A mother, her son’s tiny hand in hers, had broken into a run when she felt the quake hit the land bridge. Hundreds of years of erosion had taken their toll, and the bridge began crumbling. People collided—those who saw the crack widen and the others radiating out from it, and those who saw the pyramid and imagined safety there.
Screams, shouts, and cries were lost under the mighty roar of Apis, and the earth moved as though trying to throw them all off. The mother hung tightly to the hand of her son as the ground gave way a step ahead of her. With a grace and determination she’d never known she possessed, she jumped forward.
The bridge shattered, huge pieces of rock and earth falling to the crashing waters below, people like ants struggling to stay on the horizontal, even when it joined the iridescent waters of the sea.
Those on the mountain watched in horror, considering themselves safe, as the bridge that had linked the two islands fell into the now bottomless depths of Therio Sea. A sense of isolation settled on them as they watched their countrymen die at the hand of Apis Earthshaker.
The mother had been fortunate; one hand grasped roots, her legs dangled over the edge. Her child was wheezing with fear, swung between heaven and earth, safe only in his mother’s slippery grasp. With a strength and ferocity that only maternity gives, she heaved her right arm up, screaming at her child to grab hold with one hand and climb over her. He was a dumpling of a three-year-old, fussy most times, with pudgy cheeks and plaintive brown eyes. His feet found purchase, and she encouraged him to walk up, high, keep walking, and she would catch up. “Don’t stop walking!”
Dirt dried her tears, muffled her screams, as she felt herself slide and felt his little hand let go of hers. He called for her, and she stifled her cry as another length of root was pulled from the ground. With both hands now she tried to pull herself up, but she was too weak, too heavy.
“Go on, Akilez,” she ordered her son. “Walk on! Manoula loves you.” Pain ripped through her arms and she tried to kick upward, to pull herself higher, but her corselet was too tight and her skirts too cumbersome.
Her son was crying as she slid another length of root. The waves were closer now, a vicious mouth to chew and swallow her. Not my baby! she thought. He was her birthchild, not yet gone to the Clan of the Wave that would one day claim him. Pulling her face from the earth, she began to sing, shouting up to him, encouraging him to sing too as he walked toward the big gold building.
The pain eased as she heard his voice grow stronger. “Go on now,” she cried. The tremble began, she felt it in the plant she held, in the portion of Aztlan that would be her tholos. “Run go sing for the priests!” she screamed. “Run!”
His voice was submerged in the final dance of death, beneath the roar of the waves, the crush of rock, and her own screams as she fell into the sea.
CHAPTER 18
SOMEONE WAS BANGING ON CHLOE’S HEAD. When she finally came to, she had only a moment to shield herself and roll out of the way of the falling rock. Up, she had to get up. On instinct, she crawled forward and entered the chute that led upward, to what she hoped was the entrance. Bracing her arms and legs so that she fit like a chimney sweep, Chloe began to inch her way up.
The aftershocks sent her sliding down several times, but she didn’t think, didn’t reason, just kept heading up. About halfway, from what she could tell, she found a landing. The earthquake had stopped and she marked her spot, then crawled down the passageway. Left turns repeated, she was in a Greek key. The passageways were getting shorter and shorter! She should be at the center any mi—
The shaft swallowed her astonished cry, and the words beat around her as she fell through the air. “Oh shit,” Chloe said before the breath was knocked out of her.
Landing was painful, bruising all her cuts and cutting all her bruises. I should get hazard pay for this, she thought, forcing herself up on badly rubbed hands and knees. Two things were instantly noticeable.
One, fresh, albeit stinky, air.
Two, the sound of waves.
Dizzy with adrenaline, Chloe ran toward the sound of the water, the passageway twisting and turning, not like a maze, but like a mountain pass. As she rounded a corner, air blew at her, blinding her with her hair and freezing the cold sweat on her body. The brightness made her recoil, even though it was only half-light. Chloe swallowed a sob when she realized she was free of the Labyrinth.
