“It’s not as bad as that,” Helena tried again. “Iadmon is a kind and generous master. You’ll be treated well here—very well.”
The snake-gripping tightness had moved from Doricha’s middle to her chest, though her sash was still in its place. She breathed steadily, slowly, trying to dispel the pain that banded her ribcage. Trying not to weep.
After a few more moments Helena went away, leaving the tray of food on the wash stand. Doricha lifted her face from her knees and blinked at the gathering gloom. Her eyes stung terribly, though she hadn’t shed a tear. Tears would do her no good now.
There was a soft tap at her door. And then it was pushed open again, before Doricha could give permission to enter—but of course she was a slave now, and slaves had no right to privacy. She turned sharply at the intrusion, peeved more by her helplessness to prevent it than by the intrusion itself. Then she paused and nearly smiled. For it was not Helena who stood in the doorway, nor Iadmon. Aesop was there, holding the shallow bowl of a stone lamp, a dark curve against his pink palm. The lamp’s small flame danced so merrily that it almost seemed to mock Doricha’s sorrow. But she liked the way it lit Aesop’s face, giving a decidedly friendly glow to his dark eyes, sending shadows to dart and play amid the tight black curls of his beard.
Aesop smiled at her gently. He crossed the room with his shambling gait and set the lamp carefully on the window’s narrow ledge.
“May I sit with you?” he asked.
Sniffling, Doricha nodded.
“It’s never easy to reconcile ourselves to the great changes that come to our lives. Is it? But they do come to every life, Doricha, whether we will them or no. Upheaval rocks us to our very foundations. But we all experience it, great and small, young and old… master and slave.”
Aesop leaned back against the cool stone wall, gazing up into the deep shadows that congregated near the ceiling. “I, too, am a slave. Did you know that?”
Doricha shrugged her thin shoulders. “You have the blue sash, so I thought you must be. Only you don’t seem like a slave to me.”
“And how do slaves seem?” There was a hint of laughter in his words, but he was not mocking, not unkind.
“Suppose there’s a word for it, but I don’t know what it is,” Doricha said. “Quiet-like, as if they’ve been walked upon, and were just about ready to give themselves up and become like dust on the ground.”
“Subdued,” Aesop suggested.
Doricha wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Suppose that’s about right, and all.”
“I have met many free men who are subdued—who are ready to give themselves up.”
“But a free man can go wherever he pleases.”
Aesop nodded slowly. “That is so. We may not go where we please, you and I. Nor can Helena, nor the other slaves of Iadmon’s household. But we can choose to bear ourselves with dignity.”
Doricha turned a hard frown on him—on her only friend in the world. “I don’t see what dignity there is in being owned like a goat or a dog. I won’t be happy about it, so don’t tell me I ought.”
“No, child. I would never tell you that.” He touched her cheek gently, brushing away the lone tear she’d allowed to fall. “The thing itself—slavery—is nothing to be glad about. But you can be happy for the sake of your family. You made a great sacrifice for their sake, Doricha. You very likely saved their lives. And that is something to be glad about, don’t you think?”
The tears Doricha had held back for so long flooded her burning eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She sobbed raggedly against her knees, wordless with the terrible, mingled force of love and despair. Aesop laid his arm around her shoulders until the worst of her crying had passed.
When she’d subsided into sniffles, he said, “I haven’t always lived with Iadmon, you know. He bought me in Samos from a man called Xanthes—a slave-trader like Iadmon, but not as pleasant a person. Far more shrewd and particular about his money, that one was. And I have seen masters who were more unpleasant still.”
“Where did you come from?” Doricha asked. “Before Samos, I mean.”
“I was born in Kush. Do you know where Kush is?”
She shook her head, watching Aesop intently now. Until this moment she hadn’t thought of him as a man who’d come from anywhere—a man with a past, with a family like her own. A man who had lost what she had lost: freedom, dignity, love.
“Kush is a great, wide kingdom to the south and east of Egypt. The headwaters of the Nile flow from there, and we have other rivers in Kush, too—much like the Nile, but not quite so long or broad.”
