The key was here. Cheftu didn’t exactly understand, but the key was here. When he finally persuaded Dion to leave, he sent for Nestor.
Decans later, the two men looked over the papyri and damp clay sheets they had covered. Apparently whatever it was, the killer was in the body of the bull or the man. When it was eaten, it moved to another body and ate holes in its brain also.
The warning signs came too late. Only when one saw the brain’s holes did one know for certain what the killer was.
“Are you saying that everyone who ate the bull today is at risk?” Nestor asked, aghast.
Cheftu ran a finger down the columns they had assembled. In every case, the victim had partaken of the bull or of Zelos’ forebears. It was a bloody legacy, a costly one. The illness waited a long time to develop. Nineteen years was the last time anyone had … dined, Cheftu thought with revulsion.
“The bull ritual takes place every midsummer festival, though. Each summer Hreesos proves that he is strong and wise and takes Apis and shares him with all.”
The priesthood! “How do we tell them they are doomed?” Cheftu said.
Nestor was silent, the weight of the reality sinking in on him. “By the gods,” he whispered. “Aztlan has committed suicide!”
BY BLOOD PHOEBUS HAD REVEALED HIMSELF as Hreesos, the power, the spirit, the incarnation of the Apis bull. In the pyramid he had proved his scholarship, intellect, and reason. Here, now, in a tradition even older than the Clan Olimpi, he would be the springtime renewing life with the earth.
He looked up one last time; soon the moon would be one with the sun. In a moment of timeless night the most intimate of cosmic dances would take place between Kela and Apis, the moon and the sun. Priests all over the empire would fast tonight, their eyes on the sky, waiting for the first omens for the next nineteen summers. Phoebus fisted his hands and forced himself calm, then stepped down into the womb of the earth.
The scent of burning herbs filled the air with a heavy smoke, coating his nostrils and blinding his eyes.
The women—Kela-Tenata, Shell Seekers, clanswomen, and serfs, for all were welcome—filled the cave. In their hands they held clay votives of birds, butterflies, snakes, priestesses, and poppy pods. Their mingled voices rose and fell, disorganized but loose and natural, rife with mystery.
Mother Kela
source of all creation
In whose great breast flows life and death
with the wind and rain.
Was this how Dion felt? Phoebus wondered. One man among hundreds of women, whipped to a frenzy? However, there was a difference. Any and every woman was available for Dion’s touch; Phoebus’ purpose lay in one woman.
Defeating one woman.
He felt Pateeras in his belly, thoughts, and blood. His stomach knotted at the thought of what he must do. He was certain he was drained; Ileana would not win, she could not, not again. In thirty days justice would begin.
This cavern on Kallistae was one of the largest in Aztlan. It consisted of four grottoes, with narrow connecting passageways. Between the flickering lights and shifting bodies Phoebus saw the stalagmites. A phallus of stone rose upward, penetrating the depth and darkness of this cave. The women touched and kissed the stone monoliths, and
Phoebus wished he could trade any nymph, mistress, or matron for the mother-goddess horror who awaited him.
He found himself thinking of serving Sibylla for twenty-eight days. Thank Kela he’d been told she wasn’t dead, just in hiding. He felt no anger toward her; he wished it were she awaiting him in this grotto.
Bring life again!
In the passion of conception we renew you
Mistress of animals, the butterfly, the snake
She serves as your body.
Slowly Phoebus was pushed through the narrow entrance tunnel. Sweat soaked his neck and back, and the air grew closer, the slight touches he’d felt grew bolder. Illumination was tiny pricks of light in a cloth of gray, choking darkness. He’d never wanted so desperately to flee. He’d never felt so very alone—removed from men, isolated from the protection of his name and bearing. Here he was a petitioner, a stud to serve one purpose. His vanity pushed him forward through the mass of loud, swaying women.
His pateeras had done this with Rhea. It was the Olimpi way. Spring returned, fertilized the fecund earth. Did he have the right to change tradition? To break the cycle? I will take pleasure in renewing with Sibylla, he thought. Ileana is the poison of the cone shell, but I will serve the clan admirably with anyone else.
