Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (44 page)

Admiral Himilco was angry and only heard one thing: the boy was claiming the ancient law of retribution. Not many would dare cross his will by invoking that right. He pointed a finger at his captain.

“Is it true? This barbarian did that? Ask the girl. He said she told him.”

A bewildered Sabrann was pushed up to the captain and could only answer, yes. It was true; the Gaesatae had killed his mother.

Admiral Himilco looked deep into her eyes, today colored a dark golden brown. His tethered hawk wasn’t lying. The boy had shocked everyone.

So the boy had the right to claim the barbarian’s life or not, and he chose not to kill. Admiral Himilco looked at the weeping, misshapen creature, who should have been exposed at birth. But Himilco only cared about the girl.

She gave a puzzled look at the boy and put her arm back around his shoulder. As always, thought the Admiral, she is his shield. She would do anything for the boy, and Himilco knew he would do almost anything for the girl. This girl was an important piece of his future.

“No more, Isis,” he said, with a quick breath. “We want him able to row. Take him down. He’s been punished enough. And have Akmu tend him.”

Cheated of their bloodlust, there was a low growl from the crew as Isis cut him down, letting the body crumple to the deck. They would not forget this; they had wanted to watch the barbarian die. Isis strutted away. One seaman turned the body face down and another, the one called Midacritus, brought a large bucket of sea water to wash away the blood.

“It’s not over yet,” Midacritus said, as he smiled and raised the bucket.

Then the salt-laden sea water hit the open wounds.

The barbarian moved and made his only scream of the whole day, a screeching cry that roused all the birds skyward again.

Admiral Himilco nodded to Akmu and then left the deck without another glance. He had no regrets. The barbarian was still alive and the girl, his little hawk, could not fly away.

Sabrann held Glas and gently wiped his tears with the sleeve of her tunic. Then Akmu touched her hand and motioned her away. She looked at him with a surprised expression.

“He is alright. Come quickly, I need your help. Your first duty is now.”

She followed him down the ladder into the darkness of the deck near the galley. Akmu’s room was small, barely big enough to turn around in. He slept here and treated the crew on the long table hung from one wall. A strange sound came from a pile of bedding under the table, an animal’s strange cry, and then a hiss. Sabrann jumped away.

A whiskered face with slanted light green eyes looked out from the bedding and made the sound again.
Maerow
? The creature sat up. It had tufted ears and silvery gray fur with dark stripes and spots. Akmu reached down and stroked its head.

“What is it?” she said, wary.

“Why, it’s a cat,” said Akmu. “We have many in Egypt. Her name is
Mau
. She is a blessed cat and has decided to go where I go.” The cat settled back down into the covers and closed its eyes to slits, watching Sabrann.

She slowly backed away, and looked around the tiny room. She had been here once before, after she escaped the Veneti—a painful reminder. A basket filled with papyri hung from the ceiling. A small, carved wooden chest sat in one corner and next to it a large box that Akmu lifted and placed on the table. The room smelled tangy like vinegar and dill. Dried herbs hung overhead and small bits and leaves drifted down on Sabrann’s face. She looked up; a cool breeze came from a hole in the ceiling.

“A place for air,” Akmu said. “If it was not there, my patients would all die from heat before I could even lay my hands on them. But, sadly, it’s only open when it’s not raining. Here, this is what you will carry.” He handed her a basket, then lifted the clasp on the big box.

The top opened on hinges, and two sides swung out. Each side had small glass bottles and vials held in place on shelves. With both sides open on their hinges, it contained everything Akmu needed. A center part held his tools and rows of linen bandages, all neatly tied in place. He started taking things out of the large wooden box and placing them in Sabrann’s basket.

“We only take the basket when someone is hurt and can’t be moved—like now. I will take what I need and go to the ... what did you call him? Gaesatae?

“I don’t want to help him,” Sabrann said scowling. She crossed her arms and held them close and tight. Her face turn dark and her eyes flashed.

“He killed Maigrid ... she’s my foster mother and Glas’s mother! I want him dead. I will kill him myself!”

Akmu looked at her wild eyes and did not doubt she was capable of killing. He knew she had a knife.

“But I must treat his wounds,” he said calmly. “I am physician to all.” He placed a jar of honey and small wooden spatulas in the basket.

“Your heart is heavy with anger. Did they not teach you about the many lives?” He had no idea what barbarians thought or believed.

“And what will happen when you die and go to the goddess Ma’at and she weighs your heart against the one feather?”

“What does my heart have to do with this? Sabrann cried.

“Your heart! It’s where your soul lives and will live for many lives. A heart that weighs less than Ma’at’s feather is a pure heart, not weighed down by the guilt or sins of one’s actions in life. You will have a good life in times to come.”

“My soul lives here.” Sabrann touched her head with an indignant gesture. “And when I die and go to Otherworld, my soul will live again. I will have a good life in my next life.”

Akmu sighed. So barbarians did teach about the many lives. He looked at this slender girl and wondered how she would carry her burden of guilt to her next life if she killed the Gaesatae. Hatred could consume a soul and it would weigh like lead in the heart. He knew the difficulty and had his own self-inflicted offenses to carry along to his next life; it was something he must leave to Ma’at and the gods to judge. He decided to ignore her sullen face. He could not force her to be what she was not.

He started placing the essential things he needed into the basket: long bronze needles, a skein of linen thread, green malachite paste, a small vial filled with poppy syrup, and clean bandages. A skin of wine. Sabrann reluctantly carried the basket after Akmu.

