Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (29 page)

Tir fìnid—
the land’s end—jutted out into the ocean with savage cliffs. Sea-green waves relentlessly crashed and foamed at the rock base, the ocean’s hungry mouth eating away at the last pieces of Albion. The captain said fallen pieces of rock lay concealed in dangerous reefs beneath the water, so none could land there. Sails bent to the wind, all rowers straining at the oars, the
Astarte
fought the wind and ploughed the few miles north to
Ictis,
a sharp-peaked island with a safe, protected harbor on the landward side.

Across the harbor’s small bay, white surf marked the calmer, sandy shoreline of Belerion. A masted ship with leather sail rocked at anchor in the harbor, among fishermen’s boats that used oars or simple cloth sails. The
Astarte
dwarfed them all. The rhythm of the ocean restlessly moved the water; the small boats bobbed up and down.

An autumnal sky, low with gray rain clouds, hung over the coast, and a fine mist blew; she couldn’t tell if it came from the water or the sky. Chilled and damp, Sabrann stood with the captain and Admiral Himilco on the small deck, close to the pilot at the steering oars. Head and shoulders wrapped in Akmu’s thin Egyptian shawl, only her eyes were visible—sharp and searching as a
Speirleag
hawk. Like the Admiral, she watched the island and harbor, but not for the same reason. Behind the covering shawl, she whispered to the Matrones and any god who might listen;
help me—there must be a way to escape.

“Ask the pilot what he makes of it,” Captain Adonibaal said in a curt voice. His eyes cast nervous surveys of this unknown island.

“He says the sailing ship is Veneti, and the others are nothing,” she translated. The pilot had answered her in the Veneti tongue. She eyed him suspiciously. Caradoc had often warned her that the Veneti were never to be trusted.

“You call them Dumnonii,” said Captain Adonibaal, in his poor attempt at the trader’s tongue. Wrinkling his large nose, his eyes shifted to Sabrann. “Is that what they call themselves? Are they named after the place where they live, like us? We are Carthaginians from the city of Carthage.”

Names he wanted. The Dumnonii had names for many places, but none the Admiral and captain would want to know. Culain had told her about the
fogous,
stone-lined tunnels dug deep underground, where people could hide, and about
Men-an-Tol
, a magic healing stone, high on the moor; but these were not great cities like their Carthage.

This captain really wanted a name for the unknown. He looked anxious.

“No. There are no great places like your Carthage. Dumnonii is an old name from times unknown that the people call themselves. It means ‘the people of the deep.’ My Maigrid said it came from a long ago time when part of the land fell under the water, or perhaps because they worked under the ground, digging for tin. No one knows for sure.”

Saying Maigrid’s name made her throat tighten and her eyes smart with tears. This was too hard; just seeing land again kindled the memory of the fire. She closed her eyes, but the flames leapt high in her mind’s eye, and the smoke roiled like storm clouds.

She blinked hard, turning away from the captain and his questions, and watched the crew as they worked the derrick, lifting the lead-filled, wooden anchors from the deck, swinging them over the railing, splashing down into the water. Her face was wet and she could not tell if it was tears or rain that ran down her cheeks. Or both. It didn’t matter.

Looking over the ship’s railing, her stomach clenched in fear; she was not ready to go near the water again. Yet, she must: her life and Glas’s depended on the will of this all-powerful Admiral. A rope ladder dropped down the side to the ship’s boat below. She hung back to the very last, then, gingerly started the steep descent. The coarse rope cut into her bandaged feet, and she slipped. Thombaii, the carpenter, quickly reached up and caught her arm, then helped her down into the boat. Her heart beat with tiny, quick patters in the soft part of her neck.

A wave splashed up in her face, ready to wash her over the boat’s side. Frightened, she searched the water in vain for the dolphins—they had saved her once. Glas sat in front of her, his blond hair blowing in the damp breeze. He turned and gave her a sweet, gentle smile; the water didn’t seem to bother him.

