Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (42 page)

Sabrann sat, half hidden, by the coiled ends of brail ropes from the main sail. It was as far out of the way as she could get. All the crew were busy with their own tasks. Captain Adonibaal’s stern eye was everywhere, and Isis’s lash was always nearby. Glas was with Thombaii, carrying the carpenter’s tools, happy to be trailing along as the carpenter patched up the damage from the Veneti attack. She breathed a heavy sigh.

So she would stay with the Admiral. There was no turning back. The Veneti’s heavy, leather sails were clearly visible from the stern of the
Astarte
. She would sooner lay with a pig than go back to Vodenix.

The sun was a pale, watery yellow in a gray sky. She shivered in the thin tunic Akmu had resurrected from the bottom of a small chest in his tiny room. He called it cotton. She had never worn anything so light; all her own clothes were woven from wool. Sabrann had not the heart to ask for something warmer. She was fast using up his store of clothing. She had already lost his shawl to the fire and his cloak lay trampled and defiled on the floor of the slave hut, back at Vannes.

Her stomach turned at that thought. Vodenix had raped her, rough and cruelly, like a slave. She must block it out, cast it from her memory. She had seen into the heart of one man’s evil. Her gift had shown her the life of a killer, and she wanted to forget.

And to heal.

Akmu had been gentle and kept muttering a censoring, humming sound under his breath when he cleaned the blood and semen away from her torn virginity. He made a special bandage of linen, covered with a healing salve, to bind her firmly until the lesions closed. After he cleansed all the other cuts and bruises, and her feet—again! He gave her a bitter-tasting herbal potion to drink. She had made a face at the taste.

“From the willow and the silphion,” he said and firmly insisted she drink it all. “It will make your pain less.”

And the silphion will prevent any child, he might have added, for there was that danger. At the end he sang a gentle hymn to Sekhmet in his own Egyptian words, his eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. Any message to the gods and goddesses was welcome to Sabrann. She closed her eyes, too, and thanked her own goddesses, the mothers of all.

Oh, Matrones, never leave me
.

And Maigrid. For now, she knew Maigrid had not left her. She could still hear her voice coming when she had most needed it.

... it is a power. There will come a time when it will be a gift you will use and treasure.
She placed the sound of Maigrid’s voice in her memory bag, a treasure to draw on, to warm her heart and give her strength.

Sitting on the deck, she moved uncomfortably. She could not ignore the discomfort of her own body. Akmu had just given her a potion for the pain. She didn’t want to think and laid her head on her arms.

“Well, it is the daughter of Arion! How goes the day?”

She looked up at Admiral Himilco’s young scribe. She could barely understand him as he tried to speak the trade talk. Sabrann nodded and hoped he would go away; she was so tired. But he sat down. She would have to talk to him. He gave her a friendly smile.

“Who is this Arion? I am daughter of Caradoc, not Arion.” She answered him in Greek that was much better than his garbled attempt at trade talk.

He looked surprised, then amused. A smile caught one side of his mouth and creased a line in his cheek.

“Arion was a man saved by the dolphins. I had not heard of another such, until you. You are blessed by the gods.”

Sabrann looked up at his face. His look was so earnest; he believed what he told her.

Blessed by the gods! She and Glas would have been better off drowning. Now they were caught, surrounded by water. Her eyelids grew heavy, and her thoughts slipped away like a cloud in a breeze. Akmu’s potion helped stop her pain, but made her mind unclear and drowsy. Her head nodded.

“Shall I tell you the story? It’s a good one.” His face was eager and happy. He looked to be not very old, twenty perhaps. Light brown, gold-streaked hair curled and framed a face free of guile, with a finely molded straight nose above a wide, sensuous mouth. He ran one hand through his hair, brushing it out of his face. His fingers were black with ink.

“What is your name?” she said.

“Herodotus of Halicarnassus and most people call me Hero. I am scribe to Admiral Himilco, but what I do best is tell stories.”

“So tell me about Arion,” she said. She felt groggy. It was better to not have to talk. A broad smile lit his face and he sat down next to her.

“It starts with Periander; he was a great ruler in Corinth. In his court he had the greatest Cithara player—that’s a lute—in all the world and his name was Arion. He was also the greatest singer in all the world. One day, Arion went to visit the lands of Etruria and Sicily and, while there, he earned a great deal of money. So much money that he feared robbers and set sail for Corinth with the only crew he trusted: a ship sailed by Corinthian seamen.”

Sabrann laid her head back down on her arms. His voice was charming. It was better than listening to her own thoughts. Hero said the sailors were greedy and decided to take Arion’s money. They offered him a choice—drown in the sea, or they would kill him on land. Either way, he was dead.

Sabrann shook her head. That was like her own choices. Obey the Admiral, or Glas would die; stay with the
Astarte,
or go back to Vodenix. Each was equally bad.

“Arion sang and played the cithara to no avail, hoping to change their minds.”

Sabrann peered at him as he held up his arms, shaking his head. He was a good storyteller, if she could only keep her eyes open. She imagined him in Caradoc’s great house at Mai Dun, spinning the tale of greed and lust for gold, and closed her eyes to overwhelming sadness. She laid her head on her arms, drifting away on Hero’s words.

“The crew’s greed won out. But Arion saw that coming. Just as the sailors were about to kill him, he jumped into the sea! And they sailed away with all his gold, thinking he had drowned. But he was saved. A dolphin had been following the ship and fell in love with his singing. The entranced dolphin rescued Arion and carried him on his back to Corinth.”

