Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (31 page)

“You thought I drowned? I was saved, too. The captain needed a rower. And soon I have a pledge to keep; I will have both your heads—first your sister, then you. Your lives for mine.”

“She is not my si...sister,” Glas stammered. “Why do you want to harm us?”

Isis’ bulky form came between Glas and the Gaesatae. He looked at the Gaesatae. Isis was smaller, but his hand now held the scourge.

“No talking. Time to put your strong back to work. Come, you’ll work the bilge pump.”

The Gaesatae stood and bent his head under the low ceiling. He was taller than the other Carthaginian rowers, and his hair brushed the planked ceiling. He looked like he could pick up Glas with one big hand.

Shaken and trembling, Glas stared after him.

“A bad enemy to have, little boy,” said the seaman sitting across from the Gaseatae’s place. “I would say, stay out of his way.” He gave a grim laugh and got up to leave.

Another rower caught the seaman’s arm. “Midacritus ... Don’t you frighten that boy anymore. Can’t you see he’s crippled and already scared shitless?”

Midacritis pointed at Glas’ deformed leg and laughed again as he climbed the ladder.

The rope around Glas’s ankles bound him tight. Sabrann was locked in the closet. How could he warn her?

Sabrann screamed into the dark void all around her. It was the same old dream: the death hut, touching Moigh’s face, seeing death coming in the wave.

“No!” she shouted.

Her heart pounded as the memory of the dream slowly faded. She was in the small storeroom on the
Astarte
. It was dark. She felt around until she found what must be the door. Something ran across her foot and squeaked. She moved closer to the door and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. Her hands brushed the wooden panels until she found a narrow crack. She squinted and carefully placed her eye to the opening. It was dark out there, too. It must be night.

She knew that just outside the door was the galley, pushed up against the back of the ship. The storeroom was a narrow space, fitted between the galley and Akmu’s small room on the other side. Isis stored things there that took up too much room in the galley: large bags of lentils, sacks of barley flour, an amphora full of cured olives. And special foods for the Admiral that none might touch—pomegranates, a jar of honey from Cape Bon, his favorite Garam sauce.

Her cheek throbbed where Isis hit her. There were new, painfully raw places on her shins, and her feet and shoulder throbbed under Akmu’s bandages. She was very thirsty. Maybe if she shouted loud enough, Akmu-en-Swnw would come.

She heard a sound. Akmu? Sabrann rested her head against the crude, wooden door and listened carefully.

The hold in the bottom of the ship rode where the sound of the deep water was always present—a smooth roar that was background to all the other sounds of the
Astarte
. What she heard now was not the constant, watery thrum, but a more familiar sound: someone breathing heavily. Faint at first, it was no more than a breath, in and out.

She peered through the small crack again and thought she saw a flicker of light. Then another brief flash came and went. She heard the breathing sound again, deeper. A harsh
pufft
, in and out. It was louder, closer. Someone was just outside the thin door. She moved back quickly. The door bar scraped and the wooden latch squeaked as the door opened.

She scooted back against a bag of lentils. Her mouth opened, but she could not speak. A small light moved toward her.

All she could see was a face lit by the yellow light of an oil lamp.

A frightened screech escaped from her throat. It was the Gaesatae
—
alive! His big hand reached for her throat, his eyes large in the lamp’s light.

“I will have your head, girl.” He spoke in a low, harsh voice. “You got away from me before, but you can’t run now. Your death for my life. It will be a fair trade.”

Sabrann tried to yell. Her throat felt paralyzed and not a sound came out.

“I warn you. Look carefully, everywhere you go.” He laughed. “I keep you alive for now and wait for the best time. No one on this ship cares about you; they won’t risk anything to save your life. And when we land at the Veneti’s in Armorica, I will have your head in a bag. Then I can return to Albion, and your head buys my freedom.”

Terror set her body shaking. She was alone with one of the assassins who killed Maigrid and Culain. Why was he after her?

“Who wants me dead?”

“Someone powerful enough.” He moved closer.

Sabrann tried to move back even further. “Please,” she cried. “Matrones help me!” and clutched the bronze amulet at her throat.

Lorc cu-luirg’s hand gripped her neck hard, until she could not gain a breath. Her eyes rolled back. Everything grew dark and tiny white specks of light drifted before her eyes. Her legs jerked, hitting the lamp he had set on the floor. It spilled onto Akmu’s shawl, and a small flame caught in the thin cotton.

The Gaesatae looked down in surprise and let go. He slapped his hand on the shawl, but the small fire grew quickly. He tried to beat it out.

