Cheftu nodded. He had to be certain; it was done.
The vizier gripped Cheftu’s arms. “May Shu blow you safely to your destination. May Ra shine on your journey. May Nuit kiss your dreams every night until you return to Egypt.”
“Life, health, and prosperity,” Cheftu said slowly, debating his next words. Why not? “Will you tell Imhotep this? ‘Your teeth bring you pain. Teach your children to sift their bread flour ten times, and chew mint with each meal.’” Ipiankhu smiled and began to turn, but Cheftu laid a hand on his arm. “One more thing, my lord …” He leaned closer, his words lost beneath the beat of the timekeeper’s drum.
IPIANKHU SAT DOWN HEAVILY in his chair and commanded the slaves to run immediately to his home. His hands were trembling and his throat felt closed. He looked at himself. Egyptianized. Shaven like a priest, clothed in the finest kilt, and draped with gold necklaces portraying a pantheon of gods and goddesses. His hands were soft, no calluses, no marks. The hands of a nobleman.
Closing his eyes, Ipiankhu thanked his god, the God of his tribe, for the sign he had received. Cheftu’s tale was true! It was the will of the Unknown that Senwosret build the chamber. Why, Ipiankhu did not know. The sun shone without his understanding, but it shone. He ran his hand over his chin, a habit he’d acquired from his tribe, though he had never had a beard to know the feeling. In the silence of the traveling chair, the words Cheftu had spoken echoed in his head.
“Shalom, Yosef ben Y’srael. You shall be a great nation.”
PART III
CHAPTER 6
CAPHTOR
CHLOE WAS BEYOND REGRETTING that she had agreed to be the “driver” for all of the race-related activities. Her legs hurt, her arms hurt, her breasts really hurt, and her feet were covered in bruises and blisters.
Sibylla reclined on the edge of her consciousness, like Jeannie in her pink velvet bottle. While I am busting my keister for a race I don’t want to run, Chloe thought with a sigh.
Today was the first of a series of qualifying races. If she lost here, Sibylla wouldn’t have to continue racing. Which means I wouldn’t have to continue racing. She winced as Sibylla, previously silent, began to accuse her of having no honor, no integrity … Yadda, yadda yadda, Chloe thought.
She began her stretches, exchanging small talk with the other women. Twenty-five contenders were in this competition. Chloe scrutinized them and realized that, like Cinderella’s slipper, most weren’t going to fit. Three were lean and muscled; those three she’d have to keep an eye on.
The runners moved into their starting positions, and Chloe furtively tied her breasts into a halter with the sash from her skirt. It was hardly a sport bra, but it worked and it wasn’t visible beneath the thin woolen shift the racers wore.
“Yazzo!” the timekeeper cried. They were off.
The Aztlantu hadn’t quite grasped the concept of distance vs. sprint, so the race was in fact a long-distance sprint. About four miles’ worth. I hate running, pounded through Chloe’s mind in time to her footsteps.
She focused on breathing and not wrenching her ankle as she began to break from the pack. As expected, two of the lean, fit women were leading. Chloe and the other lean woman were edging their way through the mass of huffing and puffing women. Chloe veered slightly, avoiding an overzealous elbow in her gut.
The path turned, narrowed, and Chloe put on an extra burst of energy, leaving the pack and the third runner behind.
At least she thought they were behind. It was surprisingly quiet, only the sound of the wind and her breathing. Dappled sunlight fell on her, and Chloe watched her legs, in Sibylla’s skin, pump and step through the leaf-covered path.
Then she was in a clearing, gaining on the other two runners. One was hobbling, losing ground rapidly, and Chloe realized she must have twisted her ankle. She focused on the ground again, wary of small depressions and stones. The woman finally gave up, falling to the ground. Chloe slowed. “Are you well?”
“My ankle, mistress,” the girl said, panting. “Run on, I will be well.”
Chloe was past, the words floating after her like a benediction. One more runner, she thought. Sibylla was growing excited, and Chloe glared at her. Sweat matted her hair, trickled between her bound breasts, and soaked her woolen shift. She kept running.
