Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (35 page)

Ahead, a drumbeat sounded, slow but steady. The people stamped their feet on the sandy ground. Ankle bracelets of small shells rattled as they moved to the drum’s steady rhythm.

Standing toward the back were their slaves. Some were small and dark Hieriyos; there were a few tall Parisi with their narrow faces and long noses and, with a shock, she saw two Durotriges. It made her sick with fear as she remembered what lay ahead for her and Glas.

The slaves were poorly clothed, and each face had the same tattoo: a heavy line of circles that formed a band across the forehead. Easy to apply and impossible to remove, they were forever branded as slaves.

She pulled the hood of Akmu’s cloak closer to her face, covering the tattoo on her cheek. If they saw it, the Veneti would know it was not just woad coloring. Anyone could paint sacred symbols on the face for war or signs to the gods, but paint washed away with water. Hers would not. She was proud, and did not want anyone to think she was slave.

Behind Admiral Himilco and Sabrann stalked two of his Libyan warriors, bronze skinned and fearsome looking. Tall ruffs of hair ran down the middle of their shaved heads, and each carried a spear and body shield. Four seamen from the
Astarte
followed, pulling a heavily laden cart piled high with trade goods to tempt the Veneti. They were a small party, lightly armed, coming to trade, not to make war.

Worry and fear ate at the edges of Sabrann’s thoughts. The assassin was on the ship and had nearly killed her last night. He was Gaesatae—the king’s man. How could that be? Her father was king of the Durotriges, but he was dead. She was his successor. Was the Gaesatae some renegade, bribed and sent by a rival clan?

She touched her neck. The skin was sore and her throat hurt when she swallowed. Cathbad had known she was in danger when he sent her away to the farm, and now she was far from his protection. She looked about, suddenly apprehensive. Her skin prickled: she felt something unknown and terrifying nearby.

“Death is near, life is dear, death is not the end.”
She whispered the chant under her breath. She felt eyes on her and looked up. The Admiral was watching her. Her lips pulled in a tight line. He was going to sell her and Glas as slaves.

Admiral Himilco saw the angry look. Her eyebrows swept in straight, dark lines across her brow. The girl’s strange eyes were dark gold today, her pupils enlarged. The tattoo on her cheek seemed more vivid. With her curved nose, she looked like a hawk. He had hunted with a falcon when he was young and at home with his father in the beautiful countryside outside Carthage. His father’s country house at Cape Bon was large, and he kept a pen of hunting hawks. Himilco knew well the feeling of having a live, dangerous predator on his arm. Even a leather guard was sometimes not enough protection from the sharp spurs and claws of his trained hawk.

The villa was also the home of his father’s first wife, Jezebaal, who never let him forget she was a
puro
, a pure-blooded aristocrat from the homeland city of Tyre. He flew his hawk or rode horses on the beach, and tried to avoid her, if he could, for she hated Himilco and his mother, Lavinia, a beautiful Etruscan. She thought his mother, a priestess at Astarte’s temple in Etruria, had bewitched his father. He put aside Jezebaal and sent her away to that luxurious villa. Only her sons Hanno and Gisco, his half-brothers, came to visit her now that their father was dead. Himilco gladly stayed away.

So now I have my own hawk again, he mused. I will have to be careful and make sure not to get clawed. And always wear a leather gauntlet. He smiled at the challenge.

The small procession stopped. The path ended at a great ditch that circled a stockade enclosure. A rough bridge led to an open gate on the other side where an important looking building stood. It was much larger than the rude daub-and-branch huts outside the stockade. A small, standing menir stone guarded one side, and in front of the building stood a stelae—a massive stone monument with a great axe carved high up its front; its base incised with undulating, curved lines, like waves.

He glanced at the girl, who stared fearfully at the stelae and started to ask her what it meant. But then thought he already knew.

That warrior axe said beware to all who entered the hall beyond. Veneti rule here.

CHAPTER 22

Sabrann stared up at the stone lintel over the entrance to the Veneti’s hall. Small niches held trophy skulls—the heads of dead enemies—and vacant eyes looked down at her from white skulls. She knew their souls were still trapped in those bleached bones, captives forever.

But not so different from the Durotriges, remembering the entrance to Caradoc’s hall. It, too, was lined with the skulls of his enemies. Cold horror gripped her heart at the thought of spending time forever in an enemy’s doorway and never going to live in the Otherworld. But we are not fighting, she reminded herself; we came to trade, not make war.

They entered a loud, dimly lit hall packed with people. A few noticed the Carthaginians and gave them careful looks, casually resting their hands on a dagger at the waist or small sword. A long, rectangular room, thick tree trunks supported the thatched roof that rose above their heads. A great banner with a black boar painted on it hung from the rafters. A symbol of war, the boar always threatened—a dangerous, deadly animal that charged at you from hidden places in the forest. Just then, a gust of air moved the banner, and it seemed alive with the boar’s spirit. A warning? Sabrann clutched her amulet to her chest.

At the far end of the hall, a raised platform held a heavily carved, stone bench and on it sat a richly dressed man who could only be the king of the Veneti. A boar’s skin covered the wall directly behind the bench. The boar’s head, with its great ring of rough hair and long curved tusks still attached, hung with its mouth gapping and open directly over the king.

The man below the horrendous head was pale skinned and fleshy. Blond, lank hair fell over half-shut eyes. A long, amber necklace lay on his bare chest, a gold armband snaked around one of his arms, and bronze bracelets hung from his wrists. Draped over his shoulders was a fur-lined cloak—a Greek
chamylus
, the vivid color of blood.

