Fidgeting, cold silence.
“Spiralmaster is a vital position in Aztlan. It takes summers of training for a candidate even to be considered worthy to learn from Imhotep. Niko was the most brilliant student Imhotep ever had.” Phoebus looked at them. “You and I heard the Spiralmaster say those exact words countless times.”
Chloe’s gaze went around the room. The tension among the Council was frightening. For some reason she was able to see and hear, even though Sibylla was “driving.” There seemed to be less and less of Sibylla to argue with.
“The blood vows have long been held—”
“Time before mind,” the Minos interjected.
“Inviolable,” Phoebus continued, “but I submit that Spiralmaster was beyond reason and would not have inducted a foreigner, an unknown, into the Council. I further submit for consideration that this Cheftu be stripped of his position and it be rightfully conferred on Niko.”
The ensuing babble proved that Robert’s Rules of Order were not established in the Minoan—Aztlantu—world. The group seemed evenly split, half screaming that Imhotep had chosen and sworn the man in, the other half blaming the death of Posidios on the missing Spiralmaster.
The argument was cut short as the floor rippled, raining plaster on the Council’s heads. The quake lasted for only three seconds, but it had shaken them all. Hreesos called for an adjournment, and Chloe stumbled out the door with the others.
Fresh air, solid ground, that was what she needed. Desperately!
When they reconvened it was obvious wheeling and dealing had taken place during the break. Chloe watched as glances were exchanged. Phoebus reiterated his concerns about the new Spiralmaster, and Nekros rose to his feet.
“I was there when Posidios began his journey,” he said. “This new man, whether clan blood flows in his veins or not, is well skilled. Imhotep was discerning—”
“He was mad!” Phoebus shouted.
Nekros glared at the Rising Golden. “Imhotep could measure a man’s worth in less time than it takes to pick up a nugget of copper.” He held up his hand at the rise of argument. “Therefore, before we break sacred vows, I propose we let this Egyptian Cheftu prove himself.”
Everyone stiffened.
“Test him in the pyramid.”
The Council was silent. Chloe knew nothing about the pyramid testing and no one else offered an explanation. Sibylla? Hello?
“It is how Phoebus will prove himself in a few moons,” Nekros said. “It is how Spiralmaster proved himself summers ago. It is fitting that since Cheftu is an unknown, we should try him. The Rising Golden is wise in this. However, Cheftu should be allowed to defend himself in action.”
Dion rose. “I agree with Nekros.”
“If you favor the chieftain of the Clan of the Stone’s view, raise your staff,” Hreesos said.
Six were raised, and Chloe scrambled to raise hers. She hoped it was the right thing to do.
“A feast is already under way to welcome the Spiralmaster,” Zelos said. “His examination shall begin at dawn the day after.”
“Better not to test with fumes of the grape about one’s head,”Talos commented. The group laughed, except for Phoebus, and moved on to debate something else.
Cheftu, oh my love, I cannot wait to see you!
Chloe slipped on the fitted jacket, touching the pendant of her clan, wondering if this Egyptian Cheftu was her Egyptian Cheftu. Hope pounded through her veins, and she spoke to herself, trying to quiet her anticipation. For all she knew, Cheftu was as common a name in Egypt as John or David was in the States. He could be some old man with rheumy eyes and a wart on his nose!
Considering what she had heard, though, she was certain Cheftu was hers.
Because if he were her Cheftu—would he be surprised to have her back? Shocked? Happy? Don’t be silly, she thought. He loved you, he loves you. It will be paradise! Chloe shook her head, clearing it, and began applying kohl to her eyes.
She was shaking too much and had to wipe it off and try again. Cheftu was here. Chloe rubbed ocher on her lips. The flounced skirt, quilted apron, and open bodice made her look so foreign, she didn’t recognize herself. Even though she wore Sibylla’s skin, her body moved beneath it. Light-colored eyes were not as rare here as in Egypt, so there were more green-eyed women. Would Cheftu recognize her? She would be introduced as Sibylla, but would he see her as Chloe?
A woman was announced; Chloe turned and had a hard time keeping her mouth shut. With chestnut hair and fair skin, she was striking. Chloe had always hated her own parchment white skin, but on this woman it really was the color of milk, and glowed like alabaster. Her most stunning feature were her violet eyes; they had the same faraway-in-mystical-lands look that Boticelli’s women had.
