Shadows on the Aegean (60 page)

He looked up one last time; soon the moon would be one with the sun. In a moment of timeless night the most intimate of cosmic
dances would take place between Kela and Apis, the moon and the sun. Priests all over the empire would fast tonight, their
eyes on the sky, waiting for the first omens for the next nineteen summers. Phoebus fisted his hands and forced himself calm,
then stepped down into the womb of the earth.

The scent of burning herbs filled the air with a heavy smoke, coating his nostrils and blinding his eyes.

The women—Kela-Tenata, Shell Seekers, clanswomen, and serfs, for all were welcome—filled the cave. In their hands they held
clay votives of birds, butterflies, snakes, priestesses, and poppy pods. Their mingled voices rose and fell, disorganized
but loose and natural, rife with mystery.

Mother Kela

source of all creation

In whose great breast flows life and death

with the wind and rain.

Was this how Dion felt? Phoebus wondered. One man among hundreds of women, whipped to a frenzy? However, there was a difference.
Any and every woman was available for Dion’s touch; Phoebus’ purpose lay in one woman.

Defeating one woman.

He felt
Pateeras
in his belly, thoughts, and blood. His stomach knotted at the thought of what he must do. He was certain he was drained;
Ileana would not win, she could not, not again. In thirty days justice would begin.

This cavern on Kallistae was one of the largest in Aztlan. It consisted of four grottoes, with narrow connecting passageways.
Between the flickering lights and shifting bodies Phoebus saw the stalagmites. A phallus of stone rose upward, penetrating
the depth and darkness of this cave. The women touched and kissed the stone monoliths, and

Phoebus wished he could trade any nymph, mistress, or matron for the mother-goddess horror who awaited him.

He found himself thinking of serving Sibylla for twenty-eight days. Thank Kela he’d been told she wasn’t dead, just in hiding.
He felt no anger toward her; he wished it were she awaiting him in this grotto.

Bring life again!

In the passion of conception we renew you

Mistress of animals, the butterfly, the snake

She serves as your body.

Slowly Phoebus was pushed through the narrow entrance tunnel. Sweat soaked his neck and back, and the air grew closer, the
slight touches he’d felt grew bolder. Illumination was tiny pricks of light in a cloth of gray, choking darkness. He’d never
wanted so desperately to flee. He’d never felt so very alone—removed from men, isolated from the protection of his name and
bearing. Here he was a petitioner, a stud to serve one purpose. His vanity pushed him forward through the mass of loud, swaying
women.

His
pateeras
had done this with Rhea. It was the Olimpi way. Spring returned, fertilized the fecund earth. Did he have the right to change
tradition? To break the cycle? I will take pleasure in renewing with Sibylla, he thought. Ileana is the poison of the cone
shell, but I will serve the clan admirably with anyone else.

Phoebus’ head felt very heavy, his neck no stronger than the stem of a flower. He felt the new Kela-Ata’s hand on his shoulder,
guiding him to a narrow set of stairs. The women’s voices had darkened, become more sensual, and he could almost feel the
pulse of mother earth increase beneath his feet.

As the spring is brought forth in a gush of color

May life begin anew with the rush of seed.

Phoebus stumbled, and the priestess caught him around the waist. “It is the poppy,” she said. Tendrils of burning opium rose
from the crown of pods on her brow. They climbed—slow or fast, Phoebus could no longer tell—until they reached a stone balcony.
Women surrounded him, ecstatically aware and singing, grouped to watch him.

The poppy faded when he saw her before him. His flesh recoiled; he could not do this. Not even revenge was worth joining his
body to the murderess of his mother! He accepted gum from the priestess and chewed it. The overlaying tang of cinnamon could
not disguise its bitterness.

We grasp the root of creation!

And flow with the font of life!

She sat on a stone throne. Elaborate wedding paint gleamed across her breasts and torso. A diadem of poppies and pomegranates
decorated her brow, a forelock of her corn-colored hair fell over it, touching the perfect blush skin of her face. The rest
of her hair, unbound, flowed around her, a river of gold and silver. She wore only a multi-tiered skirt which fell to the
ground from her small waist.

He stared at her. His stepmother, Ileana, made not one move of recognition.

The Kela-Ata stepped forward, her hands raised, her husky voice throbbing in the dense, drug-filled cavern. Snakes coiled
around her arms and throat. He watched as two women—he thought Vena and Atenis—stepped forward and moved Ileana’s legs, pulling
her to the edge of the stone chair, draping her knees on opposite stalagmites.

Lastly they moved her skirt, baring her completely to him. In ritualistic movements they rubbed her with oils and perfumes.
The high priestess asked Kela for healthy vegetation, prosperity, victory, and fertility.

Ileana raised her gaze to his; her eyes were pools of blue, her pupils barely dots. Still, enough of her lingered for the
look to scorch.
Are you not man enough? Zelos would weep for shame at your weakness. You are not a worthy Golden
. She was the personification of the nurturing mother-goddess, yet only derision danced in her poisonous gaze.

Phoebus felt his reason harden and stepped forward. He didn’t know where he’d lost his clothing, but it didn’t matter. All
he sought was to wipe the simper from Ileana’s perfect face. Fortunately his sex ignored his emotions, and his fury and loathing
was fading on a wash of peace and drug-induced contentment.

