Against the wall, beneath a painting of butterflies and lilies on the typical rock-strewn background, lay a body. The lower half was covered in blood, the body angled so Chloe saw only a lot of dark hair.
Blood spattered the floor and wall, an abstract swirl across the many cubits of geometric symmetry. The only sound was heavy breathing.
Feeling very much like the dense heroine who goes into the basement after the scary music begins playing, Chloe continued her survey of the room.
And stopped.
A pair of rolling brown eyes watched her from not five cubits away. What had happened here? With peripheral vision, she kept her eye on the body, hopefully unconscious and not dead. What had the bull done? The chieftain moaned, and the bull turned, licking its bloodstained mouth.
Chloe’s mind went completely blank. Not one rational thought, but a host of instincts controlled her. She stood motionless, gazing into the mad eyes of the bull. She’d seen bullfights in Spain. Movement incited the bull, as did color, right? Good plan to wear a red loincloth. I should have just painted a damn target on my chest, she thought. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she stayed still. Where could she go?
The bull stepped forward, and Chloe gritted her teeth, staying still. Bile filled her mouth and she swallowed it down, her gaze fixed on the rolling eyes of the bull. Behind her, moving an inch at a time, she felt for the doorway. Was she close enough to back through it? Was there a huge door she could close on the bull’s anger?
No. The doors had all been removed. Chloe swallowed, and the bull nudged closer. She could hear the whimpers of the victim, possibly bleeding to death, but if she moved and the bull got her, they would both die. Hideously. Out of sympathy her knees began to knock, and Chloe alternated locking each knee, trying to maintain control of her body.
She could smell the bull, a smell that reminded her of Cheftu’s lab. Strange to smell it on a live bull, but what did she know? She’d never been around beef while it was still on the hoof! The bull finally glanced down, edging sideways, its head cocked as though it were hard of hearing.
A groan came from the chieftain on the floor, and the bull made a strange hissing noise, stepping even closer to Chloe. She took another step back, bringing herself even with the doorway. Was it narrow enough to prevent the bull from chasing her?
She had never realized how big a bull was. A deep freezer was positively petite in comparison. The bull shuffled forward, and Chloe knew if she stepped back farther, it would have her trapped. She would never make it completely across the room without being trampled. The bull made a small bleating sound and licked her arm.
Licked?
Chloe was frozen, watching the long tongue sweep against her bare arm a half dozen times. Then the bull turned slowly, lurching into another hallway.
Chloe sagged against the wall, giving in to her knees for a moment, then she ran to the victim. Blood spread in a radius around a woman. Chloe brushed hair away from the victim’s face. Selena—oh no, not Selena! She was bleeding from several different wounds, and Chloe wondered if Selena had been gored or bitten. Did bulls bite? For that matter, did they lick? Chloe knew nothing about livestock, but she would have sworn cattle were herbivores. This was the strangest-acting bull she’d ever heard of.
Blood was pumping from Selena like a hose on high. Could Chloe fashion a tourniquet? After ripping off a length of her already short loincloth, Chloe attempted to tie off the woman’s leg. Knotting tightly above Selena’s knee, Chloe tied the blood-soaked cloth elaborately, hoping it would help. Selena was unconscious, but she was still breathing.
Sounds from the other rooms filtered back to her. The bull. Shouting. Selena needed medical attention. Where was Cheftu? Chloe rose to her feet, uncertain where to go. Terrified, she followed the map she had in her head, moving through doorway after doorway, a brilliantly patterned maze where she was a rat in search of cheese. Finally she emerged in the arena.
She looked up, stunned at how late it was. The sun had long since passed its zenith, and many of the citizens were gone, presumably resting. She looked for a serf, a chieftain, anyone! A man’s triumphant cry sent her racing into the opposite side of the labyrinth.
When her eyes adjusted she saw Chieftain Talos leading the bull. The noose was around its horns, and he was using his stave to prod it forward. In the arena a chorus of serfs announced that the competition was complete. Some of the chieftains ran through, ignoring her calls. Where was Cheftu? Hreesos entered, limping slightly, and Chloe ran to him, halting him with her hand on his chest.
