The rower stopped, fished beneath the boat with her hand, then brought up a clay pot. She opened it and passed it to Chloe. Desperate for anything to soothe her stomach, Chloe drank. Sweet wine, tart and clean. It tasted like pomegranates. The woman clicked her tongue, and Chloe passed it back. After taking a swig herself—so much for not boating and drinking, Chloe thought—the woman sealed it and dropped it beneath the water again.
They sat in the silent night, drifting slowly, but the motion was gentler now and Chloe felt much, much better.
“It is another decan or so, my mistress,” the old woman said. “Lie down and rest, the bobbing won’t upset you so.”
Feeling suddenly sleepy, Chloe leaned against the side and laid her head back, staring into the stars.
Cosmic geography tests haunted her dreams.
HIS THOUGHTS WERE SOUR, and Cheftu could feel his body tensing in anger as he, Nestor, and Dion, having gotten rid of a very intoxicated and provocative Queen of Heaven, walked through the gardens to Dion’s apartments.
The Aztlantu could teach Egypt much about revelry, Cheftu noted grimly. A trail of women and men gathered behind Dion as they walked through the lamplit chambers, the stench of food, sex, and sweat permeating the very plaster.
Chloe and Dion. Cheftu gritted his teeth. Dion had laughingly told him that she was a nymph with a jealous father, and very shy, which was why she had hidden her face. Why would Chloe pretend to be Dion’s lover in the garden? Why had she gone with Dion and not waited for him at the pyramid? Did she think he was so simple that he believed, as the people did, she had vanished? He would have taken care of her; she had no need to turn to another man. The scent of honeysuckle was heavy in the air as Cheftu listened to Dion spin his lies about Chloe. Cheftu had forced himself to smile, realizing that honeysuckle would always smell like betrayal to him.
The door to Dion’s apartments swung open. Exquisite women of every description wandered around, sipping wine, kissing, and flirting with an assortment of men.
Cheftu good-naturedly accepted a rhyton of wine but refused the petals he saw everyone chewing. Feeling at once upright, hypocritical, and priggish, he declined offers for walks in the garden, kisses, and … other things. No one held allure for him. Just Chloe, he thought. In whatever body she happened to be inhabiting.
“Do you not enjoy women?” Dion asked, sitting next to him. Although he appeared to be a man of honor and was a reasoned, literate, cheerful companion, Dion put Cheftu on edge.
“Not tonight,” Cheftu said.
Dion leaned closer. “Do you wish for something more. Something different?” The man’s eyes glittered, and Cheftu felt even less comfortable.
“Actually, I think I see a fair-haired nymph across the way,” he said, rising.
“Eee, Laurel.’
Cheftu moved toward her slowly, Dion behind him.
“My mistress,” Dion said to her. She was talking to another woman, and both fell silent. Cheftu noticed her teeth were stained, the consequence of the flower she was chewing. She stared at Dion with adoration. “The Spiralmaster has chosen you tonight.’ Dion caressed her rose-tinted cheek. “Make him happy for me, Laurel, will you?”
She shook her head, and Dion tipped her chin, her huge brown eyes rapt on his face. “To please him is to please me, Laurel. You do want to please me, do you not?”
Her green gaze moved to Cheftu, and he knew she would neither please nor be pleased tonight. She wasn’t Chloe.
She held out her small hand with the petals in it.
“Kreenos,” Dion said. “It is a gentle expansion of your senses, my friend. Take, it will not harm you.” Cheftu arched a brow, and Dion said, “Well, this one time it will not harm you.” He leaned closer and whispered into Cheftu’s ear, “A warning, Egyptian, she uses her teeth. Be wary, unless you like a little agony with ecstasy?”
Cheftu felt incredibly uneasy. He muttered noncommittally, and Dion walked away. Laurel took his hand and pulled him with her. He’d feed her the petals, maybe she would forget. If only he could.
Chloe and Dion.
PHOEBUS ROSE FROM HIS COUCH; the priests stood around him. The Coil Dancers would leave him to a cold couch for an entire year. This period of self-denial was supposed to give him discipline, teach him self-sacrifice, attributes needed in Hreesos. How his father, Zelos, had survived this was a mystery.
