Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (57 page)

“Don’t be angry with me. It’s bad enough the Admiral would like to kill me.”

His voice was soft, not mocking. At first, she thought he had seen into her heart and somehow knew what she felt. Maybe she was mistaken, and he thought she was angry because of the
periplus.
She winced and turned her head away.

“Sometimes, I find my love among men. That doesn’t mean we cannot be friends. Anyhow, love between friends is more important than love with a temple boy.”

He did know what she felt! She reached up and, from habit, covered her tattoo. Hero brushed away her hand and turned her face toward him. His fingers traced the tattoo. It didn’t seem to matter to him. He was kind. And he had taken the time to teach her to write, to help her not be called a barbarian.

Gently, he held her face in his ink-stained hands. “Friends?”

She made a small movement of her head, a nod, and felt a little flutter in her heart, as though something had broken free and flown away.

With fierce pride, she knew she should not have any more tender, woman’s thoughts toward this beautiful Greek. When she chose a man, it would be someone who wanted only her; she would not share! Maigrid had taught her that about women. And when Hero pulled her close and gave her a hug, it should not feel any different than when she hugged Glas.

Her chin struck a stubborn angle. She would claim him another way.

“Yes, we are friends.”

She took the knife from the scabbard tied on her thigh and made a cut on her forefinger. Sabrann looked up and gave him a weak smile as she touched his finger. Hero looked puzzled and then nodded. Making a small cut on his finger, she joined her hand to his.

It is done, she thought, and trembled. She had never made this ritual before. But she had been a child before. Now she was a woman who bled and blood was life. It sealed them together forever, though he didn’t yet understand her Durotriges ways.

And maybe ... maybe someday she would want more.

Far above in the mast, the lookout gave three blasts on the conch shell. Something unknown approached. On a signal to the crew, the brails crept up, shortening the sail, and the
Astarte’s
speed slowed to a crawl.

Working on the ship’s log in his cabin, the Admiral felt the change and looked up. Almost instantly, Adonibaal appeared in the doorway with a stricken look on his face.

“Come quickly!”

On deck, the Admiral scanned the gray choppy waters. There, on the eastern horizon, he saw what had struck such fear into Adon’s face: a fast sailing galley, oars flashing up and down, on an intercept course with the
Astarte
.

Pirates? That thought went through everyone’s minds as it came closer. Pirates were the scourge of the seas in the eastern end of the Great Sea and much closer, too, in the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast of Etruria, where they threatened Carthage’s Etruscan allies.

But pirates usually left the powerful Carthaginians alone. And the
Astarte
was only one day out from Carthage, near enough to make these waters safe.

It was a trireme, the most lethal ship afloat. It carried a crew of 170 with twenty additional marine fighters, and its three banks of rowers could propel the galley through the water faster than any other ship. Himilco knew he was helpless to protect the
Astarte—
they could not escape.

The closer the trireme came, the more menacing it appeared. A puzzled shock went through Himilco as he recognized the palm tree emblem of Carthage on the flag at the top of the mainmast. As he watched, a red flag rose up the mainmast: a warning signal of attack.

They dared not run. Gleaming in the pale sun, jutting out from the prow of the galley was its ram
—
over a thousand pounds of pointed bronze metal—a weapon of death designed to annihilate. Crashing into the
Astarte
, it would tear the ship apart and immediately sink her.

Another flag rose up the advancing galley’s mainsail, one Himilco recognized all too quickly. It showed the image of a lion. Only a member of the Sacred Battalion could fly his own standard with that of Carthage, and this trireme’s captain was more than entitled. He was the eldest son of the ruling family, and the Admiral’s lifelong foe—his brother Hanno.

The trireme stopped a ship’s length from the
Astarte
and didn’t bother to take its mast down for battle. There would be none. Its rowers expertly backed water, holding the trireme in place. His brother stood on the deck that ran from prow to stern above the rowers. Twenty marines with arrows set were pointed at the Admiral and the
Astarte.

“Well met, brother. Welcome home,” Hanno called through a speaking trumpet. “I have orders from the queen to escort you to Carthage. She is waiting to hear of your journey.” Even across the water, his voice had the honeyed depth of one used to command and spoiled by that power—an excess of gifts from the gods.

Himilco cursed him in a low voice. This was just like Hanno. As eldest of three brothers, he demanded all the attention. Always competitive, it grew worse as Hanno, and then Himilco, were both drawn to the sea. Gisco, the middle brother, wisely chose the law as his interest, and rarely got caught in the crossfire.

It grew worse last year when Hanno led an exploratory voyage down the coast of Africa and preened and strutted to the fame and applause showered on him at his return. Yet all Hanno had to show for that trip was the hairy skin of some unknown animal that he nailed up on the door of the temple of Tanit. No gold or silver. Hanno named his ship the
Afrikan,
so no one would forget his voyage. And he wanted no competition.

When Himilco prepared for this voyage, Hanno tried to stop him. His words burned in Himilco’s memory:
I lead Carthage at sea, not you. My
Periplus
to Africa is the journey that is most important. Go chase pirates. It’s what you do best.
Hanno had treated him like some novice captain.

“I have news to bring and must speak first to Bomilcar of my merchant ship holders, and then the Council of One Hundred,” Himilco said. “I will see Queen Elissa-Ayzebal afterwards.”

