Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (30 page)

And I was really generous with her, he remembered, shaking his head. What a greedy bitch. No matter, he would trade directly with her in the future and discover where she traded the rest of her tin. His old interpreter had suggested it might be the Coriosolites tribe or even some tribe near the river that flowed south to Massalia.

No one knew anything. And this Durotriges girl was not helping. She misled me and will pay for that, he thought, angrily. His injured arm throbbed.

The Admiral gazed at the Veneti. He looked so familiar. Those eyes. Yes! He had seen him at
Ouecht
à. The trader met his eyes and walked over. The Admiral watched him, no expression showing on his face.

“Greetings,” Malairt said. “It’s too bad all the tin has gone. You should come and visit the Veneti Council. Perhaps we can help you. Our ships trade everywhere for everything: beautiful amber from the lands of the north, hides, salt—even tin.” He spoke with the oily cadence of someone who wanted your valuables and would promise anything. And he spoke in Durotriges!

Shocked, Sabrann translated, still holding her shawl over her cheek. The Admiral turned and gave her a questioning look.

Malairt gave a knowing smile. “Your interpreter speaks the trade talk well. But she speaks the Durotriges, better. She has much experience, I think.”

He spoke Durotriges! He must know! Wide-eyed with fear, she watched the Veneti walk back into the stone building.

Now Thombaii was speaking to the Admiral, their heads close together, deep in conversation. Glas came and stood by Sabrann. She grasped his hand.

“Listen carefully, Glas,” she said in a low voice. “I think the Veneti knows who I am, and the Admiral is not happy with the meeting. We have to try and get away now. It’s our last chance. Look over there.” She put her arm around his shoulders, and gently turned him. Two Dumnonii ponies were grazing a short distance away.

“See those ponies? They will help us. I found a way to escape. Watch me and do as I tell you. When we get close to the ponies, we’ll jump on and run. I’ll help you up—it’s the only way.” She looked deep into Glas’s eyes. He was scared, but gave her a shaky nod. He always trusted her.

The Admiral was busy talking to Thombaii. Sabrann and Glas slowly walked over and stood out of sight, between the two ponies. She stroked one pony’s shaggy hair as she took a quick look around, then shoved Glas up on one and jumped on the other.

“Now!” she cried, slapping Glas’s pony on the rump and kicking her heels into her pony’s side. At first, the ponies jerked into a bouncing walk that grew faster and faster. Then both took off and raced toward the causeway—they knew their way home! Glas buried his head in his pony’s mane, his hands gripping tight.

The Admiral heard Sabrann’s shout. “Stop them,” he roared.

The Dumnoniis came running from the stone building, but they were drunk and on foot. The small ponies were swift, racing each other, quickly reaching the start of the narrow road across the water.

As they flew over the long causeway, Sabrann was in the lead, Glas close behind. She laced her fingers tight in the pony’s rough mane. “
Dias
,” she cried to the gods, as they streaked over the road. “Help us.” The coast of Belerion came closer.

They were over halfway across the causeway when an ox-drawn cart lumbered onto the causeway. Piled high with towering stacks of cow hides, it swayed, moving slowly. Sabrann was sure the ponies would make it to the end of the causeway. Head bent, she held her breath, digging her heels hard into her pony’s side.

She screamed, “Go back!” The driver, walking beside the cart, shook his head and cried out in alarm; there was no room for him to turn around.

Wild with the race, the ponies charged ahead. The ox stopped—it looked dumbly at the mad ponies racing toward it. Sabrann thought they might go around it. But, on either side of the road, small waves curled over the sides of the causeway. The tide was coming in, and the water was deeper. They were trapped.

“Hang on Glas,” she yelled.

Rescued by the drunken Dumnoniis, bruised and cut, dripping with slimy strands of wet sea grass, Sabrann and Glas lay coughing up sea water—once more in front of the Admiral. Again, the sea had almost claimed them.

Sabrann shook from the cold, but mostly from fear. Their last chance was gone.

The Admiral seemed taller in his anger. His sharp eyes glistened, his dark, tanned face colored deeply. He had a great temper.

“I saved you!” he yelled. He jerked Sabrann’s head up, holding her by her hair. “You lied to me about tin being here. Well, I still need an interpreter—now more than ever. Tonight I sail to Armorica, to the Veneti Council, and, to make sure you interpret correctly, this boy will be chained on the ship. You run away and I will chop him in pieces and thrown him into the sea.”

