Shadows on the Aegean (41 page)

“Warm,” Chloe said without thinking, and watched the girl adjust the two pipes so there was more hot water than cold. Hot
and cold running water? What age was this? The science-fiction age? Chloe stepped back into the main room, her mind racing.
Some things were so recognizable as Minoan, some so alien. Chloe shivered.

The pyramid was a complete surprise. Its sides were brightly colored in a rainbow array, culminating in the flat gold-covered
top. Yet the colors had depth, almost as though they were jewels.
Yeah, right, Chloe. A sapphire that doubles as a two-by-four
.

The girl called her, and Chloe, anticipating her first warm bath in over a year, had to keep from running. The fragrance of
hyacinths filled the air, and she saw the tiny flowers floating atop the water. With a sigh she didn’t bother hiding, Chloe
stepped down. Warmth … this was almost better than sex.

Sex.

Cheftu.

She sat down rather hard on the submerged bench, trying to sort the memories she had stolen from Sibylla. With a snap she
dismissed the girl and washed, the water sluicing over her tawny skin. Shampooing her new long hair took forever, and Chloe
realized why she had always kept hers shoulder length or shorter. This was a pain.

Finally, certain she had everything rinsed, she stood up, wrapping herself in a sun-warmed sheet. I could get used to this,
Chloe thought, inhaling the scent of the hyacinths. She poked her head into the main room. A partition had been set up, covered
with some kind of metal that reflected the sun. A low mat and a basket of fruit had been prepared, and Chloe wondered who
was going to invade her bedroom.

“My mistress, would you care to sun?”

The girl indicated the mat in the sun, and Chloe lowered herself, grabbing a handful of grapes. First the girl brushed her
hair, then laid the heavy mass in the sunshine, over Chloe’s shoulder, while she massaged and prodded Chloe’s body into a
state of blissful relaxation.

“Okh!
There you are,” a woman said. Chloe’s eyes popped open. “You are running behind, Sib. The Council is holding an impromptu
meeting in a little over a decan. My sorrow for your
pateeras
, though I know you didn’t know him. Out of forty-five siblings, how could you?” Chloe heard the woman sit on a stone bench,
talking a mile a minute.

Chloe had heard of Posidios’ death but had gotten no response from Sibylla. “The work you did in Naxos is well on its way
to becoming myth,” the chatty woman said. Chloe tried desperately to place the voice, to get Sibylla to offer something—a
name, a title—honestly, the woman was useless! “It is astounding what can happen when the Bull roars.” The woman crunched
grapes noisily. “Sib, are you ever going to say anything?”

“Just waiting for my chance,” Chloe said jokingly. Fortunately the other woman laughed.

“Embla and Ileana have been closeted together almost every day for decans,” the woman said. “I have become very careful about
what I eat; Embla would not be above disposing of her inheritor if it would win the favor of the Queen of Heaven.”

Inheritor! Cult of the Snake! This was Selena, Sibylla’s closest friend. Oh Kela, Chloe thought. What if she realizes that
I’m an impostor? The serf finished the massage and wrapped a cloak over Chloe’s shoulders, easing her up.

“Are you going to dress?” Selena asked. “The meeting convenes shortly, Sib.”

Chloe tried to keep a tremble out of her voice. “Will the new Spiralmaster be present?”

Selena laughed. “You will have to go to know.”

Chloe turned around and watched as Selena’s eyes widened and narrowed at her changed appearance. “By the skirts of Kela, what
happened to you?”

My eyes, she thought. “Wha-what do you mean?”

“Your face is … Well, Sibylla, I don’t intend rudeness, but it seems flatter.”

“Flatter?”

“Aye, your nose is … well, it looks smaller.” Selena approached her, a frown on her not-so-flat features. “Where did you get
that mark on your chin?” Self-consciously Chloe touched the tiny cleft in her chin. “I thought your eyes were blue. They look
green now.” Selena crossed her arms over her ample bare breasts. “Forgive me, my friend, but you look distinctly ill favored.”

Stung, the real Sibylla rose inside her, and Chloe understood suddenly. In this empire, big bumpy noses and receding chins
were all the rage. Neither of which she had. Though she’d always thought her nose big, it was straight and long, not a single
bump in sight. On a good day her chin could pass for merely aggressive; never receding. She stared at Selena’s nose and felt
herself blush.

