Chapter Four

In the morning, quiet calm had replaced my melancholy. I sat before the mirror and let one of the inn’s slaves dress my hair. My reflection stared back at me. My eyes were still pale blue and my hair a sweep of silver. The bones in my face had changed subtly though. The past year had added depth to the hollows beneath my cheeks and slanted my eyes even more. They had lost their icy frost, but they were far from warm. The Viking blood was even more apparent now, my mouth was still wide, but the lips were less generous than before. I was thirty-two. In this time I was considered middle-aged, and although I looked younger than most people my age, I didn’t look like the youthful girl Alexander had mistaken for Hades’ bride. Four pregnancies had changed my body, and sorrow had marked my face.

I watched in silence as the slave woman braided my tresses and wove tiny, blue glass beads into them. I wasn’t a vain person. I hadn’t really looked at a mirror in nearly a year. Perhaps that was why I was taking such careful stock of myself now. The cream I put on my face every day kept my skin soft. The fact that I didn’t have to do hard work helped keep me strong. I’d worn hats to shade my face, and I’d never gone sunbathing, another plus for my skin. I’d always had enough to eat, and even if I was thin compared to future standards, it was a healthy slim. My teeth were still good, I was fanatically careful about cleaning them, and not eating sweets helped immensely.

I glanced at the woman busy braiding my hair. She was from Carthage and I didn’t speak any Phoenician, so I couldn’t converse with her. I’d asked her name. After a pause, she’d replied Sorra. Her voice had been shy. She took my hand and gave me a manicure; I couldn’t do it myself any more, having just one hand. Then she gave me a pedicure and helped me lace up my sandals. She was a perfect lady’s maid, helping me pick out a robe and draping it expertly over my shoulders. She was shorter than I and had to reach up to fasten the fibula. When she was done, she stepped back and looked me over. Then she nodded, satisfied, and gave me a wide smile.

I went to the terrace. The sun was fully risen and the harbour was crowded with boats. It was early and the market stands had unfolded their awnings and were doing a brisk business. Below me were a fishmonger, a glassmaker, a leather worker, and a man selling vegetables. Another man was selling parrots, and they added their loud screeching to the din.

The morning was just starting. I draped my cloak over my shoulders and went downstairs. Alexander, Plexis, and everyone else had gone to the boat at daybreak to help Phaleria. They would work and trade until noon, and then we’d meet here, at the inn, for lunch. I was free to do as I liked, and I wanted to stroll around. It had been forever, it seemed, since I was on my own in a lovely city with nothing to do but explore and enjoy the scenery. An exhilarating sense of freedom swept over me as I stepped into the thronging streets. I smiled then, from pure joy, and headed up the hill. I wanted to see the view from above. I also wanted a glimpse of the Imperial Palace. I thought I’d be able to see it better from the hilltop.

The climb was steep and my legs hurt by the time I reached the summit. At the very top, a temple had been built overlooking the city. I didn’t think women were allowed inside, so I walked around the exterior, peeking over the tall wall when I could and admiring the gardens. I saw priests but no worshippers. The priests wore dark blue pagnes, Greek-style, and shaved their heads. There were three of them, kneeling in front of a statue of a bull, praying loudly in a strange tongue. The sun beat on their heads but they didn’t move. After a while I grew tired of watching them, and I walked further along the stone causeway, stopping now and then to gaze at the lapis blue sea with white and yellow sails dotting it.

The city was busy that day. From what we gathered, it was preparing to fête Carthage’s victory over Tartessos, and also the new sovereignty. Today the island in the middle of the harbour was being decked with flowers. Hundreds of blossoms were being tied onto the columns and pillars with bright red ribbons. It looked as if the sparkling white pillars were dripping scarlet ribbons of blood. I shuddered with a chill in the hot sun. The image of a white bull came to me, and I remembered Phaleria’s tale of the sacrifice she had seen in this city when she was a child. I turned and went back along the cobblestone path, intending to return to the city and get something to drink. My throat was dry.

