Shadows on the Aegean (61 page)

The boat he was on, with Dion, Nestor, and a bevy of bare-breasted beauties, was outfitted with garlands of flowers, delicately
scented lamps, and rugs on the deck for comfort.

The ship ahead of them held
Hreesos
Phoebus, Niko, Nekros in an all-encompassing cloak, the new Kela-Ata, and the Minos. Trailing in their wake was the entire
contingency of
Hreesos
guards in smaller boats. On this hot summer day, in the Season of the Lion, the hills were dried brown. The ships, brightly
painted above the waterline, looked like ducklings following their mother across the azure sea.

Different sails proclaimed different clans. According to Dion, Phoebus had expressed interest in speaking to Sibylla, so Cheftu
knew Chloe could return. Was she here even now, sailing beneath her clan’s emblem? Would they have a chance to talk? Just
as soon as he returned from this fool mission he would seek her out, Cheftu thought, stilling the trembling of his hands.

One of the nymphs began to sing, the melody soothing against the lull of waves and the creak of wood against sail and wind.
Dion handed him a rhyton, and Cheftu drank, staring into the cloudless sky, his kohled eyes squinted against the sun.

“Are you happy?” Dion asked.

“Happy?”

“Aye.”

He had wine, women, and song. He was in a beautiful place, with anything he wanted at his beck and call. However, he was also
faced with a ghastly plague, an angry wife, and a bevy of spewing volcanos.

Cheftu felt like Nero, fiddling as Rome burned. He still did not know why he was here. There seemed no way to stop the plague,
not without changing the many brain-eating rituals they had. If they chose to eat the lung instead, would the same thing develop?
Were they all destined to die? If so, why?

In Cheftu’s opinion, the Aztlantu cannibalism was a vile tradition. But
le bon Dieu
was far more gracious and forgiving. This plague was no punishment; perhaps it was an inborn consequence? Why was he here?
Because Chloe was here? Why was she here?

Nothing made sense; his brain was as cloudy as ash.

“So, Egyptian, what
would
make you happy?” The underlying humor in Dion’s words made Cheftu grin despite himself. “Knowing the secrets of the universe?
Reading the minds of the gods? Living forever?”

“The secrets would be too much to know,” Cheftu said. “The minds of the gods would terrify me. Living forever sounds exhausting.”
Though his words were glib, he knew if Chloe had asked, her eyes burning into his with indefatigable curiosity, he would have
bared himself to her, shared his heartfelt responses.

One of the women began to rub his feet and calves. Her touch was nothing like Chloe’s, and he refused her gently.

Dion watched with knowing, dark eyes.

Unnerved, Cheftu rose and walked to the prow. Folegandros shared a narrow channel with Nios, the Cult of the Snake. Mount
Krion was on the southeast edge of the island, the green-sloped cone visible to the ship.

“So it is safe?” Cheftu asked, indicating the summit.

Nestor sighed. “Aye, well, that is what the priests say. They have studied the Nostrils for generations, so they should know.”

Hreesos’
ship docked first, and Cheftu looked up to see that the switchback path to the summit was studded with people. From here
he could hear the low chant of “Phoebus,
Hreesos
, Phoebus,
Hreesos!”
The ship with the sacrifices docked next: goats, sheep, rams, and an Apis bull.

Phoebus stepped into a traveling chair, and the youthlocked child with him stepped into the next one with Niko. A contingency
of guards followed at a quick pace, then the Council members Phoebus had requested. “Can we go?” Cheftu asked.

Dion shrugged, and Cheftu and Nestor took a small boat to shore to join the cluster of hangers-on following
Hreesos
to the top.

Mount Krion was one of the highest peaks in the empire. It rose 2,400 cubits, a dark pyramid against the blue sky. Feeling
reckless and vibrantly alive, Cheftu declined a chair and settled into a fast pace. According to the ritual, Phoebus alone
would stand on the edge of the cone. The rest of the followers would wait on the flanks.

The sun was high by the time Cheftu and Nestor were halfway up. Many of the women and quite a few courtiers had dropped out,
choosing to wait in the shade with a rhyton of wine instead of continuing the hike. A few hours later, Nestor also chose to
wait. Cheftu walked on alone. The carrying chairs were far ahead of him, and he saw no one behind him. The wind was stronger,
a cold breeze that chilled the sweat on his back and forehead. Cheftu attributed his faint tremors to the weather and walked
on.

The sun was on its westerly path when Cheftu heard steps behind him. Pausing on the narrow path, he looked back. A woman walked
alone, with a leggy, long stride that sent blood rushing to his head and groin. As an Egyptian or Aztlantu, she was the mate
of his very soul. Though her black hair was now to her waist and her costume shamelessly revealing, it was Chloe. In any guise,
she was his. Would she forgive him?

