Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (26 page)

Pale light shone through a small opening set high in the wall of a narrow, dimly lit room. The light shifted and changing reflections moved like water across a tiled ceiling. How could that be? Sabrann shut and then opened her eyes once more.

“Are you awake, young maid?” A high, pleasant voice spoke.

She couldn’t see anyone. Was it the voice of the Sea God? Fear came rushing back. And memory. She and Glas were drowning in the small coracle. Dark waves crashed over her head. The sea gods, Dylan and Endil, would claim them!

Sabrann blinked again, her head dizzy from the effort, and remembered it all. She was on the strange black ship. But where was Glas?

The room moved up and down. The ship’s movement and the salty taste of the ocean raised her bile. She felt weak and nauseous as she slowly turned her head. She lay on a floor, covered with a piece of cloth. The warm air smelled familiar: honey and faintly of garlic. She gasped and put her hand to her throat. Her amulets still hung there: the special bronze one with the small piece of the Matrones, the small leather bag.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the light. There, in the corner, Glas lay safe and asleep. “
Dias
!” she cried out with relief. She did not know what she would do if she lost him now.

A sharp pain gripped her shoulder where the arrow struck. The voice spoke again. “Do not move. I have bound your wounded shoulder, and it needs to be still for this day and the next. You have lost much blood.”

“Who are you?” she asked. “And where are you?”

A hand gently touched her shoulder.

“I was sitting here behind you, reading, and fell asleep, like you.” A thin laugh followed. “Many times it is so. The healer rests with the patient, and both feel better.” Another longer laugh followed and rustling sounds, and a faint dry crackle, like dry leaves moving in the wind.

At her side appeared a small, bird-like person. His eyes were dark and narrow, outlined with a black line. His ears stuck out like handles from his bald head.

“My papyri.” He laughed. His hands fumbled with several rolls of something that kept falling to the floor. A small wooden board and stick dangled from a long cord tied to his waist sash and clicked together as he moved.

“Ah, Sekhmet, my beloved lady, forgive my clumsiness,” he muttered.
Click, click
, the stick swung against the board. Kneeling on the floor, he carefully rolled up the papyri and tied each shut with a thin cord. He seemed lost in thought.

“But what is your name?” Sabrann said. He started, as if he had forgotten she was there.

“Oh, yes ...” his voice trailed off. “But it is not who I am, but what I am.” He smiled. “I am a physician, a
Swnw
in the language of Egypt, my heart’s land. I am Akmu-en-Swnw. You may call me Akmu.” He made a small movement with one hand—first touching his heart, then his forehead, and bowed graciously toward her.

Unsure, Sabrann gave a tentative smile and gripped the Matrones amulet. “My name is Sabrann ap Durot.” She pointed to the corner. “That is
mo caraid
, my soul friend, Glas.”

Glas, stirred from sleep by their voices, sat up and then crawled to Sabrann. He whispered “What do physicians do?”

“I heal many things.” said Akmu-en-Swnw, giving Glas a solemn bow. He tilted his head up in thought. His black ringed eyes seemed to see something far in the distance.

“I worship the great goddess Sekhmet first and then tend the sick so she may have her glory reflected in all who see her.” Akmu turned to Sabrann.

“You have lost much blood from your heart channel. I bound the wound in honey and garlic so it will close and heal. And malachite, too—can’t forget that—it’s most important.”

Akmu-en-Swnw laid a hand on her cheek and nodded to himself as though pleased. “I will make you a special broth. It will help you grow strong and replace the heart’s essence you have lost. Rest now.”

He turned to go and then stopped. “And your feet; they were badly cut. I have wrapped them in a healing salve. You must not walk on them for a while.”

Akmu lowered his voice. “The captain says you must be well for a meeting at
Ictis
,” Akmu shook his head disapprovingly and made clicking sounds with his tongue.

Sabrann turned her head toward Glas, both eyes wide, her eyebrows raised in question. When she turned back, Akmu-en-Swnw was gone.

“Glas,” she whispered, “
Ictis
is in Belerion! I’ve seen their traders when they come to Mai Dun and bring the tin to
Ouecht
à. We can get back to Mai Dun and Cathbad will protect us. I need to ask him to let us go there.” She struggled to get up.

“Don’t move.” Glas gave her a worried look. “He said not to walk. I’ll go find him and ask him.”

Glas peered around the narrow doorway that led from the room and saw Akmu-en-Swnw climbing up a steep stair. When the physician reached the top, he pushed aside a covering and bright light flooded down. Startled, Glas stopped and looked around. Large wooden timbers spanned the walls above his head. There were piles of braided ropes, great twisted pieces of iron, huge pottery containers and many things for which he had no names. It smelled of fish and mold and sheep skins. Cool air blew down through the opening above the stairs. Glas climbed slowly up the steep stair and emerged onto the ship’s deck. Akmu-en-Swnw was speaking to a short, redheaded man.

Glas couldn’t hear them as the wind in the sail whistled and snapped. He stared up in wonder at the tall mast and the huge sail billowing in the wind, embellished with strange symbols. He was entranced and didn’t hear the captain come near until he spoke.

“Boy, what are you doing up here? It’s only by the thinnest of hairs on your head that you are alive and not swimming with the fish beneath the waters. You will live only as long as the Admiral doesn’t see you and you aren’t bothering anyone.”