He kissed each of the women, lingering on the pale, dark-haired one. But she was not Irmentis. At least he had spent himself with them. Ileana would not swell with his seed. The women left and the priests assumed their positions, his guardians for a year. Phoebus’ head ached as the sound of chanting, waking the bulls, drifted in through the window.
The light scent of burning herbs floated over from Kela’s temple. He watched the sun rise, thinking of Irmentis, alone as she descended into the darkness to sleep. Her words “Marry another” echoed in his mind. Try as he might, Phoebus could not detect any manipulation. Did she really want him to forget her?
He snapped for a bath.
A decan later, sitting before his reflecting pool, he heard the giggle of a boy and turned in delight. Eumelos moved stiffly in his embroidered tunic, and Phoebus grinned when he saw the child’s shaved head and painfully tight braid. “I thank you for honoring me, princeling,” Phoebus said, crouching down to be face-to-face with his fair son. The maeemu on his shoulder chattered, then hopped down, scampering across the floor to the table where food was set.
“I love you, Pateeras,” Eumelos said. “Mother tied my braid too tight.” His dark blue eyes moved around the room, seeking a woman to help him. He turned back to his father. “Can you untie it?”
Phoebus loosened the formal braid Kassandra had woven. The mother of three of his children, she was her most demanding with Eumelos. “Better?” Phoebus asked.
“Aye, Pateeras.” Eumelos ran and jumped on the bed, singing a new composition commemorating Phoebus’ victory over the bull. “Mother said I would never stand in the blood of Apis,” he said, playing with the edge of Phoebus’ cloak. The maeemu took to the game, pulling at the gilded feathers. The serf pounced on the tiny gray creature and scooped him up with an irritated sigh.
“That is true,” Phoebus said, biting his lip, wishing to silence Kassandra. Couldn’t she see how her words hurt? Okh, Eumelos, he thought. Would you look forward to this day if you knew you would stand in my place? “You have other duties. Your birthdate was too early, my son. Consider it a blessing from Apis.” He brushed his hand over the boy’s lean back. Eumelos was already tall, but thin. As I was, Phoebus thought.
“Then why did you name an island after me?”
“All princes are immortalized in some fashion. Zelos renamed Mount Apollo for me when I was born—”
“How come I did not get a mountain?” Eumelos asked suspiciously.
“Because there were no more, brat,” Phoebus said. “You have a whole island instead.” My other children have only brooks and beaches named after them, he thought. Take what little I can give you.
Eumelos shrugged, satisfied. “Can I ride with you today?”
“Nay. You must accompany your mother, son.”
Eumelos groaned. “All she talks about are clothes and other men and women. It is so boring! Do I have to?”
“It is our custom. You must obey our customs; they are the backbone of Aztlan.”
Eumelos shook his head, unhappy but obedient. Phoebus hugged him, then gave him back to the serf. Do you know what our customs are, son? Would you be able to face this day unflinching? With a grimace of distaste the dresser put the maeemu on Eumelos’ shoulder.
“Am I ready?” Phoebus asked.
The dresser looked at him coolly. “You wear the golden feathers, the golden corselet, the long kilt in purple and gold.” The man twisted his forelock. “You have your pendant, your rings, your seals.” He tapped his face, his bejeweled hands graceful as he gestured. “Once we strap on that feather blanket, you should be ready.”
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br /> “Then do it.”
The dresser gathered the ceremonial cape. It was indeed feathery. Peacock feathers formed a ruff around Phoebus’ neck and ran down the front at right angles, bordering the whole cloak with Theros blue, the iridescent purple-blue of the sea. The rest of the cloak was made of white feathers that had been dipped in gold. It stank, it was heavy and awkward, but it was the custom. The dresser’s two assistants helped Phoebus straighten it, then opened the door.
Phoebus turned, ignoring the sniff of the dresser, and gestured to the four Mariners who held the carrying chair. From this day forward, Phoebus would ride. The Golden Bull did not walk or run in the eyes of the citizens.
“To the Pyramid of Days, Rising Bull,” the serf said, helping him into the golden chair and arranging the fall of the gold-feathered cloak.
