Shadows on the Aegean

by Suzanne Frank

  The final count on the rescue of Naxos had been thirty-five people. Thirty-five out of 23,000. The numbers alone shook Chloe, but when she began attaching names and faces and belongings—corn-husk dolls, painted pottery, tools—it became overwhelming.

  She’d failed.

  They continued walking. The Mariner’s fast pace made her sweat, even in the cool air. They turned and twisted, each street a snare for the senses. Brightly colored buildings painted in the now familiar shades of goldenrod, crimson, and black, shouts of children, neighing of donkeys, and cries of women; food, a dozen different aromas rising on the air to mingle with the perfumes and herbs of the people around them.

  Daphne was chaos, as crowded as any modern city. As they walked under two overhanging balconies, Chloe watched the women string a laundry line, gossiping as they completed their afternoon chores. Seated outside at a ground-level door, a young girl with an elaborate tattoo beat grain with a pestle. She’s a young bride, Chloe realized.

  They left the residential section and began walking down. Chloe caught glimpses of the mountain before them. The reflected sunlight from the gold-topped pyramid—unbelievable that there was a pyramid at all—obscured the rest of the hill.

  The populace was becoming rarefied. Chloe saw more and more traveling chairs, more serfs tagging along, as they approached Aztlan Island proper. They reached the edge of the lagoon that encircled the mountain, and Chloe saw a suspension bridge before them, hanging 1,200 feet above the indigo sea. Holding on to the railings, people were crossing. Oh, my God, Chloe thought. I really don’t want to do this!

  Normally she didn’t mind heights. But this, this was a long, surprisingly narrow bridge. And the fall was straight … she couldn’t look. “How many people fall off here annually?” she asked Thom.

  He scoffed with all the arrogance of adolescence. “Only those who are fool enough to stand in the way. Go forward, my mistress.” Sibylla had done this a hundred times, a thousand. It was safe, and only a short distance. To her left she could see the land bridge, a wider, olive-and grape-covered pathway. Why didn’t they take that?

  “My mistress?” Thom inquired. “Is anything the matter?”

  Other than I’m not your mistress and this bridge is scarier than anything in any amusement park, no, Chloe thought. Stiffening her spine, she stepped forward. The bridge felt mostly solid though how it could be before the invention of concrete and steel, she didn’t know. Don’t ask, just walk, she told herself. Look to the opposite side, and for God’s sake, do not look down!

  She focused on the back of the stranger in front of her, taking one step at a time, her other hand sliding in a stranglehold along the railing. Shouts rang out ahead of her, and Chloe feared the worst.

  Two kids, apparently playing chase, ran past her, shoving Chloe against the railing. She reached out to catch herself. Screams filled her ears as her foot slid, hanging a thousand feet over churning waters. She felt hands trying to help her up, and she was vaguely aware of people around her, but Chloe couldn’t move her gaze from her dirty foot in its ankle-tie sandal, suspended in space.

  A hand grasped her waist, her wrist, easing her up. Focus on the end and do not look away, she hissed at herself. Her grasp on Thom’s arm was white knuckled. Then they were safe on land again. Aztlan Island, Sibylla’s home, she thought. Within her, Sibylla stirred. But the oracle was contributing less and less…. Chloe guessed that her raids on the woman’s memory were depleting her. What had happened to the rest of Sibylla, the part that was out at a virtual cocktail party when Chloe commandeered her body? Had she been left in the cave?

  As they progressed toward the sprawling multihued palace, Chloe had to remind herself to turn when she heard Sibylla’s name called. Men, women, mostly her clanspeople, called out greetings. She watched from the corner of her eye while listening to an elaborate tale about cows that weren’t eating and had lost their coordination. Chloe saw that gorgeous man, Dion, approach her.

  After another effusive salutation and thorough once-over he gave the blushing Thom, Chloe found herself invited to a feast. A feast to meet the new Spiralmaster.

  Giddiness bubbled inside Chloe. Scarlett O’Hara’s “tomorrow” had never sounded so good.

  Chloe woke up in a white-shrouded room. Not again. Not another white room that could be anywhere in any time. Quickly she checked: same long hair. She’d gone to bed early last night hoping the day would get here faster.

