Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (34 page)

Jemmy! Mick’s heart jumped at the sight. It was a sign! His throat tightened, and his eyes filled. All the druids raised their arms high to greet the sun. The crowd roared. Mick’s legs trembled and buckled. He fell to his knees, his face wet with tears, and prayed to the old gods. Jemmy needed the power that lay all around them, in the earth, in the stones.

“Here is the dawn, the light, rebirth of life. Live! Live!”
sang the Druids as Mick prayed for Jemmy’s broken body to mend, for his wounded heart and spirit to heal, and, most of all, for his Jemmy to live.

Glowing in the clear, washed air, the sun rose higher, round as an orange against the sweet blue sky. Mick raised his face to the sun and felt something had changed, was coming near. A miracle! He knew this sacred land was full of miracles just waiting to happen. Full of hope, he clasped his hands together and watched as the rain-soaked, old stones grew warm under the sun’s light and steamed up a fine mist, like hidden prayers released from their Sarsen guardians, sending pleading messages to their gods.

“Here is the dawn, the light, rebirth of life. Live! Live!”

PART IV

At the Venetis

CHAPTER 21

“The stars guided and the gods slept. But now ...?”

The Admiral cast an alarmed look aft at a towering bank of dark clouds. The gods had awakened with a roar, for with the first light of dawn came a great change in the wind. From a mild southern breeze, it had swung around to the northwest and now howled at the ship’s stern like a demon. The
Astarte’s
time had run out.

“Quick, get the girl up here,” he ordered. When Isis shoved her up onto the deck the Admiral gave her a black look. She had tried to escape, and then caused the fire that could have burned his ship down. But he needed her to translate—now! She must help him with the Armorican pilot perched on the mast, guiding the
Astarte
before the storm.

Isis wedged her in between the Admiral and Captain Adonibaal. Her white, frightened face looked up at him. She clutched her amulets, translating to the captain as the Veneti pilot conned the ship, shouting his orders in the screaming wind.

All eyes, except Sabrann’s, shifted anxiously to the maelstrom behind them. She strained to hear the Veneti. The squall line was gaining fast. Bold violet streaks of lightning lit the dark sky.
Astarte
ran before the storm as she fought her way south against a strong, northbound current. A cold wind pushed the
Astarte
into the current, smacking down the prow, sending giant spumes of water breaking over the bow. The ocean foamed and sprayed up over the sides.

A sea bird, following the
Astarte’s
stern, tried in vain to land on the ship, but the seamen yelled and waved it away. They had no charity for a fellow sea traveler: it was bad luck to have a sea bird land on their ship in a storm.

“An omen,” old Carloi the navigator said, lashed to the steering oars. Even the thickly woven withy-shield, placed to one side of the steering oars, did not protect him from the high spray that broke over the sides of the ship. Water poured off his pitch-coated cloak. The captain kept him in his sight at all times. They could not afford to lose Carloi, who best knew all the ways of finding their course in the pathless oceans.

When they finally outran the storm, the Admiral looked down at the girl. Drenched with water, her lips blue and shivering, she had relayed the pilot’s orders, when many would have pleaded for release.

“Get down to the galley and dry out,” he ordered. Her time would come tomorrow.

The day was ending, and dark blue-grey birds with bright yellow bills and stiff wings flew beside them, gliding in bounding swoops above the waves, heading east.

“Fulmars,” Carloi said. “They always search for land when night is near.”

He pointed toward the strange cloud that hovered over the horizon. Unmoving, it always meant land was there.

The sounding lead splashed continually now. The heavy lead cylinder dropped down and dragged along the sea bed, bringing up a sample in the tallow-greased insides. The Veneti pilot looked carefully at each casting. He knew exactly what the ocean floor of his homeland coast looked like. Then he called out in an excited voice.

“Look ahead! I see it—the Great Menhir. Soon we land.”

In the east, a far off line of darkness marked the place where land and sky met. A spire was barely visible, a slender white point against the sea and overcast sky. It rose and slowly grew taller as the
Astarte
drew near.

“All Veneti use the Great Menhir to find their way home,” the pilot said. “It is very holy. Long ago, it was built to follow the path of the sun and the moon. It means we come to Vannes, and I am home.” He sounded relieved.

Visible to the left of a narrow passageway between twin peninsulas of land, the Great Menhir was a beacon, rising high above the low coastline. A giant standing stone, its pale surface smoothed and burnished, it marked a rock-edged passageway no more than a few ship lengths across. The Admiral measured it with his eye. It would be close.

Oars out, sails brailed up tight, the
Astarte
glided slowly past the giant menhir. It stood taller than the ship’s mast, which measured over fifty feet. Admiral Himilco studied it and figured at least twenty men, arms outstretched, could circle it. How had they raised something so tall? With their god’s help and many strong backs he reasoned.

