Shadows on the Aegean

by Suzanne Frank

  “Aye?”

  “This ash, do you know where the eruption was?”

  Y’carus looked away, blinking rapidly. “Aye.”

  “Are there survivors? I am a mage, a physician.”

  His Aztlantu was painful to listen to, but he seemed earnest.

  “Those who lived are beyond aid. In the end, there will be no … survivors.”

  “I am sorry,” he said in Egyptian, one of the few phrases Y’carus knew. “Did you have family there?”

  “I did.”

  The two men stared at each other, then turned away. The Egyptian made his way to the prow, and Y’carus called after him, “Egyptian, you will dine with me tonight.” The man made his funny bow again, and Y’carus turned back to the business of sailing. He checked his log.

  Knossos tomorrow, the Greeting Kela Ceremony.

  WAS SHE SLEEPING OR AWAKE? The room was dark, and for a moment Chloe was afraid, disoriented. However, there was no sense of oppression here as in the cave. Something brushed her waist, and she turned sharply. Her hair? A mass of curls hung down her back. She leaned against a wall, struggling to get her bearings.

  Sharing a body with Sibylla was like trying to control a Chinese dragon, Chloe thought. One person could see out the front, the rest had to follow and trust the consciousness in command. When Sibylla was in control, Chloe saw only bits and pieces, not a complete picture. She was glad they had come to a “driving” agreement.

  Hearing noises outside her chamber, Chloe fumbled for clothing. Clumsily she lit the alabaster oil lamp. A skirt hung on a peg on the wall, and Chloe slipped it over her head, shimmying so it fell to her waist. It was a riot of pattern, five ruffled tiers, each different, though in the same saffron-and-crimson color scheme. A jacket, the sleeves padded so that they were stiff and very fitted, hung next to the skirt. Chloe slipped it on. It wouldn’t meet in the middle. The elbow-length sleeves fit, the waist was in the proper place, but it tied beneath her breasts. No coverage.

  She stared at her breasts and suddenly knew this was normal. Breasts were not erotic, they were nursing bottles. Her back and shoulders, they were sexy. Breasts, no. A red leather belt wrapped twice around her waist and tied in back.

  Her hair was everywhere, long, curly strands caught in her clothing and in her mouth. She felt like a molting bird. Spitting out her errant hair, she picked up the heavy pendant that hung between her very bare breasts.

  Her mind felt clearer than it had since she’d woken in Sibylla’s body, she realized as she read the symbols easily. She was Sibylla Sirsa Olimpi, chieftain of the Clan of the Horn, born in the Season of the Snake … the equivalent of December 23. Chloe felt chilled. The symbols on the disk looked vaguely familiar, even from her modern perspective.

  Very familiar. She’d seen them on her mother’s desk her entire life. They covered a duplicate of the Phaistos disk, an as yet undeciphered clue about the pre-Greek culture in Crete and Santorini.

  Chloe sat down, her head with its wealth of black curls in her hands.

  This was unbelievable. Was she dreaming? Sir Arthur Evans had discovered the palace of Knossos and named the wisps of culture he found there after Greek mythology. Her own mother had worked on one of their ash-covered towns.

  Minoans.

  Mom’s specialization. The mysterious, lost race of the Aegean.

  Chloe snapped up, grabbing the oil lamp with trembling hands and pacing the perimeter of the room. Where was she? This wasn’t Santorini, that was certain. So it must be Crete? “Oh God, Mom, why didn’t I pay more attention,” she muttered.

  In modern Crete she’d gone shopping and wind surfing while the rest of the family hung out in the museum and the archaeological sites. She’d never been to Knossos before. It was no surprise if she didn’t recognize it. Was this Knossos?

  Setting the lamp down before she dropped it and made the question moot, Chloe racked her brain. Her mother’s specialty was Santorini. She’d been working there when she met Chloe’s father.

  Someone knocked and Chloe froze, staring at the door.

  “My mistress?”

  “Enter,” she called with Sibylla’s understanding of the language. A nymph came into the room. Her costume was similar to Chloe’s, though not as finely crafted, and her skirt had only three tiers. She held her arms at right angles to her body, then bent at the elbow for right angles again.

  “The sun rises, mistress. Kela comes!”

