Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (37 page)

“No one ever comes here. This is where we keep slaves until we send them to Massalia,” Mor said. “There are none here now. That hut will be a good place for you to hide.” She pointed toward the far end.

“I will send your master here.” Mor smiled at Sabrann, and the guard held out the bag of food and the skin of wine.

“A gift, so you do not go hungry waiting,” Mor said, and placed it over Sabrann’s head. It was a small bag, the kind hunters used to carry food with them on the hunt. Mor quickly pulled a strap tight; it held the bag snug, so it could not fall off.

“I don’t need this,” Sabrann said. “I’m not hungry.” She turned her head, trying to undo the strap with one hand. The guard came toward her. He had a knife in his hand and reached behind her back.

“There,” Mor said. “That should help.”

The strong smell of roast pig filled the air. Something hit her leg and she looked down. Drops of pork juice and blood dripped from the bag, falling on the sandy soil.

“Stop,” Sabrann cried out, as blood ran down her leg. She turned and looked all around the corral. She was alone.

She heard childish laughter. Queen Mor sat above her on the small platform atop the corral fence.

“Sometimes Vodenix keeps animals here for the hunt: wolves, deer—even slaves. But he likes best to hunt animals that want to kill him—like the boar. He keeps his dogs here, too.” she said. “They are kept hungry and prodded with long spears to make them vicious. Good hunters! She laughed and gave Sabrann a thin smile.

“For some reason, my king wants you, and I can’t trust your master to not sell you.” The smile left her face. “This is a dangerous place. Your master will find you had an accident as you were running away.”

Mor climbed down an outside ladder and disappeared from Sabrann’s view.

Growls came from within one of the huts. The guard jumped down into the corral, and removed the bar on the hut’s door, then quickly hoisted himself back over the fence, using a rope attached to one of the posts. When he tried to pull it free, the rope caught and snagged on the post, leaving a thin strand hanging down.

A dull thud sounded from the hut; something inside bumped against the walls. A cold fear gripped Sabrann. She was trapped. She eyed the ragged strand of rope, but she couldn’t climb with the dripping food bag strapped to her back.

She reached down; her small knife was still strapped to her thigh, concealed by her tunic. Mor had never thought a slave would have a knife. Holding its bone handle tight, she reached behind her shoulder and could just reach the strap. She started sawing the knife back and forth.

The knife slowly cut into the strap. She edged closer to the timber stockade. If she could lean the knife against the wall, the edge would cut faster. But her hands were still covered with grease that seeped through the bag; the knife slipped and fell!

Something inside the hut emitted a long howl.
Dias! It sounded like a wolf!
She picked up the knife and started cutting the strap again. She couldn’t see what she was doing—and the handle was slippery. The creature banged against the door. She sawed harder, willing her hand not to slip. The strap slowly separated, one thread at a time, and then the knife broke through!

The bag dropped to her feet. She threw it into the center of the corral. Now she could climb over the stockade and get out. Sabrann searched for a foothold. Here and there were rough parts in the wood that might work. All the time her fear screamed.
Wild boar!
Wolf!

Her hands shook as she reached for a hold. There was nothing to hang on to. Desperate, she looked across the corral to where the guard had climbed out. The thin strand of rope still hung there. She ran over and, willing it to hold, wound it around one hand. But when she tried to pull herself up, it cut into her hands, breaking the skin, and she dropped down. Frantic, she took her knife and cut part of her tunic to pad her hands. Wrapping the cloth tight, she began again; hand over hand, slowly pulling herself up the wall, bracing her feet on the rough timbers.

Just then, the door to the hut burst open and a huge dog lurched out. It stopped short and its head jerked up. A giant! It stood almost as tall as Sabrann. It was a deerhound with shaggy grey hair, floppy ears and big paws. She had seen this kind of dog before. Caradoc used one for hunting; it could bring down a deer by itself. Sabrann froze, too scared to move.

