obligations that often kept him away from home for days on end. What little time he did find for his sons was usually spent with Brennix or Brenn for short, Allu’s half-brother. Brenn was the very image of their father. He was tall and thick of limb, with hair the color of summer wheat.

Bold and self-assured even as a child, Brenn was always the center of attention.

Being small of stature, and of mixed blood at that, there was no denying the disappointment Allu saw in his father’s eyes whenever they did chance to find him. In hindsight, the words of advice he’d received before setting out with the other boys his age to keep watch on the clan’s herd of broodmares and yearlings was the longest conversation he could remember ever having with his father.

Shortly after arriving the previous day, before Allu and the other five younger boys had time to lay out their bed-rolls, Brenn took all his companions - young men who had seen more than fifteen winters and had all been out with the heard before - and went off on a hunt.

There are signs of wild boar in the next valley, Brenn had said, loud enough for all to hear.

This was his excuse to abandon the boys on this their first night away from home, a form of initiation practiced for generations. None of the boys knew this at the time, of course, although Allu suspected as much and felt there would likely be more surprises planed.

After watching Brenn ride off, and determined not to be caught looking foolish, Allu walked uphill into the forest. When he could no longer hear the others laughing and carrying on down below, he found a small depression in level ground running to the base of a large oak tree. The oak holds religious significance for a Celt, so the site felt propitious. He filled the depression with several armfuls of sweet ferns growing beside a nearby stream, and propped a limb of fresh deadfall, butt-end first, against the base of the oak, leaving just enough space to crawl inside.

Satisfied with his crude shelter, and the way it blended into the forest, Allu rejoined the others to share in their horseplay and evening meal.

The other boys were too intent on keeping each other amused to pay him any attention. Not one of them asked what he was doing or why. He felt it was not his place to suggest caution or spoil their mood.

Celts lead by example, not words. If the others ignored him, that was their choice.

Among the five tribes known as Celtiberians, a man is measured by his actions. Being tentative or timid is not an admired trait. Each of the other boys would decide for themselves where to bed down for the night. That was only to be expected. Nor was it surprising that they would seek the false security of remaining close together, sharing the comfort of a fire. The night can hold many imaginary terrors in a young boy’s mind.

When dusk descended, the youth of twelve winters returned to the forest. By then the other boys had a roaring bonfire going, the flames reaching well above their heads.

Wearing his new sagum given to him by his mother just the day before – a hooded cloak-like garment made of tightly woven black wool soaked in rendered lamb fat to shed the rain and keep him warm - Allu crawled into his hide, said a short prayer and was soon at peace.

From where he lay, Allu could plainly see the fire lighting up the forest in the distance down below. Visible for miles, he thought. Not wise.

Morning found Allu alone with his thoughts. Having been raised in the village chieftain’s household, with his father’s several wives, their children and servants, he was seldom out of sight or hearing from someone he knew. To be alone in the forest was a new experience.

His sense of isolation was heightened by the way he saw himself as something of an outsider. Having inherited his Iberian mother’s darker complexion and black hair, there was no denying that he didn’t resemble the other boy’s his age. His closest companion was his older half-brother. They got along well enough, but Brenn had interests and companions of his own, and was usually off hunting or swinging that heavy sword of his at wooden posts or imaginary enemies.

Being mostly ignored, Allu spent his days in the company of Dunorix, the village wise-man and clan bard, listening to the lore and oral traditions of his people. He had an interest in such things, and was able to retain what he heard. Not everyone is destined to become a warrior of legend. There would always be a place for farmers, artisans and men of learning, he decided. Allu was content with the gifts he’d been given.

But as he lay there in the gathering first light of the new day, Allu could not deny his feeling that something was wrong.

Unable to identify the cause of this sense of foreboding, he tried to reason things through. They were, after all, well within clan territory, in one of several valleys used randomly each year to pasture the clan’s horses. The campsite seemed comfortable enough, with a running stream for clean water and a rock lined fire pit. There was even a supply of stacked firewood and a cave for storage close by. And Brenn would never have left them alone if there was a real threat to their safety.

