Shadows on the Aegean (72 page)

The slightly mutating repetition of violins swelled in her head.
He’d married her only to save her life
.

The cellos joined.

He was an honorable man. He’d vowed to love her and protect her, and he had. But he hadn’t
wanted
to!

The deep, resonating mourning of strings in her head drove her hands into her hair. She must be crazy! This was
Cheftu!
She thought of the ring he’d given her, the ring with topazes the color of his eyes, a woven band of gold and silver. “I
love and I hope,” he had cried in French as she was lifted from Hatshepsut’s time.

But there was love between a man and woman that was not sexual. Or personal. You could love and not
be
in love: what else was friendship?

He’d lied to her. He’d lied in their bed, and he’d lied in her body!

Chloe rose on unsteady legs. She had to get out of here. She couldn’t bear to be so close to him. But could she be wrong?
Was Cheftu still in there with Dion? Had he walked out in a rage? Had they? Her imagination failed her. It had been at least
an hour.

She crept back up the staircase; the sounds were unmistakable.

The violins screamed in pain.

“S
PIRALMASTER
! W
AKE UP, WAKE UP
!”

Cheftu rolled over, instantly awake, on guard. “Who is it?” he called.

Stunned silence. “Nestor, why?”

Throwing on a kilt as he limped to the door, Cheftu rubbed his face. Surely last night was but a fevered dream. He touched
his mouth and swallowed. The knuckles of his hand were split; no dream.
Okh!
He threw open the door.

“The mountain has been coughing smoke all morning,” Nestor said.

“Why did you not wake me earlier?”

Nestor shrugged helplessly. “What can you do?”

The two men ran up the stairs to the main chamber of the second floor, then down the long portico. Cheftu pulled up short
when he saw Dion. His jaw was purpling, his gaze reproachful. With a stiff bow in Dion’s direction, Cheftu looked out at the
mountain. Where was Chloe? She hadn’t contacted him.

He noted that Niko and Phoebus were still missing. Perhaps Niko was comforting Phoebus on the loss of his son? He shivered
at the new interpretations “comfort” brought. Images from the past twelve decans filtered through his mind.

Mount Apollo’s sides were dusty with ash. The two man-made and the one gods’-made bridges were gone. The ships were dashed
into kindling, and the waters were too rough, too deep, to swim.

An Etesian wind began to blow from the northwest. Faint tremors shook the earth, so commonplace they were ignored. The group
watched as various puffs of black were released into the air. Cheftu felt panicky. Where was Chloe? He’d checked on his patients—twelve
more fatalities—and rejoined the group on the portico. Many more had arrived: serfs, citizens, parents and children, priests
and priestesses, all the human remnants of Aztlan.

They saw the mountain move before they heard it roar. The top did not blow off; instead the side slid away. He watched a huge
section of mountain glide down the left-hand side of the slope, shattering into pieces of rock and earth as it moved. The
boom that had taken seconds to rise into the atmosphere dropped back to earth, felling them all.

Cheftu lifted his head as a cloud of red and black rose, growing exponentially larger even as he watched. It blew westward,
revealing ripples of fiery blood trickling from the inside of the mountain, molten rivers rushing across the island. Cheftu
wiped his mouth, his blood was already a strange concrete having mixed with the hot ash.

Before anyone could speak, the clansmen of Daphne were dead. The mountain they had trusted to protect them had destroyed them.
Their god had cannibalized his people. Waves rushed up the sides of the island, rocking the harbor as the earth heaved and
tore, a painful, gory birthing. A cloud of stinging, biting ash rained down, dusting the whole of the island. Multicolored
lightning flashed in the growing blackness, and Cheftu felt his hair crackle with the power of the air.

Green life became red death as the mountain vomited. Deep within, the emptying chambers collapsed in on themselves. Magma
pulled from the adjoining Mount Stronghyle had weakened both islands’ infrastructure. The empire’s showplaces began to sink.

Around the Aegean, clansmen watched, their eyes drawn toward the gray column of smoke that reached to the heavens. From the
shores of far-off Hydroussa they sent birds, questioning the fate of the clans. In Delos they wept, for they knew too well
what would survive.

Nothing
.

On Folegandros and Nios the religious orders prayed and cried, realizing that the anger of the earth could not be assuaged.
When Mount Gaia began to smoke the priestesses did not wait. They piled into boats, sailing north, a band of strong, self-sufficient
women. They would land on some northeastern shore, where their skill with nets would become a skill with spears and their
earth goddess would transform from a nurturer into a conqueror.

In far-off Egypt, Imhotep wept as Ipiankhu stared toward the far horizon. They had sought only to protect Egypt; they’d never
desired the annihilation of their cousins. Had the room that was now so far under construction been for naught? Ipiankhu looked
at him, as though he discerned his thoughts. “We are to be faithful and trust.”

Imhotep nodded and muttered through his rotting teeth, “May we live forever.”

