Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (65 page)

Tawe lay in the dark, guarding Sabrann. Nothing moved in the darkened room. The torches had flamed down until only a flicker remained. A small clay lamp gave what little light was left.

Sabrann lay on the floor, eyes closed.

Someone entered the room and knelt beside the girl.

“She is alive, I think,” Tawe whispered, from the dark shadows of a corner.

The little prostitute rose and, taking a small pitcher, poured some oil in the sputtering clay lamp on the table. Light flared, making the shadows deeper, and gave a sharp clarity to the face of the boy who now stood over the girl’s body. He looked like a god. Pale hair floated around his head and on his face was a look of love Tawe had never seen before.

The boy dropped to his knees and lifted the girl’s head. He put his face close to her nose. His hair moved a little as a faint breath came from her mouth.

Tawe held her breath.

“Wake up! Listen to me, Sabrann.”

He spoke into her ear. The girl’s eyelids fluttered as she raised her head a little, then it rolled back and he could not rouse her again.

He closed his eyes and raised his face to the heavens that were surely above the roof of the god-forsaken
Tophet
.

“Mam, help me,” he cried. Then nodded, as if in answer to someone.

Tawe knelt beside Sabrann and said prayers for the poor girl’s soul.

Outside, the crowd chanted, but their prayers were for death. The stench of carrion and incense drifted in through the window.

The boy opened his eyes and looked at Tawe. She felt faint, dizzy, as if looking into the depths of the night sky that had no beginning and no end.

“What is your name?” His voice was gentle.

“Tawe.”

“Then help me, Tawe
.
For only you can do that now.”

He picked up the sacred razor and handed it to her.

Glas and Tawe came thru the door of the outer room carrying Sabrann, their arms holding her up. She was thin and weighed almost nothing.

No one would ever think she was the barbarian.

She was dressed in the temple prostitute’s gaudy red gown, adorned with golden baubles and blue faience beads. A heavy veil covered her shorn head. Bells hung from her ankles. Her eyes were shut; her hands hung limp at her side.

Now Glas wore the white sacrificial robe and his head was shaven clean. Akmu and Hero gasped at the sight of his shaven head. A faint blue spiral birthmark covered all of one side.

“It is done. She was deep in sleep and would not awaken.” He gave her forehead a light touch, like a blessing.

“She doesn’t know. I tried to tell her. You will tell her someday.”

The noise outside stopped. The
Rab-kohanim’s
voice was uttering a prayer and then, it too, stopped.

“They are coming,” Glas cried. “Take her now! Go!”

CHAPTER 44

Lorc balanced a load of wood on his head as a priest led the way through the door that opened onto a great walled courtyard, crammed with hundreds of shouting people. A cemetery was off to one side, with small limestone crypts and tall, engraved stelae shoaled up tight against each other on the sandy soil. People crammed together on top of the tall sandstone walls surrounding the temple courtyard, craning to get a glimpse of the barbarian who aroused demons and brought fire forth from her hands.

Priests stood on the wall at each corner, blowing horns to summon the gods. Children screamed, and men and women swayed in fear and anger at the barbarian.

Pillars of black smoke rose from oil-filled torches, their light harsh and yellow against the dark sky. Smothering heat still blanketed the city; there was no breeze and a smoky cloud hung over the
Tophet
.

Ahead was the wooden pyre. Four tall timber posts rose above Lorc’s head. The pyre had a wooden platform laid across the top, like a giant’s bed, and stone stairs led up the back. Underneath, great piles of wood and kindling waited. Naked slaves stood nearby, ready with cauldrons of oil to help the fire burn.

Wails and cries from the hysterical crowd, rose and fell like the sound of the sea breaking over Lorc’s head. Someone had tried to kill their queen: she who was
Tanit
, the living goddess on earth. Only the barbarian girl’s death would show the people’s remorse and protect them from their god’s vengeance.

They were wild with fear of the gods. That fear had been fueled by the
Rab- kohanim
. For almost a month, worshippers at every temple in the city heard the story of the barbarian bringing forth the fires of demons, of the queen’s hair burning, of how the priest’s hands were blistered by the demon’s touch. He went to each temple and held up his burned hands.

Their faces reminded Lorc of Ramach and the druid’s terrible punishment ... the curse that had ruined Lorc’s life
.
Ramach had whipped the people into the same hysteria. He wished Ramach had just killed him—better to be burned alive like the girl tonight.

He laid the wood on the pyre. The priest shouted something at him. The Phoenician words were meaningless until the priest pointed at the wagon. More! Bring more!

But where had the boy gone? Lorc anxiously searched the crowd as he carried armloads of wood, though it was hard to see anything clearly. Clouds of dust and incense filled the air. The people were packed so tight they could not move as they shouted and sang, screamed and prayed. A tight line of guards held back the crowd. If Glas was in that mass of people, Lorc knew he would never find him.

And no one can find me either.
The thought struck Lorc like a hard blow to his stomach. A cascade of thoughts roared through his mind. He could escape! Slip into that crowd, and they would never find him. He didn’t even look like a slave in the wagon driver’s hooded robe. The gods were helping him leave this place with its stone quarry and sure death!

It would be easy to blend into the mob of people. But where was Glas? Lorc’s eyes turned constantly, seeking the boy’s blond head. A deep sadness filled Lorc’s heart. He wanted to help the child escape from this madness. Then they could both flee to Massalia or someplace far from Carthage. Lorc would take care of him. Then another thought raced through his head.

