Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 18

 They marched into the palace grounds. Nikias began to feel he'd spent enough time in the hard sun. His head hurt, his mouth had gone dry, and his tongue felt thick. As they approached the palace, he looked down into the royal harbour, at the shining blue water. He licked his lips.

They passed the first of the palace gardens, and a young man rushed out, a slight youth with floppy hair and a fuzzy scrap of beard. He ran at Nikias.

Nikias paused and half-drew his sword, and the young man skidded to a halt. "What did I tell you before, Leonadorus?"

"Leontas."

Nikias ignored him, and started on again. Kalliphas, who had tensed when he saw Nikias go for his sword, relaxed and followed him a pace or two behind.

Leontas yelped, and scrambled to keep up.

"Sir, we didn't get a chance to talk before-"

"You were too busy pissing yourself."

Kalliphas snorted with laughter.

"Sir, I really love your daughter, and I want your blessing for our marriage."

"If you want a blessing, go to a temple."

"You said I couldn't keep her safe. I've thought about that, and I've heard the talk of the city. They say these madmen attacked you, with your daughter right there. They attacked you, and they ignored her."

Nikias clenched his jaw, and spoke through his teeth. "You think the bronze talons are my only enemies?"

"If I take her to another city, Syracuse or Thebes, no one will know she's your daughter. We could even go to Athens."

Athens! The boy dared to suggest Athens. Nikias shot him a scowl that left him frozen.

They marched into the palace. Leontas stood outside, watching.

 ...

"The gods demand it!"

They entered the great hall, a vast chamber filled with ranks of marble columns to support the post and lintel structure. The walls were swathed with green and blue silk drapes, and the gilded columns gleamed. There were no windows, but burnished brass mirrors reflected light in from the garden, and made the hall glow. Incense burners scented the air with the perfume of roses. The varnished cedar throne glittered with pearl studs, and had enough thick red and purple cushions for a man to sink down and sleep.

Ptolemaios was not sleeping.

He perched on the edge of the throne, chewing his nails. Beside him, Rathea sat upright, her face hard and regal. She wore a silk himation the colour of blood.

"The gods cry out for it, and in our mortal pride we ignore their will. But you cannot go against the gods. That is why they send us these afflictions, to mortify our will, and lead us into the way of obedience."

Garantzis, high priest of Poseidon, was the oldest man in Alexandria, and he looked like the oldest man in the world. If he had once had any flesh, time had wasted it until it left him with a skeleton wrapped in skin, baked nut brown and wrinkled by the sun. His face had so little meat it looked like a skull painted brown. In spite of his rank, he wore the simplest of undyed linen robes, and carried a staff carved from a tree washed up on the shore, a gift from Poseidon. Some men said he was a thousand years old, and had sailed, as a boy, with Jason. Some men would say anything, but the most conservative agreed he had to pushing a hundred, and yet the older he got, the more zest animated his skeletal frame.

His yellow eyes burned.

"If we do not satisfy the gods, if we, who count our age in years and not in aeons, call ourselves wise and mock the divine command, the gods will smite this city, and cast it below the waves."