Sibylla peeked around the door of her mind, took one look at the woman, and said, Vena. Okh! and slammed the door.
Apparently the two women were not friends. So why was she here?
“How was your cavern this Snake’s Season, Sibylla?” Vena said.
“It was … fine,” Chloe said lamely. Sibylla’s mental door was barricaded shut, so she assumed it really was fine. Vena sauntered into the room, running her hands over everything. She’s like a cat marking my stuff, Chloe thought.
“I suppose you know that I left Nestor,” she said.
“My, uh, sorrow,” Chloe said, guessing.
“So I will be competing with you in the race, eee?”
“Eee, the race.”
“Aye. The race.” She smiled, a beautiful, dreamy, white-toothed smile. “Phoebus has grown into quite the stag. Have you seen him? Pity he can’t forget Irmentis.” Vena turned to her. “Are you ready to go dine? The new Spiralmaster is being feted tonight. Though he’s a foreigner, I understand he is also—”
“A stag?”
“Eee, Sibylla, have you seen him?” Vena was all but purring.
“Let us go, then,” Chloe said. She was as ready as she was going to be. And she didn’t think she could take much more of Vena. The woman oozed … something. Sex appeal so noxious that Chloe wanted to scratch her eyes out, then toss them to a cat for a play toy.
As they walked down the wide steps together, Chloe noted they were good contrasts for each other. In addition to her amazing eyes and cascading curls, Vena had eyelashes about five inches long and a bustline that a Victoria’s Secret model would covet.
Still, Chloe thought, Sibylla is no slouch. Chloe had seen her own features beneath caramel-colored skin; she had masses of ebony hair with a hint of red and thankfully! her own green eyes. Though she wasn’t exactly voluptuous, she certainly did justice to the bare-breasted fashions.
Would Cheftu recognize her?
The sounds of the feast reached them before they arrived. Chloe licked her lips, threw her shoulders back, and prepared to remeet her husband. Reseduce and remarry him, if necessary.
They joined others, a gaggle of young women, all perfumed and painted, dressed in their finest. Despite herself, the excitement of actually going to a party pricked Chloe and she smiled. Tonight she would be with Cheftu, even if she had to entice him under Ileana’s table!
Comments and looks decipherable in any language were thrown their way, and Chloe stuck close to the other women, avoiding the gaze and grasp of the broad-shouldered, long-haired men. The smell of roasting meat and wine surrounded her. Lost somewhere in the chaos of thousands was the melodious plink of strings and the calling of the flutes.
As her bodyguard of ladies was absorbed into the mass, Chloe found a wall to stand against, her gaze roaming over the group. A mosaic of colors and patterns filled her vision. The floors and walls and ceilings were painted gaily, and women and men in the same bright blue, red, and saffron grouped before them. Men with mohawks, dressed in the codpiece and kilt of Mariners, grouped before one doorway—Hreesos’ guards. A huge hearth provided a center for the room, and beside it stood an enormous vat, where a young nymph, up to her knees in wine, scooped rhytons of the fruit of t
he vine and gave kisses.
Slowly, avoiding the caresses and once or twice delivering casual slaps, Chloe made her way across this room into the next. If possible, it was even more crowded. She could barely move and was unpleasantly reminded of college parties. Hands outstretched, Chloe pushed through into another room. Low tables for three were scattered throughout the room. On the dais she saw the various thrones of the Clan Olimpi.
“Are you going to sit with the clan?” Vena asked.
A familiar laugh froze her blood, and Chloe turned. It was true, then, he was here. In this time. She was so overcome, she forgot to breathe. They could be together again. Her eyes filled with tears as she watched him.
He looked so distinctly Minoan, she wondered for an instant if it really were Cheftu. However, every cell in her body stood up and gave a marching band salute. Somehow his hair was long, the kilt he wore was tight and bright, and gold glistened on his chest, upper arms, and ankles. A pendant hung around his throat, and another disk swung from a chain against his thigh.
His legs. Oh Kela!
