Shadows on the Aegean (30 page)

Sibylla had never given her such control before. Usually by the time she was dressing, the other woman informed her it was
time to “move over” and let the professional handle it. Where was Sibylla?

Nevertheless, this was cool. She was a Minoan. Man, the life I lead, she thought.

The sun shone dimly, and Chloe reminded her cold nipples that it couldn’t be much into February. In Crete, but when? Asking
Sibylla would do no good. Her concept of time was not measured in terms of
A.D.
and
B.C.E.
Preclassical Greece, she knew that, but that information only narrowed the search by two thousand years. Why was she here
in ancient Crete?

It seemed rather elaborate for her to travel through time just to help with natural disasters. Wasn’t she a little arrogant
to think time would be arranged because she was so good at emergency management? It didn’t seem as though she were going to
get her hands on any paint in this lifetime, so what was her purpose? Her thoughts were like a hamster in a cage. Run run
run run run—going nowhere.

The two women continued down the stairs, through another tunnel, down another set of stairs, a left turn, a right turn, up
stairs, turn again. A portico, a hallway, another series of artistically chaotic rooms.

These people were fixated on labyrinths, another Minoan motif

When they walked into one more room the women saluted her immediately, with the right-angle gesture. “The Sibylla,” the nymph
said, and left.

A woman with a protrusion of feathers poking from her hair came forward. “Greetings, mistress. We are honored you would dance
with us today. We trust that Kela will speak through you?”

Chloe felt as though she’d swallowed a porcupine, but Sibylla woke up and answered appropriately and graciously. Chloe watched
uneasily. Dancing,
more
dancing! What was it with ancient cultures and dancing?

Someone put kohl on her eyes, drawing the lines up and out, not in the Egyptian style, but still very exotic. Red cream was
brushed over her lips, and her hair was tied back in pieces, topped with a flat-crowned hat adorned with feathers. Following
the other women, she walked down to the lowest level.

The room was quiet, yet thick with presence. Chloe braced herself. The silence seemed ominous, but Sibylla was completely
comfortable. The floor was sunken in the middle, and the sunken portion seemed to writhe. A woman waded through the shifting,
slithering mass and lit the raised oil lamp.

Snakes! My God, millions of snakes!
Minoans also had a thing for snakes, she suddenly recalled. Chloe cringed, but Sibylla calmly accepted a few serpents, winding
them around her arms as living bracelets. A priestess wrapped a snake around Sibylla’s hat and another serpent around her
waist. Chloe completely withdrew; Sibylla could handle today. If
this
wasn’t ritual, then she couldn’t guess what would be. She’d have to trust Sibylla. Reluctantly Chloe stepped into the darkness
of the mind. Wow, she was in Crete.

Her mind clearer than it had felt since she woke in the cave, Sibylla asked the names of her snakes and spent a few moments
petting them, growing accustomed to the dry weight that tightened and loosened around her arms and waist.

Music prompted them from above, to a worship ritual of the goddess Kela. When the first butterflies returned to Knossos, it
was time to greet Kela and welcome her back to life. The goddess of the earth died every year when the winds rose and was
reborn with the butterflies and the snakes. People came from all over Caphtor to participate in welcoming Kela. Already crowds
gathered, a good omen. The Shell Seekers had prepared a feast, and the smell of broiling fish, fresh mussel stew, and grilled
shrimp hung on the morning air.

AZTLAN

“W
AKE UP, MISTRESS
! W
E GREET
K
ELA TODAY
!”

Ileana rose up on her elbows, trying to open her eyes. Wine from the night before pounded in her head, and her mouth was fleecy.
By Kela, what had she done? Even the cry of her pets was annoying. She buried her head in the linens, trying to recall the
night before.

Bedded Priamos while eating
kreenos
, she recalled.

Oh, Kela!

Weary and aching, Ileana allowed herself to be carried to the bath, then slowly massaged with warm water and oil until she
was awake. The serf’s hands were gentle and knowing, and Ileana felt herself drifting and peaceful.

She needed to wake up! This was an important day! A day of dancing and joy, in which she was the centerpiece. For the first
time in her life, Ileana cringed at the idea of being the focus of the hundreds and thousands who would come to the island’s
cave sanctuary to see her.

The door that adjoined her apartments with Zelos’ burst open. With a snap he dismissed her serfs and sank heavily onto the
edge of her bath. Though
Hreesos
was still golden, still desirable, lines tugged his face earthward and sorrow clouded his eyes.

“Another of my
hequetai
is dead, Ileana.”

“Another?”

“That makes seven in the past twenty days.”

“They were all older men, Zelos.”

He looked away, and Ileana recalled that his cabinet were all his age. Just a few years older than she was, Ileana thought
distastefully. “Do you suspect something?”

“What would be the point? Phoebus will rule, instate his own
hequetai
. Save to hurt Aztlan, what would be the motive?”

“I know not,” Ileana said impatiently. “I must prepare for today, though.”

“Eee
… one of your favorite days, mother-goddess? When you are worshiped and adored? How you live for that.”

Too weary to fight, Ileana just glared. Zelos rose and walked back to his open doorway, stumbling into the frame. Ileana watched
in shock as he grabbed the door for balance and tore it off the hinges. The sound brought serfs running, but none dared approach
Hreesos
. With deliberate moves he pulled himself up, threw the door aside, and stalked into his chambers without a backward glance.

