The Triumph Page 4

  A few hours of marching and he’d found a good fording place. He’d congratulated himself on losing so little time. Mounted on his horse, he’d led his men to the river and halted there on the bank to watch the crossing of his troops. He’d posted archers on what little higher ground there was, a standard precaution he took whenever he committed that many troops to a river crossing. The Bagradas was wide, shallow at the edges and mucky, with muddy banks forested with reeds and cattails taller than a man on horseback. The front ranks of his soldiers pushed their way forward through them. He watched them go, the leading men disappearing into the green ranks of river plants, pushing a narrow path that those who followed would soon trample into a wide swath.

  He hoped the bottom would be more gravel than muck as they got closer to the middle of the river. He wanted to get across quickly and out onto the other side, and then up onto firmer ground. Fording a river was always a vulnerable time for any military force. A man chest-deep in moving water presents a good target without being capable of defending himself. Anxiously, he scanned the far side of the river through the fence of reeds and grasses. He saw no sign of the enemy. He would not relax until his first ranks were on the other side of the river and posting more archers there to guard the crossing place.

  But he was not looking in the right place, or for the right opponent.

  Flavius had been standing near his horse. He heard his friend gasp and turned his head. For a moment, his eyes could make no sense of what he saw. And then he realized that he was staring at a wall of snakeskin, a pattern of animal hide that was sliding through the tall bank of reeds, headed directly for his vulnerable troops.

  Who could ever have imagined that a snake of that size could move so swiftly, let alone so quietly? Who could ever have imagined that any animal would have anticipated that they would move downriver and attempt another crossing? It might have been a coincidence. It might have been that the creature was hungry and had followed the noise of the troops on the march.

  Or it might truly be a Carthaginian demon, some ancient evil summoned by them to put an end to his domination of their lands. The creature slid near soundlessly through the water and the bowing reeds. For a moment, he was stunned again at the size of it. It seemed impossible that such a long movement of grasses could be caused by a single creature. He saw it raise its blunt-nosed head, saw its jaws gape wide.

  “Ware serpent!” he shouted, the first to give the warning, and then a hundred voices took up his cry. “Serpent!” Now there was an inadequate word to describe the nightmare that attacked them! A serpent was a creature that a man might tread underfoot. At its worst, here in Africa one might encounter a boa crushing a goat in its coils. Serpent was not a word that could apply to a creature the length of a city wall and almost the height of one.

  It moved like a wish, like a sigh, like a gleaming scythe, newly sharpened, mowing down grain. He glimpsed it as a moving wall seen between the vertical spikes of the upright reeds. Scales glittered when the sun touched them and gleamed in the gentle shade of the reeds. It moved in a relentless, remorseless way that seemed more like a wave or a landslide than like a living creature as it sliced through the ranked men in the water. Some it caught up in its jaws. It swallowed them whole, the great muscles on the sides of its throat working as it crushed the men down its throat. Others were pushed down into the water, if not by the creature’s own body, then by the wave that its undulating motion created. It moved swiftly through the formation, and then, with a lash of its gigantic tail, it slashed again at the struggling men who either swam or tried to regain their footing in the current.

  “Archers!” Regulus had shouted, but their arrows were already bouncing off the snake’s smooth hide or sticking like wobbly pins, barely penetrating its armor. The missiles did no good and much harm, for the snake doubled back on itself. A rank reptilian stench suddenly filled the air as the creature lashed like a massive whip through the struggling men in the water. It caught some of them in its jaws, crushed them, and flung the bodies aside in a fury. One man in the water, brave or foolish, most likely both, tried to plunge his pike into the creature. The sharp point skittered along the snake’s scales to no effect. An instant later, the snake bent its head and engulfed the man in its mouth. A shake sent his pike flying. A convulsive swallow, and its enemy was gone. Whistling scream after scream split the air. The few bodies it snapped up and swallowed seemed afterthoughts to its wrath.