Would he forgive her?

As she turned the bend, two levels beneath him, Cheftu knew the answer to the question. Just seeing her made the day brighter,
the scents sharper, his blood pound heavier. She was his impetus to make each moment count for more. Resting against a boulder
gray with ash, Cheftu watched her approach. She wiped her forearm across her head without breaking stride. Her tunic was short,
and he saw the muscles in her thighs tighten and release. Her breasts were covered, but sweat darkened the cleft between them,
and Cheftu’s palms itched with a need to touch her.

C
HLOE FELT HIS PRESENCE BEFORE SHE SIGHTED HIM
. The question was, was it her imagination manifesting him? Or Cheftu actually in the flesh? She raised her head and saw him.
Aztlantu, with hair extensions and elaborate kilt, yes, but his eyes were molten gold and filled with love.

She walked into his opened arms, feeling the heat of his satin-smooth skin, the pounding of his heart, the scent of him engulf
her. The anger melted away, replaced with joy.
This
was how it should be! This sense of homecoming, mingled with security and danger. “I love you,” Cheftu whispered, and Chloe’s
blood raced through her veins. “Just let me hold you.”

The scent of crushed thyme, rosemary, basil, hyssop, lavender, and sage surrounded them as they sat overlooking the water,
the distant glitter of Aztlan. It was so perfect that she didn’t want to say anything, to destroy the moment. “The mountain
awaits,” Cheftu finally said, and they walked on, hand in hand.

P
HOEBUS GOT TO HIS FEET
, taking the reins of the many sacrificial animals being offered to Apis Earthshaker. The cone rose ahead of him. Niko and
Eumelos waited by the traveling chair. The
Hreesos
guard fanned out around him, and the Minos sprinkled Apis’ blood on his shoulders. With a deep breath, Phoebus began the
short climb. The animals were nervous, tugging away, and Phoebus grimly pulled them along. There was no smoke, no clouds of
ash. They were safe.

He was one with Apis; he would not be rejected.

Waiting just behind him, the guard watched. This is what it means to be a god, Phoebus thought. To walk to the edge of the
Nostril of the Bull and not fear destruction. Crawling over a low ridge of rocks, Phoebus pulled the animals, now protesting
loudly, with him.

He froze.

Krion was no longer resting. When had this happened?

The crater gaped like a black mouth. Hair rose on his arms, and he shivered in the cold wind, despite his cloak. Puffs of
gas rose from the hole, and Phoebus could see the smoldering core, a wicked glint of red, like blood in the body of the earth.
Yellow crystals had formed around the rim of the hole, and black blood oozed out the top. The ground was hot beneath his feet

Feelings of godhood blew away like smoke. He was merely a man, at the mercy of this fury in the earth.

He looked back at the Minos, who motioned him to continue.

Phoebus needed to deliver the animals to the fiery cone itself. Picking his way carefully over warm earth and around boulders,
Phoebus stepped down. The air was still and hot. It stank, and Phoebus walked faster. Fear flooded him, and he ran the last
distance. Shoving and pulling, he got the animals around the depressed area. Their plaintive cries rent the air, and Phoebus
paused long enough to wedge the end of the rope beneath a boulder.

Fleeing with no dignity and even less concern, Phoebus leapt up the side. Rocks fell in small showers around him, and he felt
heat rise from pockets that opened suddenly in the earth. He had just crawled over the shallow lip when a noise rocked him,
threw him flat.

Phoebus scrambled to his feet and ran, dodging debris as a roaring rumble completely filled the air. A blow to his leg knocked
him to the ground. He rose and ran on, hobbling. When something else struck his other leg, his scream made no sound against
the continuing roar. It was becoming hard to see. Phoebus crawled, panting, through the thick air. His hair caught on fire
and he rolled, putting it out with his back. On pure instinct he huddled behind a boulder and watched fire fly through the
sky.

Then it was over.

Through a fog of pain he tried to see around him. No lava, just rocks and gas. Apis had taken the sacrifice and rejected it.
Phoebus trembled; what would sate this angry god? He wondered if Apis wanted
him
as a worthy sacrifice. He didn’t want to die! He couldn’t die!

Pulling himself along the hot, rocky earth, the Golden Bull of Aztlan fought to stay conscious. Blood streaked his wounded
legs, his burned back, and he pulled on. “Help!” he cried faintly. “Help me!” This was probably the first time he’d ever begged,
he realized. He couldn’t tell how far he’d come. Everything was gray, the ash still smoking, burning his skin. “Help me,”
he whispered. Something flew at him, piercing him, and Phoebus screamed with the pain as he sank into thoughtless oblivion.

“Hreesos?
Phoebus?”

Phoebus opened his
eyes
. “Ni-ko,” he gasped out. “Help me.”