Shadows on the Aegean (59 page)

First blood was Zelos’ calf, an accident as Phoebus rolled away. A line of red beaded up, and Zelos charged him. The end of
Phoebus’ triton caught Zelos in the stomach, then the chin, giving Phoebus time to retreat.

Another serpent.

Quickly Phoebus wiped his hands on his legs, not daring to dust them with sand. Zelos’ triton cracked across his left arm,
and the instant numbness made him drop the lower half of the triton. He was unable to defend and felt Zelos’ tines scrape
his abdomen.

Three lines of blood. He raised his gaze to his father. Second blood. One more round. The look of horror on Zelos’ face was
quickly masked, but Phoebus knew that was the last time his father would really try.

Two more serpents.

The speed of the final dance had increased, and Phoebus attacked, lashing out, focusing his hatred for Ileana on the father
he’d always adored. Zelos defended well, but he didn’t strike back. The snakes were restless, moving, confused by the action,
and striking at anything—each other, the shadows.

Phoebus crashed against Zelos, their tritons crossed, held perpendicular by their intertwined bodies. The Golden Bull’s face
was streaked with sweat and dirt, and his jaw was gritted with the strain of battle. Phoebus loosened his grip, feeling the
slide of the triton against his palm.

Staring into his
pateeras’
eyes, he murmured, “For the clan and the empire,” and stabbed Zelos with an uppercut, feeling the triton pierce through skin,
the tine slip between his ribs and enter Zelos’ heart.

His father sagged, groaning in pain. The clang of falling metal sounded in the distance, and Phoebus held his father, feeling
the warm, heavy flow of his draining life. Zelos cried out, and Phoebus saw a serpent slip away. Zelos had been struck.

Life and color faded from the Golden Bull, and Phoebus saw the sweat that covered his face. Zelos opened his eyes, gasping
for breath. “Wor-thy,” he whispered. Phoebus felt a split in his chest. Zelos was gone.

“Hail, Golden Bull Phoebus Apollo!” he heard.

Hands touched him, propelled him, and Phoebus walked unseeing. The chanting was soft, stern, and he couldn’t see anyone’s
face. Through the hallway and into the final chamber, the final honor. The final horror.

The warmth and scent of Zelos covered him, and Phoebus looked into the corpse’s expressionless face.

A blade was pressed into his hand. “I honor the
athanati
Bull,” he said. Closing his eyes, he felt his fingers move, hacking away at the listless blond hair, finding the still-warm
skin beneath. He pressed the blade hard against the skull, his hands slippery, from sweat or blood he didn’t know.

The crossing lines. He took a deep breath and pulled, rending the skin from the skull, a sharp sound like coarse linen being
torn from end to end. Breathing deeply through his mouth, he drove the fine edge of the blade in above the right ear. The
crack made his stomach roil, and quickly he cut—a jagged edge, to be sure, but all the way through.

Better to absorb the power of a fallen god than to bury the husk of a withered man, he thought. Better that my father dwell
in my heart, soul, and veins than in the cold, dark earth. Zelos would Become one with Phoebus. He would flow in Phoebus’
blood; he would fertilize Phoebus’ seed; he would inspire Phoebus’ thoughts. Zelos would become
athanati
… in Phoebus’ body and later in Phoebus’ son. It was the way of Aztlan. It was honor and tradition.

Phoebus tugged on the skullcapping, then grabbed the bone tighter and tensed, pulling away. Another shrieking, tearing sound.
Phoebus paused, looking down; this was an honor. Better to consume the power of Zelos while his blood was still warm, before
his
psyche
journeyed to the Isles of the Blessed.

A skin the thickness and tightness of a sheep’s bladder covered the brain. Ignoring the hot rush of blood against his clammy
cold hands, Phoebus cut into the pyramid sac between the two sections of the brain.

He cut into the pinkish, coiled mass and pierced a section with the blade, carving a bite-size portion and holding it up for
the Council and the priests to see. It was filled with holes, fine holes, like pumice—like the brain of the bull.

“I take the power of Zelos into myself.” He put it in his mouth and chewed.

Phoebus Became the Golden Bull.

C
HLOE WOKE UP CONFUSED
. It smelled like a chemistry lab, but she had taken all her chemistry last year, right? She had a horrific crick in her neck
and slowly opened her
eyes
.

The recall was so fast, it was almost painful. Worst yet, Cheftu was gone. The sun had come out just in time to set in the
west, and light washed the room in shades of gold—where it wasn’t already turquoise. Her fresco was spattered, probably ruined.
Then she looked down.

Her body was unrecognizable. Not like when she woke up in Egypt, which was jarring enough.
Now
she was alien. She was blue! From just above her pubic bone she was inscribed in graceful, sweeping hieroglyphs; below she
was painted with swirls, arabesques, and waves. Painted blue. Very blue.

