Portus
It was funny, Sabra thought, how things could go impossibly wrong and improbably right all at the same time. She stared at the backs of the two men as she followed them down the walkway, the giant who could have crushed her with his bare hand, and the fire-haired young man with the massive sword strung across his back like some conquering king from legend.
The younger one she’d seen before, she realized. She had spotted him in the Forum in Rome. Hair like fire, eyes like the sea—a rare combination. He’d intrigued her then; now she was more intrigued by the coincidence of meeting him again, here, in this situation. They were going to Cyrene. And though she’d hated to lie and beg—and her face still burned at his rebuke about that—she would soon be on her way home with them.
At least once they got on the ship, she could steer clear of them. The young man confounded her. He might have been a year older than her, but that made him, apart from Hanno, the only man around her age that she had ever met. And he was nothing like Hanno. Being around Hanno was comfortable, but this boy felt dangerous, like fire.
You should not be associating with people like that, the deep, sinister voice in her mind whispered. He has no love for the gods. Heathen infidel, unbeliever.
She frowned and shook her head, grateful that both the men were in front of her so they couldn’t see it. Luckily the voice stayed quiet after that, and too soon she found herself swept along with them into the dark, cramped interior of the taberna.
A few sailors and dock workers crowded around one of the tripod tables, but farther in the back was another chamber curtained off from the main room. Sabra held her breath and prayed that the tavern served food only. The giant snagged back the curtain and Sabra peered past her fire-headed companion, only to see a handful of sailors gathered around a larger table.
These men looked nothing like the ones in the main room. They dressed strangely, in braccae and multicolored tunics. One, a large man with scarred hands, had some kind of animal fur draped over his shoulders, and two of them had braids twined in their thick beards. They were fair-skinned enough to make even her complexion look warm.
“Ah, Menas. Was wondering if we would see you tonight,” said the one with the fur, speaking a Latin even more strangely accented than hers must have been. He peered curiously at the boy and Sabra. “You’ve brought us guests?”
“I have. Jurian, this is Bleddyn, the pilot of the ship I told you about. And this young lady…”
“Eva,” Sabra said, a blush touching her cheeks to find herself the sudden center of attention.
“We just met Eva too,” Menas said by way of explanation.
“A pleasure,” Bleddyn said. “My crew. Colwyn and Offyd there, the brothers with the braids in their beards. The young one hiding back there is my son, Glyn, and my older son beside him, Dafydd. The surly one with the dark hair is Ivor.”
As soon as he’d finished, Sabra promptly forgot all the foreign names he’d recited, apart from Glyn, which was easy enough to remember…and pronounce. A few slaves interrupted them then, bringing in bowls of something hot—the tolerable fish stew, Sabra realized with a sinking feeling. She despised fish but it seemed to be the only thing to eat anywhere near the ocean. She’d had enough of it on her voyage from Cyrene to last her a lifetime.
The slaves also brought a few bowls of something that smelled like lamb and horn drinking cups filled with posca, neither of which was any use to her. But they also brought in dishes of dried fruits and nuts, and she quietly asked one of the slaves for a cup of water. The man regarded her strangely but nodded as he disappeared.
She reached for a handful of nuts and realized Jurian was offering one of the bowls of stew to her. She shook her head.
“Do you want the lamb instead?”
“I don’t eat meat,” she said.
Menas stared at her aghast, but she just lowered her gaze and calmly ate a few almonds. Jurian watched her curiously a moment, then shrugged and took the bowl for himself.
“That sword,” Bleddyn said, after they’d eaten a few minutes in silence. “It doesn’t look particularly Roman.”
“It’s not. It belonged originally to someone from your island. Someone named Caratacus.”
Bleddyn’s eyes widened. “That’s the sword that Myrddin made?”
“You know it?”
Bleddyn laughed. “Every Celt knows the story. Myrddin made it for Caratacus when he was still a boy, when his father had recently retaken the city of Camalodunum. We all knew Caratacus had taken the blade with him to Rome, but it was lost to legend after that. How did you come upon it, lad?”