When they came back on deck, the whipped man still had his eyes closed. Someone had moved him to one side, and cleaned the deck of the blood and water. There was no one nearby. Akmu touched the man’s arm, and the barbarian’s eyes sprang open.

Akmu held up his head. “Drink this and the pain will be less.”

He turned the vial of poppy syrup into the barbarian’s mouth and made sure it was all swallowed with a swig of wine. Treating the deep, open wounds was bound to be painful, but not unbearable with the sedative. In a few moments, the man’s eyes drooped, and he relaxed.

“Hand me the honey, some bandages, and the small jar holding a green paste.”

Sabrann didn’t move.

He looked up at her. She was rigid with anger and shook her head no. Then she angrily placed the things by his side and walked away. Akmu turned to his work, and hummed his healing song to Sekhmet, as he soaked the linen bandages in honey. Isis’s whip had cut deep. He would have to sew the barbarian’s back together. Akmu knew his medicine and the divine words to the goddess Sekhmet could cure this damaged body.

He was not sure about the girl’s heart.

Glas! Why had he done that? And what did he mean—saying she told him? She went searching and found him near the prow of the ship, gazing out to sea. When she tried to talk to him, he turned away and shook his head as if he didn’t understand.

“It’s alright, Sabrann,” was all he would say, which meant nothing to her. Then he saw Thombaii and went running after the carpenter, leaving her alone with her anger.

She would talk to him again later. He was confused. And his mother had just died. Glas was always distressed by bloodshed and killing of any kind. He was not used to the cruelties of the world. Maigrid had always kept him at the farm on the Tamar River; she never once brought him to Mai Dun. He was Sabrann’s soul friend; she could tell him anything. They were so close they usually knew each other’s thoughts. But not now.

She climbed down deep into the ship’s hold. Dark and crowded, it was as far away as she could get from Akmu and the Gaesatae.

Captain Adonibaal had showed her this place and said she and Glas could sleep here until the carpenter rebuilt the charred shell of the galley storeroom. She squeezed between some rolled carpets and curled up against bags of sand. She would hide for a while and hope Akmu was not angry with her. She hated the Gaesatae and would not help him. That hate churned her stomach.

The
Astarte
was a merchant ship with deep rounded sides and a high prow. The hold was full and crowded. Laden in one section were the traded goods that were like a record of the
Astarte’s
journey: silver from Corbilo, tanned cattle hides and gold from Hieryo; a box of precious red amber, piles of sheep’s pelts, and finely woven woolen cloth and cloaks from Albion. And the most important—carefully stacked—the precious tin ingots greedy Derbhorgill had so reluctantly parted with for the Carthaginian’s rich treasures.

The hold smelled of fish and leather and cat, for
Mau
had made a nest in the sheep-skin’s soft, curled coats. The other sections of the hold held rough branches of eucalyptus and rosemary that cradled amphora of olive oil, wine and Garum, the pungent fish sauce. Below that lay a dunnage of
Cannabis Sativa
that cushioned the ballast of stones and bags of sand from the beaches of North Africa. The crew scavenged there for leaves and seeds to make a tea.

Sabrann lay still in the dark, listening to the sea. Strange gods lived there. The ever-present gulls screeched and the wind moaned in the rigging. Daughter of the land, she feared the watery gods. Talan the fisherman, said the river gods could reach up and drag you down into the depths. She believed him.

Everything she knew, day or night, was of the land. Each day at home, she ran free and safe with the Matrones’ protection guiding every step. She walked in the dark as surefooted as in the light of day. Night sounds at the farm never caught her heart with fear. The great round farmhouse made a soft, reedy rustle when the wind blew over the tip of the thatched cap of a roof. Inside, at night, the only movement was the family turning under warm wool covers and furs, and sometimes the sounds of Maigrid and Culain joining together. Or Glas, who talked in his sleep. The comfortable people sounds were echoed by the animals and birds, talking in their own special night language, or occasionally, the scream of some animal caught by a predator, the call of the night owl, or the screech of a hawk.

All those sounds were anchored in the land, and her Matrones watched over all. What she felt in the earth was their power—Maigrid had taught her so. She would not deny the power of the god’s that soared all over Albion, but they were men and none brought the earth’s deep well of women’s knowledge, flowing as breath to the land with its corn waving like arms, reaching, nourishing, feeding all. When Sabrann slept, her ear pressed close to the ground, the pulse of the earth reached through her covers and beat in time with her heart, the ancient rhythm of the mothers’ earth.

No such heart beat here. She felt the ship floating in a watery cradle, not firmly anchored to the ground. It moved up and down, as though wind and streams and rivers lay beneath the surface, far below the
Astarte
. There was a faint roar, low and muted, like some chained animal confined beneath her, and sounds of water rushing—a feeling of movement deep beneath in the ocean.

Bare feet padded on deck far above her head. Strange voices shouted in Phoenician. Alone, she listened, remembering what was gone beyond reach.

When she thought of the Gaesatae, a bitter surge of bile came into her throat.

And Glas! Now it was up to her to find a way to seek the honor of
Ceart Dioghaltas
—what the Durotriges called a just revenge. The tribes allowed revenge to be served by the family or clan of the one dishonored. Glas had given up that right; now it was hers. After all, it was her life the Gaesatae sought! She reached down and touched her knife in its scabbard, securely tied to her thigh.