  Wherever here was. She wasn’t so sure she knew anymore.

  Cheftu was on this island somewhere; she didn’t want to miss him.

  Her room was spacious with many windows. Heart pounding from those few terrorizing seconds when she feared she’d returned to her own time, she slipped out from under the soft sheets and ran to the window. The view of the pyramid, the sea, the connecting island, was spectacular. Stunning and completely foreign.

  This place couldn’t be Minoan, which left her with few known cultural choices.

  She was looking directly down onto another building with the same flat roof and red pillars. Lush vines covered the grounds and hung from the many squared doorways that connected this building to others. Chloe turned at the sound of someone entering the room.

  “A bath, please,” she responded to the serf’s request. The sunlight was just now falling onto the buildings. Such an incredible shade of light, Chloe thought. She was definitely in Greece. The light was utterly unforgettable. But where? How did this relate to her world? Did it matter? Cheftu was here, at least. Heart in her throat, Chloe turned toward the room.

  The serf had stepped into an alcove, and the sound of rushing water filled the room. A bathroom? Chloe poked her head in, bug-eyed in astonishment. Running water? These people had running water? “My mistress, what temperature?”

  “Warm,” Chloe said without thinking, and watched the girl adjust the two pipes so there was more hot water than cold. Hot and cold running water? What age was this? The science-fiction age? Chloe stepped back into the main room, her mind racing. Some things were so recognizable as Minoan, some so alien. Chloe shivered.

  The pyramid was a complete surprise. Its sides were brightly colored in a rainbow array, culminating in the flat gold-covered top. Yet the colors had depth, almost as though they were jewels. Yeah, right, Chloe. A sapphire that doubles as a two-by-four.

  The girl called her, and Chloe, anticipating her first warm bath in over a year, had to keep from running. The fragrance of hyacinths filled the air, and she saw the tiny flowers floating atop the water. With a sigh she didn’t bother hiding, Chloe stepped down. Warmth … this was almost better than sex.

  Sex.

  Cheftu.

  She sat down rather hard on the submerged bench, trying to sort the memories she had stolen from Sibylla. With a snap she dismissed the girl and washed, the water sluicing over her tawny skin. Shampooing her new long hair took forever, and Chloe realized why she had always kept hers shoulder length or shorter. This was a pain.

  Finally, certain she had everything rinsed, she stood up, wrapping herself in a sun-warmed sheet. I could get used to this, Chloe thought, inhaling the scent of the hyacinths. She poked her head into the main room. A partition had been set up, covered with some kind of metal that reflected the sun. A low mat and a basket of fruit had been prepared, and Chloe wondered who was going to invade her bedroom.

  “My mistress, would you care to sun?”

  The girl indicated the mat in the sun, and Chloe lowered herself, grabbing a handful of grapes. First the girl brushed her hair, then laid the heavy mass in the sunshine, over Chloe’s shoulder, while she massaged and prodded Chloe’s body into a state of blissful relaxation.

  “Okh! There you are,” a woman said. Chloe’s eyes popped open. “You are running behind, Sib. The Council is holding an impromptu meeting in a little over a decan. My sorrow for your pateeras, though I know you didn’t know him. Out of forty-five siblings, how could you?” Chloe heard the woman sit on a stone bench, talking a
mile a minute.

  Chloe had heard of Posidios’ death but had gotten no response from Sibylla. “The work you did in Naxos is well on its way to becoming myth,” the chatty woman said. Chloe tried desperately to place the voice, to get Sibylla to offer something—a name, a title—honestly, the woman was useless! “It is astounding what can happen when the Bull roars.” The woman crunched grapes noisily. “Sib, are you ever going to say anything?”

  “Just waiting for my chance,” Chloe said jokingly. Fortunately the other woman laughed.

  “Embla and Ileana have been closeted together almost every day for decans,” the woman said. “I have become very careful about what I eat; Embla would not be above disposing of her inheritor if it would win the favor of the Queen of Heaven.”

  Inheritor! Cult of the Snake! This was Selena, Sibylla’s closest friend. Oh Kela, Chloe thought. What if she realizes that I’m an impostor? The serf finished the massage and wrapped a cloak over Chloe’s shoulders, easing her up.