Glas stood speechless. He understood enough trade talk to know he was not wanted up here. The captain was a tall, impressive man. A big, long nose dominated his face. His balding head was dark brown from the sun and what hair he had left was a fringe, short and wiry. The stubble of his beard showed both black and gray.

Akmu-en-Swnw came over. “Don’t worry, Captain Adonibaal. I just spoke to Thombaii. He needs a helper. And Isis and I will help keep him out of sight.”

The captain looked very stern. Glas nervously licked his lip and tasted salt.

“We lost our cook during the storm, boy, and Isis, our rowing master, is helping out until we can do better. You mind him, do whatever he says, and we’ll get along fine,” the captain said.

“M- M- My name is Glas.” He gave a shy smile.

The captain’s eyes narrowed and one eyebrow rose like a small wing. He stared a second longer at Glas, shaking his head, and then nodded to the physician. “For always,” he said, his right arm crossing his chest in the Carthaginian formal gesture of goodbye.

“Where are we going?” Glas said as the captain turned away. “Is it far from our home?” His young boy’s voice broke a little.

Captain Adonibaal stopped and turned. Glas was still smiling, but his eyes glistened with unspent tears.

The captain was stern, but not cruel, and gave him the only true answer he could. “We go home to Carthage. But first we go to
Ictis
, near the land’s end in Belerion, to look for tin. And this ... ” he waved his arm around at the
Astarte
“... this is your home now.”

Akmu-en-Swnw led a silent Glas back down into the hold to the galley—for that was what he called the room where Sabrann rested. She lay awake under the narrow table and gave an anxious look at Glas’s solemn face.

“We cook our food here when we are at sea,” Akmu said. “So when we are far from land, we may still eat. Isis will be here soon. It is time for our morning meal.”

The physician moved to the counter, ladled some broth into a small bowl and fed it to Sabrann. Soon, she started nodding her head and fell asleep. He offered a portion to Glas.

“You must eat, young Glas, so you can be strong for whatever the gods will for you.” The physician’s voice was thin and high, but soothing, a faint sound among the many others of the ship.

“What did he mean, about going to Carthage,” Glas asked.

“Why, the market, of course,” Akmu said. “The slave market.”

Glas’s heart skipped a beat. They were to be sold? Akmu didn’t seem to think that being sold as a slave was unusual. No, that was a mistake—the physician misunderstood. There must be some way to get back home. Even if his home was burned, he could go with Sabrann to Mai Dun.

The physician moved to the doorway. “I have put a small calming potion in her broth. When she awakes, I will come to check on her. Leave her sleep and be her holy guardian. Isis will come soon. If anyone bothers her, come find me—back there.”

He pointed toward the narrow doorway, as though Glas would understand. He didn’t. All he could think about was being a slave and how horrible it would be for Sabrann. He already knew how she felt about being branded with a tattoo.

“I’ll guard you Sabrann,” he whispered. Sitting up a little straighter, he looked around the room. It was hard to see; the high opening did not let in much light. A large barrel occupied one corner. Water dripped from a cup hung on its edge. On one wall, shelves climbed to the tiled ceiling, holding cups and small bowls, baskets of grain and onions. Long rails of wood ran in front of the shelves to keep the pottery from falling. A narrow, tall table spanned the length of one wall with two copper cauldrons and several clay pots stacked beneath, next to a basket filled with wood and kindling. Sabrann lay under one end of the table, near the doorway.

On the floor, near the other long wall, was a box of some kind. Glas crawled over to look at it. Lined with clay tiles, the box had a metal cover set over the top. It was warm; he could feel the heat. Carefully, he put his hand over the cover.

“Don’t do that.”

Glas jumped and fell over backwards.

“It’s my firebox, and no one ever touches it but me.”

A man stood just inside the doorway. Though not tall, his bulk filled the space; he had the look of a shrunken giant. All his features were large; his arms and legs were huge. Clad in a white loincloth, a furry pelt of black hair covered his barrel-shaped chest—the dark hair even covered his arms. His shaved head gleamed with oil. Thick black eyebrows joined together over his nose. Across his forehead a word was crudely tattooed – ISIS.

“My fire box. My galley.” One stubby finger pointed at Glas. “I cook, you cook’s helper.” Then he reached under Glas’s tunic and grabbed his penis.

“Mind me or off with your little sausage!”

Glas squawked. Isis let go and laughed as though he had made a great joke. Glas barely understood him. He spoke some language mixed with trader’s talk, but Glas got the message.

“Captain says you’ll be a good helper, but stay out of the Admiral’s way.” Isis moved his heavy body into the small room.

“And what is this?” He poked under the table with a piece of kindling.

“It’s Sa…Sabrann.” Glas said.

“A girl? By Baal Hammon and Astarte – not in here. She goes out. No women in my galley.”

“”Bu-but she’s hurt,” Glas managed to stutter. His pale skin flushed pink under the fall of white blond hair covering his face. He got to his feet.

“I have to get Akmu-en-Swnw. He can tell you.”

The big man glared at Sabrann, but hesitated.

“And the admiral sent her down here.” Glas added.

Isis made a wordless guttural sound and shrugged his shoulders in partial defeat. No one disobeyed the Admiral.

“Tomorrow. Only until tomorrow,” Glas pleaded. “Then she’ll be strong again.”