  Chloe listened intently for a clue from Sibylla, but the voice was silent. Was she asleep? I could use some hints, Chloe thought. Like what the hell do I do? Priestess ritual stuff is your job!

  Nothing.

  The girl repeated her strange salute and held the door open. Presumably for Chloe—Sibylla—whoever I am, Chloe thought. The hallway was so narrow and dark, she could barely see the edge of the girl’s skirt. Then light flooded them and Chloe looked up. They stood at the edge of a huge staircase, the roof above cut through so a well of light fell to the bottom floor. While the rooms and corridors had been plain, this chamber was not.

  Chloe looked around as unobtrusively as possible. Pattern on pattern on pattern on pattern. It was like a Todd Oldham visual cacophony in a four-color palette: spirals, squares, circles, diamonds, and stars. A painted procession of life-size gift bearers walked down the steps with them, carrying fruit and grain, boxes filled with spices, rhytons with wine. Punctuating the artwork were piano-legged columns in red, black, and gold.

  Chloe swayed. She knew that column! A thousand images crowded in her mind: an interior design class examining the columns of ancient people. “In Crete we find the first examples of many design motifs. First, they crafted a piano-leg-style column that had a simplistic capital and base. They also are the first civilization who used the wave, the Greek key, and various other repeating designs. The main color scheme of goldenrod, carnelian, and Mars black was probably inspired by the building materials available to them.”

  She was a Minoan!

  A refrain of “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod” followed her until they reached the ground floor. Chloe had to stifle an astonished whistle. The room was enormous, brilliantly colored pattern covering every inch of the place: floor, roof, doorways. Paintings were featured on each wall, framed in black and red.

  People milled about, handsome men in very brief kilts with long hair, women, also with long hair, in the same costume as Chloe. Most wore high-heeled sandals. The scents of perfume, sweat, and cooking permeated the room, and Chloe was grateful to follow the nymph out into a garden.

  Sibylla had never given her such control before. Usually by the time she was dressing, the other woman informed her it was time to “move over” and let the professional handle it. Where was Sibylla?

  Nevertheless, this was cool. She was a Minoan. Man, the life I lead, she thought.

  The sun shone dimly, and Chloe reminded her cold nipples that it couldn’t be much into February. In Crete, but when? Asking Sibylla would do no good. Her concept of time was not measured in terms of A.D. and B.C.E. Preclassical Greece, she knew that, but that information only narrowed the search by two thousand years. Why was she here in ancient Crete?

  It seemed rather elaborate for her to travel through time just to help with natural disasters. Wasn’t she a little arrogant to think time would be arranged because she was so good at emergency management? It didn’t seem as though she were going to get her hands on any paint in this lifetime, so what was her purpose? Her thoughts were like a hamster in a cage. Run run run run run—going nowhere.

  The two women continued down the stairs, through another tunnel, down another set of stairs, a left turn, a right turn, up stairs, turn again. A portico, a hallway, another series of artistically chaotic rooms.

  These people were fixated on labyrinths, another Minoan motif

  When they walked into one more room the women saluted her immediately, with the right-angle gesture. “The Sibylla,” the nymph said, and left.

  A woman with a protru
sion of feathers poking from her hair came forward. “Greetings, mistress. We are honored you would dance with us today. We trust that Kela will speak through you?”

  Chloe felt as though she’d swallowed a porcupine, but Sibylla woke up and answered appropriately and graciously. Chloe watched uneasily. Dancing, more dancing! What was it with ancient cultures and dancing?

  Someone put kohl on her eyes, drawing the lines up and out, not in the Egyptian style, but still very exotic. Red cream was brushed over her lips, and her hair was tied back in pieces, topped with a flat-crowned hat adorned with feathers. Following the other women, she walked down to the lowest level.

  The room was quiet, yet thick with presence. Chloe braced herself. The silence seemed ominous, but Sibylla was completely comfortable. The floor was sunken in the middle, and the sunken portion seemed to writhe. A woman waded through the shifting, slithering mass and lit the raised oil lamp.