As I passed the wall again I glanced over it, expecting to see the priests bowed in prayer. But what I saw was a youth lying on top of the statue.

At first, I didn’t realize what I was seeing. The boy was struggling gamely, trying to escape, but he was firmly tied to the stone bull. In a way, he looked as if he were trying to fornicate with it and, if it weren’t for the grimly determined look on his face, I might have giggled. The look on his face, and the implication of his plight, stopped me from laughing. The sacrificial victims were presented to the god on the back of a bull. This boy was about twelve years old. He was wiry and strong, but not strong enough to break free. I saw that in an instant. That didn’t stop him from trying. Sweat beaded his brow, and tendons stood out in his throat and arms. Finally, with a sob, he stopped and just lay there, panting mightily. His face was turned towards me, and our eyes met. He froze. In his gaze was utter despair.

I realized that I was standing with my hand pressed to the top of the wall, which was roughly chin level. I’d been holding my breath so long my chest hurt. A green flash caught my eye and I bent down and picked up a piece of tile, broken off the wall. The tile was made of baked glass, and the shard I held was long and sharp as a knife.

I don’t think I understood for an instant what I was doing. If I had thought about it, I would have continued down the hill and later cried in Alexander’s arms. But I didn’t think. I shucked off my robe and vaulted over the wall, holding the glass sliver in my teeth, my good hand clutching the hot stone.

I cleared the wall and sprang at the boy. His mouth gaped and his eyes bulged, but he didn’t cry out. Behind him, in the deep shade of a cypress tree, I saw a priest kneeling and heard him chanting. He didn’t hear me, because he was facing the other way. All I saw of him was his back, swaying slowly back and forth in rhythm with the prayer.

Axiom would be furious, I remember thinking, as I neatly cut through the boy’s ropes and set him free. He was always telling me not to get involved or protest at other people’s religions. However, this was murder, I told myself, not religion. The boy and I breached the wall in silence under a white-hot sky. On the other side, I put my robe back on and threw the glass shard as far into the underbrush as possible. It sparkled like an emerald in the light, then disappeared.

The boy and I stared at each other. He stood still, rubbing the red welts on his arms. Then the priest stopped chanting, turned, and uttered a high shriek.

My first instinct was to run, but there was only one narrow path along here, and there was nowhere to hide. Instead, I lifted my robe and pushed the boy beneath it. He clung to my legs, his whole body vibrating with fear.

A second later a man with a donkey topped the rise, and two slave women holding earthenware jars on their heads, followed. Inside the temple, there was pandemonium, and those passing by stopped, of course, and peered over the wall to see what the matter was. I could only do the same.

So there we were, a man with a donkey, two slave women, and a blonde woman in red robes, looking over the wall. The priests rushed by us, asking breathlessly if anyone had seen a boy, about so high, running away.

The man with the donkey raised his eyebrows and said ‘no’, emphatically. The slave women shook their heads, and so did I, looking as puzzled as possible.

The priests ran on, and the man with the donkey turned to me and said something in Phoenician which I didn’t understand, so I just shrugged and shook my head. He seemed satisfied and shook his head as well. He must have said something like, ‘What a terrible event!’ The two slave women turned and carried their jars towards their home, and the man with the donkey continued along his path. I leaned against the wall and shook just as hard as the boy huddled between my legs.

When the coast was clear, I tore my cloak in two and put one half on the boy’s head like a turban and one around his waist as a loin cloth. He became my slave boy, dressed in the colours of his master, carrying a large jar I hastily purchased from the first merchant we met.

The priests passed us several times on our way down the hill. They glanced at me, but then again, everyone did. I was tall and blonde and tended to stand out. However, they didn’t look twice at the slave boy carrying my goods. And the boy was careful to hide his face each time they passed. The priests would soon have the entire city stirred up, so I headed directly to the docks, towards the boat. It was the only thing I could think of doing at the moment. To go back to the inn would be folly; the innkeeper would be suspicious of a new slave. There was no one I knew living in Carthage at that time, the only person I’d ever met who’d even been to Carthage was Phaleria, perhaps she’d know what to do.

