Shadows on the Aegean (10 page)

So what had awakened him? He rose stiffly, went to the alcove, and washed his face and hands. He looked into the bronze reflection
for a moment. At sunrise his foreignness was most apparent. The light seemed to catch fire on the red stubble of his chin
and scalp. His skin was sprinkled with freckles, beaten into one copper mass by the sun. His eyes, the brownish green of the
Nile, contrasted with his bronze brows and lashes. He looked away. A decan with his brush and paint-wielding manservant, and
Ipiankhu was as Egyptian as any other man.

He pushed away from the mirror and he walked to the door overlooking his courtyard. The famine had killed any beauty that
had once dwelt there. Vegetation rotted in stagnant pools of water. Yet the famine would last only four more Inundations.
This he knew; he’d been assured of it.

Ipiankhu raised his gaze to the sun.
Go to Pharaoh!
a powerful command whispered through his questing mind. Senwosret needed him. The knowledge seized him and he clapped, waking
his manservant to prepare him for an audience. When slaves came to get him less than a decan later, they were stunned. Surely
Ipiankhu was an awesome mage!

Pharaoh Senwosret was sitting up on his couch. His bare head was covered, lines formed by Inundations of worry drawing down
his face, free of makeup. The film that covered his eyes and was ruining his vision seemed thicker today. His eyes were murky,
filled with poison, like the Nile. Ipiankhu prostrated himself.

“Rise, my wise one,” Pharaoh commanded. “I have dreamed!”

As happened every time he interpreted a dream, Ipiankhu saw images flash in his head: His childhood and the arrogant dream
of the sun, moon, and nine stars bowing to him. The beautiful mantle proclaiming him heir to his father’s herds, the same
mantle ripped from his body by his half-brothers. The clammy, rodent-ridden chill of the well where he spent countless days
and nights in sheer terror. His beautiful employer’s face changing from lust to hatred as though a sculptor were reshaping
her features before Ipiankhu’s eyes. The haughty demeanor of the baker who had died. He felt a chill race through his blood,
and in his heart he begged for assistance. “My Majesty, if it be the Unknown’s will, I shall interpret.”

“I was in a desert. It was cold, not hot, even though Ra blazed down.” Senwosret licked his lips. “Before me the dunes and
sands were losing their colors. An incense-thick gray fog surrounded me. Then all became darkness. Out of the darkness I heard
an angry growl, the sound of a big cat in pain. Blazing fire engulfed me, and I saw the world in brilliance and a mountain
cat with eyes like molten gold standing before me. He held a knife in his mouth.” Senwosret looked away. “Then I awoke.” The
pharaoh chewed on his lip for a moment. “Could it be a sign to go to the temple of Bastet?”

Ipiankhu sighed. He doubted the Unknown would send Pharaoh to worship a stone image. When would the man under Egypt’s double
crown realize his gods were nothing? Ipiankhu wondered. Of course, Senwosret could not worship Ipiankhu’s god, not being of
Ipiankhu’s tribe. His tribe … Ipiankhu pushed away his thoughts and focused on Pharaoh. “I must pray for the wisdom of the
Unknown,” he said. “Only by his—”

“Aye, I know,” Pharaoh interrupted. “Only he can see and tell you. You are merely a vessel.” He sighed. “What a pity your
god will not allow you the honor of realizing your gift and accepting it as your own.”

“It is not mine,” Ipiankhu began their common argument.

Pharaoh waved him away. “I have no heart for your words today. Go, do what you must to interpret. I shall not see your face
in court until you know why I have had this dream.”

“But the Aztlan envoy, My Majesty—”

“What do you have assistants for? Surely you have trained at least one Egyptian to parry Aztlan’s threats and smile through
bared teeth?”

Ipiankhu bowed and backed from Pharaoh’s sight—there was no need to respond. Once on the other side of the double doors he
swore. Responsibility weighed on him; Aztlan was pressing dangerously, and he and Imhotep had to defend Egypt … somehow.