His blue eyes narrowed on her. “Someone was hurt,” she said.
Hreesos removed her hand, his grip firm around her wrist. “Who?”
She hesitated an eyeblink. “The Kela-Ata.”
He snapped his fingers, summoning serfs. “How badly?”
“She … is bleeding horribly.”
The Golden Bull crossed his arms over his chest. Blond hair matted his torso and arms, and his long hair was stuck to his neck and back with sweat. “This is why we all have lustral baths before the ceremony. She is ready to begin her journey.”
“Nay! She is not dead, not yet.”
Hreesos took her by the shoulders and moved her aside. “You know the laws, Sibylla. Any chieftain who cannot freely take his or her seat at the Council table—”
“Must defer to the inheritor. But she is not—”
“If she cannot walk, then she is dead as clan chieftain.” Hreesos walked by her. “Into the arena, Chieftain, or you shall be declared likewise.”
Chloe was tempted to flip him off and go after the broken body of the Kela-Ata. She grabbed a serf and told him to find Selena, bring a Kela-Tenata, and get her healed. Zelos glared at her, and Chloe followed him into the arena.
The high priest Minos, his bull-head mask pulled over his head and shoulders, giving him the appearance of a Minotaur, stood next to the real bull, still bloodstained and standing strangely off-balance. On the other side Talos stood at attention, his graying hair blowing in the afternoon breeze.
“Clan of the Flame!” Hreesos shouted. The citizens went wild. One by one the chieftains laid their staves down on the table. The Cult of the Snake was noticeably missing, but before anyone could ask, Minos and his priests were ushering them out.
It was the time for the Bull Dance.
Chloe ran back to Selena.
PHOEBUS STOOD, HIS SWEATY HANDS CLUTCHING THE RAILING. Ileana stood beside him, the proud tilt of her breast pressing into his bare arm. Arus was on the other side, watching their naked relatives as they ran from the room.
“You will be down there next Council,” Arus said. His huge arms were crossed, and Phoebus wondered briefly how Arus felt: he was one of Hreesos’ offspring, but he had never had a chance at Zelos’ position, not being born of the mother-goddess. Would that be how Eumelos felt?
For decans sounds of screams, running feet, and hooves had drifted back to the assembled group. The citizens outside and around the island had feasted, waiting for news of the outcome. Phoebus could eat almost nothing, though he tore at the meat viciously, as befitted a man about to be blooded. Niko had refused meat, a distant expression in his eyes.
Talos now limped forward to accept the court’s cheers and the Council’s vow to provide his clan products for free the remainder of the year. Phoebus knew it was his turn. He had trained a lifetime for this. Adrenaline raced like fire through his veins, and he slipped down the stairs, where the priests stood waiting for him. He was stripped bare, his sex massaged to full strength, his hair freed, and the ritual boot put on his foot, laced up his calf. Wearing the traditional boot was a challenge, the one thing for which he’d not been allowed to prepare.
They handed him the short, vicious ceremonial blade and a double circle shield. Priests hustled the bull into the outside ring, while the nobility watched the Rising Golden walk in proud nudity from the interior of the Council chamber, through the obsidian tunnels, down, down into the actual bull
ring.
Phoebus stood while he was showered with praise and flowers. The crowd was a sun-limned border of lumps and angles. The bull dancers, orphaned children, had entertained earlier in the ring, and smears of blood stood out on the sand floor, testament to the intensity of this diversion. Phoebus turned and gazed at the bull, trapped behind gates. He tensed his muscles, then jerked his chin toward the priests. He was ready.
If he survived unscathed, he would be tested further, the same testing the Spiralmaster Cheftu had endured. Once he passed those tests, he would become the Sacred One, learning his kingly duties during a year of abstinence: no meat, no wine, no sex. His energies would be focused. He would deny himself the pleasures of the flesh—save for mating with Ileana, if that could be called pleasure. Thus he would prove his worthiness as Hreesos, the Golden One, purified and selected for the work of serving Aztlan. It was the process by which man alchemized into more than mortal.
Today, however, he could kill, couple, and feast.
