White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  Archidike leaned close to Iadmon, murmuring in his ear, “Won’t you please agree, Good Man? We would all so love to see your girl perform.”

  Doricha glanced nervously at Iadmon. She had done nothing to serve him all evening long, yet now the idea of leaving his side sent an inexplicable fear creeping into her gut. Archidike noted her anxious look and said, “Don’t worry; I’ll take good care of your master while you’re away.”

  Iadmon sat up and gazed around the room. His smile was indulgent. Doricha could see how the acclaim affected him—seduced him. He was a good and kind master, but he was a man like any other, susceptible to flattery and desirous of approval. To have the attention of Xanthes’ guests—to have his excellent taste recognized in Xanthes’ own andron—was a temptation Iadmon found impossible to resist. He savored the shouts for a long moment, then he rose from his couch with his usual cultured grace. Iadmon turned slowly, holding up his hands to restore quiet to the room.

  “I would be a poor guest,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “and would dishonor our generous host, if I refused to let my girl dance for you. I shall be very pleased and gratified to present to you… Doricha!”

  He swept an arm toward her. For half a heartbeat, Doricha didn’t know what to do. She only blinked at her master, mute and helpless. But in the next moment, her many long months of training rose to the surface of her mind. The eyes of an audience were upon her; she felt their hopeful waiting, their collectively indrawn breath, like a feather’s brush across her skin. She responded to her audience’s expectation like an animal attuned to the subtlest cues of its trainer, moving with a practiced confidence akin to instinct. She stepped forward, lifting her arms in a dancer’s pose, beaming as if she’d never felt a greater joy in all her young life. The andron rippled with the anticipatory murmurs of her audience.

  Iadmon gave Doricha a quick, reassuring nod.

  “Master,” she whispered, “what should I do—what dance? And who will tell the musicians what to play?”

  “Any dance you please,” Iadmon said. “I know you will choose your best. And as for the musicians, you may tell them yourself.”

  Doricha turned to look at the musicians. Such an elegant, refined group of people. They were, if anything, even finer than many of the hetaerae at the party… certainly they were more dignified than Archidike. After so long a slave, subject to every whim of her master and tutors, the prospect of choosing anything for herself was precarious and disorienting to Doricha—never mind telling those magnificent players what she wanted of them. How could she even speak to them, let alone command their great talents? Yet they were watching her, waiting for the dancer to name the tune.

  It’s just got to be done, and nothing else for it. This party was, as Iadmon had told her, a great opportunity, a chance to find admirers and build her friendships now, before she had even arrived at her golden fate as a hetaera. She must be brave, must be excellent, for her future depended on it. Reckon if that chit Archidike can make it as a hetaera, then I can do just as well, if not better.

  With a deep breath to strengthen her spine, Doricha went resolutely toward the players. Behind the musicians’ backs, the doors were still open wide on Xanthes’ garden. Darkness had finally come; the black cloak of night was thick and velvety, the air lush with the spicy scent of well-watered flower beds, with a first hint of crispness, a harbinger of the Nile’s coming flood. The cool air coming in from the garden cut through Doricha’s dazed sense of unreality, sharpening her wits and firming her resolve.

  “I’m to dance for the guests, Good Man,” Doricha said to the eldest musician, the one with the horn-framed lyre. “Do you know ‘The Maiden of the Reeds’?”

  “Indeed we do, my girl. But it’s a difficult one, and long.”

  “I’m up to the work.” Doricha flashed her most beguiling smile.

  “A moment, please.” The lyrist turned to the other members of his troop. They consulted quietly, murmuring among themselves, each player in turn casting a doubtful glance at Doricha.

  The lyrist returned to Doricha. With a kindly smile, he said, “Wouldn’t you rather we played ‘Stork on the Wing’ or ‘The Cattle Drover’s Love Song’? They’re simpler and shorter, but they always please Good Man Xanthes. We’ve never seen any but the most experienced hetaerae dance ‘Maiden of the Reeds.’”