‘What to do?’ she cried, her face drained of all colour. ‘Are you mad? Have you lost your senses? This boy is the sacrifice for tomorrow’s victory celebration! Of course we can’t keep him! Soon the whole harbour will be sealed off, and the soldiers will search each house and boat looking for him. We can’t keep him here, we’ll all be executed!’

‘We can’t turn him in,’ I said desperately, ‘they’ll kill him!’

‘He was chosen by the Snake God,’ hissed Phaleria, pacing back and forth in the small space of the cabin, her eyes frightened.

‘The who?’

‘The Snake God. The priests select several youths especially for the sacrifice. The boys stand together on woven grass mats, and the sacred cobra slithers out of the basket. The one the Snake God touches is chosen.’ She’d barely finished speaking when a trumpet blew from the palace. Its sound was taken up by others until the whole city was full of sound.

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, but Phaleria, we can’t give him back, they’ll kill him!’

‘I know,’ she spoke as if she were speaking with a slightly simple child. ‘I know that. I was here before. I saw what happens. The boy rides a white bull to the temple on the island. Scarlet and white ribbons are tied to the bull’s horns and the boy’s hair. The ribbons flutter in the breeze. Then the boy is helped off the bull. A priest cuts off a lock of his hair and throws it into the sacred fire. The boy is tied to the wooden post and then …’ Her voice trailed away.

‘And then he’s burned alive,’ I finished for her, my own voice gentle.

‘He was so beautiful,’ said Phaleria, her hand coming to her mouth. ‘I was only fifteen and the boy was not much older. I saw him and fell in love with him instantly. I was infatuated, the way a fifteen-year-old girl can become infatuated with a boy after just one glance. He turned his head and our eyes met. His dark eyes were filled with fear and hopelessness. When he saw me his face changed. My feelings must have shone from my face like a beacon, and it gave him hope. It was the worst thing I could have done. Suddenly he began to struggle to escape. His eyes never left mine, even when the priests surrounded him and carried him, kicking and yelling hoarsely, to the pyre. When they cut off a lock of his hair, they cut his temple, and I can remember the red blood streaming down his face. He kept screaming, over and over, words I couldn’t understand. And then they burned him.’

Phaleria looked at her fists and unclenched them. Bright red crescents marked where her nails had dug into her palms. She studied the boy. He was staring at her with an intensity that was painful. He didn’t speak our language, but he understood what was happening. His fate was being decided again.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘All right. We’ll try to hide him. By the gods, Ashley, you’re putting us in danger. If he’s caught we’ll all burn; you, me, Iskander, Paul, Demos, Plexis, Axiom, and Yovanix.’ Each name received the weight of her fear behind it, and I saw them already dead, already executed for my action. However, my eyes kept straying to the thin shadow in the corner, the quiet boy with the burning eyes, and I smiled.

‘You weren’t with us in India,’ I said.

‘No, what do you have in mind?’

‘I need one of our glass fishing buoys, lead weights, and strong rope. If we can get these, the soldiers can tear the boat apart and they will never find him.’

The rest was easy; Alexander and Demos rigged a diving bell from a buoy, and Axiom fixed the weights to it using the rope and intricate knots. No one protested, once the plan was set out. Everyone was ready to sacrifice his life.

Plexis, Axiom, and Alexander spoke Phoenician fluently. The boy heard what he had to do. He nodded, his eyes shining. The only expression in them was relief. When the Imperial Soldiers and priests came to our boat, we were ready.

They were thorough. They searched methodically, emptying the boat and tapping the planks, looking for a secret hiding place. They used long, thin knives, poking them systematically into sacks of grain and bales of wool. They put all boats under temporary arrest, blocked the harbour, and closed the inns. Private homes were searched with the same zeal, and the people who were near the temple when the boy disappeared were taken to the Imperial Palace for questioning. The boy wasn’t found, for who would think of looking for him underwater?