  Regulus fought his mount. Battle-trained, nonetheless, she reared, screaming in terror, and when he tightened his reins, she backed and fought for her head. Was that struggle what turned the snake’s attention to him? Perhaps it was only that a man mounted on a horse was a larger creature than the frantic men drowning in the river. Whatever it was, the snake’s gleaming gaze fell on him, and suddenly it came straight for him. The lashing tail that drove it whipped the river to brown froth. The snake turned its immense head sideways, jaws gaping wide, plainly intending to seize both man and horse in its jaws.

  Useless to flee. He’d never escape the snake’s speed. Might as well stand his ground and die a hero, as flee and be remembered as a coward. Strange. Even now, he recalled clearly that he had not been afraid. Surprised, a bit, that he would die in battle against a snake rather than against the Carthaginians. He recalled thinking clearly that men would remember his death. His sword was already in his hand, though he could not recall drawing it. Foolish weapon for an encounter such as this, and yet he would draw blood if he could. The snake whistled as it came, a sky-splitting sound that made thought impossible. He felt stunned by the impact against his ears, his skin.

  Around him, he was dimly aware of his men scattering. The mare reared and he held her in with sheer strength. The snake’s gaping mouth came at him; the stench was overpowering. Then, as the creature’s jaws were all around him, he felt a sudden slam of a body against his. “Marcus!” the man might have shouted, but that smaller sound was lost in the snake’s whistle.

  He didn’t recognize Flavius when he tackled him from the horse. He only knew him as he hit the muddy bank of the river, and looked up, to see the snake lifting both horse and Flavius from the ground. The creature’s jaws had closed on the horse’s chest. Flavius’ flying dive to drive Marcus from the horse meant that one of his legs had been caught in the snake’s jaws as it gripped his unfortunate mare. Flavius dangled, head down, roaring with terror and pain as the mare struggled wildly in the snake’s mouth.

  Marcus had rolled as he struck the ground. He came instinctively back to his feet and then leaped upward and caught his friend round the chest. His added weight literally tore Flavius from the serpent’s jaws. Lightened of Flavius’ weight, the snake was content to continue its battle to engulf the wildly kicking horse. He scarcely noticed the men who fell back to the ground. That time, Marcus had landed heavily with Flavius’ weight on top of him. Gasping for air, he rolled out from under his friend, then seized him under the arms and dragged him back, away from the open riverbank and into the protective brush.

  They both stank of serpent, and Flavius was bleeding profusely. His thigh was scored deeply in several long gashes where the serpent’s teeth had gripped him. He fought Marcus as Marcus tried to bind his leg firmly to stop the bleeding. Only as he tied the last knot did he realize that his friend was not fighting him, but was convulsing. The snake’s bite was toxic. Flavius was going to die. He’d taken Marcus’ death as his own.

  A shiver shook Marcus and he came a little back to himself. He still gripped the bars of his cage. The sun and wind had dried his eyes to uselessness. He could sense there still was light; that was all. How many days had he stood here, he wondered, and how many more must he endure until death took him? His cracked lips parted, snarl or smile, he did not know. His mind shaped words his mouth could no longer form. Flavius, you took my hero’s death from me. And left me to find this one. It was no favor, my friend. No favor at all to me.

  * * * *

  Flavius saw him shudder.
So did the rest of the crowd. Like jackals attracted to an injured beast, they fixed their eyes on him. Flavius glanced from face to face. Flared nostrils, parted lips, shining eyes. They wagged their head knowingly to one another and readied their dirty little missiles. They would see that Marcus’ last moments were full of torment and mockery. With flung stones and vile words, they would claim his dog’s death as a bizarre victory for themselves.

  Anger swept through him, and he longed for a sword. He had no weapon, only the pole sling he’d manufactured from the stolen purse and his walking staff. Last night, he’d used it to kill a bird perched in a tree. It had been a small meal, but he’d been pleased to discover that he hadn’t lost his skill. But it was a hunter’s or a marksman’s weapon, not something to turn against a mob.

