Shadows on the Aegean (4 page)

The walls of the palace, with their life-size paintings of priestesses and princes in worship and parade, sailed by in a haze
of gold, scarlet, black, and white. Sounds of the festivities—music, the clatter of earthenware and alabaster, and the low
trill of laughter—caressed Ileana’s ears as she was carried down the wide staircase to the queen’s
Megaron
.

The guards set her chair down gently and assisted her out. Shooing the peacocks into the spacious chamber, Ileana smiled as
silence fell. One solitary flute played as she sauntered in. The guests, her subjects, stood with bowed heads and arms raised
in supplication.

“Kela-Ileana, Queen of Heaven, Mother-Goddess of the Harvest, Mistress of Aztlan,” a high voice sang.

She took her seat at the elevated edge of the company: with a snap of her fingers the feast returned to life. Her rhyton was
refilled, and before she could sink it in the ground a male voice spoke. “Fairest Heaven, may I?”

Slowly she raised her gaze. By the strength of Apis, this man was a beauty! His smile indicated he knew this well. Irritated
by his arrogance, Ileana plunged the rhyton’s end into the ground. His shock was visible. Was she the first to refuse him?

Looking beyond him, she called out to her stepson, “Arus! Tell me, who is this man to think he can approach Heaven on the
strength of his smile?” From the corner of her eye she saw the youth’s cheeks redden.

Arus, his hair unfashionably short, but bearing a
most
impressive nose, leaned forward. “He’s the youngest Troizen prince. Not enough man for an Aztlantu woman.” He smiled and
turned his attention back to his companion.

Ileana snapped for food and waited in silence, watching the courtiers of Aztlan. It was a gay group since
Hreesos’
grayheads had gone to an annual symbolic sea skirmish.

Her gaze flickered quickly over the women present. Summer approached, when she would have to defend herself and her goddess-given
throne against the nymphs who chose to challenge her. The Coil Dancers were priestesses, but not Olimpi. She dismissed them.
Long ago she’d learned their sexual tricks and had gone on to perfect them.

She saw the occasional fresh-faced nymph; however, they were not priestesses and therefore no threat to the Queen of Heaven.
A clanswoman or two roamed the room, their years proclaimed by the backs of their hands. Age alone would prevent them from
catching her in the footrace.

Three women were her true rivals: Vena, Selena, and Sibylla. Ileana smiled at a courtier attempting to woo her through gifts.
Even if one of her clanswomen managed to win the race, she would still have to wait a moon to see if Ileana had become pregnant.
Then Ileana had several moons when she could pretend pregnancy before she was discovered. Those moons would be fatal for any
potential successor, giving Ileana time to get with child.

Ileana knew she was fertile, she was the goddess on earth. However, she might have to work to find the right partner. It was
the timing of the thing. Racing always disrupted her moon-cycles, and to become pregnant immediately afterward … she needed
Kela’s help. The courtier blushed as Ileana directed her most charming smile of gratitude at him. The gift was worthless,
but he was blond—he could be useful.

The young Troizen prince had not spoken, not even glanced her way. Intriguing, Ileana mused. He refuses to cower before my
beauty or to flee my legendary wrath.

Deliberately she turned to him. He stared straight ahead. Ileana narrowed her eyes. He was not as tall as an Aztlantu man,
but he was broader shouldered and more sinewy. His body was sleek skinned and oiled, firm young flesh that rippled as he moved.

He was a blond.

Per Aztlantu custom he wore a belled, patterned skirt, but strangely he had no waist cincher. A flat link necklace was his
only adornment. No makeup tinted his lips or ringed his eyes. He turned to her, challenge and carefully banked lust in his
deep green eyes. “Are you pleased with what you see … my mistress?”

His arrogance was tinged with charm. He wasn’t afraid of her, and Ileana found the difference thrilling. Playing with him
could be entertaining. “Thus far,” she said, husky voiced. She rolled a date on her lips before eating it, licking the sticky
residue away slowly. “However, I cannot make a decision based
only
on what I behold.”

His eyebrows were not plucked or painted but grew densely, leaving only a narrow gap over the bridge of his nose. Ileana felt
a catch in her throat. His nose was exquisite, large and bold; his mouth was wide.

“Even your beauty cannot win you that honor,” he said, rising to his feet. Ileana smiled coolly at his retreating form; he
was a prince of Troi,
eee?
The man was a peacock; she admired his spirit. She had insulted him, so he had responded in kind. A worthy lover, to give
as good as he got.