His eyes were still the color of warm honey, ringed with black. Despite his smiles, he wore a whipped look. He longs for me, she thought, tears spilling over her lower lashes. It was all Chloe could do not to run to him, wrap her arms, legs, and lips around him. I’m Sibylla, she reminded herself. Calm. He’ll know me, he must know me!
Cheftu was seated next to Dion. Dion, who would most definitely recognize her as Sibylla. Next she noticed that the most beautiful women on the island were clustered around the men, touching their knees, legs, shoulders. Chloe felt her blood pressure rise and fought the urge to strangle all of them, including Cheftu. His words were slurred, and she realized he was drunk.
Cheftu was drunk? That was a first.
Vena laid a hand, cool and plumply feminine, on Chloe’s arm. “Come along, cousin, the Spiralmaster awaits.” She’s not my cousin, Sibylla hissed. Chloe shook her head and they pushed forward. Compared to the rigidity of Egyptian court protocol, this was a free-for-all. Dion saw them first, and smiled, beckoning.
“Spiralmaster Cheftu,” he said, touching Cheftu’s shoulder, “I present you with my cousin Vena and clan sister Sibylla. Vena is a she-dog in heat; beware the teeth beneath her painted lips. Sibylla is an oracle, so she will know what you think of her.”
Vena glared at Dion, and Cheftu looked at her, mumbling greetings, then looked at Chloe.
Cheftu’s expression froze, and Chloe thought, Yessss! Then he turned away and focused on Vena.
Chloe felt slapped, then realized he probably was concerned about appearances. It would not do for two strangers to start making love in the middle of the floor; it might draw questions. Of course, she thought, he’s just being wary.
She clenched her jaw as Cheftu drew Vena onto his lap, claiming he could think of places to be bitten that weren’t so bad. Livid, nearly crying, Chloe let herself be seated by Dion. “What is wrong, Sib?” Dion whispered. “The color is gone from your face, and I would swear by the horns of Apis that your eyes are green!”
Though she wasn’t looking, Chloe knew, she could feel Cheftu nuzzling Vena, his long-fingered hands on Vena’s waist. Trembling with anger and hurt, Chloe accepted a rhyton and drained it. She was shaken to her very core. Cheftu had recognized her, she was certain of it! Was this—
“Do not weep, Sib,” Dion said, pulling her closer. “Come, eat the kollyva funeral dinner with me for your pateeras, Posidios.”
Shaking her head wordlessly, Chloe leaned against Dion as they crossed the room.
Leaving Cheftu behind.
HE WATCHED HER MOVE AWAY, attached to Dion as though he were a boat and she were a barnacle. Even now, even in the heat of this room, he remembered her body, the way it held him. Vena squirmed on his lap, and Cheftu wished desperately for more wine.
She was so beautiful … so … familiar.
It’s the green eyes and black hair, he told himself. You are searching for Chloe. She’s not here! Move on. I do not want to, he thought. God forgive me, but I would bury my body in Sibylla just to feel close to Chloe.
How perverse he had become.
Vena left to mingle with other long-haired, painted eye Aztlantu, and Cheftu watched the people walk by. They greeted him, introduced themselves, but he found himself looking past them for Sibylla. The oracle.
I asked if she was a Coil Dancer. She said if I wanted her to be. By the gods, that must have been an insult! He looked into the wine of his cup, debating whether or not to finish it. Why not? What did it matter? He’d given her the cut direct; she wouldn’t speak to him again.
It was either that or pull her from this overcrowded room of peacocks into the first garden he could find and … He drank the wine.
“So you supplanted my friend Niko,” a slurred voice said. Cheftu turned toward a sharp-faced blond in his cups. A quick glance at his throat and Cheftu realized this was Phoebus, the Rising Golden.
“It was Imhotep’s decision,” Cheftu said.
“It was your choice to accept,” Phoebus countered.
“Aye. For the reasons Imhotep mentioned I felt I was the right person.
Phoebus kissed the mouth of a red-haired girl, then had his cup refilled, dismissing her with a snap of his fingers. “The hequetai illness?”
“Aye.” Cheftu looked at the young man. “I understand that you were present during several of the deaths?”
Phoebus shivered. “A horrible thing. Ofttimes the beginning of one’s spirit journey is a joyful occasion. These were … unsavory,” he said after a moment. The music and noise ceased, and Phoebus looked toward a set of closed doors. “Ileana and her grand entrances,” he muttered.