Back on the
Astarte
, Isis glared at Sabrann as she and Glas were roughly shoved down the steep ladder into the galley. Isis’s first and only loyalty was to Admiral Himilco, and the whole ship had heard the tale of their attempted escape.

“Ungrateful barbarians. He saved you both from the sea!” He slapped Glas and then hit Sabrann across the face. She fell to the floor, not moving. Isis grabbed her arms and pulled her out the doorway into a small storage closet.

“This is where you stay until the Admiral calls for you,” he muttered and set a heavy bar across the door.

He glowered at Glas. “Captain Adonibaal says I need to keep a close watch on you, mouse—so you come with me.”

They were both prisoners now.

CHAPTER 20

The safe season for sailing had ended, and still the ship pushed on to Armorica. The crew made secret, protective signs with their hands and cast anxious looks at the sky.

The angry mood of the Admiral sifted below deck. Isis pushed Glas down the ladder onto the rower’s deck, and then kicked him out of his way. He shoved him into a place by the ladder and tied his legs with a sturdy rope.

He grabbed Glas’ cheek in a painful pinch. “I would crush you like this, like a bedbug, if the Admiral had not said to keep you safe.”

Glas buried his face in his hands.

“And don’t move,” Isis growled. “I won’t think twice about taking my lash to you.” He pointed to a scourge with long leather strands hanging close by on the wall.

Glas peeked through his fingers. The light was dim, only a small, high opening at one end. Here, just above the ship’s hold and below the topmost deck, the strongest seamen pulled on the heavy sweeps that moved the
Astarte
out of port or helped when the wind failed. It was no place for weaklings. Someone at the far end beat a small drum as a rhythmic whip for the rower’s strokes. Isis grabbed it and picked up the tempo; he was rowing master, and
Astarte
needed to move faster.

“Pull harder you bastards. Pull!”

The
Astarte’s
keel rocked as the waves of deeper waters buffeted it and the high, curved prow turned, not south, to Carthage and home, but east to Armorica. It was bone-breaking work, and each man pulled his weight, rowing in time with the others. One rower out of time with the beat would foul all the oars.

The dense air smelled of unwashed bodies, mildew, and salt. A trap door above the ladder let in some air, but even that opening was closed when the ship met rough seas or rain. Each sweep stuck through a port on the side of the ship with heavy leather coverings that helped keep out the water. But some always came in, and the wooden floor and benches were always damp.

Glas scooted back, watching Isis with wary eyes. His legs were still sore from the mad pony ride over the causeway. So close to Belerion and freedom! He recognized a few rowers, but none met his eye. With blank faces and unseeing eyes, they concentrated on pulling in time with the drumbeat. Benches jutted from the walls of the ship, places for ten rowers on each side, two to a bench. Angled blocks of wood in front of each bench served as footrests, to brace their bodies as they pulled back on the heavy sweeps. Sweat streamed down their bodies in small rivulets. In the heat of the nearly airless space most wore loincloths or nothing at all.

Pushed by the quickened thrust of the oars, the
Astarte
moved faster. Water rushed by the ports, and the sound of the oars splashing in rhythm were background to the steady drumbeat and Isis’s loud curses.

Glas tried to ignore the rough rope that bound his legs. Then the din of the rushing water and the rhythmic creak and splash of the oars filled his head. His eyes grew heavy. The air was too warm, and he slowly nodded off into sleep.

“You! Wake up! I warn you now. Look out!”

Glas’s head jerked up as the threatening words penetrated his stupor. The rowers had stopped and stood stretching arms and legs, flexing shoulder muscles. They could barely stand in the cramped space; the planked floor of the deck above was their low ceiling. Some were already climbing up the ladder near Glas.

“Look at me. Who do you think is talking to you?” That voice spoke in the Durotriges tongue!

Panicked, Glas quickly glanced around the cramped rowing deck. There, six bench rows away sat the Gaesatae! Glas had clearly seen his face on the river before the Gaesatae was dragged under water. He looked straight at Glas, large eyes glistening, a terrible expression on his face. His dark hair sprayed from his head in wild, snake-like strands.