Pride of Carthage

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Imco Vaca was a slim figure, barely sixteen, with a sparse beard and lips that some joked had a feminine pout. His head might have been better suited to a poet than a warrior, but the young man knew his only aptitude with words was in quick jest, banter, and trivial things. He believed poets to be of a more serious bent. Though he was a citizen of Carthage, his family had long ago fallen into poverty, affairs ill managed and Fortune never kindly toward them. As the sole son among five children, he feared that the fates awaiting his sisters were shameful. Thus his tenure in the Carthaginian army in Iberia was not the answer to a calling but an attempt to secure a wage. And, as his father said, armed conflict provided the chance to distinguish oneself and better the family prosperity. Much to the young man's surprise, that is just what happened on the last day of the siege of Arbocala.

His division was posted near the most likely breach. As the battering ram worked its methodic destruction, Imco stood with his shield held over his head, catching arrows shot down from above. His eyes bounced around so quickly they scarcely registered the things around him except in glimpses of single objects: the braid of hair down the back of the man in front of him, the tattoo on the shoulder of another, the crook of his own arm and the throbbing artery in the soft spot there. The other soldiers jostled for position, each seeking the best point from which to gain the wall. Imco had no such interests. He might even have retreated, but the crush of bodies behind him would not allow it.

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