Ipiankhu’s anger was washed away by something more potent. A call more visceral, more urgent, than desire or marital devotion,
daily duties or fleeting power.
Forget not your first love
. The unmistakable whisper filled his head. With quick commands he delegated his day’s duties, then Ipiankhu prepared to meet
with his Unknown God.

AZTLAN

P
HOEBUS FEINTED TO THE RIGHT
, catching his opponent in the chest with a prong of his triton. The Mariner fell, and Phoebus pulled back. “That is enough,”
he said, handing a serf the tall metal staff with its covered tines. “A good match.”

“My gratitude, Golden One,” the Mariner said, bowing.

Phoebus, Rising Golden Bull of the Aztlan empire, looked up at the balcony, where Niko, his dearest friend, was engrossed
in a scroll. Though practice had gone well, and Phoebus was certain to be ready for the ceremony, he was disappointed that
Irmentis had not come in. Hadn’t she been here, clinging to the shadows, the safety of the torch-lit chamber? He thought he
had felt her gaze on him, almost as tangible as a touch.

Pushing his long blond hair away from his face, he accepted a damp linen from a serf and wiped away sweat from the fake battle.
The Season of the Snake had been warm this year, a strange omen that no one knew how—or dared—to interpret. Phoebus swallowed
hard at the thought of the upcoming rituals. He was nineteen; he had spent his whole life training for this, the
Megaloshana’a
, the Great Year.

“Pateeras, Pateeras!”

Phoebus turned when he heard his firstborn’s call. “Eumelos!” The boy launched himself into Phoebus’ arms, embracing him with
the sticky heat of a child. For a few moments the pride Phoebus felt, knowing that this squirming bundle of intelligence and
impulsiveness was his, threatened to send him to his knees in gratitude.

Eumelos belonged to Phoebus, the one thing his stepmother, Ileana, could not claim. He was Phoebus’ greatest joy. Though he
would not inherit the throne because he was not born of the mother-goddess, he would sit on the Council someday. Smiling through
sudden tears, Phoebus looked at his son. His hair was blond, like Phoebus’, his eyes the same sky blue. At five summers his
face was still gently rounded with childhood, but soon he would boast the sharp lines and prominent nose of his clan. He would
be the living image of Phoebus.

Spiralmaster even thought the boy showed oracular potential, a trait gleaned from his aunt Sibylla, Phoebus guessed.

The boy pulled away. “That last move was really surprising,
Pateeras,”
he said, imitating Phoebus’ feint and slice. “I have watched for moons and I never saw that before! That should really take
them.” Eumelos danced around, his thin body fluid as he dodged and stabbed invisible opponents. “Are you ready to fight the
bull?”

“I
dance
with the Apis bull, Eumelos. Fighting is only man to man.”

“I wish I could dance with the bull someday,” Eumelos said wistfully.

Phoebus dismissed the serfs with a snap of his fingers. “You are destined for great things. Dancing with the bull…” He trailed
off. There was nothing he could say; the boy wouldn’t rule. There was nothing he could do. Tearing his gaze from Eumelos’
questioning blue
eyes
, Phoebus asked him how he had spent his day.

“Scholomance was boring! I would rather be with you! Learning to fight!”

“An Olimpi clansman must have a mind as sharp and agile as his body,” Phoebus said, reciting the words he’d heard so often.
“Conflict is rarely profitable. It is better to compromise and profit from tribute.”

“Like Caphtor pays tribute?”

“Aye, very like Caphtor.”

Together they mounted the sweeping staircase, bowing briefly at the inset altar of horns, honoring Kela. For luck they plucked
the two-headed ax out of its resting place and turned it. The double-edged blade represented the two sides of Kela, a giver
and taker, for the goddess cut both ways. If your fortune was bad, you turned the ax to improve it. Likewise, if your fortune
was good, you turned the ax, surprising bad fortune and thus diminishing it. Better to turn the ax yourself than to have your
enemy do it.

Geometric patterns of red, gold, and black crept across the ceiling, floors, and walls. The bright floor tiles were warmed
by an enormous fireplace in the center of each room, the expansive roofs supported by red columns that tapered down to the
floor. In this room, one of a thousand in the palace of Aztlantu, nobles mingled with commoners, all seeking out their clansmen
in these last days before the Season of the Bull, this growing season, and the meeting of the Council.

