Shadows on the Aegean (28 page)

The sound of splintering wood muffled the whip of waves, wind, and the boom of thunder. Cheftu felt the deck shift beneath
him, and he fell, sliding for cubits. He reached out for something to grab, but the ship was tilting too quickly. The roars
of the bulls in the hold made the boat vibrate.

Another crack and the ship split in two. The ash was blinding, clogging his throat and nose. As he covered his mouth, the
ship shifted and Cheftu was thrown from the deck into the sea.

White water closed over his head.

Cheftu came up gasping, coughing, narrowly missing being hit by a plank. With powerful kicks he swam away from the burning
wreckage, hauling the few bodies he saw onto his piece of wood. He pounded backs and breathed into men’s mouths, making them
cough and sputter and come back to life. He’d been a physician before, but the modern skills he’d learned from Chloe gave
him the appearance of a god now.

Relinquishing his piece of wood to the four men clutching it, Cheftu swam across the dark sea toward the other bobbing heads.

It was raining paste made of ash and water, and Cheftu knew they wouldn’t be able to breathe for long. The night was black,
pelting them, and Cheftu couldn’t even see the horizon. Would they just let the tide take them? Holding on to a new buoy,
Cheftu joined the Mariners in kicking away from the wreckage and heading gods only knew where.

They sighted land about the time the sky began to lighten. Cheftu’s legs trembled when they finally walked up on the beach.
For decans, they fished people from the sea.

Cheftu pounded another Mariner’s back until he vomited up seawater, coughing and wheezing. He’d just washed in on the tide.
Cheftu next walked down the hard pebbled beach and assisted some other sailors. No one had seen the commander, and seven others
were still missing. Aztlantu Mariners trained well, though. The men knew these waters and could easily find an island with
fresh water. Unless of course, they were wounded. Cheftu learned through halting Aztlantu that if a Mariner could not swim
back to his ship, he was declared dead.

Cheftu masked his expression at this statement of Aztlantu callousness.

Ignoring the thanks he received, he moved to the next group, setting a broken arm and checking on the unconscious cabin boy.

Cheftu climbed up to the cliff that overlooked the beach and the rest of the island, a cheerless expanse of gray. He stared
out at the water. Ash floated atop the waves, obscuring their brilliant blue. He knew of no term for “volcano” in Egyptian
or in Aztlantu. Where was the eruption?

The birds in which the Aztlantu put so much store had been released as the ship was hit. Even now, the Mariners assured him,
Aztlantu were on their way to rescue them. A group of men had hiked into the interior of the island in search of fresh water.
Another contingent had begun repairing the small boat that buoyed many of them up last night.

The bulls were lost. Cheftu winced as he thought of the terrified animals fighting against their greater weight, going down
in the hull of the ship. He hoped the Aztlantu Council would not hold Egypt responsible. The ship they’d been sailing on was
Aztlantu, the storm was no one’s fault, but it was impossible to predict the Aztlantu reaction.

Cheftu watched as one of the men staggered to his feet. Several of them seemed to have seawater in their ears; their balance
was uncertain. One seaman seemed on the verge of collapse. Cheftu frowned; perhaps the Mariner had received some type of blow
during the wreck and it had … had what? Those who were disoriented had neither wounds nor any other visible injuries.

Dehydration, Cheftu surmised, looking out on the beach. The sun was almost obscured by clouds of ash, and each man had tied
a cloth over his nose and mouth to breathe. His gaze moved over the laid-out bodies of the sick. Cheftu closed his eyes as
a wave of dizziness swept over him. Deliberately he swallowed, intent on staying upright. Dehydration and exhaustion. The
dizziness passed and Cheftu tried to concentrate.

Why was he here? If his calculations were correct, he was in the Middle Kingdom. Why?

He stretched. Why here, in the Aegean Sea? With this Aztlan empire he’d never heard of outside Egypt? A missing culture. The
idea was somehow familiar, but he was too weary to pursue it. Slowly he clambered down the bluff, brushed off his dingy kilt,
and adjusted the pack on his back.

Frantic shouts drew his attention, and he ran around the foot of the bluff to the open beach. Two of the sick Mariners were
fighting, their hands locked around each other’s throats. Cheftu shouted for assistance as he tried to pull them apart. The
one being attacked was blue, unable to breathe, but holding his hands around the other’s throat with an uncanny, fever-driven
strength. Both were big, sinewy men, and Cheftu couldn’t break their grips.

“Somebody help me!” he shouted, looking for a way to separate them. “You idiots!” he yelled in Egyptian. “You kill yourselves
on your deathbeds? What madness is this?” He raised a piece of driftwood and brought it down on both their heads.

Hands still around each other’s throats, the men fell, unconscious. The other Mariners watched wide-eyed, muttering about
Cynaris and Batus. Cheftu gestured for the men to be laid on the sand. With a grim expression, Cheftu lashed their hands and
feet together. If they died, they would be freed, but they were not allowed to kill each other. Not in his infirmary—even
if it
was
just a beach!

