Read Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time Online
Authors: Judith Schara
“But what if you are not here with me or when you die? Who can tell me all you have memorized? With writing you can give someone your memory, even if you are not there. You give me a part of yourself.”
Sabrann thought of all the things she had memorized: the long Durotriges genealogies that told each person’s ancestry, the story of the beginnings of the Durot clan, Maigrid’s tales of Belerion, or the names of all the animals and how to hunt them. Her memory was long.
Then, to be Caradoc’s interpreter, she learned the history and lineage of all the tribes: their manners and etiquettes, even their curses and particular vices, how a voice could betray much or the inflection of a word might say the opposite meaning, and the faintest movement or glance told more than a long string of words.
It was all there in her head.
She frowned, and Hero laughed at her. “Don’t worry. Barbarians don’t write. And girls don’t need to know how to write. In my country, only the men and scribes can do that.”
“I am not barbarian! I am Durotriges. Why do you call us barbarians?”
Sabrann’s voice flared in anger. She knew the word meant someone who was despised.
“It’s the sounds you make. It sounds like you are saying
bar-bar-baa
when you talk. And you can’t even write your own name.”
She thought about that a moment. It was true; she did not know how to write her name.
“You can teach me?”
The Admiral looked up from his roll of papyrus. Hero glanced at him.
“It won’t hurt,” the Admiral said in a pensive voice. “She’s not like your Greek women, closeted and rarely seen. She is the daughter of a king and will have whatever she wants ... within reason,” he quickly added, as though keeping the girl content and busy was a good investment.
Hero shrugged his shoulders and laughed again. “Here, I’ll show you how to make your name.” He handed her some hinged, wooden tablets that were covered in wax.
“You can practice on these.” he said, and, taking a thin piece of wood, started making the Greek letters that spelled her name. SABRANN
She stared, fascinated by the unknown. She had never seen her name before.
He handed her the smooth stick of wood and then correctly fixed her fingers around it. His hands felt warm. When he moved close to her, she smelled a faint scent on his robes, like flowers. He guided her hand in making the letters. Her marks were not perfect like his, but she saw they were almost the same.
Sabrann watched Hero carefully as he made more marks on the waxed tablet. She had not thought much about passing her lessons on to another person. She had been away from the school at Àrd Saoghal for two years, living on Maigrid’s farm. But it was part of the training to be Druid—each person passing on their knowledge.
But this was special, a secret way of talking.
“Here, you can copy the letters from this.” He handed her a small scrap of torn papyrus with many marks on it.
Sabrann looked at the thin lines. Yes. She would learn this new way of talking.
Then she would not be called a barbarian.
Later, she sat in the sun by the Admiral’s door with the wooden tablets on her lap and the piece of papyrus beside her, carefully willing her hand to make the same marks with the piece of wood Hero called a
stylus
. The lines wobbled and trailed off under her unskilled fingers. She bit her lower lip with her teeth as her eyes shifted from the papyrus to the tablet and back again. Suddenly, she felt someone watching her and looked up. One of the seamen stood looking down at her intently. He had black curly hair like all the others. They all looked the same to her.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing my letters.”
He laughed. “You want to be a scribe? Only men are scribes.” He gave her a smug look.
So he did not think a girl could do this. Her cheeks felt flushed in annoyance. Who was this person to tell her she could not do this?
“Well, Hero is a scribe, and he thinks a girl can learn to do what he does. And he’s writing a story for the Admiral.”
The man laughed. “And what kind of story is he writing?
She could tell he did not believe her and felt even more irritated.
“It’s a story of the
Astarte’s
journey. He said it’s called a
Periplus
.”
She waved the scrap of papyrus. “It’s all done on a big roll of papyrus, just like this.”
The seaman raised an eyebrow and stopped laughing as Captain Adonibaal came out of the Admiral’s door and snarled a sharp command at him. He left in a hurried trot, heading for the ladder below the deck. The crew had an order to leave her alone on pain of Isis’s whip.
She settled back down to her work, content to be alone.
Later that night, Sabrann huddled under the table in the galley, her body sore, both inside and out. She pulled out the small things hurriedly stuffed in her leather belt pouch, back in Vodenix’s hut, and lined up the pieces from her life in a row: a raven’s feather from Caradoc’s funeral, the black piece of tin Glas had found in the stream, and a tiny piece of blue yarn that made her cry. Then the loose, amber beads, pieces from her name-day necklace. She counted them: ten. She shook the bag, looking for her soul stone, and a few more small things fell out. But the smooth white stone was missing.
Rosmerta. Sabrann remembered her smell, and it turned her stomach. In a clear vision, she saw her picking up the treasures from the sandy floor of the slave hut and knew Rosmerta had stolen her soul stone. Now she had nothing to show the gods when she died and went to the Otherworld. They would not know who Sabrann was and what kind of life she had lived. All the rage she felt after Rosmerta tattooed her, branding her a slave forever, roared to life at this new terrible injustice. It was like having another tattoo. But this hurt was not marked on her skin, for all to see; it was invisible. It touched her soul and she knew that was what Rosmerta wanted.
