“Dammit, Cheftu! I’ve worked for hours on this painting, and if you think you can just wander in whenever you feel like it, then ruin my painting and expect me to fall into your—”
He gripped her around the jaw and kissed her hard. Chloe pushed him away, spattering paint on them both. “You’re ruining my work,” she hissed. Cheftu glared, pulled both of her wrists behind her, and snatched the paintbrush.
“You have become so Aztlantu,” he said. “Dancing half-naked in the court, the inheritor to Kela-Ileana.” She struggled and he moved his grasp up her arms, holding her still and arching her back. “Do you want to bed Phoebus?”
Chloe hissed in response and refused to admit his grasp hurt. She forgot it hurt when he began painting her nipples with the paintbrush. The tiny hairs of the brush tickled, and she felt herself growing tighter, hotter. “Do you wish Dion were holding you, Phoebus painting your body?” He was angry, his eyes betrayed his hurt.
“It, wasn’t what you think.”
He began to paint a design on her breast, moving it up toward her esophagus and down close to where her jacket was loosely fastened. Chloe couldn’t tell what he was painting from her angle; all she could see was the swell of her breasts, a pale gold against the brilliant turquoise. Hieroglyphs. He’d painted her with hieroglyphs.
Chloe struggled again and Cheftu yanked her closer, his hard grip unyielding. He held the paintbrush in his teeth and slid his hand beneath the waistband of her dress. Pressing his mouth to hers, the tangy flavor of the paint between them, he drew Chloe’s tongue into the jail the paintbrush made of his mouth. “I am very angry, Chloe,” he said against her lips.
A ripping sound filled the room, and Chloe screeched in outrage, struggling against him. He pulled her to him, making her kicking ineffectual. Chloe was dizzy, flooded with mixed emotions, and … well … hungry for him.
Cheftu walked her backward, against the wall, and Chloe twisted, trying to get away, though not as wholeheartedly as before. He might be angry, but she knew he was also turned on. He ripped a ruffle off her skirt with one hand, and Chloe felt her knees weaken. With quick movements he tied her wrists behind her and laughed while she strained. Now she was hopping mad.
Until he dropped to his haunches, the paintbrush forgotten as he dipped both hands in the paint and massaged it into her skin. It was thick, gloppy, and so cool it made her shiver. Cheftu treated it like lotion, rubbing the pigment deep; she looked as though she were swirled in ocean waves from the waist down.
Chloe was trembling, barely able to stand. Cheftu’s touch was magic, and it was unspeakably erotic to see herself transformed with color and pattern. She had become art. Leaning her head against the wall, she concentrated on sensation. The cool paint gained her body’s heat. The places where it was heavily applied felt solid and thick, versus the parts barely washed with color, a coating so light it felt like cobwebs on her skin. Cheftu picked up her foot, rubbing in the paint, stroking his fingers between her toes, slowly, the sucking and slurping of the paint reminiscent of …
“What flavor?” he asked hoarsely. Chloe slowly slid down the wall, her knees over his shoulders, sitting on his thighs. She blinked and inhaled as he painted her face with the most eloquent of touches. The paint had thickened and felt luxuriously smooth. “What flavor, my faithless madame?”
Baskin-Robbins, she thought, they haven’t invented this flavor yet! She groaned as he touched her intimately, the visions behind her closed eyes waves of blue and lapis and turquoise rising higher and higher, straining to crest. Cheftu whispered words against her lips, suggestions and sensations, stoking the fire, making her as hot as the blue center of a flame, until she was consumed.
THE BLACK, CAVERNOUS CHAMBER WAS ECHOINGLY EMPTY. Torches affixed to the walls cast an almost daylike brightness, the different heights dispelling shadow. The Council stood on the first balcony, where the nobles of Aztlan had stood merely days ago.
The final test had come.
Phoebus stood, forcing the trembling throughout his body to stop. He’d bested the Apis bull, proved his worth in the pyramid, survived the Labyrinth; now the final test. He must choose to do what benefited the many but hurt the few. The fertility of the fields must be assured.
The king must die.
I will stand here in nineteen summers, he thought. I will look in the face of my son and know I must kill or be killed. He dared not think beyond that, beyond the ritual. He was Olimpi, he would be victorious.
It was silent.
He raised his gaze and looked around him, not daring to move his head. Niko leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed. Next to Niko stood Phoebus’ triton, the prongs polished and sharpened, ready to pierce skin. Phoebus looked away. His body smelled rank, fear in his sweat. His bowels were loose, and he felt nauseated. Thank Apis that Eumelos would not one day do this. Better an unloved son to destroy him.
