Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (56 page)

The dark figure ran across the broad green lawn, past the water fountain that rose sixty feet in the air, and around the wind-whipped bed of blood-red roses, long stems twisted and bent, petals covering the path in a flowery carpet. The spray from the immense fountain arched over the lawn, drenching the man as he ran past the abbey, toward the greenhouse in the back, a lantern of light in the growing gloom.

Lord Dorset looked up as Ian entered and the wind slammed the door shut, rattling the glass panes. He bent back to his work without a word, ignoring Ian. The greenhouse held Lord Dorset’s collection of prize orchids. Like exotic butterflies, they were neatly lined up by species and then by color, the delicate flowers nodding in the warm air. It was like being in a swamp. Slow-turning fans constantly blew humid air and small heaters burned day and night.

Lord Dorset examined his prize
Vanda
teres Himalayas
. The pale lavender color was exquisite. He held it up to his good eye and, using a small brush, removed a tiny drop of water from one petal. Nothing could mar this orchid’s perfection. It would be worthy of first prize in the fall London Orchid Show. Everything he owned was special in some way and perfect.

Except this. He glanced at the drenched Ian, this shivering wreck of a man, dripping water and mud over the teak slats of the greenhouse floor. Ian was an imperfect thing. He was an addict, dependent on all sorts of drugs and substances. Lord Dorset always used these flawed people to be his tools, to do the work he could not. Or would not.

“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for you. Have you found it?

Ian slumped down on a bench. “Not yet. I searched everything in the secure room at the dig twice. Nothing. It’s not there.”

Lord Dorset arched one eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “And what about Conan? I think you should search his rooms and check the burial chamber site again. Sometimes things get overlooked. You need to follow him everywhere.”

I do!” Ian’s voice raised an octave. “I keep a close eye on him. He stays on the dig mostly. It’s hard to go snooping around now. We have a new overseer until Sir Aubrey returns.”

“And I need some money now,” he muttered.

Lord Dorset eyed him and shrugged. “Is that why you called? You always need money.”

“You promised. I need it now, tonight.” Ian shoved his hands in his pockets and stood up.

“I haven’t been able to find anything. I’ve looked under every stone and found nothing.” He laughed like he had made a joke. “Just this stone. See?” He held it up. “Dr. O’Neill was holding it when they dug her out.”

He tossed it up in the air, caught it, and threw it to Lord Dorset.

Dorset caught it and then yelled, dropping the stone.

“It burned me!” The skin on the palm of his hand was red and buckled like a burn.

He looked down at the white quartz stone where it lay on the floor. He touched it again and drew back his hand. Some carved lines on it caught the light. Then he knew what it was and slowly backed away.

Lord Dorset quickly counted out some money for Ian and then shoved him out the door. His hands shook. He had lost any desire to be in the greenhouse. Outside, the wind roared through the trees. He heard a sharp cracking sound and looked up as a heavy branch fell on the glass roof and hit a pane. Dirt-stained water dripped through the shattered glass onto the pristine petals of his prized
Vanda
teres Himalayas
. It was ruined. He slammed his arm across the table and knocked the orchid across the room, where it landed in a puddle on the floor.

The stone lay where he dropped it on the floor, winking in the light. There was no way he was going to touch it again. Somehow, she had reached out from the past and found him.

QUEEN’S HOSPITAL

July, 2006

After Germaine’s close call, Nicholas felt uneasy enough to spend most nights at the hospital. He could not explain the anxiety he felt, only that it was real. He had a frightening premonition that some ominous danger surrounded Germaine.

Nor could he explain the sense of attachment he felt for this comatose woman: it was an invisible connection. Almost physical, like a ship’s mooring line, it tugged at him—even when he was not at the hospital—bringing him back to that room and her pale, mask-like face. What was happening to him? He had no answer. He just knew he had to keep watch, like a bodyguard in an unknown and dangerous territory.

Nicholas tossed in his sleep. He twisted, uncomfortable in the hospital’s sleeping chair: an old recliner, its worn fabric covered in slippery plastic.

His eyes snapped open when he thought he heard voices.

Usually bright enough to read by, the room was dark, only one small, dim light by the bed. The numbers and read-outs on the medical monitors winked red. There was a ringing in his ears, like the sound water makes when you dove deep. It was still night outside, black with storm clouds. Flashing light came in through the window. Lights in the hallway flickered off and on. He eased up the reclining chair. His back ached and his arms were asleep and numb.

Half awake, he turned his head and looked across the room. From the corner of his eye something in the shadows moved. And women’s voices whispered, just low enough so he couldn’t hear a word.

Then the room was illuminated by the biggest flash of blue-white light he had ever seen and all the lights went out. In that split-second, strobe-like flash he thought he saw three women across the room by Germaine’s bed! He was hallucinating, his mind creating forms out of the shadows. He heard a noise. A far-off cry. Was that Germaine crying? He heard her! His foggy head cleared instantly to a full-blown panic. No lights anywhere. The electricity was out, and the nurse’s call-button wasn’t working. He would have to go out in the hall to find a nurse.

