Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (36 page)

Sabrann stood behind the Admiral, translating as he described the fine craftsmanship and artistic merit of each piece. Mailart asked a question about the maker of the sword, but that was all. Vodenix stood and waved his arm in arrogant dismissal.

“This is all good, but I have everything I need and I have no tin to trade with you. You will have to be content with the amount Derbhorgill gave you. I will have more to trade next year, but not now.” His raspy voice was barely audible. When he spoke, everyone in the hall stopped talking and leaned forward attentively.

“But I have noticed that your
tràill
speaks well. You must have paid much for such a valuable slave.” He gave a sharp look at Sabrann. “I think we can still do some trading. I will buy her as a slave for my queen, Mor. The slave will be useful to her and when you return next year, she can translate our talk.”

The fox fur lining the
chamylus
moved in the air like feather down, touching the terrible, scarred neck. He smiled, but his eyes did not.

Sabrann felt a cold wave of premonition spread through her body. Slavery was bad but she would rather die than be bought by this man. She looked at Admiral Himilco. Surely he would not do this.

Himilco felt momentarily caught off balance. Why this interest in Sabrann? He saw her turn to him with a fearful, questioning look. He pursed his lips together and considered what he already knew. Vodenix had been unwilling to trade, yet Himilco was sure he had tin. After all, he said he had a treaty with Derbhorgill. And Vodenix did not offer anything else in exchange. But now he wanted the girl. She was a piece he didn’t know would be so valuable in this game of trade. Why? And how to use this new information?

Himilco felt his cheeks flush. The Veneti had lied and tricked him with the pilot and the trader Mailart, misleading and baiting him all along. He would keep the girl until Carthage, he decided—or longer. They might need her as a translator. He would show this barbarian how to negotiate.

He glanced quickly at Sabrann who had stepped back, her golden eyes wide with fear. He had given her no reason to trust him, keeping her against her will at
Ictis.
But she had misled him about the tin and he
had
saved her and the other child from the sea. Besides, he would not readily give away something this petty king wanted.

“You seek the one thing I cannot do without,” he said. “She has the ability to speak in many tongues, and I fear I cannot part with her. She is too valuable to my trading voyage. But when I no longer need her, I will send her to you—as a gift. And we will talk trade again next year. To bind our return, I leave you the fine sword you admired.”

Admiral Himilco bowed his head in a gesture of finality and crossed his chest with one arm in the Carthaginian way. “For always,” he concluded.

Sabrann stammered as she translated this to Vodenix. Himilco saw the grim look that passed over Vodenix’s face and wished he had brought the other Libyan guards and more of his crew with him.

Vodenix stood up abruptly, pale eyes cold as stone. “It is time to refresh ourselves. Let us eat and share good wine together. Then we will talk some more.”

The Admiral was thoughtful as he watched Vodenix walk around the hall with his ugly child-wife trailing behind.

Vodenix grasped Mor’s arm and nodded toward Sabrann. He is rough in all his ways, Mor thought.

“I will gain her as a slave,” he said. “She will be very useful in trading. I will show the Carthaginian.” He laughed in the way that told Mor things were not as they seemed.

Mor watched Vodenix with cautious eyes. She knew his quick temper if he thought she did not agree with him. He had hit her many times before, for questioning his word.

“Yes, my lord,” she said. “Very useful.” He never really wanted her opinion.

He still stared at Sabrann. Now Mor grew anxious. Did he want the
tr
ài
ll
as more than a clever interpreter? She could not read his face this time.

“Yet, I have changed my mind,” he said. “I think I will not bargain with the Carthaginian. He is nothing to us. I want you to take the
tràill
and chain her in the slave house. Place guards and tell them to keep a close watch, for I will keep her. Now I must go and talk with my brother.” He walked a few steps away and then turned back to Mor.

He gripped her arm again. “You will watch her carefully.”

It hurt. She would obey.

There was a hard glint in Mor’s eye as she watched Vodenix leave the hall. She had not been his wife for long, but already knew his ways were devious. His word could never be trusted.

He had married her to seal a treaty with her father, an ancient way to bind two peoples together, but he did not care for her. It didn’t matter. Tall and blond, Vodenix was like a god to her, more than she ever hoped for. He was a king, not a mere chieftain like her father. Mor knew she was a good mate for Vodenix; she wanted power as much as he did and would do anything he asked.

Her face was blank as she considered what her husband had said. She thought he lied.

He wants her for himself.
But why? The girl was marked as a slave. She watched Sabrann from across the hall, her thoughts twisted, full of hate toward anyone that threatened her position. She would be first with Vodenix and let no slave take her place.

Just thirteen, Mor was the youngest of her father’s brood of girls—a veritable tribe of sisters. Somehow her father never managed to sow the seed for a son, so his life revolved around endless marriage negotiations; the girls were his pawns in trade. The youngest, the least gifted, Mor had decided she would be a queen long before her father’s attention turned to her. She had an iron-edged center that few suspected; it helped her survive among her many sisters who were more beautiful and older. That hard core made her a queen, while they rotted with poor tribal chieftains.