“Do you remember it well?” Doricha’s memories of Thrace were painfully vivid and near, though she hadn’t seen her homeland for years. The high, green mountains cloaked in cool shade; the scent of pine on the wind; the roar of sea waves against rocky shores—it seemed the memories were as much a part of her body as her flesh and bones were.
“I do not remember Kush especially,” Aesop said. “I know I came from a small village on a hot, dry plain. I know that I was taken from my family by raiders when I was very young—three or four years old. The twist in my spine hadn’t shown itself yet, and I suppose the raiders thought I would grow up to be a strong and likely lad. They must have thought to sell me as a mercenary, or perhaps a fighter in the Roman games. But I turned out—” He gestured to his own shoulders, the awkward tilt of his head— “As you see me.”
“How did you survive?” Caught up now in his story, Doricha leaned toward him, eyes wide and heart pounding. “Didn’t they think to kill you, since you couldn’t be sold?”
“Ah, but I could be sold—and at great profit, too. I saw the bend in my spine as a blessing, not a curse, for it kept me out of combat. Even with a perfectly fit body, I feel certain I never would have made a good fighter; it’s simply not in my nature. But I had talents I could cultivate, Doricha. Even as a slave, I saw that I could give myself great worth and make myself valuable—perhaps even indispensable—to those whom I served.
“I proved my wit and cleverness by telling stories every time I had the chance. I made riddles to amuse those around me—fellow slaves, and others, too—and I turned the simplest observations of human nature into tales that could charm my masters. Soon I gave my stories a certain polish that looks very like wisdom, if you see it in the right light. Once my masters began to think of me as a wise man, I rose in their esteem. I was given access to knowledge no other slaves had. I learned to read and write; I learned numbers and sums. And every new skill I mastered added to my worth.”
“Do you mean,” Doricha said, “your masters sold you on for a good profit?”
Aesop smiled again. “Yes, that is partly what I mean. But when I say ‘worth’ I am not only referring to the price each new master paid for me. Even though I was owned—and am owned still—all the seeds I have cultivated within have borne great harvests of fruit. I have worth to myself, Doricha, because I have made myself a capable man. However great Iadmon deems my value, he cannot value me more than I do myself.”
She sat in thoughtful silence, watching the lamp’s flame gutter in the evening breeze. At last she said, “S’pose that’s what you mean by a slave having dignity. But it still seems a hard thing, to feel worthy while I can’t even go to the market or the river when I please.”
“It is a hard thing; I don’t deny it. And, my child, I don’t propose that you reap a harvest of worth overnight. Those fruits take time to grow. Like the plants in the field, or out there in the garden, the seeds must first be planted, and then the tender shoots must be nurtured. You are young and have little experience of the world. It takes time and thought, and a great deal of looking within, to find dignity in the face of circumstances like ours. Just remember this, Doricha: Whenever a man builds a house, he must lay the first brick. Yes?”
She smiled in agreement.
“One brick at a time,” Aesop said, “you will build your self-worth. And if I know you, by the time you’re finishe
d you will be a tower as tall and strong and beautiful as the Great Pyramids.”
“What’s my first brick to be, then?”
“That’s for you to decide,” he answered, sliding off the bed and eyeing Doricha’s untouched tray of food. “But if you wish to start with pride, then I think you have cause to be proud of the kindness and mercy you showed your family. They will bless your name and sing your praises to the gods—I have no doubt of that.”
He picked a fig from the tray and popped it into his mouth, chewing with great relish. Doricha’s stomach rumbled loudly; the cramp of hunger pinched hard at her belly.
But she couldn’t make herself face her supper yet. She watched Aesop for a long moment, then said cautiously, “Do you remember your family? Out there in Kush?”
