Shadows on the Aegean (57 page)

P
HOEBUS 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.”

“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.

C
HEFTU 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.

D
AYS
, C
HLOE 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?