High above the boar king, light from a smoke-hole cast flickering shadows across his face. He seemed to change from arrogant king, to menacing warrior, to smiling host. It was hard to tell if it was merely a trick of the light or if he truly was so shifting in his moods.

He watched them from afar under his curious, reptilian eyes, as the returning coastal pilot prostrated himself and then spoke into his ear. The king stood and slowly raised his arm. The hall fell silent. As all eyes turned to him, there was a silence so complete Sabrann heard the seamen’s voices back on the
Astarte.

“I am Vodenix, king of all the Veneti. It is I who makes all things happen in Vannes.”

And in other places, too, he might have noted. Vodenix had thrown the slow-moving net that thwarted Himilco and gradually encircled the Carthaginians, bringing them, finally, to this council hall. It was inevitable that their search for tin must end here, at the very heart of the Veneti sphere of profitable trade, for he controlled all southward flow of the river of tin.

No one would interfere in that trade. Vodenix had planned it so: the coastal pilot was his agent; Mailart the trader was his brother. Now the Carthaginians were here, soon to be sent home without their treasure.

When Vodenix spoke his voice was so low—a rasping whisper—that Sabrann strained to hear what he said. She soon saw why. He stood up and the cloak fell open and dropped to the floor. The
chamylus
had concealed a wound that looked as though it encircled his neck. The injured skin had scarred over and was covered in the puckered, white ridges of healing. A deep battle scar healed this way, or, sometimes, the mark of a pulled rope, cutting deep into skin. A young woman standing nearby quickly picked up the cloak and handed it to Vodenix. He batted her away and threw it down. With his gruesome, scarred neck, he looked as dangerous as the boar looming over his head. Power shone through his slitted eyes, and few would want to cross his will.

Sabrann watched the young woman lower her head and kneel close to the stone bench. She was only a girl and not a Veneti. Perhaps a Coriosolites? They were not a beautiful people. She had the same flat nose and close-set, small eyes Sabrann had seen before, when the Coriosolites came to trade with Caradoc. The girl wore the ceremonial braids of a Veneti wife wrapped high on her head, her dark hair shining with oil, and a gold arm band and many bracelets ornamented thin arms. An important woman. Just then, she raised her head and looked directly at Sabrann, an appraising, hostile look. Sabrann drew the hood over her cheek.

This king was new to her. The king she had seen once before was much older, and gray headed. Perhaps he had died. The council that surrounded Vodenix was young, too. There were very few older members present. No experienced, wise men here.

Someone ritually cited words of welcome, easy enough to translate to the Admiral, as her eyes skimmed over the people in the hall. She halted at one group, though; in the back of the hall were several Greeks. What were they doing here? And with them was the trader, Mailart. He glanced in Sabrann’s direction and came forward to stand beside Vodenix, speaking low, gesturing with his hands.

Standing so close to Vodenix, it was easy to see the king and Mailart had a strong resemblance to each other. The trader had the same heavy, fleshy body and hooded eyes; they were clearly kin. Mailart kept looking at Sabrann. She shifted her feet, uncomfortable with the scrutiny, and moved behind Admiral Himilco. His shelter was preferable to the Veneti’s eyes.

The Admiral was anxious to proceed. He outlined his credentials and his quest for tin as Sabrann translated. But Vodenix seemed inattentive and kept looking away. Finally, he raised his hand and interrupted.

“Show me what you have to trade. I hear you have been to see Derbhorgill. My brother says she traded you some tin and broke my treaty with her.”

Admiral Himilco’s face was expressionless, but Sabrann’s eyes widened in surprise at this new information. She was speechless. Derbhorgill trading—by whose authority? She was not even a blood Durot. Lost in thought, she missed translating the Admiral’s answer. He turned to her and repeated what he said.

She had to force her voice to appear calm. “It was very little tin, my lord Vodenix. She was most desirous of having the goods that I offered in trade. And she did say she had a treaty for the rest of her tin.”

Vodenix stared at both of them. His face looked menacing; he was clearly angry at Derbhorgill’s deception. He snapped his fingers at the Coriosolite girl and then pointed to the cloak still lying on the floor. She picked it up and brought it to him, head down and submissive, like a slave, and he struck her, a quick blow to her mouth that drew blood. She reeled and backed away. Vodenix ignored her and wrapped the
chamylus
around his shoulders. He glared at the Admiral and Sabrann.

Quiet settled over the hall. Voices lowered and many moved back away from the king. When crossed, Vodenix’s temper seemed quick and harsh. The shifting light on his face earlier had not lied; his mood and temper moved as quickly as wind scattered ashes from a fire. His half-closed eyes were unreadable as he sat back down.

“Well, bring your goods in,” he snapped, in his harsh, damaged voice. “Let me see what it takes to make the Durotriges break a treaty with me.”

Admiral Himilco raised one eyebrow and, turning to the waiting seamen, clapped his hands. First, a fine Carthaginian rug was unrolled before Vodenix. The rich colors brought an appreciative murmur from the crowd; deep vermillion, indigo and bright orange formed a striped pattern with long, gilded tassels at each corner. An iron sword in an embossed scabbard, pillows with gold-thread embroidery, and black pottery from Tyre were laid on the carpet. A roll of purple-tinted, fine linen cascaded before Vodenix. These were not ordinary trade goods; they were suitable for a king. There was nothing like them in this barbaric, northern land. Vodenix’s eyes kept coming back to the fine sword, but there was little of the greed that Derbhorgill had shown. He was not easily impressed. Or perhaps he had all the luxury goods he wanted.