She was in a dark cave, the ceiling obscured by shadow, the sound of water splashing over wood more exquisite than any symphony. Live water! Wood! Probably boats! And there, in the distance, was a sliver of sky. When her eyes adjusted to the faint light she saw the boats were nearly submerged. There were no ships, just small rowboats. Chloe realized she was beneath Aztlan island.
She stepped to the least damaged of the vessels and searched for a bottle, giggling with relief when she found a jug of wine. She smashed the top off, took a swig, dumped it, and began to bail.
CHEFTU RUBBED HIS EYES and surveyed his makeshift hospital. Bodies, some dead, some wounded, lay with not a hand span between them, throughout the feasting hall. These had escaped to Aztlan at very great cost. The land bridge was gone, the corpses washed away by the water, the cracks on both islands widening with every decan.
In another room lay those who were dying and dead from the plague. The same illness that had taken decades to manifest itself was now killing people in a matter of days.
Time was running out, yet Cheftu needed to help these people and mon Dieu, find Chloe! He heard someone enter the room and turned, squinting through the darkness. They were using only torches, for oil lamps were too dangerous during an earthquake due to fire.
“The Council is calling a meeting, Cheftu,” Dion said.
“I have not the time, Dion.”
“Phoebus is still missing, as is Niko. Ileana has called the meeting.”
Cheftu looked up from sponging a fever victim’s forehead. “She is not on the Council, how can she do this?”
Dion sighed. “Since Phoebus is missing, she is acting in his stead. Nestor needs to be sworn in as Rising Golden.”
Cheftu stood up. “When will you realize there is no need for another Rising Golden? The only thing rising is the water level! This is a ruined land, Dion. The Council needs to help the others flee! Ritual will not save us now!”
“It is all we can offer. The pyramid is sealed, messages to Minos return unanswered.’
“We have no access to food?”
“Some, not much. The stores in the palace will last a while.”
Cheftu sighed, moving to the next patient, a man with a broken arm and foot. The little boy he’d found on the bridge had finally stopped singing, and Cheftu touched them both. No fever, thank God. “Do I dare, ask how long ‘a while’ is?”
Dion brushed against his back. “You do not, my master. Tell me, how can I help?”
Grateful beyond words, Cheftu set the dark chieftain to work and walked back into the room with the dead and the dying.
THIS IS WHAT THEY MEAN BY LEARNING PATIENCE, Chloe thought. It had taken a thousand years of bailing, then digging around for a plank, a board, something to use as an oar, then plopping herself into the driver’s seat and rowing for the mouth of the cave. Then she realized she was on the wrong side of the island and had rowed back into the cave, hoping to find another way out. Finally, she was approaching the steps to Aztlan.
Or was she?
New earth was brightly colored against the older, and Chloe felt her heart pounding in her throat. The earthquakes, oh my God. She rounded the bend and saw the destruction of the land bridge, now just two nubs jutting out from opposite sides. Tears streamed down her face unnoticed. She saw that the zigzag pathway was also gone. How would she climb back up?
Her hands were bleeding with blisters on top of cuts, and she fought not to barf as the water bobbed her around. She turned back to the cave. Only by chance did she see the small cut in the rock and steer toward it.
Miraculously, she
found a small landing with stairs leading up. She had no idea where they led, but she would be closer to the palace, and that was where she needed to be. Cheftu, we gotta get out of this place. We tried to help, we tried to warn, now we just need to lead the way out of here.
“YOU ARE EXHAUSTED,” DION SAID. They’d been working side by side for decans, and Cheftu knew he was swaying on his feet. “My apartments are just a hallway away. You can get some rest. Then and only then will you be able to help these people, Cheftu.” Dion’s arm was guiding, and Cheftu stumbled. The heavens knew he was tired, worried, and his mind felt hazy. Just a little sleep, a little food; that was what he needed. Dion had been telling him this for decans, and as a physician he knew it was true. He would be of more use when he was refreshed.
Leaving Atenis in charge, he followed Dion into the dark hallway, down it, and into the chieftain’s spacious apartments. Like a child, he ate and drank, following Dion’s bidding. The chieftain talked constantly, his words lost to Cheftu. His voice sounded as if it came from a great distance.