Sabra had forgotten about eating. She’d never heard stories of Celtic Britannia, and Bleddyn’s words hummed with a strange sort of power, drawing her in. Beside her, Jurian bowed his head, then his sea-green eyes flicked a quick glance in her direction. She might have thought he looked embarrassed, but she couldn’t imagine this boy being ashamed of anything.
“Menas,” he said quietly, before answering the Celt. “You said they were…?”
“Yes. They like the fish.” Sabra gave the giant a quizzical glance, and almost jumped when he turned his impassive stare on her. “And you, Eva? Are you a fellow traveler?”
She snorted. “I’m going to Cyrene with you, aren’t I?”
Menas and Jurian exchanged a look.
“Well,” he said. “Caratacus’ son, Linus, stayed in Rome. As a…fisherman.”
Bleddyn nodded gravely. “So I’d heard.”
“Caratacus handed the sword on to Linus, and Linus to his…heirs.”
“You’re the heir of Caratacus?” Sabra cried before she could stop herself.
Jurian gave her a strange look and shook his head. "No. Linus’ last heir gave the sword to me, yesterday. Said that Merlinus had prophesied that it should come to me.”
Menas whistled. “Jurian, foretold by prophecy? I never would have believed it.”
“Nor I,” Jurian said softly.
“What’s it like to be named by a prophet?” Bleddyn asked, laughing.
“Terrible,” Sabra whispered.
They all stared at her. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks and she didn’t dare to meet anyone’s gaze.
“I mean, I imagine it would be. Almost like you had no choice in your life, as if everything were already settled.”
“That’s the thing about prophecies, I suppose,” Jurian said. “They’re usually vague on the matter of success.”
She made a noise like a snort and kept her mouth shut, grateful that Bleddyn seemed more curious about the sword than her.
“Can I see it?” he asked.
Jurian surveyed the tiny room skeptically, but he shrugged and got to his feet, drawing the sword carefully. He started to hand the sword to Bleddyn but the man jerked his hands back.
“Oh no. I know the legends. Put it there.”
He pointed at the table, and the Celts cleared the bowls of stew to one side to make room for the sword. Sabra watched the whole enterprise with something between humor and annoyance.
Men and their swords, she thought. Leave it to them to find weapons more interesting than food.
Jurian laid the sword on the table and everyone—even Sabra, to her chagrin—leaned closer to look. Glyn’s brother pointed at a Latin inscription on the blade, just above the hilt.
“What is that? I can’t read Latin.”
Jurian glanced at it. “Take me up.” He flipped the blade over, the metal hitting the wood of the table with a deep gong. “There’s another inscription here. Cast me away.”
“Tolle me…emitte me,” Sabra echoed under her breath, trying to match her Latin to the boy’s fluid accent.
“And here?” Glyn asked, touching the metal of the cross-piece that had a few Latin letters carved across it.
“It’s just initials. Romans like to initial everything on inscriptions,” Menas said, frowning. He tapped each abbreviation as he read it, “Ex. Ca. Lib. Ur..”
Jurian looked pensive a moment, then, worrying his lip he said, “I remember the first three—they were in the prophecy too. Ex calce liberandus.”
Sabra frowned. “What does it mean—from stone to be freed?”
“I don’t know,” Jurian said.
“And what of the Ur.?”
Jurian shook his head. “That wasn’t in the prophecy.”
“Urso,” Ivor said, eyes dark. “By the bear.”
“The bear? What bear?” Jurian asked.
Glyn glanced at his older brother, and Sabra heard him whisper in a language she didn’t recognize, “Artos?”
Daffyd waved a hand to silence him.
“On our island we like to name our swords,” one of the braided-beard brothers said. “Sounds like that might be this sword’s name. A name, and a prophecy.”
“What, from stone to be freed?” Sabra asked, incredulous.
He waved a hand. “The inscription, just as it’s written. Excalibur. Who knows. Maybe it will make sense in time.”
Jurian leaned back while the others marveled over the sword, watching them with a peculiar expression that was almost amusement.