  He could turn his walking staff against them, perhaps, but there would not be the satisfaction of teaching them anything. Even if he’d had a gladius, he could not kill them all, but he could teach them the difference between tormenting a man in a cage and dying in a battle against a bared blade. Not that it would save Marcus. There would still be the rattle of stones against the iron bars of his prison and the small batterings of the ones that reached him. He would still hear their insults and mockery hurled along with the stones. His friend had stood strong all day, but now he would go down ignominiously. Flavius looked around him, sick with knowledge. He could not save Marcus.

  He could not save Marcus from death. But, perhaps, he could save him from this particular death. He stooped for a stone, picked up a likely one, and retreated to the edge of the street. He’d have to work quickly. The crowd was already winging stones at Marcus. Most of them fell short, and even the missiles that struck had little power. He was satisfied to see that they fell back into the gathering crowd, striking some of the gawkers’ upturned faces.

  In the shelter of a doorway, he considered the stone he’d chosen. Then he groped in the knotted rag at his waist, and found the wad of wax from the stolen purse. He jabbed himself on the serpent’s tooth as he took it out. The damnable thing was still sharp as ever, despite all the time it had festered inside his body.

  He remembered too well the day he’d acquired it. He’d leaped, intending only to knock Marcus out of the way. He could still recall, in ghastly detail, how the serpent’s jaws had closed on his leg. He’d dangled, upside down, the pain from the stabbing teeth as sharp as the toxin from the creature’s mouth. Instantly, he’d felt the hot acid kiss of it and known he was poisoned. He’d been saved by the horse’s harness. The serpent’s teeth had passed completely through his leg; they grated on something, perhaps a buckle or bronze plate. He’d felt the snake’s fury as it clenched its teeth all the tighter. And then, as teeth ground against metal, he’d felt one break.

  The snake had briefly loosened its grip just as Marcus leaped for him and seized him. He’d literally been torn from the jaws of death by his friend. “Leave me!” he’d gasped, knowing that he was dying, and he’d sunk into blackness.

  When next he’d found light, all had changed. His leg was tightly bandaged, his swollen flesh rippling next to the wrapping, and fever burned him. Marcus had been crouched beside him. He looked up at the leaves of an oak tree against the evening sky and smelled pine needles. So Marcus had withdrawn from the snake. Had he given up his river crossing, then? He’d blinked dully, knowing that, for him, the fight was done. Whatever became of him now was in the hands of his friend and commander. Marcus had grinned at him, a wolf’s smile. “You’re awake then? Good. I want you to see, my friend. If you should die this night, I want you to know that I did not suffer your enemy to outlive you.

  “Sit him up,” Marcus commanded someone, and, with a fine disregard for Flavius’ wishes, two men did just that. He realized dizzily that he was on a slight rise scarcely worthy to be called a foothill, looking down on the river valley. They were not, then, that far away from the snake’s territory. He felt queasy, and not just from the poison. Fear could do that to a man.

  “What?” he managed, and with the word, felt that it was not just his leg, but his entire body that swelled with the venom.

  “Give him water,” Marcus directed one of the men, but he didn’t even look toward Flavius. He was watching the river. Watching and waiting. “There,” he breathed. “There you are. We see you now.” He turned and shouted to someone behind them, “Do you mark him now? You can’t miss him. He’s as big as a city wall, and so shall we treat him. Take your best aim and let fly.”

  One of the men held water in a cup to his mouth. Flavius tried to drink. His lips, his tongue, all parts of his mouth were stupid and swollen. He wet his tongue, choked, gasped in air, gulped water, and then managed to pull his face away from the offered cup. Someone, somewhere was beating a drum, a slow thwacking noise. It made no sense. As he pulled his face away from the cup, he heard the familiar thud and then deep vibration as a ballista launched a shot. Four others followed in succession. He knew them now, knew the deep thock-thock-thock as the bowstring was racheted back, and then the release, followed by the deep hum of vibrating leather. They were using shot, not bolts, and the men on the rise were shouting and leaping in excitement as each missile was launched. “That’s a hit!” someone shouted, and “Look at him thrash! Look at him thrash!” another replied.