The noise of chanting reached his ears before they even had descended to the main floor of the palace. The throne room was filled with representatives from the many colonies and vassals of Aztlan. The peoples they had conquered through commerce. How many more would be conquered? he wondered.
He was carried past two enormous red columns and down the passageway to the Ring of the Bull. Today it was filled with the court of Aztlan, their brightly colored skirts and glittering jewelry brilliant in the full of the day. Phoebus directed his attention forward, past the milling thousands that blocked the flagged walkway from the palace up to the heights. Already he felt the draw of the temple, the draw he’d felt even as a boy.
If only Irmentis were here. … He shut his mind against the thought and stared at the temple. The Egyptian had passed the pyramid tests; he would also.
CHEFTU AWOKE, staring at the geometry of the ceiling. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, and he had less than an eyeblink to make it to the commode before nausea overtook him.
Sweating and shivering, he huddled on the painted floor.
He was sick.
For months he had been shivering. Strange episodes of euphoria engulfed him at times. At other times he became disoriented and got lost in the palace.
Now this.
Stretching his leg out, Cheftu stared at the sore on his groin. It was swelling. Two moons ago it had looked like a bruise, red tinted and tender to the touch. Now, now it was swollen, and it hurt when he moved his left leg.
He put his head on his arms, frightened. His thoughts seemed unmanageable, and he didn’t know how to regain control of his mind. The bite on his shoulder was healed, but he could think of nothing else that could have hurt him. Had the bull passed something on to him? Five things were carried through the body: blood, mucus, urine, semen, and air. He’d not had contact with any of those, only saliva. Mon Dieu, what to do?
Wiping a streak of spittle from his mouth made him grimace. Chloe hadn’t questioned his decision to allow his body hair to grow. It was disgusting, but it had hidden the sore from her sight, and he’d managed to distract her away from touching. He looked at his groin; he didn’t want her to know. Was he contagious? Would he infect her? Could he keep this information from her? Should you? he heard her voice say in his mind.
Groaning, Cheftu rose to his feet, steadying himself against the painted wall. The low rush of water came from the framework of clay pipes throughout the palace and carried refuse, and the contents of his stomach, to sea.
He walked to his couch and sat down with an exhausted sigh. He had planned to go to Chloe today since Atenis had finally confided Chloe’s whereabouts to him. A kilt would cover him, but since when had he stayed covered around Chloe? Yet even the thought of her lean, flexible body gave him no pleasure. The room suddenly swirled around him. …
Before Cheftu met with Nestor he needed to bathe and change. His beard was steaming beneath a linen towel in preparation for shaving when he heard someone else enter the room. A quick snap dismissed the serfs, and Cheftu felt other hands lift the towel. His eyes were still covered as the new person lathered his chin. The long fingers were rough, the hands of a laborer, not a body serf.
All thoughts of relaxation left Cheftu’s mind as he was shaved. He didn’t dare speak for fear the man would cut him. But the stranger’s touch was curiously gentle and caressing, and Cheftu’s muscles tightened in unconscious defense.
“How are you feeling today, Cheftu? Ready for the feast tonight?” Dion said as he pulled the towel off Cheftu’s face with a flourish and a smile.
The fears, unbidden and unacknowledged, that had risen in Cheftu’s mind melted away. This, after all, was Dion! The chieftain for whom women went mad. He was even said to bed them in multiples. Cheftu smiled back. “I’d heard this festival is more of a sensual rite than a religious feast.” He accepted Dion’s hand to get out of the chair, and Dion snapped for serfs, who brought clothes.
“Aye,” Dion said. “Have you been disappointed thus far?” He seemed unconcerned that Cheftu was naked before him, and Cheftu pulled his mind to other things, trying not to feel disturbed as the serf wrapped an Aztlan kilt around his hips. After all, Dion had been the first to see the bubo, a recollection that still made Cheftu cringe.
Cheftu focused on the kilt, another of the outlandish patterns that would please even a Parisien couturier. It came up high in the back, and its heavy front was finished with a reptile border and a huge tassel that tickled his knees. It was a melange of colors and patterns that made his head spin.