The crash of wood against stone reverberated throughout the chamber as the double doors opened. Phoebus’ palms were wet, and he unlocked his knees. Zelos walked through the door, Spiralmaster trailing behind, Dion holding the Golden Bull’s triton.
Zelos didn’t look as though he were past his prime, Phoebus thought with a rush of pride. He was still the tallest man in Aztlan, and his fine blond hair floated over his shoulders, though streaks of white were visible. His body was tight, trim, golden skinned, and the dozens of offspring from a wealth of nymphs attested to his virility.
The blue eyes that both Phoebus and Eumelos had inherited were pale and sad. The new Minos motioned both contenders forward. Phoebus stepped to his father, trying to delay the sunrise, trying not to drag his feet and humiliate his clan.
Only once had the tradition not been fulfilled. Golden Bull Kronos had defeated his son and ruled for thirty-eight summers. By the end of his reign he was weak, puny, and the fields were wasted. Zelos had won the battle easily and partaken of the sacrifice, though very little power had been left in Kronos.
Pateeras’ hands gripped his forearms, and Zelos smiled. “You are worthy, my golden son,” he said. His voice was thick, and his expression was resigned. “Still, the clan and the empire demand our best in this battle. You have proved your mind to be sound, your reflexes to be fast and sure, your intellect to be superb, and now you must prove your will and your obedience are without question.”
Phoebus shook his head in agreement.
“Afterward, you must prove your self-control. No man can lead where he has not walked. Aztlan is experiencing pangs—birth pangs, I hope—of a new, glorious generation—” Zelos’ voice broke. “I regret I will not see your rule.”
Phoebus’ grip grew tighter.
“Fight me now, Phoebus. Show me that my pride is not misplaced. I will not have it whispered that Hreesos Zelos was an easy victory.”
“I hear you have bested almost all the Mariners,” Phoebus said with a smile. “I shake in my sandals.”
Zelos laughed, a lonely, desperate sound. “Do your duty by Ileana,” he said.
Rage, carefully banked, filled Phoebus. “I shall, Pateeras. I shall do well by Ileana.”
His father looked at him, searching his gaze. He then looked at their linked arms, hands clenching tightly to each other, just below the elbow. Golden Bull Zelos straightened to his full height, saluted his son and heir, and waited for Phoebus to do the same.
It was too fast! Phoebus thought. Nay, this could not be it! But he had turned on his heel and Niko was handing him his triton, his gaze turned inward. A sense of isolation pounded in on him, and Phoebus feared he couldn’t go through with it. He’d lost Irmentis, he’d lost his youth—and now his father?
He turned again and walked back to the floor. Zelos, the triton held loosely in both hands, stood easily on the balls of his feet. His dignity was awesome, even here, fighting the last of his life’s battles.
A serpent was thrown onto the sand, signifying the start of the final battle. Spring versus winter, youth versus age, will against will.
Phoebus turned in a small circle, watching Zelos’ triton, uncannily aware of the swishing sound of their bare feet in the sand. A low hiss gained his attention, and he leapt back an eyeblink before the horned viper struck out at him.
His hands were wet, his grip on the triton tight. Zelos was closer, and Phoebus dodged his first strike, parried his second, and ducked the third. What would happen if no one won? It was an impossible thought that died at birth. Only one man would leave this arena. His father would not be shamed.
Zelos attacked again, and Phoebus rolled beneath the tines, grabbing his triton before Zelos turned. If he didn’t kill Zelos, he would never be allowed to punish Ileana. The thought of Ileana broken and begging—pleading, her lovely face distorted, her aging body revealed—filled Phoebus with a rush of pleasure.
He jabbed at Zelos, not an attack, just a show of engagement. His father smiled, and Phoebus knew he would kill him and feast, as generations of golden-haired and blue-eyed men had done before him.
He would make Ileana suffer.
Another serpent was thrown onto the sand. Two to avoid, while attacking Zelos. Phoebus struck out, the contact with Zelos’ triton sending shock waves up his arm, jarring his bones into his teeth. He opened his mouth, releasing the pressure on his jaw, and moved sideways.
They clashed again, high, then lower; closer, farther away. The sound was almost rhythmic, and Phoebus virtually danced in the arena, running and dodging and striking. Zelos was skilled, but not fast, and Phoebus realized that at thirty-eight summers his father was old and weary. Phoebus moved in closer.
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.
CHLOE 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.
CHEFTU 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.”
Shadows on the Aegean Page 37