Akra
was the word for both nose and tip. In Aztlan, one’s nose size was analogous to one’s sexual prowess. “The bigger the better”
suddenly took on all new meaning. She blinked at the large but beautifully modeled example on Selena’s face. All the paintings,
all the pictures,
that
was why everyone was wearing honkers.

“You poor dear,” Selena said, embracing Chloe. “I am heartless! Let us see what we can do, what dressing you need to take
everyone’s attention off your … well, off your face.”

Chloe wasn’t offended. Not much, anyway. Sibylla, after cursing her former friend, returned to her room with a slam of the
mental door. Not a good sign, Chloe thought. Selena snapped for the serf. “I heard your predictions this year were extreme.
Perhaps your dreams have done this to your face?”

Rhinoplasty while you sleep.

Resisting the urge to testify that she was considered quite appealing when she was in her own skin and time, and that not
all civilizations thought weak chins and huge beaks were attractive, Chloe focused on the ritual of dressing. Between the
two of them they settled on a white, blue, and saffron skirt. Four of the layers were embroidered straight across, the fifth
dipped into a point around her knees, and a quilted apron of blue with gold threads wrapped tightly over her hips and waist.
Selena scoffed at the sheer shirt and declared that since Kela had arrived, no one was wearing those silly things. Chloe found
herself staring into a mirror in a jacket with blue-and-gold-threaded quilted sleeves that bared both breasts. Selena turned
her around and laced a waist cincher, which had the combined effect of a WonderBra and girdle and was about as comfortable
as a strait-jacket.

Her breasts seemed obscene, especially once they were tipped with gold paint. The heavy clan medallion hung right above their
swell, and the serf selected several other necklaces and an anklet or two of the same matte gold.

The serf played with Chloe’s hair for what seemed like aeons. The final arrangement was pulled away from her face, with two
long tendrils curling over her ears. A band of matte gold crossed her forehead, allowing another, shorter curl or two to fall
over it onto her face. The rest of it was interlaced with blue and gold beads, twisted and braided. By the time the girl was
finished Chloe felt as though her hair alone weighed ten pounds. The Egyptians were right; wigs were definitely easier.

On the other hand, she was wearing her own hair, as opposed to the baldness factor in Egyptian culture. Besides, all the other
women she’d seen were wearing a similar hairstyle.

Did everyone have naturally curly hair here?

Like most sun-dwelling peoples, the Aztlantu wore protective kohl around their eyes. Chloe stared in the water mirror. Bumpy
nose or not, she looked fabulous. How vain, she thought to herself, but it was true. The clothing, at least, was Minoan.

“If you are through admiring yourself, Narcissus,” Selena said, “perhaps you can manage to make it to the Council?”

The Council, Chloe thought. “No need for the sharp side of your tongue,” she said. “I only want to look my best because …”
Because why? “Because I need to negotiate that transfer at Milos.”

“Because you have heard the new Spiralmaster is built like Apis and has eyes like saffron, more likely,” Selena said.

That, too, Chloe thought, her knees feeling a little weak.

Arm in arm they walked through the palace, greeting and waving along the way. The garden was gorgeous, red and gold flowers
blooming in swarms over the ripple-backed settees scattered here and there. The sound of rushing water was soothing, and she
saw a graduated series of pools, linked by a miniature waterfall. The main pool was a mosaic of stylized fish, octopus, and
other sea creatures. They walked past it and up over a stone bridge. Sibylla looked over her shoulder and saw the hulking
pyramid, the sunlight deepening its rainbow sides. What building material was that?

The women stepped down into a large room, and Chloe smothered a yelp. This was real—it seemed unreal, but it
was
real. Hundreds of people filled the chamber, all clad in clothing as colorful and revealing as her own. Rapidly purloining
Sibylla’s understanding, Chloe went mentally around the table.

For one thing, there was only one table. That was extraordinary in itself. Remembering one of her few interior design classes,
Chloe recalled that long feasting tables were an invention of the Greeks, as in Plato, Sappho, Pericles. The Egyptians feasted
on small tables that sat one or two.

Then she realized this was not a feasting table, but a gathering table. Before each of the ten seats was a mosaic design.
The artist in her itched for a sketch pad. A faceted stone, a stylized wave, a tritone flame, a lush vine with grapes, the
inside of a conch shell, a butterfly, a serpent, a set of horns, a triton, and a column. It was the same-styled column she’d
seen throughout the palace. It was wider on the top than the bottom, slightly awkward in appearance but striking when painted
crimson.

