Sapho bared his teeth. ‘He’s lying,’ he snarled in Iberian. ‘I say we tie the double-crossing dog down on the table and see what he says after I’ve cut a few strips of skin off him.’ He calmly placed a dagger before him. ‘This will make the shitbag sing like a caged bird.’
‘Bostar?’ asked Malchus.
Bostar studied the three guides, who seemed absolutely terrified. Then he looked at his brother, who was tapping his blade off the table’s surface. He didn’t want to upset Sapho, but nor was he prepared to see innocent individuals suffer for no reason. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for torture,’ Bostar said in Iberian, ignoring Sapho’s scowl. ‘These men have been with us day and night for weeks. They’ve had no chance to commit treachery. I think they’re probably scared of the Ausetani. But I see no reason why they shouldn’t fulfil their oath, which was to guide us until we discharged them.’
Malchus considered their answers in silence. At length, he turned to the lead guide. ‘Has my son the right of it? Are you frightened of the Ausetani?’
‘Yes, sir. They’re prone to banditry.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Or worse.’
Alarm filled Bostar. Before he could react, Sapho butted in again. ‘When, precisely, were you going to tell us this?’ he demanded.
He got no answer.
Sapho threw a triumphant look at Bostar. ‘Why don’t we just get the directions, and then kill them?’
Perhaps his brother was correct, thought Bostar resentfully. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a bad judgement by trusting the guides.
His father’s challenge surprised him. ‘And if they had warned us? What would we have done?’
A flush spread slowly up Sapho’s face and neck. ‘Gone to the village anyway,’ he muttered.
‘Precisely,’ replied Malchus evenly. He glared at the guides. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t end your miserable lives for withholding vital information, but I see no point in killing you when we would have followed the same course of action anyway.’
The three stammered their thanks. ‘We will be honoured to guide you to the Ausetani settlement tomorrow, sir,’ said the lead guide.
‘That’s right. You will.’ Malchus’ tone was silky soft, but there was no mistaking the threat in it. ‘Myrcan! Get in here.’
A broad-chested spearman entered from the corridor. ‘Sir?’
‘Take these men’s weapons and escort them to their quarters. Set guards at the windows and door.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Myrcan held out a meaty hand and the guides meekly handed over their knives before following him from the room.
‘It appears you both still have something to learn about judging men’s characters,’ Malchus admonished. ‘Not everyone is as honourable as you, Bostar. Nor do they all require torturing, Sapho.’
Both of his sons took a sudden interest in the tabletop before them.
‘Get some rest,’ Malchus said in a more kindly voice. ‘Tomorrow will be a long day.’
‘Yes, Father.’ As one, the brothers shoved back their chairs and headed for the door.
Neither spoke on the way to their bedchambers.
The guide’s estimate of the distance to the Ausetani village was accurate. After nearly a day’s ride, the fortified settlement finally came into view at the end of a long, narrow valley. Perhaps half a mile away, it occupied a high, easily defensible point. Like many such in Iberia, it was ringed by a wooden palisade. The tiny figures of sentries could be seen patrolling the ramparts. Flocks of sheep and goats grazed the slopes to either side. It was a peaceful scene, but the guides looked most unhappy.
Malchus gave them a long, contemptuous stare. ‘Go!’
The three men goggled at him.
‘You heard me,’ Malchus growled. ‘Unless you’d like to spend some time with Sapho here.’
They needed no further encouragement and had the sense not to mention payment. Turning their mules’ heads, the trio fled.
‘It appears that we are about to enter a den of hungry wolves.’ Malchus regarded each of his sons in turn. ‘What’s our best option?’
‘Go straight in there and demand to see the headman,’ Sapho declared boldly. ‘As we did in every other village.’
‘We can’t go back to Hannibal without some information,’ Bostar admitted. ‘But nor should we foolishly place our heads on the executioner’s block.’
Sapho’s top lip curled. ‘Are you afraid even to enter that excuse for a settlement?’
‘No,’ retorted Bostar hotly. ‘I’m just saying that we know nothing about these whoresons. If they’re as untrustworthy as the guide said, charging in there like raging bulls will get their backs up from the very outset.’
Sapho shot him a disbelieving look. ‘So what? We’re emissaries of Hannibal Barca, not some pisspot Iberian chieftain.’
They glared at each other.
‘Peace,’ said Malchus after a moment. ‘As usual, both your opinions have some merit. If we had the time, I would perhaps advise waylaying one of their hunting parties. A few hostages would make a powerful bargaining tool before we made an entry. That might take days, however, and we must act now.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Not in quite the way you advised. We will take a more peaceable approach. Remember, the stroked cat is less likely to scratch or bite. Yet we must be confident or, like a cat, they will turn on us anyway.’
Turning to their escorts, Malchus laid out the situation in Carthaginian and basic Iberian. There was little reaction. The Libyans and scutarii had been chosen for their loyalty and bravery. They would fight and, if necessary, die, for Hannibal. Wherever, and whenever, they were ordered to.
‘Which of you two speaks the best Iberian?’ Malchus asked his sons. While rusty, his command of the language sufficed most of the time. In a dangerous situation, however, it was best to minimise the chance of miscommunication.
‘I do,’ replied Bostar at once. Although he and Sapho had spent roughly the same amount of time in Iberia, it was he who had shown more aptitude for the rapid-fire, musical tribal tongues.
Sapho concurred with a reluctant nod.
‘You act as interpreter, then,’ Malchus directed.
Bostar didn’t try to hide his smirk.
Without further ado, they set off. Malchus took the lead, with Bostar and a glowering Sapho following. Their escorts marched to their rear, first the spearmen, and last the scutarii. The party had not gone far when a horn blared out from the nearest hillside. It was quickly echoed by another nearer the village. Shouts rang out on the ramparts. When they were about four hundred paces from the settlement, the front gates creaked open, and a tide of warriors poured out. Forming up in an unruly mass that blocked the entrance, they waited for the Carthaginians to approach.
Bostar felt his stomach clench. He glanced sidelong at Sapho, who was half pulling his sword from its sheath before slamming it home again. He’s worried too, thought Bostar. In front, the only sign of tension in their father was his rigid back. Bostar took heart from Malchus’ self-assurance. Show no fear, he told himself. They will smell it the way a wolf scents its prey. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his features into a stony expression. Coming to the same realisation, Sapho let go of his sword hilt. Their escorts marched solidly behind them, reassurance that if there was trouble, plenty of men would die before they did.
Malchus rode his horse straight up to the mob of Ausetani. Taken aback by his confidence and the size of his mount, some of the warriors retreated a little. The advantage did not last long. Prompted by their companions’ angry mutters, the men stepped forward once more, raising their weapons threateningly. Shouted challenges rang out, but Malchus did not move a muscle.
Like most Iberian tribesmen, few of the Ausetani were dressed identically. Most were bareheaded. Those who wore headgear sported sinew, bronze bowl or triple-crested helmets. The majority carried a shield, although these also varied in size and shape: tall and straight-sided with rounded ends, oval, or round with a conical iron boss. All were brightly painted with swirling serpents, diamonds, or alternating thick bands of colour. The Ausetani were also heavily armed. Every man carried at least one saunion, but many had two. In addition, each warrior had a dagger and either a kopis or a typical Celtiberian straight-edged sword.