Together they entered the laboratory, and Dion promised to bring both Nestor and Cheftu lunch. Already Nestor was working on copying formulae; he wore last night’s clothing, and Cheftu knew from Nestor’s glare that he had also spent the night alone.
Suddenly it was too much; why was Cheftu here while Chloe was there? “I leave for Prostatevo,” Cheftu announced.
Nestor smiled. “Be back by moonset, and safe until my eyes hold you again.”
Cheftu opened the doors, halting at Nestor’s next comment. “Greet Sibylla for me also.”
Spiralmaster left without comment.
DAYS, CHLOE THOUGHT. She had been here for days, alone. She couldn’t completely hide her smile, however. She was working with paint! Glorious paint! Finally she was back in a world she knew. It was a wonderful, marvelous feeling, so much better than faking it as the chieftain of cows.
It would have been nice to hear from Cheftu, Spiralmaster hotshot himself. Chloe shrugged and tried to be charitable, but honestly, he could have sent a message bird, at least! She was certain he’d seen her, recognized her. Surely he didn’t think she was dead?
Chloe rubbed away the line and frowned in concentration. She picked up her paintbrush and looked around. According to Atenis, this was going to be a children’s room. Yet nothing felt light and fun enough. Imitating Atenis’ style, she’d painted part of one boy, still with youthlocks and those wonderful liquid Aztlantu eyes. Doing what?
Chloe stared at the wall. What did little boys do? Fishing? Not here. Basketball? Not hardly. Nintendo? Chloe laughed at herself. She was getting loopy.
Two boys, maybe? Doing what? Chloe began to sketch in another body, then teasingly drew his arm extended toward the nose of the other. Take that, she thought. It seemed familiar, as though her hands knew exactly what to do, and how.
Eyes narrowed, she picked up her brush and began to paint. “You can be Cheftu,” she told one sketched boy. He had almond-shaped eyes and winged brows. Not quite Cheftu, but close enough for the funny papers. With rapid strokes she gave her “boy” a boxing glove. Now her boy was nailing Cheftu’s boy’s nose, right on target. “That is for not following me,” she said to the painting.
“I dared not draw the attention.”
Chloe whirled around, lost her footing, and fell against the wall. Cheftu stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame as though he’d been there for hours.
He was so gorgeous, Chloe thought. He’d made an art of adapting. His kilt was more subdued than those of most Aztlantu, and his clan pendant lay in the center of his chest. The funny disk he always wore around his waist mov
ed a little with his breathing. Black hair fell over his shoulders, the elaborate braiding in of the extensions woven with gold thread. His skin seemed a bit paler than usual, but it should, because he spent all his days inside. Kohl ringed his eyes, making them look even lighter, and his expression was unreadable. They just stared at one another.
“I do not get the benefit of a glove,” he said with a smile. “That seems rather unfair.”
“Who said life is fair?”
“Touché.” It was particularly incongruous to hear the French coming out of his ancient-styled body. Chloe turned back to the painting, inking in her boy’s eyes. “This is hardly the welcome I had hoped for,” Cheftu said from beside her.
Chloe jumped, painting one eyeball slightly askew. “Then maybe you should have showed up yesterday,” she said archly.
He laced his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back, gently, but with no question of who was in control. “I could not. So now we have time to recoup, oui, ma chère?”
Looking into his eyes, she tried to see his thoughts, his feelings. He was holding something back, she sensed. “Let go of me.”
He released her and she knelt down, mixing turquoise paint in a clay bowl.
“I have found the holes in the brain, the sole symptom of this plague,” Cheftu said, his tone clipped. “Thank you for inquiring.”
Chloe stirred the mafkat powder and water with a dowel, her lips pressed together. “Congratulations.” She rose, her paintbrush laden with turquoise paint.
“I have had strange … feelings recently. I am out of sorts,” Cheftu said. “The Aztlantu are an odd people. They care little for human life, would sacrifice anything for sensation.”
“You don’t make sense,” Chloe said, testing the texture of the paint on the back of her hand.
“Merde, Chloe! I miss you! I need your decency, your humor!” He turned her around, turquoise paint spattering them both, brilliant against his crimson-and-saffron kilt. It also flecked her painting.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 36