Covered with sores and lash marks, its eyes crazed, the deerhound looked straight at her. Its long nose rose up and sniffed the air. The hound made a wild howl. It turned toward the center of the corral, and leaped upon the hunter’s bag, ripping it apart to get at the meat.

Sabrann’s hands slipped. She gripped harder; the rope strands cut slowly through the cloth padding. Then the deerhound howled again. It had finished the meat and looked at her, sniffing the air. The deerhound’s tongue hung out, panting and slobbering; it smelled the pork meat on her.

But Caradoc had told her that deerhounds only went after prey that was moving. If it came upon a rabbit sitting frozen with fright, as rabbits do, the deerhound would sit and amiably watch it. But as soon as the rabbit came to its senses and jumped away, the deerhound would leap. Caradoc called it his seeing hound; it would go after anything that moved.

She was the rabbit now, with the eye of the deerhound upon her. Sabrann hung motionless on the thin rope strand. If she moved, it would kill her.
Don’t move!

She slowly let her breath out, feeling it move across the small hairs on her bare arms. The cloak, still tied at her neck, hung heavy on her back.

She didn’t want to die like this. She looked up, not moving, and slowly, slowly, tightened her grip. The rope cut deeper into her hands, but if she could just get up high enough, the deerhound wouldn’t be able to reach her. When she moved, it must be quick. Her hand darted up, and the strand broke! She shut her eyes—there was no escape—and fell.

The Deerhound leaped.

“
Stad! Cuir as da!”

Sabrann’s eyes flew open as a voice shouted. A spear, silhouetted dark against the bright sky, arched through the air and struck the deerhound. The hound jerked in midair and dropped a few feet from Sabrann’s face. Shocked, she lay rigid, staring nose to nose into the face of sure death. Its mouth hung open; pieces of meat lay half-chewed on its tongue.

“Ah, Dias, I am thankful I did not have to die that way,” she cried. A sob wrenched from her throat. She heard footsteps behind her and turned to meet the spear thrower.

She looked up in horror at Vodenix. He bent over the fallen Deerhound and pulled the spear from its side.

“Well,
tràill
, I am glad my spear did not miss, but I am sad to lose my fine hunting dog. You will have to give me something in exchange.” He looked down at her, his hooded eyes unreadable, his hand grasping the bloody spear.

Sabrann was speechless. Why was he here? How could she explain being here?

“Mor tells me you tried to run away. I can’t allow that.”

“But, I didn’t. She brought me here and gave me the food.”

“I don’t see any food.” Vodenix had a frown on his face as he looked and sniffed the air. There was nothing left—even the bag was gone.

“You are my
tràill
now. I have decided to keep you. We have more to discuss, but for now, you will stay here until I return.” He nodded to his guards.

“Put her in the other hut and bar the door.”

He leaned his face close to Sabrann’s.

“I will return.”

CHAPTER 24

As soon as Vodenix left the hall, talk started up again and servants passed around more cups of wine. The women’s long tunics edged with strings of small beads made a fine clicking sound as they walked among the crowd. The noise level in the hall quickly rose—no water cut the wine. The Greeks in the back of the hall rolled their eyes at the crudeness of the barbarians.

When the Admiral took a sip, he recognized a fine Falerian wine—very expensive ... and Greek. And it was served from a Massaliot amphora.

Signs of Greek influence were everywhere. A large, bronze mixing bowl filled with small apples sat on a crudely built serving table. Succulent roast pig was piled high on beautiful black and red attic plates. He knew these things; Carthaginian traders filled their ship’s holds and brought the same exquisite goods back to Carthage. He was sure there were many other valuable things concealed. Perhaps iron swords? They had seemed interested in the sword he brought.

There was no doubt in his mind that the Veneti supplied tin to the Greeks at Massalia and received much in exchange. He noted the Greeks standing with Malairt, who was everywhere the
Astarte
traveled. The Admiral took some wine and settled down to wait for Vodenix to return. But first he must go outside and relieve himself—surely the barbarians had a latrine area nearby.