Aesop’s face went still; his eyes took on a haze of distance, but he didn’t seem upset—merely thoughtful. At length, he said, “I was very young when the raiders took me. Sometimes I can remember my mother’s face. I catch a fleeting glimpse of her behind my closed eyelids, or I see her in the crowd at the market square, but when I turn to look more closely she is gone. I remember her voice—not the exact words she said to me, or the lyrics of her songs. But I remember how she sang to me at night, to lull me to sleep. And there was always love in her voice. I will never forget her entirely, Doricha. I will always feel her love for me—here.” He laid a hand over his heart.
Doricha drew a deep breath, feeling the ragged beat of her own heart. She slipped off the bed. Her legs ached from the hours she had spent there; they trembled from the weakness of hunger. But when she scooped up cheese with a scrap of bread and put it into her mouth, she felt a little steadier, a little stronger.
“That’s a good girl,” Aesop said. He helped himself to one more fig, then folded back the blanket on Doricha’s bed and thumped her cushion to fluff it. “When you’ve eaten every bit, you must sleep. Brick by brick, we will build you up, and you’ll need plenty of rest for the building.”
Doricha nodded, cheeks stuffed with the sweet figs, while Aesop considered the lamp on the window sill.
“If I leave the light here for you,” he said, “you won’t start a fire with it, will you?”
Doricha shook her head and swallowed the figs.
“Good.” Aesop kissed her brow. “Then I’ll see you in the morning, child. Sleep well.”
When Doricha’s belly was full, she climbed into bed and pulled the soft blanket of linen and wool up to her chin. Evening had settled over the garden, a purply-blue dimness pricked here and there by the points of early stars. She had forgotten to blow out the lamp’s flame. It went on dancing against the shadows, casting a brave sphere of light out into a cold and darkening world.
Leave it, Doricha told herself. The light’s cheerful and pretty.
Iadmon was a rich enough man that he would never moan about the wasted oil.
4
The Favor of Luck
The smell of pine was sweet in the warm autumn air—pine and damp leaves, and blue shade beneath the evergreen trees. Doricha closed her eyes, listening to the rushing of the waves, the cry of white birds as they glided over the surf that murmured and foamed somewhere far below, around the rocky feet of the seaside cliffs. She drank in the sounds and smells of her home as if she would never set foot on Thracian soil again. But of course, that was ridiculous. She was home. Where else could she be? The wind caressed her cheek and tangled the ends of her rosy-gold hair. The cool bite of the autumn wind raised a pleasant flush across her skin. Home. Where else could she be?
She heard voices behind her, somewhere up the slope of the hill that led to a little house under a bower of pines. They were children’s voices—Aella singing, high and sweet, and the twins, Bolin and Belos, laughing as they conspired in mischief.
Doricha turned toward Aella’s song, but she couldn’t find her sister among the trees. Nor could she find the path, carpeted with years of dried pine needles, that stretched from the seaside cliffs to the house. They were gone, swallowed in an unrecognizable tangle of branches.
“Aella?” She called.
Only the sea birds answered.
Doricha tried again, shouting louder for her sister. The twins’ laughter receded, vanished into the whisper of wind through the trees. And the whisper grew louder, and louder still, increasing to a roar of blood in her ears. The roar pounded like drums, beating in time with her racing heart.
Aella spoke from somewhere nearby, sudden and loud, but still invisible behind the wind-lashed pine boughs, no matter which direction Doricha turned. “You didn’t say good-bye.”
Doricha bolted upright in her narrow bed. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that she could practically feel it shaking her thin, fragile frame. She clutched the edge of her blanket, wrinkling the linen in her fists as she strained to hear over the sound of her own ragged breathing. She searched the close air of her chamber for the scent of pine.
But there were no sea birds crying, no laughter, no songs. And certainly no Aella in the small chamber of Iadmon’s estate. There was only the twittering of small garden birds, drifting in through her narrow garden window along with the first blush of morning light. None of the birds sang with calls she recognized—the birdsongs of Thrace. The air already smelled of heat, though the sun had hardly risen—heat and dry earth and sun-bleached grain. The smells of Egypt.
Fool, Doricha told herself bitterly. Nothing has changed since last night, and shame come to you for hoping it had. She was still a slave, still a captive locked up tightly in Iadmon’s pretty cage. And she was still in Egypt. Hot, dry, flat and stifling Egypt, where she would remain until the end of her days.
