Shadows on the Aegean (16 page)

Imhotep turned impatiently. “I cannot. But I am curious to hear what he says. You know Pharaoh must be told.”

“Aye, his spies have probably already informed him. To dally will be to undermine the trust he has in us. How will you present
it?”

“Me?”

“You
are
his chief physician and mage.”

Imhotep groaned.

Ipiankhu continued. “He will not go against your recommendation. Advise against it; has he refused you before?”

“Nay, never.” Imhotep ran a hand over his shaved head and heavy collar. “I will go now. Stay with the man Cheftu and tell
me what you learn.”

“Senwosret will listen to you. He always does.”

Imhotep nodded and left, crossing his chest, muttering the ritual blessing of farewell. Then he clapped for his standard-bearers
and litter carriers.

I
PIANKHU RETURNED TO THE PATIENT
. “Pardon me, my lord?” Cheftu asked. The vizier turned to him. His hazel eyes were unreadable. “I would you answer a question,”
Cheftu asked, his voice steady.

“If I can, my lord,” the vizier said.

“Was anyone, uh, with me?”

“With you?”

“Found with me, where I was.”

“This was found,” Ipiankhu said, clapping for a servant. They brought in a small package, and Cheftu remembered the last time
he’d seen it.

Chloe had been lying next to him when he’d awoken. He’d turned to her, disturbed when she did not awake. He’d run his hands
over her body, searching for broken bones. He’d felt the lump and pulled it out—the parcel from the market in Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s
Egypt, given to her just hours before they’d left that time period. Was that weeks or centuries ago? Cheftu didn’t know.

When he got no response from her, he had panicked. Laying his head on her chest, he’d hoped for a slight movement, any indication
that she was yet alive. No breath, no movement. Her body was granite cold. Had her spirit never traveled here? Holding his
breath, he’d listened for her heart again. There was no sound from her body, but the rumble of approaching bulls had quickly
become deafening. He grabbed her hand to pull her out of the way, and her ring, the wedding ring he’d given her, had slipped
off her cold fingers. Dragging her corpse, he’d stumbled toward the far wall. The animals had rounded the bend, and Cheftu
had looked up into the murderous gaze of the Apis bulls, the white markings on their foreheads almost glowing in the faint
light.

Chloe’s body had caught on something, and Cheftu had tried to work her free, the bulls pounding toward him. She wouldn’t move!
At the last moment he’d thrown himself flat against the wall. He’d screamed, felt the hooves on her body as though they were
on his. Pressing as flat as possible, he’d heard the bulls run past him. The healthiest were first. Then came those that had
been used in temple ritual. They’d hobbled, their forelegs cropped, the calves and cows lowing in the whitewashed cavern.

Cheftu had waited until it sounded clear and then stepped back. He’d turned and seen Chloe. Pulverized. Her beautiful face
was a mash of flesh and bone, her body broken and torn. She’d been dead, he knew that, but the destruction of her corpse made
him mad for a few moments. He’d kissed her bloodied hands, smoothed away her matted hair, covered her face with cloth as best
he could. It was unreal. She had to be alive. Yet she wasn’t; even the blood from her body was stagnated and dead.

At some point he’d looked up and seen a lone bull running toward him. Unable to bear the thought of Chloe’s body being trampled
again, he’d run, inciting the bull to chase. It had cornered him, and though Cheftu had no desire to live, he’d unconsciously
turned away and flung himself in piles of manure, protecting his face and groin. The bull had run over him; Cheftu remembered
the blinding agony of his hand being crushed, his difficulty breathing.

Then nothing.

No one had been found with him. Chloe had already been dead, he comforted himself. She was gone before the first bull. She
had felt no pain, she’d already been with
le bon Dieu
. Why hadn’t he been allowed to join them?

“My lord?” The vizier’s tone was impatient. Cheftu blinked. He had been ignoring the second most powerful man in Egypt.

“My apologies,” he said. “It is just… that…,” Cheftu inhaled sharply as the reality came crashing in. Chloe was dead! It couldn’t
be true! It couldn’t be! But it was. He’d seen her body. He’d touched her corpse-cold hands.
Mon Dieu!
“What… happened to her … remains?” Was she … ? Had they … ? Cheftu couldn’t bring himself to ask of her burial.

Ipiankhu looked away. “I know not, but I will ask.”

Cheftu looked at the delicate ring on his finger. The memory of her trampled body filled his mind and he doubled over, relieved
for the pain of his cracked ribs. It kept him from feeling his broken heart so strongly. “My lord—,” Ipiankhu began, then
he placed his hand on Cheftu’s shoulder. Cheftu froze, fighting the tears inside. Chloe was gone? How could such a life be
gone? The first sob caught in his chest as he heard Ipiankhu leave.

“Chloe,” he whispered brokenly.
“Mon Dieu
, Chloe!”