“You can’t die now. Not until I can get away.”

The fire caught on the sacks; it licked at the spilled oil on the dry floor and grew larger.

She gasped for breath and gave a weak call, “Fire!” Her voice croaked the word, her throat still closed from the Gaesatae’s grasp.

She pounded on the thin wall screeching louder. “Fire!”

The call of fire on a wooden ship is one that reaches the ears of everyone, even the deepest sleepers. In seconds, Isis’s ravaged face appeared in the door and saw the Gaesatae beating at the fire with his hands, and Sabrann pressed against the back wall, screaming. Small flames licked at her feet. The Gaesatae reached over and yanked her out of the storeroom.

Captain Adonibaal came leaping down the ladder, roaring out orders that sent the crew running into the galley. They carried out the ship’s water barrel and began splashing water over the growing fire. Others raced on deck to form a line, dipping all manner of vessels on ropes into the water, rapidly relaying the containers down into the hold.

Small oceans of water finally extinguished the fire. In the end, a blackened hole gaped where the storeroom once was. The captain and Isis stood outside the opening, coughing and covered with smoke and soot.

The Gaesatae lay tied in ropes. His eyes were shut, swollen and blackened by the anger of the seamen who had bound him. The grim-faced Admiral stood nearby.

“He was after the girl,” said Isis. The captain gave an angry nod. A young girl was a natural target for any man, and this rough barbarian was no exception. But the fire!

“You could have burned the ship to the water line. I should cut you in pieces, and feed you to the sharks,” the captain cried. He kicked the Gaesatae against the blackened wall, his face red with fury.

Admiral Himilco reached out and stayed the captain’s anger with a hand. Adonibaal was lost in rage and might kill the man. The barbarian had clearly been after the girl, but the crew must be shown what happens to anyone careless with fire.

“Chain him to the bench. He’ll learn proper respect for my ship tomorrow when he gets thirty strokes of the lash.”

Isis came to the galley and stood watching Sabrann from the doorway as the Gaesatae was led away. “You see?” he snarled. “Women are no good on a ship.”

“He wants to kill me.” Tears streamed down her face leaving sooty trails.

Isis shrugged his heavy shoulders. “It may be so, but you are alive and he is chained now. You sleep here tonight. Pray to your barbarian gods to protect you.”

She reached down and touched the knife strapped to her thigh. Tomorrow she would find Glas and warn him.

She crawled under the table, and cried herself to sleep, her hand on her knife.

ENGLAND

June 2006

FORDE ABBEY

Dorset

June 14, 2006

“Well, is she alive or not?” Lord Dorset’s public-school accent was clipped, penetrating, and an ever-present reminder he was born many steps above Conan Ryan on the social ladder.

Conan ignored him. Deliberately. He was tired of that imperial tone of voice. But that would soon change.

Lord Dorset sat like some exalted magistrate, behind his 18
^th
century Chippendale desk. His hands formed a perfect triangle, lightly touching his chin, his arms resting on an Italian renaissance chair, carved and embellished with lion heads and florets. All priceless.

Conan’s anger flared. Damned if he would jump at his lordship’s crack of the whip. Not today. He picked up a particularly fine Roman seal sitting on Lord Dorset’s desk, turned the seal over and traced the owner’s mark on the bottom. It was an original, and he should know: he had dug it up. It would soon reside in the British Museum, proudly displayed as “on loan from the Earl of Dorset’s collection”

That name meant a lot. Charles Peregrine Sackville, Earl of Dorset, always had everything documented—provenance was everything in the rarefied world of ancient artifacts.

How he got that documentation was sometimes another matter. Providing a provenance to artifacts removed from their original context was a delicate business. Lord Dorset usually suggested one of a handful of university scholars whom they might call on to authenticate an artifact without a provenance and, if needed, run all the tests to build a rock-solid claim. Hungry for research money, they were willing to bend the rules and put their personal stamp and prestige on an artifact and declare it dated and authentic. A discreet donation to their most needy research project always ensured their continued cooperation.

That kind of professional approval determined how much money a sixteenth century garnet ring or a prehistoric iron dagger might bring on the antiquities underground market or even on the open market. It was highly profitable. A growing part of Lord Dorset’s collection was built around this kind of dubious authenticity; but he was above suspicion, for all his pieces had impenetrable provenances.

Conan moved away from the desk and looked out the window at the stunning fountain that towered over the garden by sixty feet. Excess was a daily part of his lordship’s life.