Mor always got what she wanted. She began to form a plan.

CHAPTER 23

Alarm swept through Sabrann as the little queen walked across the hall towards her. She had felt safe concealed by her cloak with the two Libyan guards from the
Astarte
standing behind her. She tugged the hood to cover her cheek.

Servers walked around the room carrying baskets of acorn bread and roast pig wrapped in large squash leaves. The benches lining the walls of the hall were full, and groups of men sat on blankets spread on the dirt floor, eating and drinking wine. Soon drunken boasts of hunting feats mixed with tales of sexual prowess. Tempers flared.

Sabrann watched and thought it would not be long before challenges were made and a fight broke out; it was always so at Caradoc’s hall.

She closed her eyes, holding her amulet, and prayed to have this day end soon. She did not trust the Admiral—he might trade her for tin with Vodenix. She sank deeper into the cloak, seeking obscurity. Then she felt someone near her, and looked up.

The little queen had stopped in front of Sabrann. The queen’s mouth formed a tight smile. Short and thin, she was not beautiful, and her close-set eyes seemed to cross.

“I am Mor, queen to Vodenix, who rules here.” She glanced around the noisy room, her hand nervously twisting a gold bracelet on one arm. Then she leaned down and whispered in Sabrann’s ear.

“I have watched, and see you do not wish to leave your master. I want to help you.” Mor turned her head. Her eyes shifted over the room again. “Vodenix can be cruel to his women and much worse to his slaves. He doesn’t care if he hurts you. You see what he did to my mouth? His ring did this. And I didn’t even do anything. Now I will always have a scar.”

Sabrann was forced to look at Mor’s disfigured face. Her lip was swollen and purple; a bloody scab already forming.

“I don’t want this to happen to you. I can help you escape and hide until your master returns. If you are not here, he cannot sell you,” Mor said. She shrugged both shoulders as if to say, this should be apparent. “Then when he returns, I will tell him where to find you and you can go safely to your ship.”

Why was she offering to help her? Again, Sabrann remembered Caradoc’s warning about the Veneti and felt uneasy, but could not look away. There were other scars on Mor’s face. Both arms had bruises. Mor’s eyes never left Sabrann’s face.

“Yes, you can see,” Mor said. “It happens a lot.”

“Why do you stay, when he inflicts such harm on you?”

“I am queen. I cannot go. My tribe would be dishonored and would never let me return. I am part of a treaty Vodenix made with my people.” She lowered her head, concealing her eyes.

“I would run away,” Sabrann said her head up, voice defiant. “I am Durotriges.”

Cathbad had taught her that to be a Durotriges meant you were brave and proud. “You belong to your clan first, but we are all Durotriges,” he said. “We are always fierce warriors and none dare harm us.”

She knew of women who defended their tribes as warriors; they were equals in marriage and almost everything. A knife would soon be served to any foolish man who treated his woman so rough. Perhaps this girl queen was too young and weak.

“We are not like the Durotriges,” Mor said, as if she could read Sabrann’s thoughts. “A long time ago, the Veneti came here from far away in the north, where the amber grows in the sea. We have our own ways.”

Why was she so eager to help? Sabrann didn’t trust her. But when they all returned to the hall, the Admiral might change his mind and give her to Vodenix, in trade for his precious tin.

I am not a slave to be traded!
Sabrann thought angrily.

“Come,” said Mor. She beckoned with her hand. “Be quick—for Vodenix will be back soon. When your master returns I will tell him where to find you. Or,” she shrugged, “you can hide for a while and then run to your ship. Either way you will be safe from Vodenix.”

Sabrann gave up thinking and nodded yes. Anything to evade the danger from Vodenix and the Admiral. She was caught: her life and Glas’s was at stake. She must take the chance.

Sabrann followed her through the hall. Mor stopped at the entrance and ordered the guard to bring a small bag of the food being served and a skin of wine. No one seemed to notice when they left the hall. Perhaps this was a good plan.

Mor led the way past the standing stone by the hall’s entrance and down a gravely path. Tall, rangy grasses lined the edges and creeping plants with tiny, blue flowers had taken root between the pebbles. Sabrann’s spirits lifted as they walked into the dark green forest.

After the crowded hall, the air smelled fresh and resinous with the scent of pine. Oaks had dropped acorns onto the path and grey squirrels ran back and forth, hunting and chattering. A few withy and daub huts crowded up against the tall pine trees; an old man dozed by one doorway, a yellow dog by his side.

They walked on. Except for the guard, they were alone.

Sabrann grew apprehensive the longer they walked.
I can hide and then run back to the ship,
she kept reminding herself.

The path led to a small corral with its gate open; two huts stood at the far end. The corral was fenced with tree trunks thick as a man’s arm, lashed together with sturdy ropes into a tight stockade. A narrow platform perched on one side.