C
HLOE TURNED IN HER SLEEP
, the woolen sheet tangling around her waist, long hair tying around her neck. Long hair? Why long hair? The thought was lost
as her dreams swept her away again…

Dreams? Or memories?

The ship moved gently beneath them, and Chloe tossed the throwing sticks and landed in the net, which meant she had to go
back at least half the
senet
board. Cheftu got two more pieces into eternity. His tossing of the sticks had become a sensual act, his long fingers moving
over the carved bone pieces with slow grace
.

She felt heat in her cheeks and looked away. There were so many things they weren’t speaking of, so many painful topics they
were avoiding. She looked at him, his amber eyes narrowed against Ra’s light. Shadows sculpted his chest and arms, highlighting
the sweat-sheened muscle, delineating the cut of ab, delt, and bicep. At least fifty people were easily a glance away. “If
you had to lose a physical sense, which would it be?” she asked
.

Cheftu tossed the sticks; for once his throw was bad. Chloe kept her gaze focused on the wooden deck, not on his sinful hands
.

“A sense?”

“Aye. Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste, hearing.”

“Which for you?” he asked
.

“Anything but sight. If I couldn’t see color, or texture, differentiate between the sky’s blue and sea’s blue …” She trailed
off, watching his hands. Such long, beautiful fingers, square nails—masculine hands, but not harsh. “I think I would die if
I couldn’t see. My world has always been in color, in shape and perspective. To have that taken away would be to kill the
core of me.” Chloe tossed the sticks. Finally, a decent roll!

“To pick a sense means I would lose one of my ways of loving you,” Cheftu said. He stretched out, laying his head on her linen-covered
thigh. In the way of dreams, his touch melted away her linen and his bronzed hand lay on her naked, quivering leg
.

“I wouldn’t be able to hear your cries of pleasure, or I wouldn’t be capable of feeling the satin of your skin or I wouldn’t
recognize the perfume of your arousal…” His hands suddenly caressed her everywhere, stroking, touching, teasing. His voice
was in her ear, inciting her
.

“Or I couldn’t see your hair like a sheet of night, around me, black and shining. Or your eyes, green and full of life
. Ma belle,”
he murmured. He picked up her hand, still clasping the throwing sticks, and brought it to his mouth. “To forfeit taste would
mean the sweetness of your body”—he sucked on one fingertip—“would be lost to me.” He sucked on another. “To lose my speech
would mean I could only tell you with my body”—he sucked the tip of her ring finger, tightly, almost stinging—“how much I
love you and worship you with my soul.”He took the length of her index finger into his mouth, and Chloe inhaled sharply as
he closed his eyes in pleasure
.

He tossed the sticks and moved his man. “I won.”

Then they were rolling on the deck, not only linked by flesh, but linked by soul. She felt her skin melt into his, heard him
begging … begging
…

Chloe, don’t be dead!

D
ARKNESS ENGULFED HER
. It was pitch, like night. She sat up slowly, her hand to her pounding head, where it felt slightly disconnected. Her sense
of direction was shot; she had no clue of where she might be. The silence was consuming as the last images of an ancient temple
played back in her mind… with the viewing came searing pain.
Haii
, Cheftu! Oh God, Cheftu!

She froze as the ghost of a voice echoed, rich and velvety in the blackness around her.

“Chloe? Chloe, don’t be dead!”

Sibylla jerked awake, sweating and shaking. Fear. She was deathly afraid. Something sought to take her over, to subject her!
No one has the power, she thought calmly. I am the oracle, I am a priestess, I am in control. Breathing deeply, she steadied
herself.

She had looked forward to the solitude of the Daedaledion. Once here, once purged of the shadow-infested cave, she’d thought
all would be well. Her mind flashed images of burned fields, the young bride’s death. Sibylla flinched. Cigarette, she wanted
a cigarette.

What
was a cigarette?

Her tormentor had come with her, was living here with her. Recoiling from herself, Sibylla ran to the outside balcony, trailing
her linen sheet. Cold rain lashed the sleeping countryside, and she let the steady sound soothe her nerves. It was the not
sleeping, she reasoned. Every night threw her into a frenzy of emotion. She felt battered within and without. Sometimes the
voices were almost audible, screaming in fury, weeping in agony. Sibylla smoothed her hair over her shoulders. She hated to
face the possibility of no longer prophesying…

So she wouldn’t consider it. Kela was trying to tell her something; she only needed to be aware, to not fear and to not run.
Breathing deeply, she let the cool breeze soothe her. Calm once more, she returned to her bed, lit by the oil lamp. She opened
a small leather bag and poured the few stones into her palm. Opal, lapis lazuli, turquoise, red agate, and tiger’s eye. She
wanted to purge herself of mental conflict, of this oppression, so she slipped the others into the bag and placed the tiger’s
eye on her right elbow. Still breathing deeply, Sibylla willed herself the calm of the Great Goddess to pour into her veins
through the stone. She visualized the words in a dance of pattern, backward and forward, twisting and turning.