  Flavius forced his eyes wider and managed to focus them on the scene. Marcus had chosen to attack the snake with ballistae. The men on the weapons were working frantically, loading and cranking and adjusting each launch to target the writhing snake. Below, each heavy shot of stone either sent up a plume of brown water as it missed, or thudded harshly against the scaled back of the snake before splashing into the river. The snake was in the deep reeds, but from his vantage, Marcus could look down on him. He had glimpses of the broad scaled back and his lashing tail, but even when no part of the snake was visible, they could track him by the way he parted the reeds and sent brown tendrils of mud unfurling into the tan waters of the river.

  “Can’t kill him,” Flavius said, but it came out as a muted mumble and no one paid him any heed. He caught only glimpses of the battle, for the men in front of him shouted and leaped and pounded one another with each successful hit on the snake. But Flavius knew snakes. He’d held them in his hands when he was a boy and knew how supple they were, how flexible their ribs. “Head,” he suggested, and then, from swollen lips, he shouted at Marcus, “Head. Skull!”

  Had he heard him, or had he figured it out for himself? “Aim for his head. All of you. Focus your missiles on his head! Quickly, before he finds better cover or goes back deep into the river.”

  His men complied, ratcheting and loading and raining a hail of rocks down on the snake below. Battered and confused, the creature turned first one way and then another, trying to elude its mysterious enemy. Its tail, Flavius saw, did not thrash so wildly as it had; perhaps one of the missiles had done some damage to its spine after all. Another hit, this one closer to the snake’s wedge-shaped head, and suddenly its movements slowed and became more labored. It more twisted than thrashed now; Flavius caught a glimpse of pale belly scales as the creature rolled in agony.

  And then, the hit. Flavius knew the death blow when he saw it. The rock struck the snake’s head and stuck there, wedged into the animal’s skull. The twitches became ever slower; undeterred, the men on the ballistae continued to rain stone after stone down on the creature. Even after it was still, they assaulted it, pelting its yielding body over and over.

  “Enough!” Marcus shouted at last, long after Flavius knew the snake was dead. He turned to someone, spoke over Flavius’ head. “Send two men down to be sure of it. And when they are sure it’s dead, I want them to measure it.”

  “It’s a hundred foot if it’s one,” someone observed.

  “Closer to a hundred and twenty,” someone else opined.

  “No one’s going to believe us,” someone else laughed sourly

  Flavius saw Marcus stiffen. The poison was working in him, and his vision
wavered before him. He had a glimpse of Marcus’ set jaw and grim eyes. Then, as he gave in and closed his own eyes, he heard Marcus say, “They’ll believe us. This is no wild tale from Africa, no braggart’s boast. They’ll believe because we’ll send them the hide. And the head. We’ll skin it out and send it back to Rome. They’ll believe.”

  And they had. Flavius had ridden in the oxcart alongside the salted and stinking hide. The severed head, missing a number of souvenir teeth, had been at the end of the wagon. The sight and the smell of it baking under the hot African sun had sickened him almost as much as the poison and infection coursing through his body. He had leaned against the side of the wagon, his bandaged leg propped up before him and stared at it blearily. He could see the broken tooth in the snake’s jaw, and knew where the rest of it was. Up against the bone in his thigh, snugged in tight. The healer had judged it safest to leave it where it was. “You’ll heal up around it, never know it’s there,” the man had lied to Flavius. And Flavius, too sick and weary to consider the idea of letting him dig in the wound for it, had nodded and accepted the lie.

  Marcus had come to bid him farewell. “You know I’d keep you by my side if I could, but it’s for the best that you go home. You can tell my tale better than anyone else. And no one will doubt you when you’ve got both skull and hide to back you up. I’m sorry to send you home like this. But I promise that at the next muster, you’ll join me again. I hope you don’t think I’m breaking my promise.”