Ahead she saw the lead runner. How close were they to the finish line? Chloe wondered. Photo finishes might be fun and glamorous looking, but she wanted to win, no question, leaving the contender in her dust.
You are quite competitive, Sibylla observed.
Ignoring the oracle, Chloe commanded her legs to move faster, her strides to lengthen, her blood to pump more. The first runner was a blonde, a tiny thing, but light and fast. Chloe gritted her teeth and ran faster. Her body ached, but now there was an edge, an exhilaration, she’d not felt before. She pounded up behind the blonde, who turned her head just a little.
Seeing the finish line, Chloe felt adrenaline surge through her. This one is for the USAF, she thought. The small grouping of people grew more distinct, then closer to life size, and then she was across the burn mark in the grass, her ears ringing, sweat pouring off her body.
The blonde was two steps behind, two steps too few. Chloe submitted to a crown of bay leaves thrust on her head, and her hot, shaky body was doused with wine.
We won! Sibylla cried inside.
One down, a dozen more to go.
AZTLAN
“I THOUGHT I’D FIND YOU HERE,” Phoebus said. Niko looked up from the stack of scrolls and tablets. Dust and dirt marked his face, and a dustball clung to the side of his head. Phoebus smiled. “How does your search go?”
With a sly grin, Niko held up a rectangle of leather. Aztlantu had kept their legends pressed into folded leather tablets since time before mind. The leather was hard, cracked, and brittle, a hundred tiny lines obscuring the text. Niko handed him a vial of oil. “I am down to two tablets; be useful.”
Phoebus threw his cloak to the floor and sat on it, smearing the oil on the leather to reveal the image. Because the writing tiles cut into the leather, or impressed into the gold, there was no fear of water damage. A useful feature when one lived on an island, Phoebus thought.
“Do you know how Aztlan was founded?” Niko asked.
Phoebus shrugged. He knew Aztlan was older than the reign of the Clan Olimpi, but he’d never learned the earlier history. It wasn’t taught, it wasn’t mentioned. How could anything surpass the glories of the clan? I will, he thought. “I know what we were taught. Judging from your question, I would guess there is more?” He continued to rub oil into the hide. Thus far there seemed to be nothing on it.
“What a reasoned response,” Niko said. “Now listen to this.” He opened a newly oiled scroll. “ ‘Time before mind, a man and his wife were shipwrecked on this island. Though they were alone, they walked with a great God. He gave them secrets in the stones. There were only two laws: A life must be given for a life taken in violence; the energy of life was in the blood and must not be consumed in any form.”
Phoebus interrupted. “Those cannot have been the laws! That must be a myth!”
“I am not finished. The writings claim that this couple begat a numerous people. They began to move to the other islands, spreading their name and skills across the sea. This people walked with a great, unknown god, and he communicated to them through some stones. Then, the patriarch Iavan was lost at sea. The people turned from the god. The challenge to worship what they could not see was too great.”
“Do you think Apis is this god?”
Niko folded the tablet to the next partition. “You do not believe that any more than I do. Worshiping a bull is but a symbol for worshiping the strength of nature. Someone does shake the earth, but it is not a giant bull on whose back we rest. A bull did not settle this land, teach us how to farm or sail.”
Reading from the page, Niko quoted, “ ‘The people said, “Look at the sky! Listen to the hills, how they roar! Hear the sea, how sh
e sings! How can this be only one god? There are many!” So they took the knowledge the great God had taught them and turned from him. They refused to listen to him, and finally destruction ripped the land apart, separating it into vast islands, filling it with snaking streams.’ Phoebus, that is what we have now.”
Phoebus continued to massage the oil into the leather. A line finally appeared along the right-hand side of the page. As the oil was absorbed, all but the deepest marks were smoothed away. He opened the next section, poured more oil on it, and wiped away the grime. There were a lot of markings here, but not letters. “Continue.”
“After the destruction, the people were invaded and they absorbed the invaders. Civil war ensued. That was when the Council rose. People fled the Council’s rulings, the new laws. In our history classes we were told colonists left Aztlan to establish outposts. This document denies they were colonists. Phoebus, it claims they were outlaws.”