I can go back to Mai Dun!

He leaned against a wall, stunned by the thought. Maybe everything was not lost. The girl was going to die, so why not take her head and go home? She was the seer, the one in the old Druid’s prophecy, with a mark on her cheek. She would give him back his life! He stared at the pyre with new eyes. All the wood was dry, baked by the hot sun of Carthage. It would burn fast. If he was quick, the spiral would still be clear and no one would doubt it was the girl’s head.

His breath caught in excitement. A sword. He had to have a sword. As he walked back to the wagon for another load of wood, he passed a Sacred Battalion guard resting against a wall. A long sword in a scabbard hung from his waist. The guard looked half asleep. There was no one else around ... it would be easy. He had to get that head before it burned.

Another load of kindling. Lorc flexed his shoulders in anticipation, keeping a close eye on the guard and his sword. No one paid any attention to Lorc. He was beneath notice, a faceless temple worker. White-robed priests were everywhere. A group came out of a door next to the dozing guard and startled him to a temporary attention. They hurried toward a pavilion set at the far end of the courtyard. Wrapped in royal purple and white-striped linen, and closed to view, the queen waited inside to see the demon punished.

Lorc walked up to the guard and tapped him on his shoulder. Before he was fully aware, Lorc’s arm was around his shoulder. His body shielded the guard from anyone’s view. It looked like a friendly greeting. Then Lorc’s big hand gripped the man’s throat and squeezed. His hand—strong enough to push a crane lifting a two ton stone—did not let go until the guard’s neck crunched and snapped. Lorc half carried, half dragged the body through the open doorway and then shut the door. The room was empty.

A changing room for the priests, rich, pleated-linen robes and gold-embroidered tunics hung from pegs on one wall. Another wall held the plain tunics worn under the ceremonial robes.
Klafti
scarves and tall cone-shaped headdresses covered a stone table. Cages were stacked tall in one corner. A rooster made a faint call from one and a small goat cried out from another. Empty sacks lay nearby, for handling small, slippery creatures like snakes or mice. Lorc cracked the door open enough to see the pyre.

He heard voices close by, sounds of people coming and going up the stairs. A long chill crept up his back, even in the oppressive heat of this deathly night. Soon it would be over. No one must stop him now. Afraid of being discovered, he went outside and stood by the empty wagon in the deepest shadow. He started loading it with the bones and offal left over from the
Tophet’s
sacrifices. The stench of rotten meat gagged him with its putrid smell, and kept everyone else away.

Escape ... The word pounded in his head. His heart pulsed with the word. He would be free! His hand gripped tight the handle of the sword hidden under the robe. He could fight his way out of the
Tophet—
if anyone tried to stop him, he was still strong. A few guards stood by the pyre, but none back here. The gate was unguarded. He had killed first one guard and then another, who stumbled, drunk, into the priest’s changing room. Only the weakest priests were left: overfed, fat, and lazy—not warriors—and they were all helping dismember the ox and pile the meat on the pyre. A gift of food to the gods. Next would come the girl—her life the ultimate gift.

Lorc gave a searching look at the crowd, still looking for the boy.

Dias
,
he is
gone
. He wanted to take him out of here.

Someone was coming! Lorc ducked behind the wagon. The
Rab-kohanim
motioned a priest toward the back stairs, and then turned away. A moment later, the priest appeared at the top with the girl. He pushed her down the stairs. Robed in white and hooded, she stumbled as she came down; no one helped her. A servant followed, carrying a basket.

They climbed the stone stairs at the back of the pyre. The priests planned this well, thought Lorc. The stairs gave them a safe escape once the fire started.

At the top, the
Rab-kohanim
waited with his arms raised. When the girl appeared, the crowd roared. She was prodded and poked up the stairs until she stood alone on the great platform—a clever, wooden trap door beneath her feet. A slave bound her hands with a rope and skittered away. The chief priest stood far behind her, for when the fire reached the platform, the trap door would open, and she would drop down into the fire.

The
Rab-kohanim
gave a signal, and slaves carrying torches cast them into the bottom of the giant pyre. The crowd roared their approval, then grew quiet, all eyes intent as the first flames appeared.

They were small at first. Tame. Still at a size where all could see the beauty of the fire starting here and there among the stacked kindling and branches. Flickering scarlet and bright yellow flames sent tendrils like coral snakes weaving through the pile. The smallest kindling caught first and fueled the fire beneath the larger pieces. The bone-dry wood crackled like a living thing. Below the platform, slaves threw oil into the pyre.

There was a moment when nothing happened. Then the pyre exploded with flames.

The fire raged with the force of a primal element, lighting up the huge courtyard until it was brighter than the sun at midday. The flames rose higher, terrible arms reaching above, vivid against a black sky. At the top, the girl stood outlined against a night with no stars. Far behind her, the
Rab-kohanim
held his arms high, his face raised up to his gods.

The barbarian’s attendant threw a basket on the pyre. The smell of burning hair drifted on the night air. Lorc sniffed and felt sickened; he remembered what bodies smelled like when they burned. A thousand people roared their approval. The demon had no more power. This is what they came to see. They wanted to see her skin burn, to hear her cries, and watch her face melt as she gave up her life to
Baal
. Only then would they be safe from the god’s vengeance.