  “Are you going to dress?” Selena asked. “The meeting convenes shortly, Sib.”

  Chloe tried to keep a tremble out of her voice. “Will the new Spiralmaster be present?”

  Selena laughed. “You will have to go to know.”

  Chloe turned around and watched as Selena’s eyes widened and narrowed at her changed appearance. “By the skirts of Kela, what happened to you?”

  My eyes, she thought. “Wha-what do you mean?”

  “Your face is … Well, Sibylla, I don’t intend rudeness, but it seems flatter.”

  “Flatter?”

  “Aye, your nose is … well, it looks smaller.” Selena approached her, a frown on her not-so-flat features. “Where did you get that mark on your chin?” Self-consciously Chloe touched the tiny cleft in her chin. “I thought your eyes were blue. They look green now.” Selena crossed her arms over her ample bare breasts. “Forgive me, my friend, but you look distinctly ill favored.”

  Stung, the real Sibylla rose inside her, and Chloe understood suddenly. In this empire, big bumpy noses and receding chins were all the rage. Neither of which she had. Though she’d always thought her nose big, it was straight and long, not a single bump in sight. On a good day her chin could pass for merely aggressive; never receding. She stared at Selena’s nose and felt herself blush.

  Akra was the word for both nose and tip. In Aztlan, one’s nose size was analogous to one’s sexual prowess. “The bigger the better” suddenly took on all new meaning. She blinked at the large but beautifully modeled example on Selena’s face. All the paintings, all the pictures, that was why everyone was wearing honkers.

  “You poor dear,” Selena said, embracing Chloe. “I am heartless! Let us see what we can do, what dressing you need to take everyone’s attention off your … well, off your face.”

  Chloe wasn’t offended. Not much, anyway. Sibylla, after cursing her former friend, returned to her room with a slam of the mental door. Not a good sign, Chloe thought. Selena snapped for the serf. “I heard your predictions this year were extreme. Perhaps your dreams have done this to your face?”

  Rhinoplasty while you sleep.

  Resisting the urge to testify that she was considered quite appealing when she was in her own skin and time, and that not all civilizations thought weak chins and huge beaks were attractive, Chloe focused on the ritual of dressing. Between the two of them they settled on a white, blue, and saffron skirt. Four of the layers were embroidered straight across, the fifth dipped into a point around her knees, and a quilted apron of blue with gold threads wrapped tightly over her hips and waist. Selena scoffed at the sheer shirt and declared that since Kela had arrived, no one was wearing those silly things. Chloe found herself staring into a mirror in a jacket with blue-and-gold-threaded quilted sleeves that bared both breasts. Selena turned her around and laced a waist cincher, which had the combined effect of a WonderBra and girdle and was about as comfortable as a strait-jacket.

  Her breasts seemed obscene, especially once they were tipped with gold paint. The heavy clan medallion hung right above their swell, and the serf selected several other necklaces and an anklet or two of the same matte gold.

  The serf played with Chloe’s hair for what seemed like aeons. The final arrangement was pulled away from her face, with two long tendrils curling over her ears. A band of matte gold crossed her forehead, allowing another, shorter curl or two to fall over it onto her face. The rest of it was interlaced with blue and gold beads, twisted and braided. By the time the girl was finished Chloe felt as though her hair alone weighed ten pounds. The Egyptians were right; wigs were definitely easier.

  On the other hand, she was wearing her own hair, as opposed to the baldness factor in Egyptian culture. Besides, all the other women she’d seen were wearing a similar hairstyle.

  Did everyone have naturally curly hair here?

  Like most sun-dwelling peoples, the Aztlantu wore protective kohl around their eyes. Chloe stared in the water mirror. Bumpy nose or not, she looked fabulous. How vain, she thought to herself, but it was true. The clothing, at least, was Minoan.

  “If you are through admiring yourself, Narcissus,” Selena said, “perhaps you can manage to make it to the Council?”

  The Council, Chloe thought. “No need for the sharp side of your tongue,” she said. “I only want to look my best because …” Because why? “Because I need to negotiate that transfer at Milos.”