Again, Minoan.

She looked again at the people: Nekros, frosted white skin and eyes as limitless as hell. Iason, Posidios’ inheritor and new
chieftain of the Clan of the Wave. His eyes were red rimmed and his hands shook in the presence of this company. Talos, as
dark as the soot he worked with, and lame. Her cousin Dion, gray-eyed Atenis, the Kela-Ata Embla, herself, the Minos of Apis,
and the blond giant who was
Hreesos
. Behind each of them stood the inheritors to their position. Scowling fiercely at the empty Spiralmaster chair stood an albino
man with eyes of Elizabeth Taylor purple.

It was like Holland. The average for beauty was so high that even the ugly people were gorgeous.

Chloe sat down on her chair and waited for the meeting to start.

Swallowing, she recited her ritual lines, and
Hreesos
brought the meeting to order. Contracts needed renegotiating; bartering needed to be done—both of which Chloe was lamentably
ill equipped to handle. In any time period. She sat back and begged the Minoan, Aztlantu, she reminded herself, Sibylla to
control this event. If you don’t, you are going to lose money, she chided the woman. Wearily Sibylla took over.

Chloe concentrated, trying to recall what she knew of the Minoans. What had Mom said those many times? Why hadn’t she listened?
If only I’d known archaeology was going to be so important a subject in my life, Chloe thought. I would have accepted the
genetic obsession and studied it.

A new entry into the room brought Chloe out of her reverie. The Rising Golden Bull swaggered into the room, saluted them all
respectfully, and moved to stand behind
Hreesos
.

The family resemblance could not be more pronounced. The Golden they were indeed. Jutting noses, receding chins, thin-lipped
wide mouths and glorious, flowing blond hair. Phoebus’ eyes were a shade darker than
Hreesos’
, but they had the same strapping build and the same easy sense of command.

“I wanted Phoebus to address us today since soon,
eee
soon he will be in this chair,” Zelos said. The group murmured.

“Clansmen,” Phoebus said. “Prostatevo is nearly complete. Due to the recent misfortune at the Clan of the Muse”—he inclined
his head to Atenis—“we are running behind schedule.”

Sibylla was appalled at the Rising Golden’s callousness—and Chloe had to agree. To call a monumental volcanic eruption a misfortune
seemed a horrible understatement. Either that or the man redefined self-absorption.

“Nevertheless, Prostatevo should be ready for the Council to view by midsummer festival.” He licked his lips and braced on
the table. “On other matters, as Rising Golden, I must lodge a complaint with this body. More specifically, with the quorum
of this body.”

Fidgeting, cold silence.

“Spiralmaster is a vital position in Aztlan. It takes summers of training for a candidate even to be considered worthy to
learn from Imhotep. Niko was the most brilliant student Imhotep ever had.” Phoebus looked at them. “You and I heard the Spiralmaster
say those exact words countless times.”

Chloe’s gaze went around the room. The tension among the Council was frightening. For some reason she was able to see and
hear, even though Sibylla was “driving.” There seemed to be less and less of Sibylla to argue with.

“The blood vows have long been held—”

“Time before mind,” the Minos interjected.

“Inviolable,” Phoebus continued, “but I submit that Spiralmaster was beyond reason and would not have inducted a foreigner,
an unknown, into the Council. I further submit for consideration that this Cheftu be stripped of his position and it be rightfully
conferred on Niko.”

The ensuing babble proved that
Robert’s Rules of Order
were not established in the Minoan—Aztlantu—world. The group seemed evenly split, half screaming that Imhotep had chosen
and sworn the man in, the other half blaming the death of Posidios on the missing Spiralmaster.

The argument was cut short as the floor rippled, raining plaster on the Council’s heads. The quake lasted for only three seconds,
but it had shaken them all.
Hreesos
called for an adjournment, and Chloe stumbled out the door with the others.

Fresh air, solid ground, that was what she needed. Desperately!

When they reconvened it was obvious wheeling and dealing had taken place during the break. Chloe watched as glances were exchanged.
Phoebus reiterated his concerns about the new Spiralmaster, and Nekros rose to his feet.