There was no reason to be concerned, he decided. His disquiet was inexperience, nothing more.

Having reached his conclusion, Allu pushed his feelings aside and let his mind wonder. Then it struck him, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it sooner.

The forest was completely still. There were no insects chirping in the distance, no birds singing their night songs, not even the wind rustled through the trees.

Total silence was a new and frightening sensation. For a moment, he wondered if he was even alive. It was as though the gods themselves had caught their breath, watching and waiting. A sudden urge to sit up and call out to the others seized him.

It was at that moment Andastra, warrior goddess of the Celts spoke to Allu for the first time.

Be calm, a voice said, so close and intimate it was as though she was lying right beside him.

Remain still. It is not your time to die.

So pleasant in tone, so serene, Allu was immediately put at ease. The gods don’t speak to everyone, and the import of their words is rarely understood. On this morning, Andastra could not have been any clearer.

Allu surrendered himself into her care.

A heart-beat later, the figure of a man rose up from a crouching position beside the very same tree where he lay in hiding. Standing almost directly over him, this stranger’s attention was focused on the campsite down below. The campfire, now reduced to coals, was still faintly visible in the distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Allu could see black hair curled in long tight spirals, and dark skin exposed on arms and legs, glistening with oil, rubbed on, no doubt, as protection against the thin night air.

And then he noticed the odor. In the stillness of the false dawn, he could almost taste a sour acrid aroma, like stale urine passed at the end of a long day. Ever after, he would be unable to conjure the image of a Numidian without being assaulted by the memory of that smell.

After surveying the campsite for some moments, this intruder made a strange sound by clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. In the span of several heartbeats, the shapes of other men took form, like spirits stepping out of a dream. Quickly yet unhurriedly, and with barely a sound, a handful of similar men emerged from the rising mist.

As he lay hidden in his makeshift shelter, Allu lifted his head ever so slightly to watch the raiders descend on the campsite. When all were in position, they hesitated for just a moment, looking to one another to coordinate their actions, and plunged the short spears they carried into each of the sleeping forms. One man added the weight of his body before twisting its shaft.

None of the boys made a sound, or awoke to greet their death. A quick search found no one else alive. Ignoring equipment and supplies, the intruders continued down to the valley floor where the herd was at pasture.

Staying true to his goddess, Allu could only remain in concealment as the gathering light from the new day shown down into the valley, bearing witness to the clan’s horses being driven away.

During the brief period when the raiders were in his presence, Allu strained to hear their words. A man’s speech will reveal much about him, especially when shared in confidence or spoken during an unguarded moment. Try as he might, Allu could detect no spoken sound. Even after the killing was done, all communications came in the form of hand signals or gestures, or that strange clicking sound used to gain another man’s attention.

A handful of men entered the campsite that morning, but they acted as one.

With the sounds of the herd fading into the distance, and the forest returning to life, Allu came to accept responsibility for the stolen herd. Alone, with only his short triangular knife of bronze, he had no illusions of heroic deeds. No, he would follow their trail and learn what he could about these strangers.

His plans made, Allu delayed long enough to address the dead. He made sure each of the boys’ eyes was closed to the sights of the living and placed a metal implement in their hands, so the spirits of the dead would recognize a freeborn Celt among them. Proper burial would have to abide the duty of others.

Invigorated with a sense of purpose, Allu grabbed a water skin and some food and set off into the vast wasteland known as the meseta.

BOOK II

ESCAPE

A llu caught up with the Clan’s horses late the following day, pasturing beside a lazy meandering stream as part of a larger herd. Close by was an odd collection of carts and wagons, of various sizes and design. They stood abandoned, their contents ransacked and scattered on the ground. The encampment resembled a village pillaged by a marauding horde.