Glyn tried to pick up the sword and grunted when he failed to raise it more than a finger’s breadth from the table. The light of the oil lamp trickled down the blade’s surface, and Glyn dropped the blade with another resounding clank.
“Look! There’s more! What is that? That’s not even Latin!”
“I’ve never seen any writing like it,” Jurian said, tucking his hands behind his head as he leaned back on the wall.
Sabra pursed her lips and tried to get a better look. Sure enough, the length of the blade was etched with curious, runic figures. Menas grumbled and sat back, but all the Celts turned to look at the stern-faced man on Jurian’s other side. Ivor, she remembered. The surly one. The man folded his arms and nodded toward the blade.
“It’s called Ogham,” he said, his voice so deep Sabra thought she felt it more than heard it. “It’s an ancient script.”
“I can see that,” Bleddyn said with feigned impatience.
Ivor only met his gaze darkly, no hint of amusement on his face. “The language it writes here is a Celtic dialect.”
“And…?”
There was a long silence, then Ivor said slowly, voice low, “A ‘m dal draig lladawt ef.”
Bleddyn’s face turned a ghastly shade of white. Sabra shot a furtive glance at Jurian, but he was studying Ivor curiously and had missed it entirely. Even Menas was too busy staring at the sword to notice.
“Well,” Bleddyn said, his voice thin. “You can put that sword up now, Jurian. My stew’s gone cold.”
Jurian lifted the blade off the table without comment, but then he glanced at Sabra and her face must have betrayed her alarm, because he lowered his brows and said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She felt Bleddyn’s gaze fix on her, but she just smiled faintly and said, “No, I was just curious about the words.”
“What did they mean?” Jurian asked, swinging the sword back into its scabbard.
Ivor shrugged smoothly. “Hard to say. Runic inscriptions rarely say anything straightforward, I find.”
Jurian let the matter drop, but Sabra was burning with curiosity. She couldn’t understand how he could go back to eating cold fish stew so blithely, when the air hummed with so much tension, so much power? Couldn’t anyone else feel it?
Menas slurped the rest of his soup and ended with a loud belch. She grimaced, but Bleddyn, who’d apparently forgotten all about the runic script, laughed out loud and slapped him on the shoulder. Menas had the grace to look embarrassed, but that just made the other Celts laugh harder. Jurian’s mouth twisted in a faint smile, but Sabra felt he stood apart too, an onlooker who didn’t quite fit in. Maybe they had something in common after all.
“All right,” Menas said, silencing the Celts by thumping his hand on the table. “Jurian, Eva, the ship’s pilot told us to sleep on board tonight. They’ve got to be ready to sail whenever they get a favorable wind.” He got up but almost knocked his head against the doorframe, so he stooped over as he clapped Bleddyn on the shoulder. “Thanks for letting me help your men.”
“The help’s always welcome,” Bleddyn said. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay and work through the winter, and sail up to Britannia with us in the spring?”
“It’s his choice, not mine,” Menas said. “I go where he goes.”
Sabra’s brows jumped at that, but Bleddyn just grinned at Jurian. “No chance of convincing you? That sword’s meant to go home, you know.”
“I’ll bring it back, don’t worry,” Jurian said. “But it has something to do first.” He leaned over the table to clasp the ship pilot’s arm. “I’ll look for you when I come back, if the offer still stands then.”
“We’re at your disposal. Good luck, Jurian. Eva.”
Eva dipped her head, waiting impatiently for Menas and Jurian to stop talking and leave the thick air of the taberna. She’d felt stifled since she walked through the door, and sitting at table with a crowd of barbarians hadn’t done much for her mood. But part of her mind kept turning over those strange Celtic words, and she pondered any number of ways to trick the translation out of one of the men. Preferably not Ivor—that man terrified her. As Menas and Jurian stepped out of the small chamber, she saw her chance. The boy Glyn slipped out behind them, sent to get more wine by his father, but Sabra grabbed his arm before he could pass her by.
Menas and Jurian were already at the tavern door, and she only prayed they wouldn’t forget about her.
“Glyn,” she whispered.
The boy stared at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Now that she thought of it, he’d been staring at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed through the whole of their meal. She bit her lip and pressed on quickly.