For just a moment fear rode Phoebus. After that meeting he would dance with the Apis bull. How he acquitted himself there
would decide whether he was worthy of entering the Pyramid of Days and undergoing the tests of the Rising Golden. He dismissed
the fear as Eumelos’ nonstop commentaries continued. “Niko!” Phoebus called.

The violet-eyed man looked up, yanked from his world of words and formulae into the chatter of the palace. Niko blinked twice,
his gaze finally focusing on them. Despite his brilliance, he often had trouble remembering the commonplace—food, women, bathing.

“Practice is over already?” his friend asked, running his hand over his tangled, waist-length white blond hair.

“Aye. The sun has moved three times in the sky.” Phoebus’ voice dropped to a whisper. “Did Irmentis come?” he asked, despising
himself for his weakness.

Niko shook his head. “Aye. I spoke to her, as you bade me.” He fumbled, gathering his scrolls. “I think she loves you, Phoebus.
However, her love is not
eros.”

Phoebus’ cheeks burned that his best friend would know the woman whom Phoebus desired did not want him. Even if her love was
pothos
, if she desired him as an ambition, a goal, an end to accomplish, that would be something. But pure
agape
, only with her heart… Phoebus lifted his gaze to his friend’s. “Did she say more?”

“Only that she despised Ileana and would not challenge her. She seeks another kind of justice.”

“The only justice is for that
skeela
to have a knife through her heart,” Phoebus whispered.

“Treason, my friend,” Niko said, rising from the wave-backed stone bench. “Irmentis also asked for more of her drink.” His
voice was tight with disapproval.

Phoebus ignored him. “When I am ki—”

Niko turned to the boy. “So, Eumelos, what wisdom did the Spiralmaster share today?”

“He said we were all silent and blind and wouldn’t recognize the hands of the gods if they pinched us on our—”

“Okh
, really?” Niko said, lifting Eumelos onto his shoulders. “You need to talk to Spiralmaster,” Niko said, frowning at Phoebus.
“He seems to grow more disrespectful and more erratic by the day.”

Phoebus watched as Niko hoisted Eumelos’ wiry body high in the air, pretending to fly the length of the decorated room. In
every slash of turquoise paint Phoebus saw the feral gaze of his stepmother, Ileana.

How he would love to sink a knife in her belly.

“So have we heard about the sea skirmish’s outcome?” Phoebus asked. Niko slid Eumelos off his shoulders, and the boy raced
away.

“Everyone is watching from Myknossos,” he said.

“What are the odds this time?”

“Aztlan will be victorious, as always.”

Phoebus didn’t ask how Niko knew. Despite his seeming removal from the commonplace world, Niko knew everything; he was a fountain
of information. “I asked about the odds.”

“As good as the chances of your becoming
Hreesos,”
his friend said with a rare smile.

They walked through the press of people. Women in bright skirts, dark hair curling and kohled eyes flashing, stood in clusters
like bunches of flowers. Men in short kilts or long belled skirts mingled with Mariners carrying shields and quivers.
Hreesos
’private guards with their cropped hair guarded the far doorway. A school of scribes sat in one corner. Damp clay plates
lay before them, over which their fingers moved rapidly, embossing tiles tied to their fingertips and knuckles, pressing into
the clay the language of Aztlan in pictographs of men, shells, weapons, and symbols.

Once outside, Niko looked at him. “Where are we going?”

Phoebus smiled, squinting at the sunlight shining off the Pyramid of Days. “Dion invited us to view his newest experiment.”

Niko frowned. “I am supposed to be in the library doing research for Spiralmaster, Phoebus.”

“I know, but this will take only an afternoon. You can spend all night in the library if you need.” They walked toward the
land bridge that attached Aztlan Island to the crescent-shaped Kallistae Island. Mount Apollo rose before them, harsh and
forbidding in the winter light, its slopes bare and brown. Two other bridges, designed by the finest
mnasons
in the priesthood, attached Aztlan to the northern and southern tips of the crescent-shaped island of Kallistae.