The Rising Golden stopped, listening to his friend, comparing what he said to the legends on which they’d been reared. “We were told they were colonists, going north, south, east, and west. They brought back the secrets of two growing seasons, how to form stone and the tides.” Phoebus looked up. “Why would they flee?”
“They rejected the Council’s ruling about families. They wanted their blood relation to stay with them. They resisted becoming clans.”
“But the clan structure is what makes Aztlan work,” Phoebus said, fingering the gold medallion around his neck. “It grants equality and balance among citizens. It maintains a stable economy. Marriages are strong, as are children, for their blood is varied.” He shrugged. “Why would anyone oppose that? We have peace and plenty. Clans are Aztlan.” He watched Niko in silence. “What is it, my friend?” he whispered. “Your thoughts are like smoke in the air.”
“Spiralmaster wants these stones.”
“What stones?”
“The stones that allowed our forebears an audience with this god.”
Phoebus looked up. “He believes these tales?”
“Apparently the stones were lost with the man Iavan, the patriarch. He died on a small island. Some of the followers of the god went after him and built a tomb for him. They left the communication stones there.”
“But no one knows where they are or has used them since?”
He nodded his head. “I think Spiralmaster is purely hoping now, though. I’ve been through all of these. There is not one map.”
Phoebus unfolded the next page of the tablet. Impatiently, he rubbed the oil into the brittle leather, then stopped. Finally, some letters. Letters marking an island in a massive sea. “You said we were working on the last two? What was yours?”
Niko picked up the oil-slick leather. “Recipes for childbirth.”
Phoebus winced. “What would be the reward for finding your tablet?”
“A night with that red-haired Coil Da—” Niko leaped over a stack of papyri and leather to crouch by Phoebus.
Phoebus handed the tablet to him. “Aye. You pay for the dancer. That is the map!”
Light flickered around the edges of Phoebus’ eyes, and he winced. “Was she worth my humble, hard-earned pay?” Niko asked.
“Okh! By the horns of Apis, what are you doing here?” Phoebus groaned, rolling over onto his stomach.
Niko sat on the couch. “Spiralmaster has chosen to send me,” he said.
Phoebus, his head buried beneath a pillow, lay quiet. “Send you where?” he asked as the words penetrated.
“Dion wanted to go, but Spiralmaster persuaded him that he could make more progress with his air-sailing device if he didn’t take time away from it.”
The Rising Golden sat up, pulling the linen over him. Niko sat on the end of the bed, his violet eyes ringed with kohl, his white hair braided and twisted. “Did I miss a feast?” Phoebus asked.
“Aye,” Niko said. “Spiralmaster would like me to leave on the next tide.”
The sexual haze vanished. “Next tide? You mean tonight?”
Niko shook his head, delighted.
“This is madness!”
“Phoebus, Spiralmaster believes if we get these stones, we can ask this god how to help our people. He can give Spiralmaster the missing ingredient the elixir needs.”
“You crazed scholars!” Phoebus said. “You read an ancient, nonsensical myth in one decrepit tablet that no one has ever heard of, and decide an unknown god will aid us? How? He will tell the mountains to throw themselves into the sea? This is a legend, my friend! A story! We are the only gods in these lands; tales of our daring will become a religion!”
“Phoebus, if he exists, he was the one who founded Aztlan. That being the case, we have forsaken him. Daily we use these gifts he’s given us. We forgot who the gift giver is.”
Phoebus studied his friend carefully. “You are quite serious about this, are you not?”
“Knowledge is my deity, this you know. However, I feel we need to try, to reason and reacquaint ourselves with Iavan’s god. I know seeking the god is the right answer. It is the only answer to this question.”
“You, who claim we cannot truly know anything? You know what you are doing is right?”
Niko’s gaze focused inward. “I hear a call, a cry in my psyche, Phoebus. I must follow it. Only once before have I known such a passion….”
“You are a brilliant fool!” Phoebus shouted.
Niko’s smile was wistful. “Perhaps only fools are foolish enough to understand truth.”
“Truth is what we make it.” Phoebus frowned, pleating the linen sheet. “Who travels with you?”
“Three Mariners. Even Spiralmaster doesn’t trust my ability to take care of myself,” Niko grumbled. He gripped Phoebus’ wrist. “I will be back before you miss me.”