Hanno gave a short bark of a laugh.

“That will be hard to do. Elissa-Ayzebal is dead, and I am head of the Council of One Hundred now. Queen Elissa–Maris commands your attendance.”

Even at a distance, Himilco saw the triumphant look on Hanno’s face. Himilco could not answer at first. Maris! What had happened to her sister, Ayzebal? And Bomilcar?

Captain Adonibaal spoke in a lowered voice. “Shall we fight? The crew is ready.”

“No,” snapped Himilco, making no effort to conceal his displeasure. How dare Hanno treat him like this; he was Admiral of the Western Fleet! His face grew red with anger. He had no choice, even if he chafed at this “escort.” It was so like his brother to make a show of force where none was needed. What had happened in the months the
Astarte
had been away?

“We have to obey. They’re lighter and can strike fast with that ram and sink us. That’s just what my brother is goading me for. I will deal with the new queen when we arrive.”

Himilco felt the skin on his forehead pulse and tingle. His blood promise to the gods! Even though he wanted to forget it, the gods remembered the pledge of his life and were calling it home to them. A wave of nausea swept through him, which he tried to ignore. Nothing good would come of this.

His hands grew sweaty. A flash of sun on Adon’s amulet caught his eye. He knew the words by heart.
Praise the gods each day ...

And if you don’t, this is what happened.

CHAPTER 37

The face of Carthage was always turned toward the sea, a queen surveying her kingdom. Whitewashed buildings with small windows, like narrowed eyes, perched on hills facing the glittering, deep blue water.

The walls of Carthage could be seen from far out at sea. Made of sandstone, and covered in blinding white stucco, they sparkled in the sunlight with lookout towers, enormous sea gates, and armies patrolling the high pediments.

Finally freed from the close quarters of the cabin, Sabrann stood next to Akmu at the prow of the
Astarte,
where the sea breeze swirled her hair, stinging her eyes, making them water. She had never seen anything like this city of hills.

Akmu said more than 100,000 people lived here, The number meant nothing to her, until he said it was as many as the night stars in the sky.

He had been here before with Himilco and knew the city well, pointing out the wonders that cast Sabrann into a mute fear, for this was nothing like Mai Dun.

The tallest hill, the Byrsa, was clearly visible. To the right lay the curved arm of land that protected Carthage’s western flank and to the left, due east, verdant and green, a jutting peninsula called Cape Bon or sometimes simply, “The Beautiful.” Protected by water and land, Carthage reclined like a jewel in its setting: Queen of the Western Great Sea.

Everyone came on deck for the ship’s homecoming, to witness the end of their long voyage. A silent Akmu-en-Swnw stood next to Sabrann, with Hero at his side. Glas slipped close to her, and hand in hand, they watched as the
Astarte
moved closer, its despised escort ship two lengths behind. The crew went about their duties with anxious eyes. No one spoke. The sail struck a flapping, warning sound in the brisk sea breeze as it was brailed up, and African yellow-legged gulls perched on the mast like noisy wardens with watchful eyes. Admiral Himilco turned to Sabrann, a worried look on his face.

“Whatever happens, you must stay close to me and say nothing unless I tell you to speak.” She started to ask why, but he had already turned to talk to the captain. A feeling of impending doom was in the air.

Her heart sank as the ship grew closer. Never had she seen anything this big. On Albion, the places where Durotriges gathered to live were small, usually only a few families. Cattle and farming needed room; land was everything and dwellings were spread out. Even at Mai Dun there were never more than a few hundred families at one time. She drew Glas closer.

Oars sweeping together in time, the ship entered the seagate, a hidden opening behind the great sparkling wall. Huge iron chains hung on one side to close the gate, making it an impassible barrier, if the port was attacked. The shields and swords of soldiers patrolling the wall flashed in the sun like warning lights as the
Astarte
entered the first harbor.

Used only for trading ships, this harbor backed right up to the city. Warehouses marched in rows behind the wharves that lined each side, where precious goods could be easily stored. The wooden quays teamed with slaves, loading and unloading, balancing bags of wheat on their heads, carrying amphorae filled with wine, with Garam, with pickled sardines and almonds, and baskets of Silipium from Egypt and Cyrene. Gold-filled bags, silver bars, and tin ingots streamed ashore like shining rivers to the sea. Everything worth having came to Carthage.

“And hiding where we cannot see it,” Akmu said, “is the desert.” Behind Carthage, out of sight, sand crept up to the city walls from a desert land sparsely dotted with oasises that were fringed with date palms and kept green with water from ancient aquifers deep beneath the sand. The vast continent of Africa sprawled south behind that desert, a rich land of gold and ivory and diamonds, salt and slaves and elephants.

But it was the sea that flowed through Carthaginian veins, as necessary as salt for food. They could not live without it.

Beyond the rectangular trading harbor, a channel led to the heart of Carthage’s strength: the naval harbor. Wooden sheds lined the shoreline to house and protect the sleek, dangerous triremes with their deadly rams. Cosseted and primed, constantly in repair, the ships of Carthage sailed from here at will in the Great Sea, which some said should be called the Carthaginian Sea. Their power was that close to absolute.

“What think you, young maid?” said Akmu-en-Swnw, his dark eyes somber. He watched the activity on the wharf with a puzzled attention. Soldiers in shining helmets moved among naked slaves towards the
Astarte
.