Phoebus’ head felt very heavy, his neck no stronger than the stem of a flower. He felt the new Kela-Ata’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him to a narrow set of stairs. The women’s voices had darkened, become more sensual, and he could almost feel the pulse of mother earth increase beneath his feet.
As the spring is brought forth in a gush of color
May life begin anew with the rush of seed.
Phoebus stumbled, and the priestess caught him around the waist. “It is the poppy,” she said. Tendrils of burning opium rose from the crown of pods on her brow. They climbed—slow or fast, Phoebus could no longer tell—until they reached a stone balcony. Women surrounded him, ecstatically aware and singing, grouped to watch him.
The poppy faded when he saw her before him. His flesh recoiled; he could not do this. Not even revenge was worth joining his body to the murderess of his mother! He accepted gum from the priestess and chewed it. The overlaying tang of cinnamon could not disguise its bitterness.
We grasp the root of creation!
And flow with the font of life!
She sat on a stone throne. Elaborate wedding paint gleamed across her breasts and torso. A diadem of poppies and pomegranates decorated her brow, a forelock of her corn-colored hair fell over it, touching the perfect blush skin of her face. The rest of her hair, unbound, flowed around her, a river of gold and silver. She wore only a multi-tiered skirt which fell to the ground from her small waist.
He stared at her. His stepmother, Ileana, made not one move of recognition.
The Kela-Ata stepped forward, her hands raised, her husky voice throbbing in the dense, drug-filled cavern. Snakes coiled around her arms and throat. He watched as two women—he thought Vena and Atenis—stepped forward and moved Ileana’s legs, pulling her to the edge of the stone chair, draping her knees on opposite stalagmites.
Lastly they moved her skirt, baring her completely to him. In ritualistic movements they rubbed her with oils and perfumes. The high priestess asked Kela for healthy vegetation, prosperity, victory, and fertility.
Ileana raised her gaze to his; her eyes were pools of blue, her pupils barely dots. Still, enough of her lingered for the look to scorch. Are you not man enough? Zelos would weep for shame at your weakness. You are not a worthy Golden. She was the personification of the nurturing mother-goddess, yet only derision danced in her poisonous gaze.
Phoebus felt his reason harden and stepped forward. He didn’t know where he’d lost his clothing, but it didn’t matter. All he sought was to wipe the simper from Ileana’s perfect face. Fortunately his sex ignored his emotions, and his fury and loathing was fading on a wash of peace and drug-induced contentment.
The chanting rose in volume and tension, and the Kela-Ata mouthed, “Now!” Unwilling to touch Ileana more than necessary, he braced his arms on either side of her head. Her eyes widened at his brutal entry. His lips felt thick, and his mind was fogged. Where was his hatred of her, his desire to punish? “I know what you did,” he whispered. She absorbed his motions. “You will pay, skeela -goddess.” Even in his own ears, his words had no heat.
“Surely enduring you is punishment enough,” Ileana muttered, her eyes closed.
Her words were insulting, and Phoebus wanted to retaliate, but nothing came to his lips or mind. Through a haze that grew as the gum in his mouth diminished, he felt his hand on her hips. Lost in a blur of desensitization, he could barely feel the tiny pieces of gravel embedded in her cold ski
n. Phoebus pressed them deeper, a shallow gratification.
Ileana’s hissing insults faded to little groans and grunts, and Phoebus disliked his body’s response to her. Self-control, he had to use it. “I hate you,” he whispered, his words slurred. She was approaching the apex, her hands touching him unknowingly, fluttering over his chest and face. “I wish I were a blade,” he muttered. “I would carve you as you carved Irmentis.” He couldn’t continue to stand, he realized. His legs were collapsing, and he just, he just—
She cried her mother-goddess pleasure, and Phoebus ground his teeth, resisting the seduction of her body. Would she know? He slumped against her on the stone chair, shaking and dizzy.
The Kela-Ata tried to pull him away, but Phoebus resisted; he needed more time or she would know he’d withheld. “Come along!” the priestess said, and Phoebus tried to cover himself. Ileana was being served a poppy-mandrake drink to help his seed find a fertile root. Her legs were tied over each other and elevated. He was free—she didn’t know! Phoebus closed his eyes. He only had to do this twenty-nine more times.