He had come upon a staging area of a large group of Numidian horsemen, several hundred in number, ranging ahead of a Punic army seeking to subjugate the River People south of the meseda. Only several handfuls seemed to be present at the time.

Noticing the lack of activity for an encampment of such size, and the absence of any outriders or sentries, Allu thought it would be easy enough to steal a horse and ride home to alert his father. He would become a shadow, a thief in the night, and these strangers would never even know he was there.

All he needed to do was await nightfall.

Celtic lore warns against acting on impulse, to consider all options and proceed according to a plan. The Greeks go a step further, first setting what they call a strategic objective and then adopting tactics to achieve that goal.

Having made his plan, Allu found his mind settled.

Darkness comes abruptly out on the meseta, bringing with it sharp changes in temperature. Being barren, not unlike a desert, the meseta forms a natural barrier, a harsh no-man’s-land between the River People in the south and the northern Celts. Allu was thankful for his sagum. The cold was not unwelcome, though, as it helped him stay alert.

With the coming of dusk, Allu made his way down to the stream. After satisfying his thirst, he rubbed the arms of his sagum with fresh horse droppings to mask his smell and entered the camp through the herd.

He found the sense of danger invigorating. The loudest sound he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears.

In the center of the vast camp was the only sign of activity. Curiosity overcoming his good sense, he crept closer. What he found sickened him.

Lying on the ground was a middle-aged woman being mounted by one of the foreigners. With a shout of triumph, the man rolled to one side only to be immediately replaced by another, accompanied by taunts and jeers from his companions. Several handfuls of men were treating this as a contest or test of strength. A wine skin was being passed around and lifted freely, as if this too was part of the game.

As the second man began to falter, the others started clapping their hands and chanting in time, only to subside amid howls of laughter when he was no longer able to perform.

When a third man stepped forward, making what sounded like a boast in an unknown language containing several words which sounded almost Punic, he proceeded to prod the woman over onto her stomach with the point of a knife. Goading her to her knees, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, like he was reining in a horse, and mounted her from behind. He continued his boastful words while he thrust against the woman, his voice in rhythm with his actions.

The smell of burning meat drew Allu’s attention. A small animal, perhaps a goat or lamb, was lying in a fire to crackle and char. The odor of singed animal hair was nauseating. One of the strangers dragged the carcass out by its hind legs and cut off a haunch of meat. He then kicked what remained back onto the coals. With the meat in one hand, the man buried his face in his meal and came away with grease dripping down his bearded chin.

Allu looked back in time to see the boastful raider’s body spasm. He let out a shout and collapsed in exhaustion. The others cheered.

Another man started to rise when the one sitting next to him grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. In the blink of an eye, a knife appeared in the first man’s hand which he plunged into the other’s throat, up high, under the chin. He then calmly proceeded to take his turn on the woman. The others merely passed around the wine skin as though nothing untoward had happened.

When the knife wielder was through, he paused to retrieve his knife and piss into the face of the dying man struggling to breath. This evoked a reaction from his companions. They roared with laughter.

Allu would come to learn a great deal about these nomads from Africa. They had few customs or conventions and no relationship with any gods, willingly serving in the armies of Carthage in exchange for the living flesh of captive women. Fearless in battle and unmatched as light horsemen, they were despised by all, including their masters.

Saying a short prayer for the woman’s spirit and thanking Andastra for the diversion, Allu started back to the herd.

As he was leaving the encampment, he came upon a child bound and tied to a wagon wheel. As their eyes made contact, Allu immediately lost all sense of purpose. There was something in those eyes that reached out for him. He saw strength without pretense, resignation without fear.

Making a gesture for silence, he turned aside and entered the herd. Skittish as they were, Allu was able to locate a large mare belonging to his father. Saying a prayer to Epona, the Celtic equine goddess, he cautiously approached the animal with a handful of millet he’d found among the wagons. While she accepted the offering, he gently slipped a lead rope around the mare’s neck and led the animal back to the edge of the camp.

