Shadows on the Aegean (14 page)

Another quick glance over his shoulder and Imhotep brought out his inheritance from his grandfather, also Imhotep. A golden
pyramid filled the palm of his hand, topped by a tiny jewel, the Seed of Creation, which refracted the dim light to all corners
of the room. Imhotep laid the pyramid onto the ash, its magical dimensions filling the circles, then took out a sliver of
mirror.

Within a few moments the penetrating light of the stone was centered between the wounded man’s eyes, the invisible third eye
of understanding. With infinitesimal movements, Imhotep woke the man’s mind. “Why are you here?”

“I am a tool,” the unconscious one answered mentally.

“A tool of whom?”

“The highest God.”

Imhotep faltered for a moment. “Fight this death around you,” he commanded.

“Why?” the man asked.

“What is your greatest wish?” Imhotep asked.

“To love her forever.”

“Who?”

No response.

“Who?” But the moment was gone; the purity of emotion and thought had been defiled. At least now he knew what to say, Imhotep
thought. Carefully he gathered his tools and scattered the ash. This man would live. It was deceitful, but Imhotep would force
him to live.

He put his mouth next to the man’s ear. “She is in danger,” he said. “Grave danger. I fear it may be too late. She has no
one but you. Can you help her?”

Coldly he watched the man press his lips together in grief. The patient was very ill; even manipulation would take a while.
Imhotep pulled a stool to the couch’s edge. “She is in danger,” he repeated. “Grave danger.…”

CAPHTOR

S
HE WAS IN DANGER OF BREAKING AN ANKLE
, Chloe realized. How did these women run on the rough ground around here? Unlike training grounds in her time, this track
was just a well-worn goat path, complete with stones and potholes. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of Adidas, Chloe thought.

I should be grateful I haven’t had a cigarette in over a year, otherwise I wouldn’t be running. Period
. Though outwardly she was Sibylla—she’d stepped into her skin and zipped it on like Spandex—Chloe knew she was in her own
body. Her own lungs, muscles, strengths, and weaknesses had to be harnessed to run this race.

Shielding her eyes with her hand, she watched her teammate round the curve. The young woman, a Shell Seeker, ran hard, arms
and legs pumping, breasts bouncing, ribbon-tied braids streaming behind her. I really hate running, Chloe thought.

She tensed her body, her hand outstretched for the woman’s palm. The force of the slap made Chloe’s wrist ache, then she was
off, running barefoot, dividing her energy between holding her bare breasts with one arm and dodging the holes and stones.
The faint shouts of encouragement faded away as she turned into a small valley, a stream running beside her. Chloe’s breath
was loud in her ears and she could feel her lungs starting to burn.

A moment’s hesitation, then she was across the stream, cutting through the small copse of trees….
ouch, ouch, pine needles, ouch!
She hopped on one foot, then was back onto the goat path. Sweat was dripping down her back and she could once again see the
waiting women. I hate running, Chloe thought, then took off.

She hated running, but she hated losing worse.

Wincing from the stony path, she focused on her waiting teammate, forcing her legs to move faster, struggling for breath.
She slapped the girl’s hand and jogged off to the side, bent over and breathing hard. Her muscles trembled and she felt dizzy.

“Sibylla, you will never qualify,” a well-meaning voice chided. “On all other fronts you are the strongest contender, but
if you can’t catch Kela-Ileana, it doesn’t matter.”

Trying to catch her breath, Chloe asked, “Has my time improved?”

“From the last Season of the Bull, aye, it has.” The woman chuckled and clicked her tongue. Chloe raised her head and looked
at her. Despite her short hair, tunic, and kohl makeup, she was every inch a coach. Visions of field hockey danced in Chloe’s
head. Apparently Sibylla wasn’t a good runner, either.

“What is Kela-Ileana’s time?”

“About three times the speed of yours.”

Chloe didn’t ask how this woman kept track without a stopwatch or even a concept of seconds. Three times faster was unbeatable.
So she didn’t qualify. Big deal. She was here for disasters, not for track and field.

Right?

In her mind she peeked at Sibylla. The woman refused to believe she was there, as if ignoring Chloe would work. “I must beat
Ileana,” her host-body wailed. “This is my only chance. If not, we’ll all still be ruled by her! Each summer she grows worse,
people mean even less to her, she hurts and maims more freely!”

“I thought the Golden ruled,” Chloe said.

“Aye. She rules through him, however,” Sibylla responded. “Nay! I cannot speak to myself! I am not going mad!”

“’Behind every strong man is a stronger woman’?” Chloe asked. Sibylla ignored her. “She’s moved beyond self-centeredness.
She is a killer. We’re all in danger.”

“What can she really do?” Chloe asked, scoffing.

“She is Kela-Ileana, she can destroy Aztlan if she chooses.”

“If those visions don’t get you first,” Chloe reminded Sibylla.

The coach had walked off, and Chloe saw the other runners leaving in twos and threes. The January wind cut through her light
tunic, and she shivered. The feeling of loneliness surrounded her again, and she walked slowly back to the palace complex.
If only Cheftu were there.