The bull charged at him and Phoebus dodged, using the reflection of his blade’s handle to distract the creature at the last minute. Phoebus dropped his shield, clenching the short knife between his teeth. They circled, measuring each other, communicating from brown bovine eyes to pale human eyes the truth that only one would leave the arena alive. The sun came from an angle, the heat intensifying as it gathered in the black lava stone walls. Phoebus tried to keep the light behind him, blinding the bull, but the bull moved too fast and often Phoebus was the one blinded.
The bull charged again, backing Phoebus into the corner. As he’d practiced all his life, Phoebus grabbed its horns, flipping himself with the upward motion of the bull’s head, touching on its back, then flipping off, landing on the ground. He was a wave, crashing on the shore. The boot hampered the grace of his movement a little, but no one realized it. The crowd went wild, and for a few seconds Phoebus relished the chant of his name. The bull charged, and Phoebus twisted over its back.
It charged again, and Phoebus feinted, then leapt, landing lightly on its other side. He was getting used to the boot now, the imbalance was beginning to feel normal, and his other leg was compensating for it. The court’s excitement thundered in his veins as he rolled and dodged, tossing himself over the beast’s powerful back.
Sweat blinded him, and Phoebus rubbed his forehead, having only an eyeblink of time to dodge the bull, forcing himself to roll beneath it during its charge.
The crowd went wild, and the air was filled with a rain of flower petals on the arena.
Phoebus was so hard, so full, he thought he would burst. The bull screamed at him: kill or be killed. The dance was complete; now it was death. He stopped moving, catching his breath, watching the creature’s eyes. His trainer always said there would be a warning flicker in the bull’s eyes the very breath before it came in for the kill.
Wiping sweaty hands on his thighs, Phoebus crouched. The beast came, full speed, its head lowered and eyes gleaming with blood lust. Phoebus reached out for its horns, almost lying on its face, flipped and twisted his body over its head, and landed on its neck, his legs spread wide, riding on its shoulders.
He slit its throat with the knife, his body low over the creature, flat between its horns. He tightened his thighs, digging his bare and booted feet into the animal’s large chest as it bellowed its death cry. Hair and sweat marred Phoebus’ view, but he could feel the lifeblood of the creature, hot and thick, pour over his leg and foot.
Livid with pain, the bull bucked and fought to rid itself of Phoebus’ weight. His hand gripped the sweaty fur on its neck, and Phoebus held on, his legs tight even as he lost his seat, even as the bull turned and twisted, its bellowing and roaring echoing back from the black walls a hundred times.
Finally the bull fell to its knees, jarring Phoebus as it nodded, sluggishly trying to get free. It stopped moving, collapsing heavily, and Phoebus leapt off a heartbeat before his leg was crushed.
Every muscle in Phoebus’ body trembled, his breath was loud in his ears, and he felt the same rush that came just before climaxing. He wiped his hands in the dust, looking up at the crowd. They chanted his name like a prayer, and he closed his eyes, welcoming the homage of his people. He had been born for this adoration.
The priests came out, bearing large basins. Phoebus had severed the bull’s jugular, and now the priests stood while he cut off the bull’s head, spattering his body and face with crimson. The warm blood was poured into the copper and gold vessels, and Phoebus knelt before the priests.
The Minos came out, dressed again as a priest, and poured the blood of the beast on Phoebus. It coated him from the top of his golden head down his tanned body, mantling the stiffness of his erection. He closed his eyes as it dripped off his nose onto the ground. The warm copper smell both sickened and enticed him.
“Hail, Phoebus!” Minos cried.
“Hail, Phoebus! Hreesos Phoebus! Hail, Phoebus!” The crowd took up the chant deafeningly.
“Rising Golden Bull! Take the powers of Apis into yourself!” Minos shouted.
Phoebus drank the offered cup of blood.
The crowd screamed.
“Take the strength of Apis into yourself!”
Phoebus ate the offered bloody, raw meat.
The crowd roared.
“Take the fertility of Apis into yourself!”
The crowd applauded, and Phoebus accepted the still warm testicle. Hiding his revulsion, he slit the pocket and drank the creamy fluid. Swallowing quickly so he wouldn’t gag, he was baptized again in blood.
