The moment she appeared, Cheftu ceased to follow the plot. She struck a chord so deep within him that he fisted his hands to keep from reaching toward her. Her features were indistinguishable at this distance, but her grace was apparent. With slow, sinuous movements she coaxed the fruits from the earth. Cheftu guessed the “fruits” were the temple prostitutes, for they flashed their shoulders and the crowd literally groaned.
Arousal stirred the warming air as the dance became provocative. Another woman danced with Kela.
“She is the bull god,” Y’carus whispered. “She wears the boot.”
The dancer used a snake and a lot of imagination to impregnate the earth mother. Cheftu shifted positions, trying not to stare at her, want her. She was not Chloe. He looked at the palace instead. It was big, made of hard stone … hard … He swallowed and looked back at the woman.
They danced in a circle now, an elaborate pattern that first moved forward, then backtracked, like a potter’s wheel. Cheftu noted their motions as he fought the irrational lust he felt for the unknown dancer. He had no idea why, he just knew he desired that woman. Desperately. Using gestures that needed no explanation, the women danced with the snakes. His woman’s snake was slithering over her breasts, and her dance grew more frenzied, more erotic. Hands on each other’s wrists, the priestesses were running lightly, spiraling in and out, creating elaborate designs. Cheftu couldn’t pull his eyes away.
The Coil Dancers lay on the pavement, writhing in an imitation of ecstasy that was driving the crowd mad. Summer had never been so alluring.
Suddenly a woman screamed, and they all froze.
“I am Kela!” she cried. Cheftu was relieved it was not his woman. “I bring fertility, fecundity. Celebrate with me!”
Five men from the crowd darted onto the pavement to the Kela woman. She danced with them, her quick movements leading them closer. One by one the steps of the dance confounded them, and they returned to the crowd. Finally the fifth kept her pace, until he was dancing with his hands on her waist. The crowd cheered as the two danced into the building.
The other dancers began to move closer to the crowd. Each seemed to be selecting a partner, and Cheftu opened his mouth to ease the sound of his breathing. Whom would his dancer choose?
Her steps brought her close to where he stood, and he finally saw the woman’s face. Beautiful. Her glance flashed over him, and he groaned aloud. The noise was lost in the heat of the moment, and she moved on.
Moans and gasps carried clearly from the one-columned portico. Cheftu was appalled; he was inflamed. His dancer still sought a partner, and he focused on her, willing her to him. He caught her glance again. Her expression, her eyes, made his blood pound.
“The Sibylla wants you,” Y’carus said, pushing Cheftu forward. “She will not choose you unless you extend your hand.”
That’s not all that is extended, Cheftu thought. Stepping forward, cold sweat on his back, he thrust out his hand. A hundred men stood with outstretched hands and tented kilts. Me, Cheftu thought. Me. Pick me.
Her look met his, and he felt a touch on his hand. He clamped his fingers around hers. She pulled and he followed, a wake of disappointed Caphtori behind him. The dance steps were easy, all he had to do was mirror her movements. It was a slow seduction, a taste of the reciprocity that more intimate partnership promised.
The couple in the balcony were nearing their conclusion. Cheftu watched the woman in front of him, her breasts moving with the dance, each tier of her skirt alive with her energy and passion. He saw no signs of snakes—a relief. His hands were finally on her waist as they stepped into shadow.
They entered a hallway and she stopped, her heated body against his.
With no invitation he kissed her, his mouth open, his heart racing. Her nails scored his chest delicately, and then she gripped him, hard. He groaned against her mouth, his eyes wide. A door opened somewhere. His hands touched her skin, soft, her breasts filled his hands, the peaks hard against his palms.
She untied his kilt as though she’d done it a thousand times, following its slide to the floor. Cheftu fumbled with her belt, and with a low laugh she undid it, her jacket opening, her skirts loosening.
Outside, the death-throe ecstasy of the priestess rose. Kela was welcomed back; the snake lived, the butterfly flew, harvest would come. The Season of the Bull was begun.