Ileana rose from her bath and stood while her serf dried her body and oiled it. She snapped for feathers to adorn her hair.

What had the
hequetai
died from?

Could Phoebus have it and be dying?

Please Kela!

CAPHTOR

C
HEFTU LOOKED AT THE JUMBLE OF EMPTY BOATS
in the harbor of Amnisos. Where were the people? He turned to Y’carus. “Is something wrong?”

“Nay, Egyptian. Just the start of the growing year. Everyone is in Knossos.” With sharp commands, the Mariners slid the Aztlantu
ship into place, dropping her sails and anchor at the same time. There was a nervous excitement about the men, and Cheftu
noticed they all kept glancing hopefully toward the land. Strangely, no ash had fallen here.

He could see Caphtor was a beautiful country. Caphtor was the root of the word “column.” Biblically, Caphtor was Greece and
the islands around her. This wasn’t Greece; they hadn’t sailed long enough. Looking over the perfect natural harbor, snow-covered
mountains on the distant horizon, cypress and fir towering over the white, gold, red, and black buildings, he surmised this
was a Greek island. The purple blue of the Aegean contrasted sharply with the spring green. Cheftu pressed his lips together,
the scholar retreating as the aching man advanced. How Chloe would have loved to see this. Her artist’s mind would have reveled
in the colors, the contrasts—

Cheftu forced away the thought and helped one Mariner as he straightened some lines. Why were the sailor’s hands trembling?
Y’carus walked around the deck, checking everything before commanding the men to disembark.

Never before had Cheftu seen any military group scramble to get in line with the enthusiasm these men did! They stood at sharp
attention, the wind blowing their short green kilts and long hair. Y’carus turned to Cheftu and beckoned. Pulling at the tie
of his Egyptian kilt, Cheftu walked down the plank to the dock.

Their pace through town allowed little time for observation. Nothing was open, anyway. Through closed markets and stalls they
walked, fast. Cheftu felt his lack of exercise, the ache of his ankle, but he was determined not to fall behind. Y’carus strode
easily, his stocky legs eating up the
henti
.

The sun rose higher, and they began to see more people. Dressed in their finest, families with children young and old were
striding up the same paved road. Arching trees filtered the sunlight, and periodically Cheftu saw an altar of horns on the
side of the path.

“They are places for petitioners to refresh themselves before they reach Kela,” Y’carus explained.

“As a resting place?”

“Aye, but also because that is where water is pumped. They can have a drink, maybe even a little wash, before they reach the
pavement.”

The closer they got to the pavement, the more people Cheftu saw. Men, older women, and children. Where were the young women
in this society? They trooped under an archway of stones and up a set of shallow steps. Cheftu stumbled when he saw the first
young woman.

He didn’t notice her face, just her clothing. Or rather, the lack thereof. He looked away quickly, his cheeks heated. He’d
seen many dresses that revealed as much, but never displayed so provocatively. He saw another woman, and another. “Y’carus,”
he said, his voice strained, “are these all, umm …” He looked at the young commander.

“Nay,” Y’carus said, clapping Cheftu’s shoulder. “The Coil Dancers are the ones who dress alluringly. They show shoulder.”
His tone was aloof, though it deepened on the word “shoulder.” Cheftu had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. A woman who
showed her shoulders was more alluring than these dark-eyed, small-waisted women, whose breasts pushed forward like offerings?

Their steps slowed when they reached the mass of people. Hawkers walked through the crowd, offering skewered shrimp, oranges,
goat cheese balls rolled in fresh herbs, sesame and honey strips, wine, votive statues, and flower rings. The air of festivity
was contagious, and the Mariners eased their stance.

No one trespassed onto the enormous pavement opposite the steps and the tree-shaded gardens. Rising three stories above the
pavement was a small portico, with a solitary red column tapering from floor to roof. On the shaded wall behind it Cheftu
could barely glimpse a painting.

The portico was part of the palace, constructed as a series of saffron and white boxes stacked on each other, different levels
at different points. Red-columned porches and balconies were crowded with people, tiny figures from this distance. All of
Caphtor watched today, it seemed.

A jangle, like that of a sistrum, quieted the crowd. Cheftu saw the rapt expression on the Mariners’ faces. Tritons held in
one hand, the other hand on their hip, they stared in fascination at the empty pavement. The sound of pipes rose on the air,
a plaintive minor note that brought utter silence.

The dancers came out, spinning recklessly, rapidly, and Cheftu held his breath, the tension of the crowd infectious. Could
he forget Chloe for just a few hours? He was weary with sorrow. Dozens of dancers filled the pavement, then stopped altogether,
forming a striking tableau of bright reds, blues, gold against the white stone. Some of the women wore hats, others’ hair
was unbound.

Every last one of them had upthrust, beckoning breasts. Cheftu closed his eyes. What manner of man—nay, beast—could lust after
another woman’s body so soon after losing his wife? He opened his eyes again and recoiled. Snakes were draped over the women.

The music started again, slowly, and the dancers divided into groups.

“They will reenact the legend of the first coming of Kela,” Y’carus whispered.

Cheftu watched as one group of women pretended to toil at the earth, wiping their brow and grimacing at the hard work. Another
group of women descended on them, stomping on the fields, lashing out at the first group. “Savage winter, the Season of the
Serpent,” Y’carus explained. The first group of women mourned, tearing at their hair and rubbing imaginary ash on their heads.
As the music deepened a woman emerged from the building. Obviously she was representative of Kela.