  Snakes! My God, millions of snakes! Minoans also had a thing for snakes, she suddenly recalled. Chloe cringed, but Sibylla calmly accepted a few serpents, winding them around her arms as living bracelets. A priestess wrapped a snake around Sibylla’s hat and another serpent around her waist. Chloe completely withdrew; Sibylla could handle today. If this wasn’t ritual, then she couldn’t guess what would be. She’d have to trust Sibylla. Reluctantly Chloe stepped into the darkness of the mind. Wow, she was in Crete.

  Her mind clearer than it had felt since she woke in the cave, Sibylla asked the names of her snakes and spent a few moments petting them, growing accustomed to the dry weight that tightened and loosened around her arms and waist.

  Music prompted them from above, to a worship ritual of the goddess Kela. When the first butterflies returned to Knossos, it was time to greet Kela and welcome her back to life. The goddess of the earth died every year when the winds rose and was reborn with the butterflies and the snakes. People came from all over Caphtor to participate in welcoming Kela. Already crowds gathered, a good omen. The Shell Seekers had prepared a feast, and the smell of broiling fish, fresh mussel stew, and grilled shrimp hung on the morning air.

  AZTLAN

  “WAKE UP, MISTRESS! WE GREET KELA TODAY!”

  Ileana rose up on her elbows, trying to open her eyes. Wine from the night before pounded in her head, and her mouth was fleecy. By Kela, what had she done? Even the cry of her pets was annoying. She buried her head in the linens, trying to recall the night before.

  Bedded Priamos while eating kreenos, she recalled.

  Oh, Kela!

  Weary and aching, Ileana allowed herself to be carried to the bath, then slowly massaged with warm water and oil until she was awake. The serf’s hands were gentle and knowing, and Ileana felt herself drifting and peaceful.

  She needed to wake up! This was an important day! A day of dancing and joy, in which she was the centerpiece. For the first time in her life, Ileana cringed at the idea of being the focus of the hundreds and thousands who would come to the island’s cave sanctuary to see her.

  The door that adjoined her apartments with Zelos’ burst open. With a snap he dismissed her serfs and sank heavily onto the edge of her bath. Though Hreesos was still golden, still desirable, lines tugged his face earthward and sorrow clouded his eyes.

  “Another of my hequetai is dead, Ileana.”

  “Another?”

  “That makes seven in the past twenty days.”

  “They were all older men, Zelos.”

  He looked away, and Ileana recalled that his cabinet were all his age. Just a few years older than she was, Ileana thought distastefully. “Do you suspect something?”

  “What would be the point? Phoebus will rule, instate his own hequetai. Save to hurt Aztlan, what would be the motive?”

  “I know not,” Ileana said impatiently. “I must prepare for today, though.”

  “Eee … one of your favorite days, mother-goddess? When you are worshiped and adored? How you live for that.”

  Too weary to fight, Ileana just glared. Zelos rose and walked back to his open doorway, stumbling into the frame. Ileana watched in shock as he grabbed the door for balance and tore it off the hinges. The sound brought serfs running, but none dared approach Hreesos. With deliberate moves he pulled himself up, threw the door aside, and stalked into his chambers without a backward glance.

  Ileana rose from her bath and stood while her serf dried her body and oiled it. She snapped for feathers to adorn her hair.

  What had the hequetai died from?

  Could Phoebus have it and be dying?

  Please Kela!

  CAPHTOR

  CHEFTU LOOKED AT THE JUMBLE OF EMPTY BOATS in the harbor of Amnisos. Where were the people? He turned to Y’carus. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nay, Egyptian. Just the start of the growing year. Everyone is in Knossos.” With sharp commands, the Mariners slid the Aztlantu ship into place, dropping her sails and anchor at the same time. There was a nervous excitement about the men, and Cheftu noticed they all kept glancing hopefully toward the land. Strangely, no ash had fallen here.

  He could see Caphtor was a beautiful country. Caphtor was the root of the word “column.” Biblically, Caphtor was Greece and the islands around her. This wasn’t Greece; they hadn’t sailed long enough. Looking over the perfect natural harbor, snow-covered mountains on the distant horizon, cypress and fir towering over the white, gold, red, and black buildings, he surmised this was a Greek island. The purple blue of the Aegean contrasted sharply with the spring green. Cheftu pressed his lips together, the scholar retreating as the aching man advanced. How Chloe would have loved to see this. Her artist’s mind would have reveled in the colors, the contrasts—

  Cheftu forced away the thought and helped one Mariner as he straightened some lines. Why were the sailor’s hands trembling? Y’carus walked around the deck, checking everything before commanding the men to disembark.