The trading mart at
Ictis
was on an island, just like the Durotriges had at
Ouechtà
. Here, too, it was far enough from the mainland to protect the people and allow important trade to safely take place. A long sandbar led from the island’s south side to the land, making a natural causeway, wide enough for the traffic now passing over to the island: hide-covered withy carts full of stacked cones of salt, ponies with pannier baskets of corn, and people bent forward under sacks of fleece, slung behind their backs.

Sabrann knew the land was rich. Tin and copper flowed from here to Mai Dun as tribute—a payment for protection by the stronger Durotriges. No raiders from Hieryo hunted this coast. On the far western shore of Belerion, the Durotriges had built a fort on a cliff, warning anyone who cruised these waters; beware, someone powerful defends this land.

She stared at the sandbar. Gravely and tan against the water, little waves lapped up to the edge, leaving a line of white foam. It pointed straight toward Belerion—a way to escape! Once across, she and Glas could find their way north to Mai Dun. She touched the Matrones amulet to her lips, and prayed.

The boat ground its way onto a rough, shingle beach, and a small group of Dumnoniis emerged from the scrubby, shoreline trees. One stepped forward—a short, heavy built man with bulging eyes—who offered the greetings of welcome made by all traders. The others shifted bare feet in the shale, casting nervous looks at the newcomers.

Sabrann stood next to the Admiral and peered at the Dumnoniis from behind her shawl. There was no one she knew. Only the one Dumnonii spoke; the others stood silent. She was used to this process: the slow sizing up and evaluation by each side before the actual business began. A few cast appraising eyes at the
Astarte,
rocking gently at anchor in their bay. It was probably unlike any ship yet come to trade.

The spokesman pointed toward the Carthaginian ship. The new wood of the mast and spars stood out. “The storm?” he asked.

“In truth, we came through the big storm, but our ship is safe. We were much favored by the sea gods,” she replied.

So the ritual began, each reply following the inevitable questions. Sabrann translated for the Admiral in a low, clear voice.

“And what do you unknowns seek?”

“What do we seek? Tin,” Sabrann said, barely waiting for the Admiral’s reply.

There was a long pause. A very long pause. Then the speaker mumbled they only had a little. The Admiral bent and spoke in her ear.

“You have only a little?” She replied to the Dumnonii. “We have traveled so far over the great ocean, perhaps we could talk some more.”

She was nervous; soon the Admiral would know she lied. The wet shore wind blew the shawl from her head, leaving her face exposed. Her hair whipped out, stinging her cheeks. The Admiral cast a stern look her way.

There was a hurried conference among the Dumnoniis; they moved off and huddled together with occasionally raised voices. The red-faced leader came back and offered them drink. There was low muttering behind him.

The Admiral nodded, forcing a smile.

“Yes, we will be happy to sit and drink
coref
with you. Beer is good,” Sabrann said. She pulled the shawl tight, trapping her wind-blown hair, and avoided the Admiral’s questioning eyes as they walked inland to a low, stone building, with smoke rising from its thatched roof.

Admiral Himilco stopped and spoke in a low voice to Thombaii before they went inside. “Something is not right about this. Stay outside and look around. Take the boy—the girl said he speaks the Dumnonii tongue and knows some trader talk.” Thombaii’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. Glas stood just behind him, trying to stay out of the Admiral’s eye.

The Admiral cautioned Thombaii, “If we have any problems, run to the ship’s boat and bring the Libyans back from the
Astarte.
”

The Admiral glanced around the island. Sabrann followed his gaze and saw the same things: so many hidden places, and two small boats in the harbor were now moving, drawing near the shore.

The Dumnonii chiefs led the way into the building. A man stood waiting inside. Fair, with hooded eyes, he nodded when the leader introduced him as Malairt, another trader. And a Veneti, thought Sabrann, as he spoke. That explained the ship in the harbor.

