Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (64 page)

Rest time was over. The slave master’s whip cracked over Lorc’s head. He straightened and cocked a sharp eye at the barge. It was time to load the giant blocks of sandstone.

Lorc had done this before. His place was in the first rank, up front, where they put the newest and the strongest, their muscles not yet ripped loose or gone slack from not enough to eat. He was valuable: they gave him an extra portion of slop, just like a pig. The slop was nothing identifiable.

Pulling like oxen, they reached the ramp. This was the hardest part, keeping it steady up the incline as a team of slaves pushed from behind. Each stone weighed two tons or more. The front team would always be caught on the barge, squeezed forward, and would have to ride with the mountainous stones over the bay to Carthage to help unload.

The barge ferried all manner of supplies to the beautiful city. Slaves, carrying piles of kindling and wood from the forests around the quarry, were last on board. The worn-out ones, the weakest, they staggered along under their burdens. One was especially clumsy and would have been instantly recognized by the slave master without his long tunic and heavy head covering. The last slaves loading the barge were crammed in at the stern, packed like mackerels in an amphora. They could not move.

The barge rode low in the water, and the slaves in the back yelled with fright as small waves sprayed up over the sides. They could not escape if the barge went under.

Another ramp waited on the beach at Carthage as the barge ground to a landing in the shallow water. Lorc worked with the rest, pulling the stones onto another pallet, and then helped unload the other supplies. He fell into line with the others, balancing a pile of wood on his head. They were all worn and hungry. The master cracked his whip over their heads. In front of Lorc was the clumsy slave with his head wrapped in a dirty cloth. Half starved and not strong, they stumbled and fell a lot as they unloaded the wood and kindling into a wagon on the beach.

Almost dark, it had taken longer than expected. The indigo water rippled and reflected a harsh yellow light cast by two small torches stuck in the sand. In a few minutes. the barge would make the return trip to the other side of the bay for the night. The captain and the slave master were anxious for their beer and hurried the slaves on board. It was the end of a long day. In the dusk and confusion, no one noticed they were missing two slaves.

The beach was deserted, except for the wagon loaded with wood. Its two drivers dozed in the heat. Hidden under the wagon, Lorc limbed up behind the two men and smashed their heads together. He quickly stripped off their clothes and shoved the bodies onto the sand. He threw Glas the shortest robe. Now they were both covered in long hooded robes and did not look like slaves. They hid by the side of the wagon and waited. Lorc looked all around. At any minute he expected an alarm to be raised.

But nothing happened. The barge was gone. He knew they had to get away—it might come back. Lorc lifted Glas up next to him on the driver’s seat and then snapped the reins. The wagon surged forward. The mules seemed to know the way and plodded away from the beach. Lorc’s heart thumped in his ears, the boy hunched down next to him.

The wagon crept along. The streets were full of people, all heading in one direction. Lorc and Glas drew their hoods and slunk down inside their robes, trying to not draw attention their way. The crowd grew so thick it was impossible to move any way except forward, like a dense school of fish that only moved in one direction.

The crowd slowed and then stopped at a gated temple near the harbor. Lorc leaned over and grabbed the arm of a woman by the side of the wagon.

“The sacrifice!” he yelled over the din of chanting and drumming. “Is it here?” He pointed toward the temple gate.

She knew the word. “Sacrifice! Yes!” the woman cried. Hysterical tears streamed down her face as she struggled to get closer, pushing her way through the crowd. The gods had guided them to the right place. Lorc looked at the boy’s face. It was ghastly white.

A guard shouted at them. When Lorc gave him a stupid look, the guard grabbed the reins and led the way. They cleared the way with their spears and guided the wagon down a narrow street that ran behind the huge temple to a small service entrance in the back. A white-robed priest opened the wooden gate and motioned the wagon forward with an impatient gesture.

Baal Hammon’s temple held the
Tophet,
a place of worship and sacrifice. A horrible smell filled the air. Just inside the gate, flies swarmed over a pile of carcasses, bones and offal—the remains of sacrifices waiting to be carted off—and the air reeked with the stench.

The priest waved his hand in the direction of a door. He shouted at Lorc. “You’re late! Unload it now.” Lorc jumped down and started carrying the wood.

When he looked around for the boy, he was gone.

CHAPTER 43

Sabrann slumped forward in the cart and clutched her amulets. The noise deafened her ears and her stomach turned at the stench of rotten offal. The air reeked of heavy incense and the metallic stink of blood. Through an open door, she glimpsed the small sacrificial animals, clucking and braying, honking and squealing in their pens. Another pen held the sheep, the goats and lambs. Two priests herded a pair of white oxen out into the crowded courtyard; garlanded in jasmine and ribbons, heads daubed with red ochre; they would be sacrificed first.

Oh, Matrones, don’t leave me now.

The priests prodded her up a narrow flight of stairs and through two rooms at the top. She stumbled into the last. It was small, no more than a cell. A window looked out over the large temple yard and the wood pyre waiting to burn her life away. The air was still and hot. Exhausted, she fell to the floor.

A fat priest came in the room dragging
Tawe
. She was small and closer to being a child than a woman. He cuffed her across the face and shoved her across the room to Sabrann’s side.

“Tend her, whore of Astarte,” said one of the priests who had brought her here. They stood lined up against the room’s wall, as far away from Sabrann as they could get.