He twisted himself out of the chair. It suddenly felt quite cold. No heat either—everything was out. Nicholas shivered and threw on his jacket. He stumbled out the door into the hallway. A path lit with double strips of small emergency LED lights, like on an airplane, trailed off toward the nurses’ station.

Just then, the hospital’s emergency generator came on line. Room lights blinked. He stumbled along. More flashes of light, and then he felt like he was underwater. It was crazy. The walls shimmered with a dull light as if from above. He looked down, and it was dark. And cold. His bare feet felt like ice. He took a deep breath, gasping for air. He couldn’t breathe! He felt for the wall and staggered back toward Germaine’s room. The overhead lights flickered on and off again. Nicholas looked up; a small sun shone above his night-blinded eyes, and he slowly moved forward, toward that source of life.

He bumped into a nurse just coming out of Germaine’s room. He looked over at Germaine. Each flash of light turned her skin deathly white. She wasn’t crying, but her mouth was open in a parody of a scream, making no sound.

“Everything is alright, Dr. Greenwood. It’s just an unconscious reflex response. I’ve seen it before,” the nurse said.

Shivering, he sat down in the visitor’s chair by the bed. Germaine’s mouth slowly relaxed and closed. The nurse came back and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Somehow, he knew whatever Germaine was feeling, he was, too. But the nurse said everything was alright.

Something deep in his gut told him nothing would ever be right again.

PART VI

Carthage

CHAPTER 36

Each seaman uttered a prayer in passing the altar, but no one spoke of the missing rower from Gadir. And death’s wine on the ship’s altar went untouched.

Overnight, the mood of the ship tipped from desolate to something approaching cheerfulness, or as cheerful as men can be who have been at sea for over four months. The
Astarte
struck a buoyant course along the North African coast.

Sabrann sat in the Admiral’s doorway, mouth pursed tight. She concentrated on the wooden tablets in her lap, practicing her letters, silently defying anyone to call her barbarian.

Mau came and sat by her, hissing at anyone who came near. There were certain seamen she growled at, in her ancient, wild cat voice. For others, Mau’s voice muted to a low warning, that did not frighten her humans as much, until you looked at her eyes—small editions of her man-eating ancestors: pale green, slit in the middle, gold banded. Sabrann thought Mau might as well wear a gold torq around her neck as befit a queen.

She thought back to the dream-like time after she had been saved from drowning. She had wanted to die, and then Rosmerta came and said her gift of seeing was gone. Was that true? The first night after they left Gadir she sat in front of Glas and carefully placed her hands over his head. They were alone in the dimly lit galley. All color washed away, his tanned face looked dark and his hair a gray nimbus.

“I have to know,” she whispered.

He looked up at her and smiled as she lowered her hands. She drew in a sharp breath. Rosmerta was wrong! Her gift was not gone; she saw and felt the same things she always saw in Glas: tranquility, the sky, a sense of peace.

She cried and then turned silent and would not talk to anyone. Her heart ached for the love of Hero, which was also gone.

Since Midacritus stole his
periplus
, the Admiral had not let her out of sight—there was always someone close by. Sabrann didn’t care and watched everything with a baleful eye or dozed with Mau, her head full of dreams of Albion—of running, of escape, of climbing the green hill to Mai Dun.

The Carthaginian’s Great Sea was not like the ocean with its mountainous waves, terrifying storms and high tides. The air had a different feeling, as though the southern gods remembered brighter skies, balmier breezes.

This morning, a lone warrior’s voice sang a Macae chant as his bare feet beat a steady rhythm. The crew worked the brails and set the mainsail to catch the brisk north-west wind. Her scraps of papyrus threatened to float away in the breeze, and she carefully weighed them down with pieces of wood Glas had brought her from Thombaii’s work basket.

“Dias,”
she cursed, as her hand holding the stylus slipped and left a jagged mark on the writing tablet. She furiously smoothed the wax surface and then started over. She wanted to ask Hero how to make the marks that said
slave
. She had carefully copied the letters on the papyrus and today, with a sudden rush of understanding, thought she knew what one of them meant. Hero had told her the words, but this was the first time she saw them. Excited, she did not look up when someone sat down beside her.

“Make it straight,” a voice said over her shoulder. “I taught you better than that.”

Her heart leaped. Hero. She felt her cheeks flush.

“And that one’s backward. Here, let me show you.”

He took the writing tablets and made some marks. She kept her face down and would not look at him or the tablet.

“If it’s wrong, it’s because you wrote it wrong,” she said, in a tart voice. She had not seen him since the day the
periplus
was stolen, when they found him with the temple prostitute—the day her heart grew sad.

He put his arm around her shoulders, and she shrugged it away. Her hair blew over her face—she angrily brushed it away. She looked up in spite of herself and scowled.