Sabrann dug her fingernails into her palm where Cathbad’s knife had scored her skin on her name day. It had barely healed; tiny drops of blood seeped under her nails. She would find a way to get back her soul stone.
Her soul was her own and belonged to no one else.
CHAPTER 29
At midday, all work stopped. The time had come for the barbarian to pay the price for almost burning the ship down. A somber, pale gray day—some storm was sure to blow soon—the crew silently gathered to watch the barbarian’s terrible punishment.
No mercy lived in their hearts: he was a barbarian dog who deserved to die. He had almost killed them all.
Fire!
The word hung in their memories, in the air. They lined the ship’s railing, avid as vultures waiting for death.
The Gaestate was manhandled up the ladder from the rower’s deck and shoved up against the mast. Thirty lashes was the Carthaginian Navy’s harshest punishment and rarely needed on Admiral Himilco’s ships. His seamen were proud to serve; any problems were minor. They were all from Carthage—not like the army with its hired mercenaries, who always caused problems.
Admiral Himilco Mago stood alone on the small deck above his cabin, stern-faced and pensive. It had been a troubled voyage from the start, he reflected. No one wanted to believe in bad omens—not at the beginning of this daring voyage. Yet even before the
Astarte
dropped anchor at Gadir, a rower broke his leg and had to be replaced with a passing fisherman. Then the storm at Albion took four others, and Himilco was glad to have the big barbarian they fished out of the sea to help with the rowing.
That was his first mistake: the brute had almost burned down the ship.
And he knew Isis was the second mistake, if you called it so. He was the wrong person to administer this punishment, but there was none other. Loyal Isis, the slave he had saved from certain death, had repaid him with fanatic devotion that threatened the life of anyone who crossed
his
admiral—like the barbarian. He hoped Isis wouldn’t kill him with the whip. They still needed that barbarian’s strong back. After they sailed into the harbor at Carthage, then, he would let Isis kill him.
The Admiral insisted that everyone watch; it was a good lesson. Last to come up on deck was the girl, his interpreter. She stood next to Akmu-en-Swnw, looking angry, with her arm around the boy. The boy frowned, a troubled look on his face. Admiral Himilco fumed. It should be the girl who looked troubled ... May the God’s curse her! It was because of her that this happened.
Stripped naked, the barbarian was tied to the main mast, his arms above his head, his face turned to one side. His eyes were open and defiant. He wasn’t that brave though; his body glistened with nervous sweat, even in the cool ocean air.
It was quiet; the gulls were silent for once. Just the wind in the rigging and the splash of waves against the ship. The sun cast fleeting cloud-shadows on the deck.
Captain Adonibaal gave the signal to begin.
Isis made a show of walking around the barbarian, flexing his arms, holding the whip taut, like some victor in a fight. Then he spun about. The leather whip made a
whooshing
sound as he swung it in a circle high over his head and snapped it down on the deck.
Crack!
Seabirds roosting on the spars of the main mast jumped up and flapped away. A ceremonial first hit, it meant to frighten as much as warn of the impending pain. Isis glowered. He clearly enjoyed his task. He drew up the whip again and moved closer.
He struck hard with a well-placed lash across the back. The barbarian’s head jerked, but he made no sound. The next lash came quickly and drew blood—a red stripe crossed his shoulders. Still, no cry. Isis had great skill with the whip, and each time he struck, a low sound, a murmur of satisfaction, came from the watching seamen, as though they had personally swung the whip with Isis.
Soon the barbarian’s broad back bled with layers of cuts. Sharp and cracking, the whip snapped, like a lethal snake that drew blood from its prey before the final death bite. Isis made each swing of the whip strike heavy, putting all his weight into the lash.
By fifteen lashes the barbarian’s eyes were closed. His head sagged. At twenty lashes, his back was a bloody mess, and when the lash struck, he made involuntary, gasping sounds.
Admiral Himilco tensed his face and narrowed his eyes. The man was tough. He didn’t think Isis could kill him, but if it got much worse the barbarian would not be able to row. Perhaps he should stop it now.
“
Stad!
” The shout to stop came from the boy! He was crying, moving away from the girl toward the sagging man.
“No!” the boy cried. “He will die with any more.”
Isis’ whip arm slackened in mid-air and dropped. The boy stood between him and the barbarian. The barbarian’s head turned toward his savior. One eye opened and closed again.
“What right have you to stop this?” Captain Adonibaal said, in a shocked voice.
“All the right,” the boy answered. His voice wavered and broke. “By my mother’s death I have the right to his life. He k-ki-killed her. Killing him won’t bring her back to me. I m-must not let him die,” he stammered fearfully.
“She said I have the right.” He whispered the last few words.