The double doors opened, and peacocks, their tails spread, strutted into the room. A high-pitched voice began to sing, announcing Hreesos Zelos and Kela-Ileana. Everyone, with the exception of Phoebus, raised their arms and hands, saluting the rulers of the Clan Olimpi, the embodiment of gods on earth. As they approached, Phoebus raised his hands, too.
“So you are the choice of Imhotep,” Zelos said, his voice gruff. He was an impressive man, tall, barrel-chested, his hair long and still blond, his eyes cornflower blue and intense. Cheftu acknowledged he was and then met Ileana. She weighed him with her eyes until he felt like berries before a hungry crow. The couple swept on, and the rest of the room relaxed.
Dion sat down next to him, greeting Phoebus and asking after Niko. With a glance at Cheftu, Phoebus said Niko had gone in search of some privacy, some time for meditation. He was probably at the temple. The feast was served, most of it still in its shell, and Cheftu sat silently while the two men discussed Dion’s air sail. Cheftu’s gaze searched restlessly for Sibylla until Dion’s words recalled him.
“You think Sibylla will run?” Dion asked Phoebus.
“I have heard she is already training,” Phoebus said, licking his fingers.
“You should see her,” Dion murmured. He slapped Cheftu’s back. “Our Egyptian friend was slain by Vena—”
“A ritual here in Aztlan,” Phoebus said. “Vena offers every newcomer her favors. We should leave her on the Breakwater for the purpose of serving traveling ships!” Dion laughed, and Cheftu tried to smile. “You were saying about Sibylla?” Phoebus asked Dion when they had stopped laughing.
“I know you have always cared for Irmentis—”
Phoebus’ face darkened. “It is no matter.”
“Aye, well, Sibylla has matured greatly this past Snake Season. You would not know her to look at her. She is beautiful.”
“Always Sibylla has been beautiful,” Phoebus said.
“There is something more now,” Dion mused. “I am the closest man to her, and it is very clear.”
“You only wish she were not such a good friend, so you could rut with her,” Phoebus said.
Dion shrugged, and Cheftu clenched his fists. They were discussing her as though she were a plot of land! A goat, to be bartered over! “She lacks,” Dion s
aid slowly, “some things that I find attractive.” His glance met Cheftu’s, and Cheftu looked away. In his mind he could see Dion and Sibylla linked together, breathing and basking in—
“Look at her!” Dion said, nudging him in the ribs, muddying his stream of thought. It was the same dancer Nestor had tried to give to Senwosret.
The music got louder, and as the guests finished eating, they began to dance. Linking into lines, they formed elaborate patterns that brought them close together, so that breasts brushed bare chests, and then far apart. They danced halfway through a pattern and then reversed direction.
Cheftu’s head began to ache. The woman who had caught Dion’s eye was even now rubbing against him as they danced together. Phoebus had left, stony faced, and Cheftu sat alone, watching the dark-haired women, wondering who was holding Sibylla. He snapped for more wine and looked around the room.
Compared to the Aztlantu, the Egyptians were absolutely reserved. Within a few more cups of wine, Cheftu imagined this feast would become an orgy. Already he had stopped a few southerly moving hands.
Half the line was turned away from him, and Cheftu’s gaze skimmed over the hourglass shape of the women, long black curls dancing on their ruffled rears. Then he felt his body tighten. He knew it was she, he could sense it, even though she was turned away. Her feet moved swiftly in the pattern, coming around to face him. As she danced he could see the flush of exertion on her skin, the glow in her green eyes.
She met his gaze for a moment, then curtained her face behind the dark veil of her hair. He downed his cup and snapped for another. His head would ache horribly come dawn, but perhaps this would soften the ache he felt elsewhere, now.
CHLOE WAS HAVING FUN in this ancient version of a conga line. Cheftu, whom she’d not seen for a while, was leaning against a male companion, a voluptuous redhead sitting on his lap. Chloe stared hard at him. Look at me! she thought. Get your hands and mind off that woman and look up! The conga line moved closer, and the redhead was pulled off his lap by some guy. Cheftu looked up, his eyes seeming dark in the muted light. The line moved closer, and Chloe danced over to her husband, taking his hand and pulling him.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 27