The sheets of her bed were damp with sweat. She had been in Egypt nearly three years but still hadn’t grown used to the thick, sticky heat. Even early in the morning and all, when it decently ought to be cool. S’pose I’ll never feel at home here. Not truly.
Doricha slipped out of the bed and wondered what she ought to do with her belt and tunic. She’d fallen asleep in them; both were rumpled and creased now. She pulled them off and slung them over the foot of her bed, then splashed herself all over with water from her pitcher. The water ran in tiny rivulets along the floor, toward a few drain-holes set along the bottom of the wall, each the width of a finger. Washing up refreshed Doricha somewhat. The water sluiced away the worst of the night’s sticky sweat, if not the clinging residue of her dream.
As she returned the water pitcher to its stand, Doricha noticed a fresh white tunic hanging from a peg beside the door. She didn’t know whether it had appeared there during the night—delivered, perhaps, by dark-haired Helena—or whether she had simply failed to notice it the night before, wrapped as she was in her misery. Either way, its fortuitous appearance gave her a small stirring of confidence. She pulled the fresh garment on over her head, shook out the worst of the wrinkles from her blue sash, and tied it tightly around her waist. Then she ran her fingers through her hair until she felt no more sleep-tangles, though each time she encountered a knot she winced with the pain of it.
Dressed and as presentable as she could ever hope to be, Doricha stared at the door to her narrow chamber, chewing her lip and wondering what she ought to do. She was a smart enough girl to know that a slave couldn’t simply wander about at will. Reckon that’s exactly what it means to be a slave, and all. But could she leave her room without permission? There was no one present to tell her what she may do—what she must do.
Tentatively, she pushed the door open and peered out into the hall beyond. The pale stone corridor was perfectly still and utterly empty. Doricha edged through the door, first one slow, hesitant footstep, a pause, and then another.
All at once, a spry little brown figure sprang up from the floor, so close and sudden that Doricha leaped backward through the doorway, stifling a shriek of fear. She caught herself in the next moment, chiding herself inwardly. It was only a little boy. He must have been crouching on his heels beside the door, waiting
for Doricha to awake.
The boy was perhaps six or seven years old, to judge by his size, and he wore the blue sash of Iadmon’s property. But he kept his face turned down to the floor as he spoke. His voice was soft, his words barely audible as he muttered toward his sandals.
“What, now?” Doricha said. She tried to sound neither impatient nor intimidating. Doricha knew how shy little ones could be with strangers.
The boy mumbled again, then peered up at her through thick, dark lashes. When Doricha caught sight of his face she gasped. A split ran through this upper lip, clear to the side of his nose. An unlucky feature. In Thrace, such a child would have been left for the wilderness to claim, in the very hour of its birth.
The boy’s cheeks flamed red when he saw Doricha staring. He seemed to draw on some deep well of determination and said slowly, more clearly this time, “You. Are. Wanted.”
Now it was Doricha who was flustered. Aesop is expecting me, and I have kept him waiting. Or worse… she had inconvenienced Iadmon. It wouldn’t do either way, to keep her master or her tutor waiting.
“Next time you must wake me,” she told the boy gently. If she was to build her dignity brick by brick, she must prove to her master that she was reliable. A lazy girl could never be trusted.
The boy shrugged and turned away quickly. Doricha followed him along the wide, empty corridor. They passed the andron where a few slaves were clearing away the remains of a meal and made their way back through the hall of gods. The sacred statues gleamed in the early morning light that spilled in through the open double doors. Doricha imagined she could feel the gods’eyes following her as she passed—the silent judgment of the divine.
Doricha blinked against the sun’s glare as she stepped out into the garden. The heat would be especially intense today. Morning had only just broken, but already the sun raised the scent of drying leaves from the garden beds, a thick, greenish perfume that sat heavy in Doricha’s chest. The birds already sounded sleepy from the heat, though a long day of foraging for seeds and flies stretched out before them.
White Lotus Page 4