The woman abandoned undressing herself and straddled him, slowly joining their bodies. Cheftu closed his eyes, the reality of what he was doing finally penetrating, even as his flesh entered hers.
Like this, he could imagine she was Chloe. Like this, it seemed every muscle in his body, every particle of his being, recognized her. She rode him hard. Coherent thought was impossible as her unrestrained cries and pleas drove him wild, holding her to him tightly.
He felt tears on his face and he rolled over, her long legs wrapped tightly around him, her back arching as she accepted and taunted him. With a swallowed shout, Cheftu climaxed, his face pressed into her neck. Her pleasure began as his ended, and Cheftu felt her body milk him again.
They lay in silence. Two strangers, intimately intertwined. He couldn’t bear to open his eyes and not see Chloe. He drifted for a while, lost in a sea of satiation, a morass of guilt.
SIBYLLA STARED AT THE CEILING. The quiescent man lay on her, pressing her to the floor, imprinting the pattern of shells on her back. He felt good, though, a welcome weight. More than that, she craved him: his skin, his scent, his touch. From the moment her gaze had locked with this golden-eyed man she knew that if she chose him, it would not be just for ritual mating.
This could not happen only once.
His short hair was damp against her cheek, and she felt more wetness against her neck. Did he weep with pleasure? She closed her eyes, wondering how her decision to forsake the Caphtori in favor of a foreigner would be perceived. He was definitely not Aztlantu. From his plain white kilt, now crumpled beneath them, to the pendant he’d thrown off after it hit her in the chin, he was Egyptian. She shifted positions and he sat up, pulling away abruptly, his face averted.
He looked toward the door, his legs crossed at the ankle, his arms resting on his knees. He cleared his throat and spoke. “I am Cheftu Necht-mer. From Egypt.” His Aztlantu was simplistic.
Sibylla sat up, too, pushing her skirt down, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “I am Sibylla.”
They sat in awkward silence. Sibylla wanted to hear his passion rise again. Though he was turned away she remembered his face. He had strong features: heavy dark brows arching over his eyes, a straight nose, and high cheekbones. His body was strong, though scarred. Frowning at herself, Sibylla got to her feet, walking toward the rattan couch. “A rest, Cheftu?”
He bowed his head, silent and removed. A few moments later he answered, “I think not. My gratitude.” He stretched a long-fingered hand back for his kilt, and Sibylla felt panicked. He was leaving; he couldn’t leave! She thought quickly.
“As you are a foreigner, you may not realize that your service to Kela is not complete.”
He turned around and looked at her for the first time since touching her hand. Sibylla felt his gaze caress every part of her. She was astonished to see how looking at her had an immediate effect. “Take off your tunic,” he said.
Obviously he didn’t know the word for outer garment, but his intention was clear. Sibylla slowly eased the jacket off her shoulders. Cheftu stood, legs braced, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Now your—” He gestured at her skirt, and Sibylla slithered out of it, like a snake from its skin. Cheftu’s breath was harsh as he raised his eyes to hers.
He touched his belly with his hand, then he touched his sex, and Sibylla inhaled sharply. With slow steps he approached her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Are you one of those Coil Dancers?”
Sibylla smiled. Nay, she wasn’t, it was an insult even to ask her, but for him, for him she would do anything, be anything. “If the Egyptian wishes it, aye.”
He licked his lips, swallowed, and then spoke. “I have not been with a woman—” His expression altered, and Sibylla reached for him, kissing him, trying to erase the pain in his eyes.
She tongued his ear, his responses driving her further. “What do you want, Egyptian?” she whispered. “Anything you ask is yours.”
He pulled her flush against him, his erection pressed between them. “Touch me,” he said, his voice cracking. “I starve for touch.”
In truth the ritual mating consisted of one coupling. Any foreplay was for Kela, the pleasure was for Kela, embodied in the priestess. There was nothing for the male; he was simply the contributing seed in the equation. Sibylla ignored these thoughts as she picked up a small flask of hyacinth-scented oil, a gift from Dion.
Sibylla pushed the Egyptian onto the bed, then poured the oil into her hands. His face was turned away from her, he seemed to hate looking at her, but she felt his skin melt into her hands when she touched him. He wanted her, or her body by proxy. Sibylla didn’t know which and didn’t really care.