They sat on benches. It looked like fishermen cleaned their catch here, and obviously used it as a smoke house; with its shuttered windows, the floor littered with fish scales and bones, and the thatch dark with the smoke of many years. An old woman tended the fire at one end, drying a line of fish. She passed a jug of
coref
around. The Dumnonii men took many long drinks, and the old woman cast wary glances at them. The men looked anxiously at the Carthaginians. Sabrann began to suspect none had ever traded before.

She caught the Veneti staring at her, and quickly covered the tattooed cheek with her long hair. But the trader’s eyes kept coming back to her. He recognized her—she was sure of it! If he told the Admiral who she was, he might not let her go. The daughter of a powerful chief was valuable and the Admiral could keep her and Glas until someone paid a ransom to set them free. That was too dangerous, with assassins hunting her. It was safer to try and sneak back into Mai Dun and find Cathbad; he would protect them.

And she felt sure of other things. This building, stinking of fish, was not where they usually took traders—and these men were not the chiefs who usually traded. The Dumnoniis were trying to discourage the Carthaginians, forcing them to quickly leave.

It was a disastrous meeting. The Admiral fumed in frustration. The fishy chiefs said all their tin was gone; they only had a few pieces left for bartering any necessary things they might need during the long winter months, like extra food or cloth. They often bartered among themselves—no traders came across the seas then. Too dangerous, they said, and ate fresh smoked fish with their beer, smacking their lips.

When Sabrann translated that information, the Admiral’s mouth set in a grim line of rage. Gone! This wretched place was just as disappointing as the other one at
Ouecht
à, the one the Durotriges controlled.

He vividly remembered
Ouecht
à
.
He went there prepared to deal with uncivilized barbarians, sure to find an easy way to circumvent the tin trade that somehow ended in Massalia. Instead he had encountered Derbhorgill, a woman who could barter and outmaneuver with the skill of a Carthaginian amulet dealer, promising all the gifts of the gods one minute, asking for more goods in trade the next.

He had been so hopeful. He wanted to eliminate anyone else and have the tin sent directly to Carthage. That’s the way it used to be, before the damned Greeks cut into their territory.

Now Carthage paid a high tax at Massalia and even higher prices if another buyer was involved—and it seemed there always was someone else to pay. He had planned to cut the middlemen out at Mai Dun. Himilco’s old interpreter said the Durotriges were powerful and wise traders led by their king, a great warrior named Caradoc.

But wise Caradoc was dead and Himilco had been met by that greedy harridan, Derbhorgill. The woman, richly wrapped in a fur cloak and wearing a fine, gold torc, greeted the
Astarte
when they dropped anchor. Derbhorgill was not young, perhaps forty years or so. Dark, curly hair, streaked with gray, framed a sharp-featured face with eyes like black pebbles. The Carthaginians were led to a large roundhouse by an armed escort of warriors carrying full-length body shields and iron- tipped spears. His old interpreter had called them the
Gaesatae,
the spearmen.

The building at Ouechtà was raw and barbaric compared to Carthage.The floor was packed dirt, not fine marble; the walls rough timbers, not cut limestone or marble. Not that much better than the huts of black tribes he had seen, seeking gold in Africa.

Yet Derbhorgill proudly held court from a rough-hewn bench, making everyone else kneel. A young boy with nervous eyes stood at her side. “My son,” she said, “who will soon be king.” The boy never said anything, and it was apparent who would be the ruler. To her right a hooded Druid waited, ready to threaten with all the powers of the gods.

“All our tin is either traded or spoken for,” she said, with a sly look. “But let me see what you have to offer.”

When his seamen brought in the richly colored carpets, the fine cloth patterned with gold and silver thread, the exquisitely worked gold jewelry, and the red carbuckle jeweled chalices, her eyes betrayed her greed. Derbhorgill had quickly found some ingots of tin to trade. She admitted to an agreement to trade her tin elsewhere, but with whom she would not say.