Cheftu lay back on the couch. It was labor to lift his aching leg. His eyes were closing, even as he hovered around sleep.
“You do not know for how long I have wanted you here.”
Some part of Cheftu’s mind registered that Dion was next to him. Cheftu wanted to move away, but it was such an effort.
“A man of intelligence, of wit and style. Eee, Cheftu, let us away from this island. We can start anew! Come with me!”
“No … boats.”
“The air sail, Cheftu. We can get to Prostatevo, then take one of the ships from the new harbor there.” He touched the streaks of gray at Cheftu’s temples. “We can leave this land. We can be together. I see how you avoid women; we are made for each other! We can take the elixir and remain eternally young. Eternally healthy.” Cheftu was motionless, feeling Dion’s fingers touch the lines beside his eyes and the brackets carved around his mouth. His touch was intimate.
Dion’s voice grew more intense. “Imagine never aging, Cheftu. Imagine a dozen—nay, a thousand lifetimes to learn and study, to explore, to know!” Cheftu opened his eyes. Dion lay beside him, his face close, his dark eyes wide. The emotion in them was eerily familiar. “Imagine a thousand lifetimes to love.”
He covered Cheftu’s mouth with his own.
CHLOE OPENED THE DOOR and stepped into the huge apartment. Apparently she had discovered someone’s secret passageway. Her eyes adjusted slowly. As though it were a stage, a covered couch was centered in the room, lit by torches so that the two figures on it were clear.
Two heads of dark, flowing hair.
Two bodies, plastered together. A hand hung off the bed, the ring on it twinkling like a laughing demon’s eye. Thoth, god of healing. The fingers wearing it were long, strong, and sensual, two scarred forever.
The bottom fell out of Chloe’s world.
My heart aches for that which it cannot have and loves what it cannot love. Cheftu’s words echoed in her brain, and Chloe crumbled against the wall, her hand over her mouth.
Cheftu and Dion?
Cheftu was gay?
Chloe couldn’t look away. She saw the shadow of the cleft of Dion’s buttocks and wondered if Cheftu were also naked. Dion’s hair shielded her view of Cheftu’s face, and she was unspeakably glad. To see passion in his golden eyes for someone else—for a man!—was not something she could endure.
Stumbling backward, she ran to the spiral of the staircase. This explained why he hadn’t been searching for her. Chloe fled down the steps, her hand over her mouth, seeking a way out, darkness—solitude. She fell to her knees, sobbing, blindly groping the wall.
Cheftu was gay? Think about it, she chided herself, striving for calm. It wasn’t possible. She’d been around gay men most of her career. Surely she would have known, have recognized? But you saw that kiss with your own eyes; they were in bed together. It’s not like Cheftu was tied down and being forced.
She curled into a ball, the vision of two beautiful men embracing inscribed on her brain. Down was becoming up, black turning to white. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t!
Had Cheftu grown bored with her? Why didn’t he say he was confused? Chloe thought. Why didn’t he tell me what he felt? Had the opportunity to try something different, possibly more erotic, been undeniable?
He had been angry with her, he’d been unmoved by her, unwilling to touch her, he’d been silent, withdrawn. Oh God!
A dizziness enveloped her, the minimalist chords of a forgotten violin concerto filled her ears. She saw her life with Cheftu. Slowly she rethought every word, every gesture. He’d never truly wanted her. He had hated her in the beginning. He thought initially in Egypt that she was a whore, and when she had been with him, she’d acted like one on several occasions. Teasing him.
The violins rose.
He’d felt responsibility for her because she’d also been a time traveler. They had a great deal in common; neither of them actually belonged in ancient Egypt.
The slightly mutating repetition of violins swelled in her head. He’d married her only to save her life.
The cellos joined.
He was an honorable man. He’d vowed to love her and protect her, and he had. But he hadn’t wanted to!
The deep, resonating mourning of strings in her head drove her hands into her hair. She must be crazy! This was Cheftu! She thought of the ring he’d given her, the ring with topazes the color of his eyes, a woven band of gold and silver. “I love and I hope,” he had cried in French as she was lifted from Hatshepsut’s time.