The priest’s words were lost on the crowd, frenzied at the sight of the golden prince, standing aroused in the blood of his victim. The primal urges in the polished ladies and nobles of Aztlan were rising.
Huge basins of blood would be placed throughout the arena for the populace. Each citizen would dip their cloth in the life of Apis and place his mark on their forehead, praying the blessing of blood would protect him or her throughout the coming year. Nobles would receive the bull’s blood, and they would partake of its flesh.
The organs were saved for the priesthood, the brain for the Golden and his selected hequetai alone.
Thousands filed into lines to walk by the basins. They chanted Phoebus’ name, and he felt the wind dry the blood on his body as he walked from the arena.
As he entered the darkness of the tunnel, his heart was still pounding, his erection throbbing, and his ears ringing with the sound of his name. Hreesos Phoebus. The blood had dried into a thin skin, and as he ducked under one of the black lava beams, he felt the drying coating crack.
He had succeeded. He’d leapt on time, his turns were tight enough. Not even a scratch! Giddiness was rising like a bubble within him, and he wanted a woman, badly. In the distance he saw a priest; would he know where the nearest Coil Dancer was?
If only it were Irmentis, her body bared to his gaze, her eyes glowing with invitation.
The priest took Phoebus’ blood-caked wrist and led him to a blank wall.
Concealing his movements, the priest pressed part of the stone and a faint whirring noise echoed through the black tunnel. Phoebus watched as an even darker square opened. They stepped in and began walking up. Then the floor angled downward. Phoebus could see nothing; he kept his hands on the shoulders of the priest before him, sensing the changes in the flooring. They’d walked for what seemed whole rotations of the sun, when the priest stopped. He’d still not said a word.
Another click and whir.
The scent of fresh blood filled his nostrils. Phoebus stepped into the space alone. The priest shut the door behind him, and Phoebus breathed deeply.
“Step forward, Hreesos,” Zelos, his pateeras, said.
It was suddenly light, and Phoebus blinked at the harshness. “You enter the sacred threshold of the priests,” his father said, stepping forward. His blond hair caught the light, and Phoebus was struck with how young and handsome Zelos still was. He glanced around at the handful of men who
flanked his father. They were all that remained of Zelos’ hequetai?
“Come, Hreesos, sit,” his father said, indicating a leather stool. Phoebus sat down hesitantly, and the low murmur of voices filled the room. The body of the bull he’d killed in the warm sunshine lay in a trench before him. The head sat before his seat.
“Take the organ and cut it up, serve a piece to each man you want in your cabinet,” Pateeras instructed in an undertone. “Take the largest portion for yourself, but do not eat it until you have received the oracle of the Minos.” Phoebus took the head and, with set jaw and watching audience, extracted the warm mass of brain.
He was having difficulty focusing, but still the brain pieces looked strange. It was filled with holes, unlike anything he’d ever seen in his experiments with the Spiralmaster. The Spiralmaster! Phoebus looked over the company carefully; the Egyptian did not defile this gathering with his presence. No one Phoebus’ age was here, just a bunch of old men. “Pateeras,” he whispered, “is this what the brain looks like?”
Hreesos stared at it. “It looks the same as what I have eaten every summer for nineteen summers. Have no fear, Phoebus. Eat it. Take the strength of Apis into yourself.”
Phoebus sliced it.
The Minos stepped forward. Intoning a lengthy prayer in the founding language of Aztlan, he offered the horns back to Apis. Two other priests stood to the side as he gutted the bull, then flung its entrails against a huge gold plate at Phoebus’ feet. The priests lit more lamps, and Phoebus saw the lengths of twisted intestine. The Minos’ eyes were shut as he moved back and forth.
The incense that filled the room was making Phoebus feel lightheaded, and he desperately hung on to the details: the contrast of deep bloody red against the gold; the masked face of the Minos and how ridiculous the huge bull’s head looked atop his shriveled body. They needed a high priest who looked the role, Phoebus thought. Young and virile, the epitome of Apis.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 34