With slow strokes she rubbed in the oil, feeling the texture of his skin, the firm muscle and sinew. Rubbing his back, shoulders, and arms, she moved farther down his body, settling herself on his thigh. His buttocks were round and tight, the skin lighter here than anywhere else. He sighed into the linens, his words cutting her before she realized she shouldn’t understand them. “Chloe,” he whispered. “My beloved.”
Sibylla froze.
CHEFTU AWOKE SLOWLY, not the horrified jolting awake to which he had become accustomed, but with a sense of peace. The tang of sex was in the air, and he felt the slick cement of his skin against Chloe’s.
Chloe!
He opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight. Curled inside the cradle of his arms and legs was a woman. Black curly hair covered them both, and Cheftu felt equal parts grief, shame, and lust. Lust was winning as the soft heat of her seduced him. His hand felt the heaviness of her breast, his other cupped her flat belly.
Tears pricked his eyes again. If I didn’t open my eyes, would I think she was Chloe? Would this pain go away? It was too late for that. He should leave, go to Aztlan or wherever, fulfill whatever destiny the ring foretold, and then … what? He wanted this woman once more. He wanted to close his eyes and imagine his wife with him one last time.
He slid his hand lower and felt fire run through him. Kissing her cheek, neck, and shoulder, he felt her pleasure rise. Her body tightened around him, and she rubbed against his chest like a cat. In seconds they were face-to-face and he begged her, in some language, to look at him. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, holding her head still, forcing her gaze to his.
Green eyes, glazed with pleasure but nothing more. She held him tightly, her forehead wrinkled as she fought toward him for release. Cheftu closed his eyes, suddenly unwilling to share the intimacy of his gaze with her, then opened them when she moaned.
He saw into the green shadows of her eyes as if he’d been plunged like hot metal through flesh. Behind the bars of culture and circumstance, he saw Chloe. He pulled the woman’s hair tight and stared deep into her eyes, pounding his flesh into hers. Chloe was there! He saw her!
With a howl of fury, frustration, and release, Cheftu poured into Sibylla’s body. She was weeping, kissing him, and caressing him, and Cheftu rolled off her, his mind suddenly clear.
Sibylla lay gulping for breath. He leaned over her, looking into her eyes, searching. Was it possible? Was he dreaming? Green eyes. Warm, but not Chloe’s. Cheftu turned away. Just accept your adultery, he told himself. Do not lie to make your action less reprehensible. Chloe is not here. You saw her broken body. Sate your lust if you must, but don’t envision Chloe in every green-eyed woman you meet. Sibylla rolled over, already asleep, and Cheftu lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Disgusted with himself, he crawled over her, retrieved his kilt, left his Eye of Horus—inlaid pendant as payment, and slipped into his sandals. She lay in a mass of dark curls, the mysteries of her body shielded in sleep. Kohl smeared her face, reminding him of his own, and he went to the water mirror to repair his eye makeup. She didn’t stir.
The sun testified it was late afternoon. He was tired, starving, and what could he say to her, anyway? He was a prisoner, however well he was treated, a man with nothing left to lose. But you saw Chloe.
He turned away from the sleeping woman and his thoughts of Chloe. She was dead. If he dwelt on his loss, he would go mad. Never think her name again, he thought. Please, God, let that ease the pain. Quietly he let himself out the door, wandered around until he found the pavement and the food hawkers, then walked back to the ship.
CHAPTER 8
AZTLAN
YOU OWE ME,” SHE SAID, her voice low and throaty. Zelos looked at his daughter and felt a shiver of revulsion. The first glance was always the hardest. Pale skin, so fair and translucent that it looked like the underbelly of a fish. He could see the faint lines of blue in her throat and in the fragile skin of her temple. She had dark blue eyes, long lashed but cold and predatory like those of a hungry animal.
“I am the Golden Bull,” Zelos said harshly. “I owe you nothing.”
