Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (47 page)

He looked down at the bowls in horror: both were empty. A long quiver of fear ran down his spine. Death would come! He moved closer to the altar, concealing the bowls; this had never happened before. Then in a flash, he knew. Out of water, almost out of food, some seaman had robbed the gods. But what could he do? The
Astarte
needed the gods’ protection, now more than ever.

The death of the Veneti ship hung heavy over the Carthaginians; he felt the crew’s fear bore into his back as he burned a nugget of incense in the bronze holder and sent his prayer to the sky home of the gods. And now? He must show the gods his need and the only way was with a sacrifice. But there was no newborn lamb or white goat, and living blood was needed so the gods would take notice. He felt the weight of many lives upon him. He looked at his shaking hands. There was only one way.

It must be him.

He raised his arm. With a firm hand, he slashed one finger and let the blood drip into the bronze bowl. The bright metal glittered in the sunlight with sacred symbols: the sun and Astarte’s moon, a lotus, the magic eye of Horus. Long a neighbor of ancient Egypt and its gods, Carthaginians took no chances and included all the gods: Ra and Bes and Isis, El and Tanit and Melqart.

Everyone stood quiet.

“Baal Hammon and Astarte, I give you my life; drink my blood. Grant me the eight Kabirim gods to guide us home,” the Admiral pleaded, his arm extended high, his right hand raised, and palm out, with fingers open—the sign of prayer. Blood ran down his arm. A low murmur came from the seamen behind him.

“I will be the lamb to your will. Protect us; protect this, your ship. I give this body, as sacrifice. Mark me in your eye. My body is offered to you”.

He dipped a finger in the bowl and made a blood circle upon his forehead. It marked him as a sacrifice for the gods. The mark might fade but the gods would always see it and remember. They could claim his life at their will. It was the most solemn offering. It was expected of him. His right arm crossed over his chest. “For always,” he whispered.

His life was forfeit now.

Later, somehow, word of the empty offering bowls spread through the ship and an undercurrent of fear and suspicion wove its way through the crew. Seamen glanced sideways at each other as they went about their duties, mending and tending the brails, lining up for the daily rations of hard bread and wine, all the time wondering who was hungry enough to risk a visit from death. And all would have agreed on one thing: it was only a matter of time.

Death would visit the
Astarte.

CHAPTER 31

The
Astarte
slowly cruised down the coast of Iberia, using oars as much as possible, inching its way home. They kept a close watch for fresh storms and the lone Veneti ship—if it still existed. It never reappeared.

Oars dipping silently, they limped into the safe harbor of the
Tagus
River, in the land of the
Iberes
. Time to give the exhausted rowers a rest and find fresh water and food.

The
Tagus
, with its snug estuary, meant they were close to Gadir and the Pillars of Hercules, their gateway from the wild, tide-driven ocean into their own waters—the Great Sea. This nightmare of a journey was coming to a close.

With not enough to eat and no water, Adonibaal had given an order to break out an amphora of wine and let the weary seamen drink, as a reward. There was little harm they could do on board.

There was no place for them to go ashore, only crude thatched huts of local fishermen, near the ruins of an old Phoenician trading settlement, deserted after Tyre fell to the Persians. The Tagus River had long been a haven to traders. The captain sent ashore a few seamen for water, but kept the rest of the crew on the
Astarte
. They would have to save their whoring and gambling for Carthage.

Midacritus climbed up the ladder from the rower’s deck, towing the Gaesatae behind on a long rope. The captain still demanded the barbarian be watched constantly, and Midacritus grudgingly led him to the latrine area on the stern. Midacritus cast an envious eye at the crew downing full cups of wine at will. Some brought out small bone flutes and one beat Isis’s drum as a few seamen danced. Carloi the navigator sang an old Tartessian love song in a high, sweet voice that no one paid attention to. They were drinking wine while Midacritus was tied to a stupid barbarian, who would not even help him take the Admiral’s
Periplus.

“Hurry up,” he said crossly and jerked the rope. Maybe he should get rid of the barbarian. Push him overboard. No one would care; Isis would be glad to be rid of a troublemaker. But too many eyes were watching.

Back down in the rower’s deck, he tied the barbarian to a bench and left the rope slack.

“Look, I’m tying it loose so you can eat. I’m tired of feeding you like a baby and I want to go drink wine. Stay here.”

Midacritus laughed. There was no place the Gaesatae could go.