Hero took a deep breath and glanced at Sabrann. She was sound asleep. He shrugged. The end of the story would have to wait. It didn’t matter. He had already told her the best part.

Midacritus the Tartessian nearly stumbled over Sabrann as he guided the rough barbarian toward the latrine at the stern end of the
Astarte
. When the barbarian stood up to take a piss against the wall, Isis had screamed in his high voice.

“Not on this ship. You go in the ocean up by the stern. The Admiral says whip anyone who fouls his ship and makes it stink like a dung heap.” Isis pointed to Midacritus. “You take him up there and don’t let him loose.”

Isis secured a rope to the slave bracelet on the barbarian’s hand and shoved them both to the ladder. It mattered not to Midacritus. He was glad to be out of the stale air in the rower’s deck. But now the stupid barbarian had stopped walking. He was glaring at the sleeping girl on the deck. Midacritus tugged on the rope. If he had to be a nursemaid, he would make it fast.

“What’s the matter? You still want her? Didn’t she cause you enough trouble?” The whole ship knew the story about the barbarian raping the girl and starting a fire. Every seaman told some version of the terrible act, all including how the Admiral had beaten the barbarian senseless and tried to throw him overboard.

Soon the barbarian would receive his punishment. It had been postponed while they were at the Veneti’s. Tomorrow he would receive thirty lashes from Isis’s leather whip. Isis would probably kill him.

“No,” the barbarian answered. “She has something I want returned to me.”

Midacritus had seen hatred before, but the barbarian’s eyes gleamed with a light that glowed like Hades, the god of the underworld.

“Move.” Midacritus shoved him forward so he wouldn’t have to see his face. There was more to the barbarian’s story than he let on. He would find out later. If the girl had something hidden, Midacritus would find it. It might be valuable.

He mulled that thought over as the barbarian used the latrine. A short, muscular man, Midacritus was close to twenty-five years old. Tightly curled black hair and narrow slanting eyes gave him a look of the people of Tartessos. Sometimes it was useful—like now. So he was known as Midacritus the Tartessian. He would be shoved overboard if they knew he was a Greek from Massalia. A very poor Greek.

His family came to Massalia from Phocaea, at the eastern end of the Great Sea, and even though life was better in the west, they were still poor fishermen. Massalia grew wealth for the elite, not for men of the sea. Midacritus watched fat traders get rich and knew there were better ways to earn his daily bread and wine than fishing for Tunny in the Great Sea. As he trawled for fish along the coast of Tartessos, escape was always on his mind.

Then the gods put him in Gadir harbor at just the right time. When the great Carthaginian ship had put into port, he saw his opportunity. He had shoved his way on board and begged the rowing master for a place. He didn’t care where it went. They were legendary traders; he could learn their ways. He already knew the trade language well. He was clever and would not let this opportunity pass. He would kill for this chance.

The next morning Sabrann woke with a start. A thin shaft of light made its way down from outside; it was well past dawn. The place next to her was empty; Glas would be with Thombaii the carpenter. She jumped up and hurried to the galley. Isis was already there and gave her a hard look as he shoved a pail of porridge and dried grapes at her.

“You are late, so hurry to the Admiral’s cabin.” Sabrann grabbed the pail and slipped away. She wanted little to do with Isis.

When she came up on deck, she moved carefully to the stern and checked the horizon. The Veneti were still there.

The Admiral was already at work, talking to Hero, who sat at the table with a papyrus scroll before him. Hero looked up and winked at her. She liked the scribe.

She watched, fascinated, as Hero prepared to write. First, he selected a trimmed split reed then carefully dipped the reed in a pot and made marks on the papyrus.

Hero looked up and smiled. He put his finger in the pot and reached over and pressed it on her arm. His fingerprint showed on her arm.

“It’s made of soot, wine dregs and cuttlefish ink.” He winked at her. “I can teach you how to make it.”

Her nose was down next to the papyrus roll as he started his columns of writing, always beginning on the right side, each letter precise and angular in the Phoenician way.

She had forgotten her duty until the Admiral cleared his throat and pointed to the pail of porridge—his morning meal. Her eyes kept returning to the scroll as she served him.

Her memory flew back to Mai Dun. Once she had seen Cathbad making marks on a scroll like this. It is a way of talking, he said. He called it writing and warned her not to say anything to the others.

“Writing would make students forget all the important things we Druids teach,” he said. “Their minds would grow loose as a fast-flowing stream. All memory of our ways would be lost. And, most of all, because our ways are sacred, we cannot risk passing that knowledge to others who will use our secrets in the wrong way. Someday, when you are older, I will teach you.”

Secrets. About what? Sabrann frowned. Cathbad was her teacher. Everything she knew came from him. In addition to memorizing all the words a druid must know, he was writing them! Why did he make her wait?

He kept the scroll in a secret place, but a small child could always find what was hidden. But when she opened the scroll and stared at the marks, they did not speak to her.

She knew writing was powerful. Even magic. The Admiral was always looking at the papyrus—Hero had named it so—and looked pleased afterwards. Was there a spell on the papyrus? Could he see something that was revealed only to him?

“What is writing for?”

“So you don’t forget,” Hero said.

Sabrann puzzled over that and then said, “I can remember everything.”