In Knossos, Daedelus watched, tears streaming down his face. The palaces were ravaged, razed from oil fires. Daedelus instructed
the people to secure their boats and run inland to the mountains. They were blessed to have no Nostrils of the Bull.

Would the Clan Olimpi escape Aztlan? he wondered.

In the rush from the villages and towns to the mountains, a young Caphtori girl named Psychro got separated from her mother.
She found herself in a wide cave littered with empty votives. Through her tears she heard a sweet voice that comforted, consoled,
and convinced her to open herself.

When Psychro awoke, she carried with her the wisdom and experience of a clan chieftain. Though she was but a child, a wandering
spirit had stepped into her body. She stayed in the cave for the rest of her days. Her ability to read omens and foretell
the future became known far and wide. The legend of Psychro’s Cave grew. On the eve of her death, the spirit moved into a
younger woman, who in her turn became Psychro.

In the end, nothing save the crescent-shaped land would remain. The island in the bay would sink, then rise as magma flowed
again into its subterranean passages. It would grow tall and verdant, seducing the descendants of those who had fled. Like
sheep to the slaughter they would return to its heights, settle their country, and in less than four centuries flee one last
time.

Only their legend and artwork would survive. Their destruction would play a role in world history. Days of blackness, a cloud
of fire, and rivers of blood delivered by the eruption would serve to convince a leader on a far-off shore to “let my people
go.”

From the ashes of the first great civilization would be born an everlasting race.

It had been a bright day for humankind, then night fell. A long, pervasive night, which lived on in history and myth forever.
A lesson to those who sought to be gods.

C
HLOE WOKE UP, CRUMPLED IN A HEAP
. Walking carefully, as though sudden movement might shatter her, she picked her way down to the hidden cove. Dion’s cove,
obviously. Earthquakes rained bits of stairway on her, but it didn’t matter. None of it.

Was she being presumptuous?

She had to know; she had to hear it from his lips. Cheftu had assumed the worst when he’d seen her with Dion. Perhaps she
had done the same? Nothing sounded like sex except sex, Chloe thought, choked on tears. She stepped onto the rocky landing.
Her boat was bobbing wildly, and she dragged it farther on the shore. Looking outside, she saw it was night. Still?

The air was filled with strange noises and the smell of fire. She’d taken two steps when she saw movement at the water’s edge.
Within moments she was dragging a man out, flipping him over and pounding on his back. Her hands came away pink with blood,
but he coughed, vomited, and inhaled deeply. With feeble gestures he tried to move farther up the rocks. Chloe grabbed his
hand to help him and barely kept from shrieking as she saw the creature she’d rescued.

In the torchlight it was hard to discern his features, but she knew of only one albino on the island. “Niko?”

He shook his head, and she pounded his back more, wincing when she saw the burns that covered his upper body. He needed medical
attention. He needed Cheftu. Chloe pressed her lips together—could she stand to see her husband?

Did she really plan to
not
see him?

More of the odd noises … bringing to her mind the national anthem “and bombs bursting in air.” Who would have firecrackers
or arms in Aztlan? Suddenly she understood and grabbed Niko’s arm, dragging him into the boat. He was burned, but he could
still move. She gave another oar to him. “It will take both of us,” she said, and they began rowing out of the tiny cove,
into the waters of Theros sea.

They were both coughing in moments, and Chloe ripped Niko’s sash in half, despite his protests, tying a half over each of
their faces. It was still dark; the only light was the reflected lava as it dripped over the edge of the cliff. Aztlan itself
looked unharmed. The waters were strangely quiet, placid, the shorelines seemed wide, speckled with darker spots that Chloe
supposed were beached aquatic life.

As they rowed, she recalled her disaster training. She’d heard volcanoes discussed, but not with any real conviction. There
were only a few active cones in the Pacific Northwest, about as far away from Texas as one could get. Still, she remembered
a couple of things: often those closest didn’t hear them erupt; poisonous gas was a silent killer; water was usually contaminated;
there were no rules. Most chilling was that eruptions could set off a series of disasters.

Often the sea pulled back, then came rushing in with tidal waves called tsunami.

Mount Apollo had erupted, judging from the lava slithering toward shore. “Turn around!” she shouted, rowing madly. Niko didn’t
hear her, so Chloe kicked him, screamed again on the rising wind, and rowed for all she was worth. The waters were still because
the tsunami was gaining strength.

The large cavern, would they be safe there? Her arms were numb, and she felt no pain, only the sensation of having realized
too late. Then, as they heard the roar of the returning waters, she saw the entrance, maybe ten feet away. “Jump!” she cried
to Niko, then took a flying leap over him and dove deep, fighting her way forward. She felt a shape in the water beside her
and broke the surface. Inside!

Just then a sweep of current dragged at her feet and she felt a hand around her wrist, pulling her to the dock. What was left
of the dock. Shaking, trembling, they crawled out of the water, clinging to the splintered wood as they saw the white-capped
waves rising and crashing outside. This was where she had come out of the Labyrinth.