You cannot leave me, Phoebus thought. You are my dearest friend, reared since birth to be my mage. But the words would not come. This could not be happening. “Do you follow the directions on the map? Are there any landmarks still? How long will it take?”
Niko smiled. “You sound like a clan mother.” His gaze turned solemn. “Until my eyes hold you again, Phoebus.”
The men embraced, and Niko left, closing the double doors behind him.
AZTLAN
MOUNT CALLIOPE BURNED WITH RAGE. She was smaller, her channels shallower and weaker, than her brother Krion to the south. Unaware of the danger, people scaled up her sides, living in two-, three- and four-story houses, planting small gardens of herbs and vegetables, orchards of fruit. This was the Clan of the Muse, whose main industry was cloth.
Cloth from Delos, the Clan of the Muse, was exported all over the empire and her vassals. The clanspeople were famous for sails, whose interlacing woven strips could hold the wind, tightly controlling the direction of the ship. They fashioned fabric, some made from Egyptian flax, some from local wool, and others from the fine stuff traded in Caphtor and Kos, into garments.
A village of blue-tiled houses clustered within the narrow, winding streets of Delos’s main city, Arachne. The stench that rose from this section of town was carried away by a saltwater river that poured directly into the sea. The dyers who lived here were instantly recognizable. They alone of all Aztlantu did not bear the tattoo of their clan. They wore its brand.
Each man’s, woman’s, and child’s hands were purple-blue, a color painstakingly extracted from the murex shell. In its deepest hue, it was the color of Theros Sea. The color was so intense, it made one’s eyes ache, and so eerily beautiful that it was impossible to look away.
In normal strength, it was the color of lupine flowers that grew in scattered clumps across the mountains. Tinted, it was a blue between Egyptian lapis and turquoise, most often used as a pottery glaze. At its lightest, the color was so pale and pure, it was reserved exclusively for children, a color so fragile that a bird’s eggshell looked weighty by comparison.
Because of the stink and markings, those who worked the Azure married only among themselves. They birthed child
ren and waited impatiently until the firstborn was weaned, and then set him or her to work, staining young hands with the badge of blue.
Beneath the cobbled and dirt-packed streets of Arachne, beneath the smoking vats of color and the looms of linen and wool, the mountain heated. Within its lava chambers, molten rock bulged against the weight of stone, soil, person, and beast.
In the fields, the sheep bleated unceasingly, and the dogs and donkeys that lived alongside them grew panicked. Birds flew nervously in wide circles, wary of perching.
Neotne stood in the shadow of the mountain at the wharf. The sun had pierced the gray clouds. She tugged at her belled skirt, clenching it in her blue-nailed fists. Saltwater spray spattered her face and body, and she wondered about her clan brother Y’carus, a Mariner sailing far beyond the Breakwater.
His last message said he was for Knossos, on Caphtor. She’d never been to Caphtor, never even been to Aztlan Island. He was seeing the world. She was always bidding him farewell, until her eyes held him again. Whenever he returned to his bloodparents, her clansmen, he brought tales of exotic ports, little gifts from places she would never see. She would love to sail anywhere, if he were at her side.
She touched one of the earrings from Alayshiya that dangled against her cheeks, wondering where he was. Did he get frightened when no land was in sight? With a prayer to Kela for his safety, she turned back to the town. Goat cheese was on her list, in addition to cucumbers and Caphtori honey. Clan sister Sela was expecting her firstborn, and after much prompting from the Kela-Tenata, she had finally taken to her couch. The whole Azure community waited in joyful impatience for another to join their numbers.
When a low rumble shook the earth, Neotne dropped into a crouch. The Earthshaker’s dance had become so frequent, it was commonplace. The ground stilled, and Neotne walked through the market. Banners of finest cloth advertised the skill of the weavers in Arachne. Paintings on the sides of houses, children at play, swallows over lilies, the courtship of a young man and woman, indicated the interests and talents of the artisans within. The market tables glittered with jewelry. Perfume bottled in exquisite alabaster vials tempted the buyer to try and buy. Neotne exchanged greetings with the parfumier and uncorked one.
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