Using his knife of bronze, he cut the child free from the wheel and gently slung the still-bound form like a sack of grain across the mare’s back, and eased back into the herd. Finding two other horses familiar to his voice, Allu mounted one and led the other, along with the mare bearing the child, away from the encampment.

Fearing pursuit, he chose an easterly direction, neither towards nor away from clan territory. When he could no longer hear or see the herd, he stopped long enough to cut the captive’s bonds at wrist and ankle and sat the child behind him, wrapping the little arms around his waist. Without a word, they set off into the night.

Escaping from the raider’s camp called up reserves of strength and determination Allu never would have believed existed. He rode through the night until coming upon a small stream at daybreak. The child’s eyes never left him, even as he squatted to wash off the smell of horse dung from his sagum. The child accepted some food, returning the last morsel with insisting eyes. After the horses were watered, they proceeded as before, turning northeast toward clan territory.

When the sun was less than two hands-widths above the western horizon, Andastra touched Allu with a sense of urgency. Recognizing how vulnerable they were in the vast flat lands of the meseta, he changed horses one last time and remounted the mare for a final dash to safety.

As he drew the child up behind him, Allu could not remember ever feeling so exhausted. Two days of running and walking across the Meseta, followed by a night and a day of hard riding, all without adequate food or rest, had pushed him to the limit of his endurance. He felt lightheaded, barely able to pull the horses from their grazing.

Before his weariness overtook him, Allu heard the tune of a familiar song common to the coastal Iberians; a joyful song his mother was accustomed to singing in the evening after her work was done. The humming belonged to the child seated behind him.

Shaken by that presence, momentarily forgotten in the fatigue and monotony of the long ride, Allu realized he was not acting for himself or even for his people. Finding some unknown inner strength, like a runner who gains a second wind, he drew a deep breath and turned toward home.

Alerted to a sound approaching from behind, one look over his shoulder confirmed Allu’s worst fear. The raiders had found him. It would be a horse race now to see whether he could reach clan territory without being overtaken. Dropping the lead ropes of the other horses, he urged his mare into a hard lope.

Desperation visited him once more as he measured the distances in his mind’s eye and realized how far they were from safety.

Mounting a small rise, something caught Allu’s eye. It was the glint of metal reflecting the late afternoon sun. A moment later he recognized Brenn racing towards him, followed by his companions. Veering slightly, he turned in their direction.

As he rode past, Allu was able to catch a brief glimpse of his brother’s face. What he saw startled him. Brenn was barely recognizable, his features distorted by raw unreasoning savagery. Here was the lust for blood that can only be sated in the heated passion of battle, the defining moment before the first clash of arms when everything is still possible and each man is yet invincible.

This was the moment some men yearn for and adore as they would a god.

Without a further backward glance, Allu kept the mare at a lope until reaching the foothills marking the beginning of clan territory. With no sounds of pursuit behind him, he slowed to barely a trot and did not stop until full darkness found him. At a clear mountain stream, he helped the child onto the grass and drank heavily from its cool waters. The stillness of the forest was reassuring. Without further thought, he lay back and surrendered to the gift of exhaustion.

The sun was fully in the sky when Allu awoke. A small fire was burning, with a fat mountain bass roasting on a spit. Perhaps it was the smell of hot food that beckoned him from his dreams. He felt his stomach growl and his mouth water with anticipation. Sitting up and stretching, Allu then noticed the child.

Good morn to you, he said, in Iberian, when the child looked up in his direction. He found a greeting in the child’s eyes though no words were spoken.

Of average height, slender but with the extra flesh of youth, the child possessed midnight black hair, cropped well above the ears, a pleasant even-featured face, and the most striking blue eyes he had ever seen.

Do you have a voice, or am I to do all the talking? Allu asked, in response to the unspoken greeting.

The child turned back to the fire, lifted the spit and presented him with his meal.

Have you eaten? he asked, accepting the offering. Receiving a nod in response, he sat with