Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (58 page)

“I know not,” she answered, her voice faint. “It is too big. People could be lost here and never found. I want to go home.”

“Four turnings of the moon and you will leave.”

“And Glas, too. I will not leave without him.”

Akmu did not reply and turned away.

A company of the Sacred Battalion, bronzed swords drawn, waited for them as the ship eased into place at a wharf. Twenty fully armed soldiers stood at attention.

Admiral Himilco motioned to Captain Adonibaal, and together they walked down a slanting ramp. The battalion’s captain, a young aristocrat, stepped forward. A plume of ostrich feathers on his helmet quivered in the shore breeze. He barely saluted the Admiral; his arm crossed his chest and quickly dropped. He looked uncomfortable. His face flushed red as he opened and read from a scroll in his hand.

“Admiral Himilco Mago, Lord of the Ereb, commander of Carthage’s naval fleet in the west, you are charged with treason and ordered to proceed to the queen at once. I am ordered to escort you.”

Even in the noise and bustle of the port, it seemed a silence settled around Admiral Himilco and Captain Adonibaal, like an invisible wall.

Treason! Himilco’s tanned face blanched white. Treason was punished by crucifixion. He squared his shoulders.

“I am sure there has been a mistake. What, specifically, was this treason?”

The captain flushed but kept his eyes straight ahead, not looking directly at the Admiral. “I know not,” he replied. “That is for the queen’s privilege only.”

Sabrann, standing on the deck above them, heard everything, and moved closer to Akmu-en-Swnw. The tension in the air swept through her and left her shaken. Everything had changed. They all were in danger, for their lives depended on the Admiral.

“For an audience with the queen, I must make myself ready.” The Admiral turned to go, but the young captain’s voice brought him to a standstill.

“There is no time for that. My orders are to bring you as you are. We must go now. She waits at the Temple of Baal Reshef.”

Himilco looked around at the group behind him. He pointed at Sabrann. His head raised a little and his chin tightened.

“This girl must accompany me. She is daughter to a king and in my charge. And I will need my scribe also.” His tone of voice was decisive, and the lift of his chin dared the captain to question him.

Captain Adonibaal grabbed Glas, while pushing Sabrann forward. “Go!” he hissed. Wild-eyed, she turned and met Glas’s frightened eyes. Then one of the soldiers moved her along, and when she looked back again, Glas was gone.

The narrow streets leading away from the port were jammed with people. The soldiers of the Sacred Battalion marched through the crowds without stopping, iron-cleated leather sandals stomping in unison. Anyone in their way quickly stepped back. One street was all open-fronted shops, filled with the familiar smell of fires, of molten metal, as smiths clanged and formed tools.
Oh, Culain!
Her heart twisted at his memory.

She struggled to keep up with the soldiers, her legs wobbly after so long on the
Astarte
. The land felt hard and unmoving, like a gigantic rock. She lurched on the rough streets, her steps uneven on the yellow, hard-packed mud and cobbles. Hero clasped her hand tight.

After the freshness of sea air, the streets smelled rank. An open channel ran down one side where waste water flowed in a sluggish stream. Limestone pavers formed narrow steps that led down to another larger street, where white-walled houses with porticos lined the way. She passed an open door leading to an inner courtyard filled with plants and a tall cage full of tiny blue birds in one corner. A palm tree waved high above in a rooftop garden and red flowers with bright yellow centers trailed over the sides. Salmon pink, saffron, and bright blue painted lines of waves, or lotus flowers, or strings of fish, scrolled around the doors and up the walls of the houses. It was midday now. The sun shone straight down, the air hot and dry. After the cool, moist sea air, Sabrann’s pale skin burned with the heat.

The street spilled into a broad open market crowded with people. Men in blue robes, veiled with only eyes visible, rode by on small, prancing horses with braided manes and belled tails. Amber-skinned young girls with coils of gold on elongated necks turned and stared. Others walked like queens, black and shining in the sunlight, nude except for a wrapped skirt. Some wore dangling gold basket earrings, and dustings of gold powdered their cheeks; wealth worn so all could see.