Irmentis grabbed his wrist with strong fingers. “You know what Ileana did. She did it because of you! If you could have kept your kilt on, she would not have seen the need to make both her daughters pure.”
Zelos pulled away. “Ileana knew me, how our marriage would be, long before we were wed.” Unconsciously he looked at his left hand and arm. The symbol was faded, but still visible. Vines of green wound around his fingers, over the back of his hand and around his wrist. The Aztlantu symbol of marriage: a tattooed arm. How very long ago it all seemed. Zelos was suddenly filled with a fierce will to live, but he squelched it and turned to his daughter. “She would have me anyway.”
“Did she really know how being wed to you would be, Pateeras? Did she know the lengths to which you would go?”
“She knew I was a man, with a man’s needs.”
“A conniving, fornicating man who drove her mad. She feared you’d seduce your own daughters.”
Dizziness assaulted Zelos, and his tongue felt thick. Or she feared you would seduce me, he thought.
“Do you know what she did to us?”
He tried to think, to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t obey him. In detached horror he watched as his youngest daughter began to raise her tunic.
“Ileana did this. But did it keep you from masquerading as a bull at that feast in order to seduce Yuropa?” Irmentis’ white cheeks burned with spots of red. “Did it keep you from training a swan to charm and seduce Letas? How many children did she give you besides Phoebus?” Irmentis was untying her sash. “What of Daneaia, the Mycenaen? How much gold dust did you rain on her before she took you to her bed?” She grabbed his chin, glaring at him. “Ileana may have directed the knife, Zelos, but you drove her to it! See the results of your faithlessness? See how you ruined my life?”
Zelos had seen hundreds of nymphs intimately. He knew the female body almost better than his own. He felt his gorge rise when he saw his daughter’s mutilated sex. Everything had been carved away, and only a series of tuckered pink scars remained.
Through tears he looked at Irmentis. How could he explain? The passion and lust that had so often seized him was something she would never know. Never know because of him; because of Ileana. “What do you want?” he asked slowly.
Irmentis dropped her gown. “I cannot bear to leave Aztlan, Pateeras. Neither can I endure seeing Phoebus with another.” The ache in her voice made Zelos wonder if maybe this strange woman really did understand passion.
“Aye.”
She knelt before him. “Give me an island, let me take my dogs and some nymphs with me. I will leave Phoebus and spend the rest of my days hunting and fishing. I will never return here.” She glanced away. “Until he dies; his Great Year.”
Zelos had never felt kinship with his dark daughter. Her head was bowed, her dark hair
curling over her shoulders and spilling across her covered breasts. “You will leave Phoebus?”
“Aye.” She didn’t look up. “When he learns, I will be anathema to him.”
Zelos had seen his son with Irmentis. She was not anathema to Phoebus, but if she thought she was, so be it. He sighed. Why not please, unselfishly, at least one woman in his life? “By the Triton and Shell, I swear it.”
She presented the haft of her knife. Offended, yet strangely sympathetic, Zelos cut his finger, smearing blood across the blade, then over his lips. “I swear it on the Triton and Shell and on my honor as Golden Bull Zelos Zeus of the Clan Olimpi,” he vowed.
She kissed his mouth hard.
“Kalo taxidi, Pateeras. I shall eat the funeral kollyva for you.”
SPIRALMASTER’S WRISTS ACHED from tossing the stones. He’d gone through almost everything in his storerooms, yet nothing had received approval from the stones. He’d tried asking the stones to tell him what was necessary for the elixir, but he could not understand the response.
He sighed. He should bring in someone else, tell them about the stones, someone who could read … yet he dared not. He’d refused to see Niko; even now the boy might be carrying the illness that was killing Zelos’ hequetai. Aztlan needed a Spiralmaster who was not a confidant of Hreesos, who was not infected with this disease, who had no political aspirations.
What tragic days for the empire! They needed this elixir! They needed to rise above this disease, the disasters. Immortality could achieve that for them, yet the cursed stones would not help. Irritated beyond understanding, Imhotep began to name items for the final ingredient, anything he could think of, from kohl powder, to the kiss of a nymph, to what he had for dinner the night before.
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