Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (28 page)

“Captain Adonibaal, look at this.” The Admiral pointed to the hide on the wall. “We have finished the map! It will be the first chart to show the true coastline and way to the tin isles.” His voice held a barely controlled note of excitement. He nodded at the young man.

“My scribe, Hero, showed me a copy of one by Hecataeus of Miletus. Only ours is better. We are the true seamen, real men of the sea, who feel the wind and watch the stars turn. We see the seas and the land in ways old Hecataeus only dreamt of, sitting in his library.”

Sabrann’s eyes were riveted to the hide nailed to the wall. She had no idea what it meant.

“Ah, I see you have brought me the interpreter.” The Admiral was clearly in a better mood than yesterday. “Look, child, look at this wonderful map ... oh, what is your name?”

“Sabrann,” she said, suspicious of this change in attitude.

“Here, Sabrann.” He pointed his finger to a mark on the hide. “This is the map of your world. This is
t
ì
r fìnid
, where the land ends.” His hand moved slightly, to another mark on the hide. “And here is where we sail to today,
Ictis
. Do you know it?”

Sabrann’s heart jumped. Of course, she knew it. But
Ictis
was not a dot on a cow’s hide. Was this a trick?
Ictis
was in Belerion, the land of the Dumnoniis. It supplied over half of all the tin traded at the Durotriges’s trading mart at
Ouechtà
. She had sat behind her father many times when traders from Ictis brought their yearly tribute of tin to his council. And both Maigrid and Culain were from Belerion. Oh, yes, she knew it well.

Grief swelled in her heart, and her eyes smarted with tears. Her lips trembled; she pursed them tight. She would not cry in front of this man.

Again, he asked, “Sabrann, do you know this place? The pilot guide we picked up in Armorica said there would be tin at
Ictis
. Is this so? You must know. You said you were interpreter for the King of the Durotriges.”

The jovial note had left his voice, and there was now a fine sharpness to its tone.

Be careful
. Sabrann’s thoughts swirled. How could she trust these short, dark-haired people? She had never had any dealings with them. All her training at Caradoc’s knee told her to be cautious and not reveal too much before she understood them better; they still did not know she was Caradoc’s daughter. Why were they not trading at
Ouechtà
? There were many unanswered questions.

But it was a chance to get back to Mai Dun—to safety with Cathbad. A chance to find who ordered the killings. Yesterday, she had bargained with this admiral for her life and Glas’s. Now he needed her. She would tell him anything to get back.

“Yes. I know Belerion. There will be tin there. And I know their tongue—I speak the Dumnonii ...” In a rush she added, “but afterwards, Glas and I must stay there.”

There was silence in the cabin. Wide-eyed, she glanced around the room. Captain Adonibaal shifted his stance and, with one small shake of his head, sent Sabrann a warning.

The Admiral’s cool grey eyes stared at her. She tried to place a smile on her face, but her lips trembled, and she felt fear rising in her belly.
No!
Don’t show him any fear
. That was another good lesson learned from hunting—an animal could always smell fear and would think you were weak and attack. The sharp, acrid smell of men filled the air—except for one. The scribe’s sweet scent calmed her, reminding her of warmer, sunny times. She took a deep breath.

“I thank you for saving us from drowning, but we need to go home.
Ictis
is not far from a kinsman of mine. We will be safe there.”

She put a firm note to her voice and silently thanked the gods her voice did not quaver or give way. Nothing she said was true:
tìr fìnid
was far from Mai Dun, at least a five-day trip by boat, and no Durot kinsman was near. But that was not the biggest problem. It was long past the time when all the tribute tin went north to
Ouechtà.
There would be no tin left for the Admiral!

She was trapped. Sabrann swallowed hard, thinking. This determined Admiral would find that out when they got to
Ictis
; he would be angry and blame her.

She and Glas would have to find some way to escape. She pulled nervously on her braid.

For now she knew what
t
ìr
f
ìnid meant: the land’s end. She saw it on the hide where Admiral Himilco pointed. Even crudely drawn—and to Sabrann, who had never seen such a map before—it was apparent there was no land beyond it. Only the vast ocean, kingdom of the sea gods, marked with swirling waves and giant creatures, with winds that would blow her far away from Mai Dun. It showed the end of her world.

She would take the only way open to her and go to Ictis.

Admiral Himilco looked at her intently, his sharp eyes noting every movement, every inflection in her voice, her hand pulling on her braid. He had not become Carthage’s Admiral of the West by letting others dictate their terms to him. He paced slowly around Sabrann, his hands clasped behind his back. He came from a long line of traders and was not ready to commit until he found the best terms available. But he also knew there were times when it was to his advantage to appear to negotiate. This might be one of those times.

She stood waiting by the side of the table, staring down at the writing on the papyrus. The handsome young man turned his face to the Admiral.

“She is barbarian!” he said and laughed.