Ileana was not finished with him yet.

She saw him embrace a Coil Dancer; holding the girl’s bare breasts in his hands, he kissed her mouth with the fervor of youth.
Ileana felt desire’s flood rise. Two blond men; who would know if Phoebus were not the true father?

“He’s quite a stag, is he not?” hissed Vena.

Too entranced to recall that she hated Vena, Ileana agreed.

“He’s fostering here. His name is Priamos, the youngest son of Troi.”

“Why we foster an enemy’s whelp, I do not know,” Ileana mused.

“Well, if a mistress of your stature and summers knows not, then few of us have any chance at that wisdom,” Vena said with
a smirk.

Ileana remembered instantly that this above-herself Shell Seeker from Milos was among her rivals. She smiled sweetly. “My
poor dear, don’t lust after a younger son, it demeans the clan. I know you must doubt yourself now—your charms, your ability—it
must be difficult to have a lover flee.” Ileana spoke over Vena’s sputtering protests. “But I overstep your feelings. I do
not know. I’ve never been put aside.”

Vena’s rose complexion was mottled with fury. “I could have Nestor back!”

“He fled to Kemt to get away from you!
Okh!”
Ileana said, touching her lips in feigned chagrin. “I apologize. What is the tale you are bandying about? He volunteered
on a diplomatic mission for dear Phoebus, is that the right myth?”

“I could have any man on any shore in the empire!”

Ileana lifted her rhyton to her lips. “Men being what they are,
having
is no challenge.” She sipped her wine, feeling the peppery bite of oregano and thyme mixed in. “
Keeping
is.”

“What a wonder you know the difference after nineteen summers wed to
Hreesos
. Tell me, Kela-Ileana, has he slept on your couch more than once?” Vena arched her back as she spoke, throwing her perfect
body into a pose that halted conversation at two tables.

Ileana smiled coldly, careful not to let emotion tug at her face. “
Hreesos
, my Golden Bull husband, may have rutted and rammed a selection—”

“A wide selection—”

“—of cows … but he always returns to the fold.”

Vena, her violet eyes black with anger, clenched her fists. She would be trouble, Ileana thought. She was beautiful, healthy,
Olimpi, and her background as a Shell Seeker qualified her. How could Ileana stop her?

“Mistresses, the air fair crackles with your words.” The speaker dropped down between them, as careless and graceful as a
black cat.

“Already you stink of the grape,” Vena said to him, throwing her chestnut curls over her shoulder.

He grinned. “But I am
of
the grape.” He deepened his voice and bellowed, “Dion Bacchi, inheritor of the Clan of the Vine!” Leaning forward, he placed
a love bite on Vena’s breast. “Besides, last Season of the Lion, when you were beneath me, also crushing the grapes, your
comment was, Aye, Dion!’ “ he trilled in a falsetto. After flashing a wicked smile at the laughter of the courtiers, he sipped
from Ileana’s rhyton and turned it so that she drank from the same spot. “However, if we are to discuss the scent that I recall
from the experience, I would say it was fi—”Vena cuffed his head and marched back to Arus. The courtiers returned to their
conversations as Dion lounged beside Ileana’s feet.

“Where is Sibylla?” she asked. Best to know where one’s rivals were.

Dion reached up and plucked shrimp speared with rosemary from the glazed dish before her. “You know full well that she loathes
both of you.”

“As do you?”

His smile was charming, melting the severe lines of his face. In a lover’s purr he said, “I do, Ileana. With all my heart,
I do.”

In Aztlan, Dion was the ideal—tall, broad shouldered, wasp-waisted, with black hair that fell to his waist. His eyes were
large and dark, deep as an oracular pool. Seeing him reportedly drove the clanswomen wild with lust—a screaming pack of hounds
in heat who roamed the hills in the white of the moon. Despite his youth, he seemed aged, knowing that no one could refuse
him. Ileana hated herself for not being above the physical call of a man she loathed.

“You have an odd way of showing it, feeding me wine—” Ileana stopped, staring at
Hreesos’
whelp. Carefully she wiped her mouth on the edge of her garment, then picked up the empty rhyton. She willed her fingers
to cease trembling as she felt the bottom for residue. Holding up her fingers, she saw glittering grains in the dregs. “You
poisoned me?” she rasped. Where had her taster been?