A lion snarled ominously on its long chain in the shade of a building, as annoying monkeys clambered around it. Off to one side, women fried fish on small braziers, or slashed open persimmons filled with red tart seeds. Smoke filled the air, ripe with the smells of fish and lion scat.

Sabrann’s eyes swept from one side to the other of the exotic display. A string of desert ponies stood off to one side as their panniers full of leopard skins, ivory tusks, red carbuckle jewels and iridescent feathers were unloaded. Giant baskets of glittering salt slabs and piles of richly colored carpets lay stacked against a wall.

And gaudy prostitutes, barely covered in thin tunics, called from a small stage before an open tent with curtained beds. Everything was for sale here.

Carthage’s old name,
Quart Hadasht
, had meant “the new city.” Everyone—Egyptian and Libyans, itinerant Greeks or Iberians—came here, seeking to grasp some of the magic that was Carthage.

The Sacred Battalion guards marched them across the busy marketplace, scattering everything in their way, like waves before a ship. They came to a halt before a large, sandstone building: the temple of Baal Reshef.

Four great, carved columns enclosed a portico, and carved above its entrance was a crescent moon and disk. Hero leaned toward Sabrann and spoke in a low voice.

“Be silent. Watch Admiral Himilco and whatever you do, don’t move in the queen’s presence. Bow down and be still.”

Their feet left brief tracks in the loose sand the sea breeze had blown onto the temple’s tiled portico, and drifted up against the sandstone walls. Two immense doors swung open on iron pivots with a groan of wood grinding against metal, and then they entered the temple.

A long room stretched before them. There were no windows, and the light was dim after the glare of the sun outside. Yet even in the darkened interior, the walls had a shadowed glow.

At first, Sabrann thought the chamber was deserted. Long empty benches lined part of each side. Then a slight hint of movement at the far end of the room caught her eye. Someone moved with a lighted torch in hand.

In a flash, two immense torches were lit, and the chamber sprang to life. Gold was everywhere. The walls, covered in thousands of small leaves of gold, shimmered like the reptilian scales of some immense creature. As other lamps were lit, the walls rippled, reflected, and flashed with each new light or shadow.

But that held their attention for only a moment, and then all eyes fixed on the woman at the end of the long chamber. Seated on a carved ivory chair, dressed in a royal purple robe threaded with gold, a massive gold necklace covered her neck and shoulders. Long gold earrings reached her shoulders. She dazzled.

But it was the face that commanded with its arrogant hooked nose, her black hair dressed in snaking curls, an improbably red mouth. It was the face of pure, undiluted Phoenician beauty, from the time before time when queens of Syria and Lebanon ruled, when Jezebel ruled, and even beyond that time to Ugarit and the goddess Anat, consort of Baal.

Her face went back to the time when her ancestor, Elissa-Dido, ruled Tyre and, when betrayed by her brother, Pygmalion, fled to start
Qart-Hadasht
hundreds of years ago.

In an unbroken line of queens, this woman, in all her golden glory, in her golden chamber, was the chosen one: Elissa-Maris, the fourteenth Queen Elissa of Carthage.

Sabrann trembled as ripples of fear ran down her back. Afraid to move, she looked at this queen covertly; afraid that if this woman caught her eye, she would see into her and carve out some of her soul and never let it go. Every intuition, every inherited gift of seeing into the future told Sabrann this was so.

And she knew, and every part of her body knew, this woman had the obsidian heart of an evil goddess.

CHAPTER 38

The new queen! That shock still raced through Himilco’s body as he made his formal bow. He kept his eyes lowered, afraid the sight of her might burn clean through his eyes.

Kneeling on one knee, he crossed his arm over his heart.
For always
, the gesture pledged. He would sooner have died on the spot than swear allegiance to this woman. But for now, he had no choice. In this room he was the queen’s Admiral, Lord Himilco Mago.