  Never before had Cheftu seen any military group scramble to get in line with the enthusiasm these men did! They stood at sharp attention, the wind blowing their short green kilts and long hair. Y’carus turned to Cheftu and beckoned. Pulling at the tie of his Egyptian kilt, Cheftu walked down the plank to the dock.

  Their pace through town allowed little time for observation. Nothing was open, anyway. Through closed markets and stalls they walked, fast. Cheftu felt his lack of exercise, the ache of his ankle, but he was determined not to fall behind. Y’carus strode easily, his stocky legs eating up the henti.

  The sun rose higher, and they began to see more people. Dressed in their finest, families with children young and old were striding up the same paved road. Arching trees filtered the sunlight, and periodically Cheftu saw an altar of horns on the side of the path.

  “They are places for petitioners to refresh themselves before they reach Kela,” Y’carus explained.

  “As a resting place?”

  “Aye, but also because that is where water is pumped. They can have a drink, maybe even a little wash, before they reach the pavement.”

  The closer they got to the pavement, the more people Cheftu saw. Men, older women, and children. Where were the young women in this society? They trooped under an archway of stones and up a set of shallow steps. Cheftu stumbled when he saw the first young woman.

  He didn’t notice her face, just her clothing. Or rather, the lack thereof. He looked away quickly, his cheeks heated. He’d seen many dresses that revealed as much, but never displayed so provocatively. He saw another woman, and another. “Y’carus,” he said, his voice strained, “are these all, umm …” He looked at the young commander.

  “Nay,” Y’carus said, clapping Cheftu’s shoulder. “The Coil Dancers are the ones who dress alluringly. They show shoulder.” His tone was aloof, though it deepened on the word “shoulder.” Cheftu had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. A woman who showed her shoulders was more alluring than these dark-eyed, small-waisted women, whose breasts pushed forward like offerings?

  Their steps slowed wh
en they reached the mass of people. Hawkers walked through the crowd, offering skewered shrimp, oranges, goat cheese balls rolled in fresh herbs, sesame and honey strips, wine, votive statues, and flower rings. The air of festivity was contagious, and the Mariners eased their stance.

  No one trespassed onto the enormous pavement opposite the steps and the tree-shaded gardens. Rising three stories above the pavement was a small portico, with a solitary red column tapering from floor to roof. On the shaded wall behind it Cheftu could barely glimpse a painting.

  The portico was part of the palace, constructed as a series of saffron and white boxes stacked on each other, different levels at different points. Red-columned porches and balconies were crowded with people, tiny figures from this distance. All of Caphtor watched today, it seemed.

  A jangle, like that of a sistrum, quieted the crowd. Cheftu saw the rapt expression on the Mariners’ faces. Tritons held in one hand, the other hand on their hip, they stared in fascination at the empty pavement. The sound of pipes rose on the air, a plaintive minor note that brought utter silence.

  The dancers came out, spinning recklessly, rapidly, and Cheftu held his breath, the tension of the crowd infectious. Could he forget Chloe for just a few hours? He was weary with sorrow. Dozens of dancers filled the pavement, then stopped altogether, forming a striking tableau of bright reds, blues, gold against the white stone. Some of the women wore hats, others’ hair was unbound.

  Every last one of them had upthrust, beckoning breasts. Cheftu closed his eyes. What manner of man—nay, beast—could lust after another woman’s body so soon after losing his wife? He opened his eyes again and recoiled. Snakes were draped over the women.

  The music started again, slowly, and the dancers divided into groups.

  “They will reenact the legend of the first coming of Kela,” Y’carus whispered.

  Cheftu watched as one group of women pretended to toil at the earth, wiping their brow and grimacing at the hard work. Another group of women descended on them, stomping on the fields, lashing out at the first group. “Savage winter, the Season of the Serpent,” Y’carus explained. The first group of women mourned, tearing at their hair and rubbing imaginary ash on their heads. As the music deepened a woman emerged from the building. Obviously she was representative of Kela.