The sacred marriage was over.
Phoebus and Niko were in a meeting with Nekros when the new high priest demanded entry. His greeting was perfunctory, and Niko sharply reminded him of Phoebus’ title. After sharing the prescribed wine, Minos claimed Phoebus needed to climb the mountain summit and sacrifice to Apis.
“Climb the cone? Are you quite mad?” Niko yelled.
“It is tradition.”
“I have never heard of such,” Phoebus said. He watched Niko as his friend’s gaze turned inward. If it had been written down, Niko would recall it. “When was the last time this was done?”
“Just before Clan Olimpi took power,” Minos said. “It was their rationalization for no earthwave activity. It is an accepted alternative now, however.”
“Why does Hreesos need an alternative? What are you talking about?” Niko asked.
“The priests refuse to follow a Golden who killed Minos in sacred ritual. If Apis takes the offering, then Phoebus will be vindicated. The skies themselves commanded it,” Minos said.
“I didn’t kill the Minos,” Phoebus protested.
“He died prophesying concerning you. That is what the priests see and why they demand this duty,” Minos said.
“He speaks the truth.” Nekros agreed reluctantly. “If you do not do this, the priests will believe that Apis is against your rule.”
“We no longer live in superstitious, ancient times!” Phoebus protested. Walk to the edge of a volcano, even a resting one?
“What mountain is he supposed to climb?” Nekros asked, his words slurred.
“Mount Krion.”
It was silent in the room for a few moments. “Mount Krion has long been asleep,” Nekros said to Phoebus. “It would be the safest choice.”
“It has been a fearful year,” Nekros continued. “Citizens are wary, skittish. This would do much to restore their faith.”
“Provided Krion doesn’t blow the new ruler to the Isles of the Blessed,” Niko said dryly.
Nekros held Minos’ gaze. “There are priests who specialize in watching the Nostrils. They will be able to foretell the best time to visit. Of course. Phoebus will not go alone. A contingent of guards, perhaps even several boatloads of people to watch.” Nekros’ tone of voice had become ruminative. “Minos, get us the right day. Niko, arrange a barge party to set sail at a moment’s notice.” He looked at his nephew. “Prepare your heart, Phoebus. This is unfortunate, but it must be done.”
CHLOE HAD FORGOTTEN THE MIDSUMMER FESTIVAL was just concluding. The roads were packed, the streets were blind alleys, and no matter how she tried, getting through to Aztlan Island seemed impossible.
The news spread through the group like wildfire. Minos had demanded Hreesos offer sacrifices to Mount Krion, begging the Bull to forgive him for the death of the former high priest. Clansmen were invited to follow; they were loading their vessels now.
Chloe pushed through the crowd and began to run down the zigzag steps to the harbor.
She hoped Phoebus was through being angry; she was definitely through with playing dead.
IN TYPICAL AZTLANTU FASHION, even this grim journey became a festival, Cheftu thought. A day of kefi. A flotilla of vessels: small fishing boats, Mariners ships, pleasure barges, all assembled for the short sail to Folegandros. People clustered on the edges of the high cliffs, and he knew elaborate picnics were being hosted in the multicolored houses that scaled the sharp edges of the lagoon.
The boat he was on, with Dion, Nestor, and a bevy of bare-breasted beauties, was outfitted with garlands of flowers, delicately scented lamps, and rugs on the deck for comfort.
The ship ahead of them held Hreesos Phoebus, Niko, Nekros in an all-encompassing cloak, the new Kela-Ata, and the Minos. Trailing in their wake was the entire contingency of Hreesos guards in smaller boats. On this hot summer day, in the Season of the Lion, the hills were dried brown. The ships, brightly painted above the waterline, looked like ducklings following their mother across the azure sea.
Different sails proclaimed different clans. According to Dion, Phoebus had expressed interest in speaking to Sibylla, so Cheftu knew Chloe could return. Was she here even now, sailing beneath her clan’s emblem? Would they have a chance to talk? Just as soon as he returned from this fool mission he would seek her out, Cheftu thought, stilling the trembling of his hands.