He noted who else was in the room. The queen’s guards were in a row against the wall, killers all. He knew; he had helped choose them. His brother Hanno stood leering at him, challenging him to fight this, whatever
it
was. The underling priests lined up behind the one who was more dangerous than all of them together: the
Rab-kohanim—
chief of the priests.

After he knew more, after all his questions were answered, after all that ... Himilco thought he might kill Maris.

With an arrogant gesture, the queen motioned that he might rise. As he stood, he glanced back at Sabrann—his secret weapon. She was nearly prostrate on the floor, her pale face leached of color. Chin up, he turned and faced Maris.

“Why am I here?”

Silence. Again he asked, “As Admiral of the Carthaginian fleet, I ask you, what charge brings me here?”

Hanno stepped forward, a smug smile on his handsome face. “Treason,” he said and then gave a nod to the
Rab-kohanim
.

“For the crime of
huber,
you are so charged,
”
the chief priest read from a scroll.

Huber! What trick was this?
An ancient word from the time of Tyre—the exclusive right of royalty to deal with foreign powers in all manner of trade or commerce. It had not been cited in hundreds of years. Besides, he had the permission of the queen, just not
this
queen. The Admiral’s anger and his voice rose.

“I was an agent of Queen Elissa-Ayzebaal. The trading cartel did not conceal its voyage. Everything that was learned or traded was for the benefit of Carthage. It was no secret.”

“But Elissa-Ayzebaal is no longer queen,” Maris said, in a silken voice. “I am. And you need
my
permission. We have already passed sentence on the cartel’s leader. His body hangs crucified outside the city gate, carrion for vultures.”

Poor Bomilcar! Innocent, but dead from wanting a profit. Himilco tried to think clearly. What did she want ... revenge? Again? He had evaded her grasp once. But she had already taken retribution for that. He thought her massive vanity had been served long ago.

A fire burned again in his memory. A sacrifice. He knew the old pain of that sacrifice; it was always close to his heart. For a long time after, there was little worship of the gods left in his heart. No wonder he now spent all his life at sea.

Or was this all between him and Hanno? Oldest of adversaries in almost everything, his brother had hated him from birth.

“Since there was no deceit in my heart or intention, how may this be resolved?” Himilco asked. There was no reason to play games with her. He might better find out what she intended right now. His death? Probably. That would be what Hanno wanted. And his brother was her plaything now; that was clear.

But Maris was not predictable. Like a desert viper, she knew how to circle around you, hidden in the sand, and strike where you least expected. So what next? Hanno answered that unspoken question.

“Lowborn traders, such as you, should not have the right to be the face of Carthage. The voyage and trade you sought in the far north is the right of Queen Elissa-Maris. Give me the periplus
.
We know that was the sole aim of the cartel. Give it to us and then we will talk some more.”

All this for a periplus! Himilco wanted to laugh. This wasn’t just for a captain’s sailing manual. It was about vanity and all the rest: jealousy, Hanno’s discarded mother, vengeance. Hanno finally saw an opportunity to get rid of a lifelong rival.

There was a bitter taste of bile in the back of Himilco’s mouth. Yes, he thought. Then you will kill me for treason, and this voyage will never have happened—at least not by me. And the greedy
Rab-kohanim
will be richer still, once Hanno sails his own ship up to the tin isles.

Himilco looked at the powerful priest and saw how this puzzle fit together. The priests sought to block the traders and keep wealth for themselves and the queen’s court of spoiled nobles, all
Puros,
sons and daughters of Tyre, who wanted to live off the African-born merchants and traders of Carthage

Well, it was already too late.

Himilco glanced out of the corner of his eye at Sabrann. Should he conceal who she was? He must. Her price had just increased. She might save everything. He half-turned to Hero. The scribe had been forced on him by the cartel. As a spy? It mattered not now. As Admiral Himilco Mago, he must not let them see any signs of weakness. He straightened his back and glanced around the temple.