They may have their own gods, but none were like his. Himilco’s gods were more powerful than these barbarians. He touched the amulet hanging on his neck. Blessed by priests from the temple of Baal Hammon in Carthage, holy words and a protective spell were inscribed inside the small, gold cylinder, topped by an
uraneus
. One last ray of sun flashed, turning the Great Menhir’s burnished surface golden against the dark green headlands, before dark night settled over this land of lesser gods.

Protected by the twin peninsulas, the bay ahead offered safe harbor from the ocean’s driving winds and harsh weather. Many Veneti ships stood at anchor, but only two had their rig set. Leather sails and chains, in place of ropes, held their anchors. The wooden planks of their ships were thicker than the width of a man’s hand, built for the pounding of the oceans. Next to
Astarte’s
graceful, high prow and stern, they looked clumsy and heavy. Even moving slowly, the
Astarte
looked like some fine horse bred for racing next to the Veneti’s heavier, plodding mules.

“There are eyes watching us,” Adonibaal murmured.

Himilco gave a slow glance around. Silent men lined the prow of the nearest Veneti ship. There were no smiles of welcome. The setting sun glinted off metal—their swords only partially concealed. The Admiral nodded to Adonibaal; he would make sure they were ready for anything.

Oars up, the
Astarte
silently glided past them.

Early next morning, a noisy crowd gathered on the shore by the
Astarte.
Young women, carrying baskets of green apples, acorns, and silvery-skinned, dried fish, called to the seamen on the
Astarte,
who answered with graphic invitations, lifting their loincloths.

Sabrann watched the Admiral out of the corner of her eye. Hatred swelled and washed over her like a deadly tide. But she must not let it show; he held Glas prisoner. Somehow, she would get him back. Protect him. Then escape!

Himilco stood on deck with Sabrann at his side, impatient to leave and meet the Veneti council. The seamen lagged, distracted by the women. When the last of the trade goods was ashore, the ship’s boat left to find water needed to replenish the ship’s water supply; the fire in the hold had used it all.

The Admiral looked anxious, tapping his fingers on the side where his sword usually hung. The captain stood next to him, and they both eyed the crowd. The seamen called out lewd, encouraging comments—a few looked ready to jump overboard. The captain finally relented and let some of the women selling fruit on board.

“Be careful and count them when they come aboard,” Himilco said. “We don’t want to take any new seamen with us when we leave for Carthage.”

Sabrann gave him another angry sideways glance. Four days ago, she was free—daughter of a king; today she was this man’s servant.

The Admiral stood before her, magnificent in his dress uniform. Worn over a heavy linen kilt, his leather armor molded to his broad chest and gleamed with thin, hammered-bronze ornaments: palm fronds encircling a Carthaginian war galley, a sheaf of wheat, a crescent moon over a sun disk—all the symbols of Carthage, he said proudly. On his right shoulder, the Admiral’s ensign gleamed—bright blue faience, encircling a gold center.

Isis had plaited the Admiral’s shoulder-length, dark hair into a thick braid fastened with a leather thong. A red, cornelian scarab—his seal and symbol of authority—hung next to his protective amulet. Wide, gold bracelets clasped his wrists. His right arm hung down, unencumbered by a sling. It seemed to be healing, and he said he would not go to this meeting looking wounded. He made an impressive figure.

She stared wide-eyed at his brilliance. No Durotriges chief had ever looked so splendid.

“I want these Veneti barbarians to envy what I wear and see the benefits of trading with Carthage,” he said.

Sabrann looked down at her tattered tunic and didn’t care. She wanted to be invisible.

The Veneti pilot led them on a sandy path through a small gathering of huts surrounded with tall pine trees. The brisk air smelled of salt and fish. Mollusk shells lay heaped in a high midden on one side of the path. Well-tended gardens full of the autumn harvest marked the other side.

Just like Maigrid’s garden at the farm.
Her throat caught as she remembered. Women worked these fields, too, with the same kind of carved, wooden hoes and sharp antler picks to loosen the soil. Old women, spreading seaweed over the sandy soil in one garden, stopped to stare. Late-blooming yellow flowers mingled with tangled squash leaves and their round, orange fruit. Green-and-white striped gourds hung on vines that climbed high on tree branch supports. Dried bean pods rattled in the wind, and overhead, white gulls screeched as they flew high, drifting in the updraft of the sea breeze that blew constantly.

Sabrann noted it all, a reminder of her lost life. Obedient today, she freely walked behind the Admiral. There was no need to threaten or chain her, for she would not run away. He had effectively placed a long rope around her neck that tethered her to him. She would not try to escape again with Glas held captive back on the ship. Her cut feet still hurt, and she walked slowly, carefully avoiding any rocks or sharp pieces of shell.

As they left the
Astarte
, Akmu had given her a hooded cloak that protected her from the stares of the people who lined the path, watching the strange procession.

“Look! Here they come,” a sun-browned child shouted, and scampered along, weaving in and out of the adults who watched impassively. Small children jumped up and down, excited at the sight of strangers. The youngest were naked, except for beads or an amulet around their neck. Older boys wore hide aprons that flapped in the wind, gaping open on the sides.