A Matisse mermaid.

With a groan, Chloe got up. Every muscle hurt, and she blinked back tears that she blamed on her aching body, not her bruised
heart. Cheftu had been a different kind of lover, and unless she’d fallen asleep beforehand, this was the second time she’d
brought him no satisfaction. Was something wrong with her? Surely he would have told her?

So why? The thought was disturbing, and she stepped over the skirt and went into the back chamber, where she’d made a pallet.
No one. Swallowing back tears, she crossed the room and ran up the three steps into the street entrance. It was silent, a
breeze blowing, fading golden light, and completely deserted.

Biting her lips, Chloe walked down the steps. The boxing boys stood frozen, polka-dotted, and Chloe picked up the paintbrush.
The spots on her boy’s arm and ankle could be disguised as beads. Amazingly enough, Cheftu’s boy had been struck only on a
few strands of hair. Chloe finished the boxing glove in black, then changed the direction of the waist sash to cover even
more blue and grimaced at the whole thing. It was hardly worth lasting the ages.

The urn of water was icy cold, and Chloe hesitated to wash herself. What had Cheftu written? With the brush in one hand, she
read the upside-down glyphs slowly, writing them on the ground. The floor would be covered in shells or stones eventually.

When she’d gotten them all, she read the passage. “My heart aches for that which it cannot have and loves what it cannot love.”

What did he mean? Why had he left? Things had been going just fine, hadn’t they? Surely he didn’t really think she was having
an affair with Dion? If something were wrong, wouldn’t he have told her? Had he tried to? Relationships were based on open
and honest communication.

What did Cheftu’s heart ache for? What did he love that he couldn’t love? Why hadn’t he stayed? She was weeping as she traced
the markings on her skin, the hieroglyphs and swirls and arabesques.

Did he still love her?

She would leave at dawn, ask him face-to-face.

C
HEFTU WAS IN THE LABORATORY
, thinking of what he had seen during the night. Holy saints and Mother of God! These people were
cannibales!
He was relieved beyond telling that Chloe had not been there, had not participated in this most gruesome feast.

Certain that he was alone, Cheftu pulled out the squishy, deteriorating piece of brain he’d sneaked out. Hands shaking, he
held it, then raised the lamp, casting the light down through it.

Holes.

Covering the piece, he sent for a scribe. The rituals would be recorded on tablets and scrolls in the library, would they
not? He could simply ask, but he was afraid his distaste would show. Cheftu no longer trusted the Aztlantu to behave as other
people. No wonder the earth was seeking to rid herself of them!

The scribe returned with the writings, and Dion. They spoke for a few moments, then Cheftu couldn’t help himself. “How long
has that last ritual been enacted?”

“Zelos becoming
athanati
in Phoebus’ body?”

Cheftu swallowed the bile in his mouth. “Aye.”

Dion leaned back, stretching out his legs, bracing his hands on his hips. “Since the reign of the Clan Olimpi, I would guess.”

Cheftu crossed his arms. “Who usually participates?”

“Only the Council and the new Golden partake of the departed
Hreesos
, though the entire priesthood and his cabinet eat the organs of the Apis bulls.”

The key was here. Cheftu didn’t exactly understand, but the key was here. When he finally persuaded Dion to leave, he sent
for Nestor.

Decans later, the two men looked over the papyri and damp clay sheets they had covered. Apparently whatever it was, the killer
was in the body of the bull or the man. When it was eaten, it moved to another body and ate holes in its brain also.

The warning signs came too late. Only when one saw the brain’s holes did one know for certain what the killer was.

“Are you saying that everyone who ate the bull today is at risk?” Nestor asked, aghast.

Cheftu ran a finger down the columns they had assembled. In every case, the victim had partaken of the bull or of Zelos’ forebears.
It was a bloody legacy, a costly one. The illness waited a long time to develop. Nineteen years was the last time anyone had
… dined, Cheftu thought with revulsion.

“The bull ritual takes place every midsummer festival, though. Each summer
Hreesos
proves that he is strong and wise and takes Apis and shares him with all.”

The priesthood! “How do we tell them they are doomed?” Cheftu said.

Nestor was silent, the weight of the reality sinking in on him. “By the gods,” he whispered. “Aztlan has committed suicide!”

B
Y BLOOD
P
HOEBUS HAD REVEALED HIMSELF
as
Hreesos
, the power, the spirit, the incarnation of the Apis bull. In the pyramid he had proved his scholarship, intellect, and reason.
Here, now, in a tradition even older than the Clan Olimpi, he would be the springtime renewing life with the earth.