After the closeness of the hall, he breathed deeply of the salty, ocean air. He loved that smell. His blood surged at the thought he would soon be back on the ocean. Dealing with these barbarians left a sour taste in his mouth that even good wine could not cover.

Lingering in the cool shade of the trees, he heard a faint braying of animals and a tinkling of bells. Curious, he followed the sound. Deep in the woods, hidden behind a thick bank of leafy, bay shrubs, he came upon the source: a line of dun-colored mules roped together, their backs saddled with packs that hung on each side. A tin bell dangled from a rope around each mule’s neck. There were no guards. Himilco lifted the leather flap on one pack and slowly laid it open, revealing its contents.

“Unfortunately, it is not for you,” a voice behind him said softly.

The Admiral’s hand rested on the leather bag, and one finger tapped it in a pensive way.

“Tin for the Greeks in Massalia. I’m not surprised. But I would like to offer a new proposition for your brother to consider.”

He turned to face the man, not surprised to see who it was.

“He is my kin. And yes, he is my brother,” Mailart said defiantly. “But I am a trader, not a king.” His voice was harsh. “Vodenix rules everything and does not share, even with me, I am sorry to say.”

“And I am disappointed,” the Admiral said, wondering what Malairt wanted from him.

“So am I,” the Veneti answered with a sour grimace. “But one day soon, I will prove to Vodenix I am a shrewd trader.” He drew a deep breath.

“You wish to trade for tin and find it a hard door to open. But you already have the key to what you want. The slave girl is your key to trading with the Durotriges. She is heir to the Durotriges throne. I recognized her. The true heir has the same name and is marked with a spiral on her cheek, just like your slave’s. The heir was thought dead, but now ... I see she is alive.”

Himilco stared at Mailart, remembering how they had come upon Sabrann: the arrows in the drowning boat, the wound in her shoulder, the warrior’s body tangled in the net. He had not given it any more thought until now—they were barbarians. But it was apparent she was trying to get away from someone. And last night, when the stupid warrior almost set fire to the
Astarte,
he was after the girl—but not for the reason Isis thought.

“Derbhorgill wants to trade with you,” Mailart said. “You only have to look at her face; she wants your fine carpets, and lusts for the gold cloth. Take the girl away, and sell her as a slave, or better yet, give her to me and I will kill her. Derbhorgill will be grateful and trade much tin with you. And we Veneti can continue trading with Derbhorgill.”

There was a devious look in Malairt’s eyes as he waited for the Admiral’s response.

“However, if you shelter her, no one will trade with you. Certainly, Derbhorgill will not; nor the Veneti. You see, we get all our tin from the Durotriges, and Derbhorgill will not sell to you if she knows you are sheltering the girl. And she
will
know that soon.”

The Admiral narrowed his eyes at the Veneti. He saw what this lizard had in mind.

“For you will tell her.”

“Of course. But if you give me the girl, we will trade with you. Then you will have your supply of tin. It will be to everyone’s advantage.”

The Admiral shifted his hand on the cold tin ingots ready to make the short trip overland to the Loire River, and then over to the great river Rhone and down to Massalia. A trip of less than one moon’s turning, he was told, and he had just spent the last four months chasing this tin.

But he wouldn’t jump into the Veneti’s net—not yet. This was new information to use to his advantage. His goal was to eliminate the middle man in this trade; that was the purpose of this dismal voyage. If he traded with the Veneti and the Durotriges, he could eventually cut the Veneti out and get all the tin directly from the Durotriges. The girl was a small price to pay.

Of course, he did not trust Mailart; there was more to this plan than the lizard-eyed Veneti was admitting. Was there a better way? He must think this through carefully.

A gust of wind blew through the tall pines, raining down a few old pine-cones and small nuts and seeds at his feet. He picked up a dry pine-cone and crushed it with one hand. This deceitful barbarian played with him.