The chanting rose in volume and tension, and the Kela-Ata mouthed, “Now!” Unwilling to touch Ileana more than necessary, he
braced his arms on either side of her head. Her eyes widened at his brutal entry. His lips felt thick, and his mind was fogged.
Where was his hatred of her, his desire to punish? “I know what you did,” he whispered. She absorbed his motions. “You will
pay,
skeela
-goddess.” Even in his own ears, his words had no heat.

“Surely enduring you is punishment enough,” Ileana muttered, her eyes closed.

Her words were insulting, and Phoebus wanted to retaliate, but nothing came to his lips or mind. Through a haze that grew
as the gum in his mouth diminished, he felt his hand on her hips. Lost in a blur of desensitization, he could barely feel
the tiny pieces of gravel embedded in her cold skin. Phoebus pressed them deeper, a shallow gratification.

Ileana’s hissing insults faded to little groans and grunts, and Phoebus disliked his body’s response to her. Self-control,
he had to use it. “I hate you,” he whispered, his words slurred. She was approaching the apex, her hands touching him unknowingly,
fluttering over his chest and face. “I wish I were a blade,” he muttered. “I would carve you as you carved Irmentis.” He couldn’t
continue to stand, he realized. His legs were collapsing, and he just, he just—

She cried her mother-goddess pleasure, and Phoebus ground his teeth, resisting the seduction of her body. Would she know?
He slumped against her on the stone chair, shaking and dizzy.

The Kela-Ata tried to pull him away, but Phoebus resisted; he needed more time or she would know he’d withheld. “Come along!”
the priestess said, and Phoebus tried to cover himself. Ileana was being served a poppy-mandrake drink to help his seed find
a fertile root. Her legs were tied over each other and elevated. He was free—she didn’t know! Phoebus closed his eyes. He
only had to do this twenty-nine more times.

The sacred marriage was over.

Phoebus and Niko were in a meeting with Nekros when the new high priest demanded entry. His greeting was perfunctory, and
Niko sharply reminded him of Phoebus’ title. After sharing the prescribed wine, Minos claimed Phoebus needed to climb the
mountain summit and sacrifice to Apis.

“Climb the cone? Are you quite mad?” Niko yelled.

“It is tradition.”

“I have never heard of such,” Phoebus said. He watched Niko as his friend’s gaze turned inward. If it had been written down,
Niko would recall it. “When was the last time this was done?”

“Just before Clan Olimpi took power,” Minos said. “It was their rationalization for no earthwave activity. It is an accepted
alternative now, however.”

“Why does
Hreesos
need an alternative? What are you talking about?” Niko asked.

“The priests refuse to follow a Golden who killed Minos in sacred ritual. If Apis takes the offering, then Phoebus will be
vindicated. The skies themselves commanded it,” Minos said.

“I didn’t kill the Minos,” Phoebus protested.

“He died prophesying concerning you. That is what the priests see and why they demand this duty,” Minos said.

“He speaks the truth.” Nekros agreed reluctantly. “If you do not do this, the priests will believe that Apis is against your
rule.”

“We no longer live in superstitious, ancient times!” Phoebus protested. Walk to the edge of a volcano, even a resting one?

“What mountain is he supposed to climb?” Nekros asked, his words slurred.

“Mount Krion.”

It was silent in the room for a few moments. “Mount Krion has long been asleep,” Nekros said to Phoebus. “It would be the
safest choice.”

“It has been a fearful year,” Nekros continued. “Citizens are wary, skittish. This would do much to restore their faith.”

“Provided Krion doesn’t blow the new ruler to the Isles of the Blessed,” Niko said dryly.

Nekros held Minos’ gaze. “There are priests who specialize in watching the Nostrils. They will be able to foretell the best
time to visit. Of course. Phoebus will not go alone. A contingent of guards, perhaps even several boatloads of people to watch.”
Nekros’ tone of voice had become ruminative. “Minos, get us the right day. Niko, arrange a barge party to set sail at a moment’s
notice.” He looked at his nephew. “Prepare your heart, Phoebus. This is unfortunate, but it must be done.”

C
HLOE HAD FORGOTTEN THE MIDSUMMER FESTIVAL
was just concluding. The roads were packed, the streets were blind alleys, and no matter how she tried, getting through to
Aztlan Island seemed impossible.

The news spread through the group like wildfire. Minos had demanded
Hreesos
offer sacrifices to Mount Krion, begging the Bull to forgive him for the death of the former high priest. Clansmen were invited
to follow; they were loading their vessels now.

Chloe pushed through the crowd and began to run down the zigzag steps to the harbor.

She hoped Phoebus was through being angry; she was definitely through with playing dead.

I
N TYPICAL
A
ZTLANTU FASHION
, even this grim journey became a festival, Cheftu thought. A day of
kefi
. A flotilla of vessels: small fishing boats, Mariners ships, pleasure barges, all assembled for the short sail to Folegandros.
People clustered on the edges of the high cliffs, and he knew elaborate picnics were being hosted in the multicolored houses
that scaled the sharp edges of the lagoon.