A cool hand touched her arm and Sabrann raised her head up. Tawe held a gourd of water to Sabrann’s lips.

“Prepare her and be quick about it,” the fat priest said. “Then it’s back to work. This crowd will want a good sacred fuck after all this excitement.”

Sabrann looked up at the priests. It was dark outside and oil lamps and small torches lit the room. The yellow light reflected the fear in their widened eyes, like wild animals, too close to some fearsome predator.

But not the
Rab-kohanim.
He just stood there, head tilted to one side, his chin held high in an insolent way: her enemy. He was glad to be rid of her.

She had seen him in the mind of his mistress, the queen. Power was what he craved and for that, he would kill. Sabrann’s powers were too threatening; he could not let her live. As the priests turned to leave, his eyes met hers and a flash of satisfaction passed over his gaunt-cheeked face. A touch of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth as he left the room.

“Stand still, my lady. You must be shaven,” Tawe said in a low voice. “Do not be afraid, I will not hurt you.”

Sabrann obeyed, wordlessly.
Let them do what they will
.

The girl’s hands were gentle as she picked up an elaborately engraved, bronze razor, meant only for the dead or soon-to-be dead, and started cutting Sabrann’s hair. Her long thin braid fell to the floor. In the end, ragged stubble was all that remained. Tawe poured oil over Sabrann’s head and then shaved her scalp with the bronze razor until not one hair was left. Her head felt cold, naked.

Now I am like Akmu
. It was a strangely comforting thought. She looked down at the pile of hair at her feet—plain brown hair that was not at all glorious red and gold like her mother’s. Tawe swept it up into a basket.

“It is powerful,” she said. “They will not leave it on you. They are afraid you might use it to fly away like a bird. ” Her voice was cool and calm in this hot room. She gave Sabrann a drink of water and rubbed oil on Sabrann’s parched lips.

Last, Sabrann slipped on a plain white robe with a hood that concealed her shorn head. Her eyes welled up with tears. She would try to be brave and hoped it would be quick. Outside, the crowd screamed for her death. There would be no escape. Perhaps she would die of fright. She grasped her amulets, the one from the Matrones and the
ankh
from Akmu, both powerful, but not like her soul stone.

She wanted the comfort of touching the smooth stone; it always reminded her that her soul was forever and would not disappear. But that was gone now, stolen by Rosmerta, who had caused her so much pain and many deaths. And without it, how would the gods of the Otherworld know about Sabrann’s life?

Sabrann touched the amulet holding the small piece cut from the statue of the Matrones. Perhaps they did not see her here in Carthage, so far from their eyes. Helpless, she prayed to them for courage. It seemed they answered, for Akmu-en-Swnw entered the room.

“Blessings from Sekhmet, my young maid.” He gently touched her head. In his hand he held a small vial with a cork stopper. He took the drinking gourd and motioned for Tawe to pour more water. He poured the contents of the vial into the water.

“You must drink this. It will make it all painless.”

It was what she had prayed for. She trusted him and drank it quickly. In a few moments, she could stand, but had little feeling in her body. She gave him a questioning look.

“Strong Poppy nectar, with other herbs,” he said.

She was dizzy. The room seemed to spin. Akmu grasped her arm and pressed a small, yellow cake of something into her hand.

“Wait until the priest returns, and then swallow this. It will put you into the deepest sleep. The priest will not care if you are awake or not.”

Sabrann felt her head swirl. She barely understood Akmu’s words. All she heard was “swallow this.” Akmu left the room. Dimly, she heard noise coming from the outer room. Voices were raised. So, she thought, the priest had come.

It must be time. Her hand shook as she raised the small cake to her mouth. It slipped from her hand and crumbled on the floor. She reached for the pieces and swallowed them.

When Akmu entered the outer room, he ran into Glas. “Sabrann! Where is she?” Hero put his hand over Glas’ mouth.

“Be quiet,” Hero pleaded. “You’ll rouse the guard.”

Akmu gave Glas a gentle touch. “Be still. What do you want?”

“Help me, I must see her,” he cried. His skin was white hot as he begged; his eyes had turned dark blue, almost black.

“Hush, child. She is beyond your help now. The priests come soon.”

Outside, the priests chanted as they slaughtered the first sacrificial ox. They slashed its throat and the blood drained into a large bowl. The noise of the crowd rose to a roar. When the priests finished with the oxen, they would come for Sabrann. She was the main entertainment.

“But I will hide you,” Akmu said. “You will be safe with me. I promised Sabrann.”

“No! It must be me, not Sabrann.” Tears ran down his face.

“Not her! We are kin ... She is my sister!”

Shocked, Hero and Akmu stared at Glas.

“It is a secret! Mam told me. I was born first and Mam hid me. The first born is always chosen as the leader, but I was crippled. They would have killed me. She knew I could never lead the Durotriges. But Sabrann can. She can’t die.”

He grasped Akmu’s arm, his hand cold as death.

“And I must take her place. Mam told me.”

Akmu felt stunned with the light of sudden awareness.

Of course!
How could we not see?
He looked at the boy’s face. It explained much. It was clear now they shared a parent. Glas had the same longish arched nose, the clear brow. Even his eyebrows swept up the same as Sabrann’s. They had been blinded by the differences: the boy’s blue eyes and light hair, his twisted leg; Sabrann’s amber eyes and brown hair.

Glas twisted away from him and ran from the room.