Well, this race wasn’t Chloe’s problem. In her mind Sibylla was repeating, “I must win, I must win. We’ll all be in danger.
I must win. We’re in danger….”

EGYPT

T
HE WORDS POUNDED THROUGH HIS BRAIN
. “She is in danger, she is in danger, she is in danger sheisindangersheisindanger,” running together into a litany of fear
that drilled through his aching, weary mind and poked the place where the real man slept, wrapped in grief and sorrow, unwilling
to awaken. As sharp and deadly delicate as the blade of a rapier, it pierced—“Sheisindangersheisindangersheisindanger”— the
man within, on the remotest possibility that the “she” was
his
she, forced his mind forward.

Up through the tunnel of blissful forgetfulness and into the pain of his body: legs that were swollen, a chest that ached,
and breathing that caught and rasped on each exhalation. “She is in danger She is in danger…” the words became more precise
as his mind stepped into the harness of consciousness. A lightness glowed around him, and he opened his eyes. His lashes made
whispery sounds as he blinked, and he realized his eyes were bandaged.

A deep breath caught in his chest, and he doubled over, coughing. Hands quickly removed the linen from his eyes, a voice cried
out, and he blinked, clearing sudden tears. Incense stung his nostrils and throat. Through the grayish smoke he saw vibrant
paintings on the walls; Osiris and Thoth and Ma’at… The door opened and a bald man rushed into the room.

His clean-shaven pate identified him as a priest. He was of medium height, his shoulders stooped like a scribe. Gold hung
from his ears and wrapped around his scrawny upper arms. As he stepped to the couch, the patient flinched and withdrew. “You
are stronger now?” the priest asked.

The man blinked. The language felt … awkward. He licked dry lips and nodded. “Aye, my lord.” His voice was ragged, as though
his vocal cords had rotted from inactivity. The priest clapped, and the young boy who’d unbandaged the man left and returned
with a tray. The boy was skeletally thin: the man could count his ribs.

“You are in Noph,” the priest said. “Take this and eat….”

“Take and eat, take and eat…” Another litany, but one that brought a sense of welcome, salvation, rapture. The man picked
up the dish and put the mixture of grain and fish into his mouth. The meat was stringy and dry. Had the man not been starving,
he would have thrown away such swill. Did Pharaoh, living forever! know what the priests were eating? Or not eating, the man
thought, watching as the young boy’s eyes followed his every movement. He set down the dish, searching for a finger bowl.
How uncivilized this temple was! “What is the date, my lord?” the man asked.

The priest looked surprised, then pleased. “The second month of
per-t
, third summer of Many-Teared Inundation.”

For some reason, the man felt panicked. “Many-Teared Inundation?”

“Aye, my lord,” the priest responded, frowning slightly. “The famine is under control, though, administered by Vizier Ipiankhu
himself for Pharaoh, living forever!.”

The man felt his heart race. Sweat broke out on his forehead and back. He was suddenly chilled and shaking. The priest stepped
closer, tucking a linen sheet tightly around the man’s body. Expertly the priest checked his temperature and the swelling.
The man relaxed as the pressure around his chest eased.

“You are healing well, my lord, I shall call the
hemu neter,”
the priest said, his eyes bloodshot from keeping vigil. “First, may I ask a question, er… my lord?”

“Aye?”

“Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth… and no answer came.

He saw visions in his head, confused flashes of a life he recognized as his own. Women and men in black wigs and elaborate
kilts, wearing collars of exquisite beauty and construction around their necks. He saw multitudes of
rekkit
, commoners, stretched before a parted sea. The face of a woman, eyes as green as grass, hovered before him. Her lips formed
a word, a name, but he couldn’t read it. Then he saw her again, bedraggled and weeping. Kneeling, her hand across her breast,
the other outstretched. A blinding light obliterated her … and the man was lying on the couch again.

“My lord? Who are you?”

The man blinked against gathering tears.
“Je ne sais pas.”

The priest stepped back. “Who, my lord?”

The man realized that he had spoken words he should never say, that he had a great secret he must not share. He licked his
lips and forced himself to concentrate, to speak the language the priest spoke.

“Who are you?”

“I know not, my lord.”

The priest pursed his lips, then nodded. “Rest, it will come to you.”

He left and the man lay back, panting as though he’d run a great distance. A ring was fitted onto the small finger of his
right hand. His left being bandaged, he put his finger into his mouth, pulling off the ring and then holding it in his right
hand. His stomach clenched as he stared at it.

It was small, made for a graceful finger. Staring at the ring of silver and gold with amber chips, he heard words in a different
language from the one he’d just used, spoken in his own voice, rough with tears.

“As unbreakable is this circle, so is my love for you. As pure as the metal, so do I love you. Like the silver and gold, our
lives are woven together, forever binding us, even though we now take separate paths.”
Separate paths … He felt such an ache inside, such emptiness. His chest heaved, each breath agony. The priest returned, admonishing
him to drink from an alabaster cup and rest again.

Floating in a sea of disconnected memories, the man felt bandages being replaced over his eyes. They prevented his
ka
from fleeing the virulent
ukhedu
that must be in his body. Protect me, he thought as the sleeping draught seduced him into darkness.