N
IKO STOOD OUTSIDE
S
PIRALMASTER’S LABORATORY DOOR
. His hands were clammy, he couldn’t ever recall being so excited. He’d run to his mentor as soon as he’d been assured that
the young woman would survive. Blood poisoning had set in through her wound, and Niko was ashamed to admit he’d not seen her
hand. Or, rather, not seen the stub where her hand had been. Now she slept easily. She had fought the infection well, and
Niko had finally felt free to leave her side.

What would the Spiralmaster say about the stones? What mysteries could they learn from this god, together? Niko stepped in,
and Imhotep turned to him. In these past weeks, the Spiralmaster had aged a dozen summers. The normally well-groomed man was
in stained linen, his face unshaven. “My master?” Niko said questioningly.

Spiralmaster’s side seemed twisted, and Niko was dismayed at how slowly and awkwardly the man moved. Niko took a deep breath,
then announced, “My master, I found the stones.” From each side of his kilt he pulled a stone.

The white one.

The black one.

Spiralmaster looked at each one, rubbing bent fingers over the etched letters.

“Do you know how they work?” Spiralmaster’s words were so slurred that Niko had to ask three times before he could understand
his mentor’s query. What in the name of Apis had happened?

“Aye,” Niko said, shaking his head. “If you look closely, you see that each mark is lined with gold, to catch the light. Ask
the question and the answer is spelled out.” He assumed Spiralmaster knew the ancient language, though Daedalus had been Niko’s
instructor.

Imhotep looked at the stones. “The elixir,” he mumbled.

Niko tossed the stones. No light caught the engraved letters. “Perhaps the question needs to be rephrased,” he suggested.

Imhotep leaned against the table, muttering about the elixir.

Niko was shocked to see his master, his clan chieftain, so helpless. What had happened? What went wrong? Imhotep was shouting,
“Elixir!” and Niko threw the stones. Again, no answer.

“Is there an elixir?” he asked.

Nothing. Perhaps the question wasn’t specific enough.

Be specific, Niko thought. “Is there an elixir for immortality?”

He threw the stones and frowned at the response before remembering to translate it into the common language. He looked up
at Imhotep, his face frozen with incredulity. “There
is
an elixir,” he said.

“Ingredients,” Imhotep mumbled.

“What are the ingredients?” Yet what good was this question without a literal and fluent understanding of the ancient tongue?
As he expected, the stones gave no answer but lay silent.

A summons at the door, and Niko hid the stones. A serf informed them that another of Zelos’
hequetai
were ill.

Imhotep paled and Niko led the elderly man to his bed, appalled at the fragility of bones he felt beneath Imhotep’s clothing.
What was happening to his master? The Spiralmaster was muttering, agitated, yet Niko couldn’t understand a word he said. He
put the stones within reach of Spiralmaster, one on each side of his couch.

“Ingredients!” the older man shrieked.

“Ask the stones, my master. I do not know what they are. Two clicks will be nay, three will be aye.”

“You know this how?”

“It is the language, my master. Three consonants and a vowel are an aye, two consonants only for nay. Count the clicks for
the answer.”

Niko closed the door at Spiralmaster’s command to be left alone. Something was wrong with him; gods knew what it was.

Y
OUNG SEA URCHIN
, I
MHOTEP THOUGHT
, listening to the boy’s steps on the staircase. So these were the great legacy of Iavan’s god? Imhotep squinted, trying to
make out the letters. He bellowed for a serf to get him more light. Even with a torch above him, Imhotep could not read the
sacred writing.

Should he take them to Kela’s temple? Or perhaps the Pyramid of Days? His mind was cloudy. Imhotep touched the glass vial
before him. A liquid moved in it, an important liquid, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

He scooped up the stones in one trembling, lined hand and was slowly putting them in his side pouch when they began to move.
Imhotep opened his palm and saw them twisting and turning, blinding him as light caught the silver-and-gold letters.

“What is in the recipe?” he asked the stones. He tossed them and got no answer. “Is water in the recipe?”

Nay.

Okh!
This was how to do it! He had to pose aye/nay questions. Imhotep snapped for a scribe and began to ask the stones about ingredients.

Decans later Spiralmaster glared at the stones, frustrated by their apparent inability to speak beyond “aye” or “nay.” Time
was running short for
Hreesos
, for Imhotep, for them all. He needed the answers the stones could give him.

Through the stones, he now knew his elixir was one ingredient short.

Which
ingredient was the query.

Painstakingly Imhotep listed every element he had, rolling the stones and reading the answer. “Nay. Nay. Nay. Nay.” His scribe
long since dismissed, Imhotep racked his tired brain. So close, by Kela, so close! Wearily the old man tossed the stones again.

Nay.

He named another herb.

Nay.

Another.

Nay.

Another.

Nay.

Spiralmaster sighed and moved on to another list. He must find the last ingredient! They could not fail this close to the
finish! He turned the leather page and resumed his questioning.

The stones resumed their negative responses.