But there was love between a man and woman that was not sexual. Or personal. You could love and not be in love: what else was friendship?
He’d lied to her. He’d lied in their bed, and he’d lied in her body!
Chloe rose on unsteady legs. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t bear to be so close to him. But could she be wrong? Was Cheftu still in there with Dion? Had he walked out in a rage? Had they? Her imagination failed her. It had been at least an hour.
She crept back up the staircase; the sounds were unmistakable.
The violins screamed in pain.
“SPIRALMASTER! WAKE UP, WAKE UP!”
Cheftu rolled over, instantly awake, on guard. “Who is it?” he called.
Stunned silence. “Nestor, why?”
Throwing on a kilt as he limped to the door, Cheftu rubbed his face. Surely last night was but a fevered dream. He touched his mouth and swallowed. The knuckles of his hand were split; no dream. Okh! He threw open the door.
“The mountain has been coughing smoke all morning,” Nestor said.
“Why did you not wake me earlier?”
Nestor shrugged helplessly. “What can you do?”
The two men ran up the stairs to the main chamber of the second floor, then down the long portico. Cheftu pulled up short when he saw Dion. His jaw was purpling, his gaze reproachful. With a stiff bow in Dion’s direction, Cheftu looked out at the mountain. Where was Chloe? She hadn’t contacted him.
He noted that Niko and Phoebus were still missing. Perhaps Niko was comforting Phoebus on the loss of his son? He shivered at the new interpretations “comfort” brought. Images from the past twelve decans filtered through his mind.
Mount Apollo’s sides were dusty with ash. The two man-made and the one gods’-made bridges were gone. The ships were dashed into kindling, and the waters were too rough, too deep, to swim.
An Etesian wind began to blow from the northwest. Faint tremors shook the earth, so commonplace they were ignored. The group watched as various puffs of black were released into the air. Cheftu felt panicky. Where was Chloe? He’d checked on his patients—twelve more fatalities—and rejoined the group on the portico. Many more had arrived: serfs, citizens, parents and children, priests and priestesses, all the human remnants of Aztlan.
They saw the mountain move before they heard it roar. The top did not blow off; instead the side slid away. He watched a huge sect
ion of mountain glide down the left-hand side of the slope, shattering into pieces of rock and earth as it moved. The boom that had taken seconds to rise into the atmosphere dropped back to earth, felling them all.
Cheftu lifted his head as a cloud of red and black rose, growing exponentially larger even as he watched. It blew westward, revealing ripples of fiery blood trickling from the inside of the mountain, molten rivers rushing across the island. Cheftu wiped his mouth, his blood was already a strange concrete having mixed with the hot ash.
Before anyone could speak, the clansmen of Daphne were dead. The mountain they had trusted to protect them had destroyed them. Their god had cannibalized his people. Waves rushed up the sides of the island, rocking the harbor as the earth heaved and tore, a painful, gory birthing. A cloud of stinging, biting ash rained down, dusting the whole of the island. Multicolored lightning flashed in the growing blackness, and Cheftu felt his hair crackle with the power of the air.
Green life became red death as the mountain vomited. Deep within, the emptying chambers collapsed in on themselves. Magma pulled from the adjoining Mount Stronghyle had weakened both islands’ infrastructure. The empire’s showplaces began to sink.
Around the Aegean, clansmen watched, their eyes drawn toward the gray column of smoke that reached to the heavens. From the shores of far-off Hydroussa they sent birds, questioning the fate of the clans. In Delos they wept, for they knew too well what would survive.
Nothing.
On Folegandros and Nios the religious orders prayed and cried, realizing that the anger of the earth could not be assuaged. When Mount Gaia began to smoke the priestesses did not wait. They piled into boats, sailing north, a band of strong, self-sufficient women. They would land on some northeastern shore, where their skill with nets would become a skill with spears and their earth goddess would transform from a nurturer into a conqueror.
Shadows on the Aegean Page 44