Lorc watched Midacritus until he disappeared up the ladder. He felt nothing but disgust for the thieving Greek and was glad to be left alone. Isis had kept him rowing almost nonstop, and he was too tired to think. He shut his eyes, faint with exhaustion. He heard footsteps and opened one eye. The boy was bringing him food. He looked wary, but it was the girl Lorc needed. This boy was nothing but a problem, a mark on Lorc’s soul.

He placed a wooden bowl of thin lentil gruel and some insect-ridden hard bread down on Lorc’s bench. Lorc looked away. It was better not to talk to him. He didn’t understand why the boy stopped the whipping, but now he owed him his life. It made him uneasy and resentful that a child could have such power over him. And it was a potent power. The boy had no way of knowing they were now bound together in a bond decreed by the Gaesatae Code. When you saved a life, both lives were joined together, as if by blood; they were like kin now.

As the boy started toward the ladder, Lorc heard drunken voices singing. Two seamen came stumbling down the ladder and ran into the boy, knocking him to the floor. They reeked of wine. Lorc pretended to sleep and shut his eyes to slits. Neither paid him any attention. He was bound and no threat to anyone.

“Just who we’re looking for, look at the pretty boy,” one said, in a slurred voice. He lifted his tunic and shoved Glas’s face into his crotch.

Glas twisted away, and the other seaman caught him and forced him down on his stomach.

“This is how you do it with pretty boys,” he said. They both held him down and pulled his legs apart.

Lorc could barely understand their drunken talk. It was Carthaginian, and he knew only a few words, but he knew what they wanted. Glas struggled and twisted his head as one man pressed his arms on Glas’s back.

Both men were heavy set; Glas could not move. The boy’s pale scrawny backside lay exposed. The first one started rubbing his penis and started to shove it into the helpless boy.

The boy’s face was turned toward Lorc and he saw the boy’s eyes roll back in pain.

Lorc understood that. With a deep tremor, time stopped and then ran backwards for Lorc. He was back at Mai Dun, an orphaned foundling that no one—except Caradoc—wanted. A gang of older boys chased him relentlessly and finally caught him in the woods. They beat him and then, holding him down ... Lorc shut his eyes at the memory.

A helpless child’s anger, banked like some forgotten coal, flared up and burst free. Without a clear thought, Lorc began twisting his hands, working them against the rough bindings. He turned his hands in the loosely tied ropes, and the rough plaited hemp burned a track into both wrists as he yanked and pulled. With a mighty yank of arms and shoulders grown strong with constant rowing, he wrestled his hands free.

He rose with a roar, shouting, “
Stad
!” and started toward Glas. One seaman looked up and jumped away. Lorc kicked the other man off the sobbing boy.

Lorc shoved Glas out of the way and then picked up a piece of a broken oar, hitting one seaman on the head, stunning him. He wanted to kill them both. He stood in front of Glas, blocking him from the other seaman.

“Go,” he yelled and turned to push Glas up the ladder.

The other man jumped on Lorc’s back and threw his arm around his neck, choking him. His friend recovered and started punching Lorc in the stomach. The noise alerted others up on deck, who clambered down the ladder for some drunken fun and ganged up on Lorc, hitting and kicking. This was their chance to punish the stupid barbarian for almost burning down the ship. Even drunk and unsteady, they were still five against one.

Lorc was a big man, over two heads taller than most of the Carthaginians and strong as a warrior should be. He might have won except Midacritus returned and came up, unseen, from behind. A heavy amphora, smashed on Lorc’s head, ended the brawl.

“Well?” The captain looked down his long nose at Lorc. “Five of my seamen say you started this, Gaesatae. They felt sorry for you missing out on the wine, so they cut you loose, and then you turned on them.”

Lorc looked up at the captain. He had trouble focusing his eyes. There was a gash above one eye and blood dripped down. But it was clear who the captain believed. It would do no good for Lorc to say otherwise. He couldn’t talk. It felt like one of his ribs was broken, and he could barely take in enough air to breath.

Lorc’s vision blurred then cleared. Glas stood behind the captain in the doorway. This would all be for naught if Glas said anything, and the seamen were punished. They would find a way to kill the boy, who now owned Lorc’s life.

It was a debt that must be repaid. Lorc caught the boy’s eye and shook his head no. He saw the surprise in his eyes and Lorc shook his head again.

“You will not get loose again,’ the captain said. “ And it’s the slave mart for you at Carthage. At least we will have some coin for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

They tied him with rope to one of the benches. After the captain stalked away, Lorc beckoned to the boy with his head.

He reached up, his ribs burning with pain, and pulled the boy’s head down close and whispered in his ear.

“Swear on your god’s name you will not say anything about this. And if you value your life, stay close to the carpenter. Don’t leave his side. Swear it!”