“What did the inscription say? I need to know.”
Glyn scrubbed his hands over his ruddy cheeks. “I don’t know. I mean, I know, but I don’t know if I should say it. My father didn’t want it translated.”
“Why not?”
“Because it sounds like a curse!”
She took a step back. “What do you mean?”
Glyn jerked his gaze from hers, his eyes roving over the dim room. “All right, listen. But don’t tell the swordsman, all right?” He bounced on his toes and said, “The literal translation is this. Who me holds the dragon will kill he. Or him.”
Sabra waited a moment, but Glyn said nothing else. “Wait, that’s it? Why is that a curse?”
“Because,” Glyn said, tugging his dark blond hair. “Because! Weren’t you listening?”
“Look,” she snapped. “I don’t speak…whatever language it was written in, but it doesn’t sound like a curse to me. And what was that he or him supposed to mean?”
“Ef! Ef!” He glowered at her. “It doesn’t translate. In Latin you have to say him or he, but it doesn’t work that way in this inscription.” Glyn puffed out his cheeks. “Ivor and my father both interpreted it as him. I’m sorry. It says he’s going to die.”
“That’s a stupid thing for a sword to say,” Sabra snapped.
Glyn shook his head. “I don’t think it’s that simple,” he said. “Think about it. It was written ambiguously on purpose. That one phrase could mean so many different things, and it can mean them all equally, all at the same time.”
“You’re not making sense,” Sabra said.
As she said it she glanced over her shoulder for any sign of Menas or Jurian. She’d wanted a quick answer, not a linguistic debate. But the two men had left the tavern, and even the other rough sailors had gone their way. In the common room, no one remained but a greasy-looking man in Eastern-styled black robes, who sat sneering at a plate of figs as if he could reduce it to ash by the power of his hate. Sabra shook her head and glanced away before the man caught her staring at him.
“I mean, what if the sword means all of it?” Glyn said. “Draig is also a word we give to chieftains, kings, powerful warriors and lords of men.” He waved his hands dramatically. “So, it could mean ‘the one who holds the sword will kill the dragon.’ And ‘the dragon—chief—who holds the sword will kill…someone.’ And ‘the dragon will kill the one who holds the sword.’ It could mean different people, or all the same person, or both. Listen, that sword was made by Myrddin!”
Sabra shook her head to show her ignorance.
“Myrddin was the greatest seer in all the world. Some people say he’s already lived the future. Don’t you think he’d know how to write an inscription?”
“But…” Sabra’s voice dropped to a whisper as the greasy man stood to leave. “What’s the dragon?”
“There are prophecies…myths about two dragons in Britannia. A red dragon and a white dragon. Perhaps those are the ones the inscription means.”
Sabra shuddered. “Why did you say I shouldn’t tell Jurian all this? Seems like something he ought to know.”
“He’ll hear the curse. He may not hear the rest of it. He’s got a responsibility, but if he thinks death is waiting for him in Britannia, he may never bring the sword back, and he has to bring it back. But what person in his right mind would willingly go to meet his death?”
Sabra bit her tongue and said nothing.
“Anyway, there’s also a belief that if someone is told a prophecy about themselves, it will have to come true. That they may even make it come true by trying to avoid it.”
“Enough,” she snapped. “You only just met him. Do you already doubt him so much?”
“You only just met him too. Are you that quick to trust him?”
She pursed her lips and took a step back. “Thanks for the information, Glyn.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and stalked out of the tavern. To her relief, Jurian and Menas were standing against one of the portico’s marble columns, deep in conversation. Jurian glanced up when she came out, his face impassive.
“Thought you might have changed your mind,” he said. “No such luck.”
She narrowed her eyes but swallowed her retort, trying not to notice how the evening sun slanting behind him turned his hair to a crown of fire.
“Are you ready?” Menas asked.
Sabra hesitated. It might have been her imagination, but…she could have sworn she heard someone calling her name. Someone with an unmistakable voice, warm and melodic…
Hanno.
“Gods, no,” she hissed under her breath.