  “Because you have heard the new Spiralmaster is built like Apis and has eyes like saffron, more likely,” Selena said.

  That, too, Chloe thought, her knees feeling a little weak.

  Arm in arm they walked through the palace, greeting and waving along the way. The garden was gorgeous, red and gold flowers blooming in swarms over the ripple-backed settees scattered here and there. The sound of rushing water was soothing, and she saw a graduated series of pools, linked by a miniature waterfall. The main pool was a mosaic of stylized fish, octopus, and other sea creatures. They walked past it and up over a stone bridge. Sibylla looked over her shoulder and saw the hulking pyramid, the sunlight deepening its rainbow sides. What building material was that?

  The women stepped down into a large room, and Chloe smothered a yelp. This was real—it seemed unreal, but it was real. Hundreds of people filled the chamber, all clad in clothing as colorful and revealing as her own. Rapidly purloining Sibylla’s understanding, Chloe went mentally around the table.

  For one thing, there was only one table. That was extraordinary in itself. Remembering one of her few interior design classes, Chloe recalled that long feasting tables were an invention of the Greeks, as in Plato, Sappho, Pericles. The Egyptians feasted on small tables that sat one or two.

  Then she realized this was not a feasting table, but a gathering table. Before each of the ten seats was a mosaic design. The artist in her itched for a sketch pad. A faceted stone, a stylized wave, a tritone flame, a lush vine with grapes, the inside of a conch shell, a butterfly, a serpent, a set of horns, a triton, and a column. It was the same-styled column she’d seen throughout the palace. It was wider on the top than the bottom, slightly awkward in appearance but striking when painted crimson.

  Again, Minoan.

  She looked again at the people: Nekros, frosted white skin and eyes as limitless as hell. Iason, Posidios’ inheritor and new chieftain of the Clan of the Wave. His eyes were red rimmed and his hands shook in the presence of this company. Talos, as dark as the soot he worked with, and lame. Her cousin Dion, gray-eyed Atenis, the Kela-Ata Embla, herself, the Minos of Apis, and the blond giant who was Hreesos. Behind each of them stood the inheritors to their position. Scowling fiercely at the empty Spiralmaster chair stood an albino man with eyes of Elizabeth Taylor purple.

  It was like Holland. The average for beauty was so high that even the ugly people were gorgeous.

  Chloe sat down on her chair and waited for the meeting to start.

  Swallowing, she recited her ritual lines, and Hreesos brought the meeting to order. C
ontracts needed renegotiating; bartering needed to be done—both of which Chloe was lamentably ill equipped to handle. In any time period. She sat back and begged the Minoan, Aztlantu, she reminded herself, Sibylla to control this event. If you don’t, you are going to lose money, she chided the woman. Wearily Sibylla took over.

  Chloe concentrated, trying to recall what she knew of the Minoans. What had Mom said those many times? Why hadn’t she listened? If only I’d known archaeology was going to be so important a subject in my life, Chloe thought. I would have accepted the genetic obsession and studied it.

  A new entry into the room brought Chloe out of her reverie. The Rising Golden Bull swaggered into the room, saluted them all respectfully, and moved to stand behind Hreesos.

  The family resemblance could not be more pronounced. The Golden they were indeed. Jutting noses, receding chins, thin-lipped wide mouths and glorious, flowing blond hair. Phoebus’ eyes were a shade darker than Hreesos’, but they had the same strapping build and the same easy sense of command.

  “I wanted Phoebus to address us today since soon, eee soon he will be in this chair,” Zelos said. The group murmured.

  “Clansmen,” Phoebus said. “Prostatevo is nearly complete. Due to the recent misfortune at the Clan of the Muse”—he inclined his head to Atenis—“we are running behind schedule.”

  Sibylla was appalled at the Rising Golden’s callousness—and Chloe had to agree. To call a monumental volcanic eruption a misfortune seemed a horrible understatement. Either that or the man redefined self-absorption.

  “Nevertheless, Prostatevo should be ready for the Council to view by midsummer festival.” He licked his lips and braced on the table. “On other matters, as Rising Golden, I must lodge a complaint with this body. More specifically, with the quorum of this body.”