“Yes,” the Admiral said. “But she knows many different tongues and speaks well—for one so untutored.” He walked behind her. She moved, as if she felt his gaze through her tunic.

“I will consider it,” the Admiral finally said. “I see no reason to need an interpreter after
Ictis.
You may both go afterwards.” His mouth turned up on one side, a warning sign for those who knew him well.

And we’ll see how it goes, he thought. She is an ignorant barbarian, who happened my way just when I have need. I will decide when and if she is not needed. For now, I will let her think she has my agreement. I need a willing interpreter for this meeting.

Later, quiet as mice, Sabrann and Glas huddled under the table in the galley, trying to stay out of the Captain’s way and not anger anyone, especially Isis. They had found their way down into the hold where Isis found them and chased them back to the galley.

Deep in the belly of the ship, thick timbers curved and held the
Astarte
to her shape. It smelled rank of mold and sour wood. She could hear the rushing water outside the hull. At the very bottom of the ship was a square well full of water, and a seaman, stripped naked in the moist air, turning a crank that pumped out, he said, the seawater that seeped in through the
Astarte’s
sides. As their eyes grew round, he laughed and said the
Astarte’s
sides were thin, but strong, and covered with pitch to keep out the sea. But water always found its way in the bottom and other places.

Down in the depths, carved in the wood beams that arched over head, were mysterious signs: triangle shapes with unknowable marks in the middle, a circle, two lines crossed, a thumb print. Signs of the unseen spirits of the world, keeping the
Astarte
safe, thought Sabrann. The posts outside Cathbad’s roundhouse had painted signs and small carvings, too, to ward off evil spirits. She wondered about the tattoo on Isis. Maybe it, too, was a sign to ward off evil.

She closed her eyes, trying to think of how they could escape. Gripping Glas’s hand tight, she rocked back and forth, slowly getting used to the ship’s movement.

“The Admiral said we could leave after
Ictis
. I have never been there, but we both speak the Dumnonii tongue. Perhaps one of the traders will hide us from these men of Carthage; the Dumnonii don’t like outsiders. Then we can walk up the coast to Mai Dun.
Dias
, we have to get there.”

“Sabrann,” Glas whispered. “I heard something.” He didn’t stutter with Sabrann, only sometimes with others when he was scared.

“I don’t think he will really let us go. Akmu-en-Swnw said the Admiral is going to sell us at the slave market in Carthage. Then we can never return.”

Sabrann heard the words Glas said and went still. He gave a sad half-smile. He still trusted her, even though everything was lost. She bent her head, looking at her raw, fire-blistered hands, and slowly shook her head.

The Admiral had lied. A flash of anger rose through her body; it would mean death for Glas. He was deformed and useless as a slave—they would kill him!

She remembered captured people from other tribes in Albion, like the Atrebates, who lived on small farms at the far edge of the Durotriges’ tribal land. When the Durotriges went on raids, they brought them home with iron slave bracelets binding their hands together. Strung together in the same line with the animals captured on the raid, they stumbled and shuffled into a life where they were tattooed as slaves and traded—just like cattle. Poor field workers and gleaners, defeated and shamed by their capture, no one would come and rescue them. The women slaves slept on the ground in their master’s roundhouses or in a small hut with other slaves. Anyone could use the women slaves like whores: young men practicing, trying their first act of sex; drunken men who used them rough; or old impotent men, who beat them when the women could not make their male rods stand up.

She felt sick to her stomach. No! She would not be sold, and Glas would not die.

Sabrann touched one hand to Glas’s forehead, and then her own. It was a ritual: a Durotriges gesture of greeting and acknowledgement of the center of life that always lay in the head. He was the only one she could stand to touch this way.

All her life, she avoided touching others, even for that brief moment of greeting. For always, she lived in fear of losing herself—in those terrifying moments of dying into someone else’s life.

As she grew older, Cathbad had taught her how to close her mind and protect the part that was Sabrann, and only Sabrann.

“Go deep in thought,” he said, “and place the god’s shield in front of you, before your heart. Then you are protected.” He told her what the shield looked like, in detail. She had practiced long hours trying to see the shield.

Sometimes she saw it. A warrior’s shield of polished bronze, bright with a deep, rich shimmer and a golden boss in the center. And on it, a face outlined in scrolls and precious red glass: the god Cernunnos.

She saw nothing frightening when she greeted Glas. Just brilliant sky, soft hills, and golden color bathed everything. A feeling of safety filled her whole being. Peace and light, the very essence of Glas, her soul friend—it was always the same with him.

She breathed deep.
Ictis.
There had to be a way to escape. If the
Astarte
went past
tìr finid,
she would not know the way back and they would be lost forever.

CHAPTER 19

The rocky tip of Belerion looked dangerous—nothing like her home on Maigrid’s placid farmland. Wide-eyed, Sabrann took a deep breath.