One of the nymphs began to sing, the melody soothing against the lull of waves and the creak of wood against sail and wind. Dion handed him a rhyton, and Cheftu drank, staring into the cloudless sky, his kohled eyes squinted against the sun.
“Are you happy?” Dion asked.
“Happy?”
“Aye.”
He had wine, women, and song. He was in a beautiful place, with anything he wanted at his beck and call. However, he was also faced with a ghastly plague, an angry wife, and a bevy of spewing volcanos.
Cheftu felt like Nero, fiddling as Rome burned. He still did not know why he was here. There seemed no way to stop the plague, not without changing the many brain-eating rituals they had. If they chose to eat the lung instead, would the same thing develop? Were they all destined to die? If so, why?
In Cheftu’s opinion, the Aztlantu cannibalism was a vile tradition. But le bon Dieu was far more gracious and forgiving. This plague was no punishment; perhaps it was an inborn consequence? Why was he here? Because Chloe was here? Why was she here?
Nothing made sense; his brain was as cloudy as ash.
“So, Egyptian, what would make you happy?” The underlying humor in Dion’s words made Cheftu grin despite himself. “Knowing the secrets of the universe? Reading the minds of the gods? Living forever?”
“The secrets would be too much to know,” Cheftu said. “The minds of the gods would terrify me. Living forever sounds exhausting.” Though his words were glib, he knew if Chloe had asked, her eyes burning into his with indefatigable curiosity, he would have bared himself to her, shared his heartfelt responses.
One of the women began to rub his feet and calves. Her touch was nothing like Chloe’s, and he refused her gently.
Dion watched with knowing, dark eyes.
Unnerved, Cheftu rose and walked to the prow. Folegandros shared a narrow channel with Nios, the Cult of the Snake. Mount Krion was on the southeast edge of the island, the green-sloped cone visible to the ship.
“So it is safe?” Cheftu asked, indicating the summit.
Nestor sighed. “Aye, well, that is what the priests say. They have studied the Nostrils for generations, so they should know.”
Hreesos’ ship docked first, and Cheftu looked up to see that the switchback path to the summit was studded with people. From here he could hear the low chant of “Phoebus, Hreesos, Phoebus, Hreesos!” The ship with the sacrifices docked next: goats, sheep, rams, and an Apis bull.
Phoebus stepped into a traveling chair, and the youthlocked child with him stepped into the next on
e with Niko. A contingency of guards followed at a quick pace, then the Council members Phoebus had requested. “Can we go?” Cheftu asked.
Dion shrugged, and Cheftu and Nestor took a small boat to shore to join the cluster of hangers-on following Hreesos to the top.
Mount Krion was one of the highest peaks in the empire. It rose 2,400 cubits, a dark pyramid against the blue sky. Feeling reckless and vibrantly alive, Cheftu declined a chair and settled into a fast pace. According to the ritual, Phoebus alone would stand on the edge of the cone. The rest of the followers would wait on the flanks.
The sun was high by the time Cheftu and Nestor were halfway up. Many of the women and quite a few courtiers had dropped out, choosing to wait in the shade with a rhyton of wine instead of continuing the hike. A few hours later, Nestor also chose to wait. Cheftu walked on alone. The carrying chairs were far ahead of him, and he saw no one behind him. The wind was stronger, a cold breeze that chilled the sweat on his back and forehead. Cheftu attributed his faint tremors to the weather and walked on.
The sun was on its westerly path when Cheftu heard steps behind him. Pausing on the narrow path, he looked back. A woman walked alone, with a leggy, long stride that sent blood rushing to his head and groin. As an Egyptian or Aztlantu, she was the mate of his very soul. Though her black hair was now to her waist and her costume shamelessly revealing, it was Chloe. In any guise, she was his. Would she forgive him?
Would he forgive her?
As she turned the bend, two levels beneath him, Cheftu knew the answer to the question. Just seeing her made the day brighter, the scents sharper, his blood pound heavier. She was his impetus to make each moment count for more. Resting against a boulder gray with ash, Cheftu watched her approach. She wiped her forearm across her head without breaking stride. Her tunic was short, and he saw the muscles in her thighs tighten and release. Her breasts were covered, but sweat darkened the cleft between them, and Cheftu’s palms itched with a need to touch her.
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