Dion smiled.

“Tell me!” Ileana hissed.

He smiled wider, speaking only to prevent her from shrieking for the guards. “Never poison, Ileana.” He clicked with his tongue,
a sound of dismay. “Nay, your death should be savored.” He licked his fingers, his tongue caressing the pads. “Anticipated.”
His gaze grew darker, more intense, and Ileana felt her body tighten in response. He took her palm and licked it; fire rippled
through her body. “Why, it should bring at least as much pleasure as your life has brought grief.”

“You are dismissed,” Ileana said tightly.

“Shared,” Dion continued, his fingers stroking his chest in minute movements that made her hands itch to take over the responsibility.
“Shared equally by those whom your life has cursed. How many lay their death at your door? Do you need counting strings to
keep tally?”

“You go too far with your accusations and blasphemies,” Ileana hissed.

He continued as though she had not spoken. “However, your days are numbered. You are too old to bear the next Golden.”

She rose abruptly and the company fell silent. Dion lounged at her feet. Ileana snapped her fingers and her chair was brought
immediately. As she sat, Dion rolled over, his face level with her feet. He kissed the arch of her foot tenderly, his lips
finding the sensitive skin between her sandal straps.

“You test me, whelp.”

“I will bid a scribe attend you; age has probably affected your mind, as it has your body,” he said sadly. “How your beauty
has faded, even more so than your intellect. Perhaps the scribe can assist you with the list. We can start with your own mother,
my mother, Phoebus’ mother, Nestor’s mother—”

Ileana snapped her fingers and they left, but Dion’s count remained in her head. How she had fought for her throne! From her
earliest memory she’d known she would be Queen of Heaven. She wanted it, deserved it. In one bold action she had grabbed it.
No one could prove anything, though suspicions were raised. Ever after, bodyguards, food tasters, and a rigorous physical
regime worked to protect her. She’d spent a lifetime defending her position. If the reigning Queen of Heaven died while in
office,
Hreesos
could choose anyone, any of the many whores he’d impregnated.

He would have no choices: she would have no assassins.

So she’d eliminated the many women who had presented her husband with sons.

They had given him perfect children—Phoebus, Dion, Nestor … The babes from Ileana’s own exquisite, golden body were female.
She would not be usurped by her own daughters, ugly though they were. Not by Atenis, her strangely silent, homely firstborn,
nor by Irmentis, the child of the night. The goddess Kela had been in her Season of Blood, and Ileana’s youngest daughter
bore the marks of her wrath.

As the embodiment of Kela, Ileana was creator and destroyer. She had made certain neither girl would seek pleasure in Zelos’
arms. She was Kela, with Kela’s authority, power, and position. What she wanted was divinely approved, for she wanted it.
Ileana had removed the desire to rule and to wed from her daughters; she would not be a victim of matricide.

Ileana was assisted from the chair and entered her rooms. Light glowed in alabaster basins, and Leia played softly on the
lyre as Ileana’s young serf stood naked, anxious, and prepared to serve.

He untied her waist cincher, released her skirt, and led her to the lustral bath. Too tired to resist, she shuddered as she
stepped into the warm water. The memories never faded; indeed, they grew more potent. The serf offered her
kreenos
, and Ileana hesitated, then took some. The drug brought her no peace, however. The specters from her past rose up before
her.

Once again she was thirteen, slipping into her mother Rhea’s chambers. Zelos, Ileana’s older brother and Rhea’s son, had just
left the apartment, and Rhea was sprawled on her couch, naked and defenseless.

Ileana, tall and gawky for her age, had hidden an obsidian blade in the folds of her tunic. She was only a Shell Seeker and
thus did not wear the layered skirt honoring the Great Goddess. She stepped quietly toward the sleeping woman, the sound of
Rhea’s soft snoring beating in the girl’s head. Blond hair, so like Ileana’s, flowed over marble white shoulders. Kela-Rhea
wasn’t aging: she would never lose the footrace, she would never step down as Queen of Heaven.

She raised the blade in both hands, then Ileana plunged it into her mother’s back. Like the animals Ileana had practiced on,
Rhea struggled, screamed, and tried to flee the knife. The cone shell poison worked quickly, however—in an eyeblink Rhea could
no longer move. “My bath,” she gasped. “Ba—a—aa-ttt …” Her body jerked violently, the poison controlling her. Finally, she
was still.