  Doricha had no doubt that Xanthes, with his coarse manners and bullish spirit, enjoyed the simple, inelegant pieces the lyrist had suggested. Xanthes put on a great show of wealth, yet his very ostentation proved that he had little in the way of taste. ‘The Maiden of the Reeds’ was a far more subtle, expressive dance, full of sweetness and longing—nothing like the clap-and-stamp gaiety of the music Xanthes preferred. And that was exactly why Doricha would settle for nothing else. She had no care for pleasing Xanthes that evening. It was his guests she sought to win over—every great, influential man in the andron. This was her chance, her night to reveal the true depth of her skill to the largest possible group of future patrons. She would not squander the moment on one of Good Man Xanthes’ vulgar favorites.

  She beamed sweetly at the old musician. “You needn’t worry about me. I’ve been learning the steps for ever so long. And if I make a mistake, why, they’ll all think it’s terribly charming, won’t they—a girl young as I?”

  The lyrist chuckled softly. “Perhaps you’re right, at that. Very well, young madam. We are yours to command.”

  Doricha struck the opening pose, raised on the ball of one foot with the other leg lifted high, both arms held straight up, over her head. It was a difficult pose to hold without any graceless wobbling. The muscles in her legs and back strained with the effort of keeping still as she waited for the music to begin. Had she chosen the wrong piece after all? “Maiden of the Reeds” was ambitious… perhaps, as the lyrist had suggested, Doricha was reaching too far. She ought to call it off, choose another song before she made a fool of herself…

  But in the next moment, the first unmistakable, softly falling notes of “Maiden of the Reeds” whispered around the andron. The room filled with wondering murmurs as Xanthes’ guests recognized the tune. Doricha was committed now; there was no going back, no changing her mind.

  Nothing for it now but to dance.

  Doricha stepped into the first movements of “The Maiden of the Reeds” with some relief; the strain on her leg and back eased. As she danced the opening strain, the music brought the story to life around her. Such was their skill that Doricha could almost see the small Egyptian village, the lush riverbank flourishing in the first waters of the flood, and her own place in that conjured setting, a girl left behind by her first love, summoned off to fight in the Pharaoh’s war. She turned and flowed with the music, arching her spine, describing with her hands the ripple of the Nile waters, the swaying of the tall reeds around her, the movement of the wading birds half-hidden in the riverside foliage. Harp and lyre sang together of a tender, wistful longing, and Doricha responded, shading her eyes to peer north along the river, to the place where her lover had vanished on the last boat departed from the quay.

  Distantly, she was aware of the stillness that had come over her audience. She held them rapt; they were invested wholly in the story of her dance, even though it was a tale most of them had seen performed many times before. Men paused with their wine cups half-raised to their lips; hetaerae ceased their whispering and leaned toward her, intent on her every move. But awareness of the audience’s response barely pierced through the veil of Doricha’s fantasy. The musicians were better than she’d hoped, better than she’d realized as she had half-listened throughout the hours of the supper party. They seemed to cradle her every move with miraculously responsive sound, shaping their notes and chords to her every movement, bending the song to fit neatly within a world of her making. Doricha reached out with one searching foot, feeling along the silt of the river’s shallows, and the music stretched and extended with her. She spread her arms wide, as if to tell the
indifferent water how terribly her heart ached, and the chords swelled in response to her music. She began to work her way around the andron, and the music moved with her, perfectly attuned to her steps, so that Doricha could no longer tell whether she was following the music or the players were following her.

  The tenderness of their playing, their gentle caress of every chord, struck Doricha deeply in her heart. A swell of forgotten longing raised in her chest, bringing a mist of tears to her eyes. But it wasn’t the soldier of the story, gone off to fight in the Pharaoh’s army, that Doricha yearned for now. It was her family, her home—the dark-green hills of Thrace, so far away, but no less dear to her, no matter how much time may pass. She turned and bent and stepped within each cluster of couches, one after another. She met the eye of every guest, man and woman alike, conveying with her every gesture the loss she felt, the longing, the desperation to hold close once more what cruel fate had taken away. Now and then, when the music demanded it, Doricha delivered a coy smile or a girlish flutter of her lashes—but those expressions of maidenly shyness were all the more memorable for the shimmer of tears in her eyes.

  Doricha connected, however briefly, with each man and woman in turn. But she did not truly see Xanthes’ guests—or if she did, they registered only as shadows, half-formed figures and blurred faces seen through a veil of her true desires. She saw before her everything she wanted but could not have—freedom and security, confidence and strength—and most of all, the prestige and glory that could only belong to a hetaera. She reached for those desires with all the earnest longing of her heart… but like the lover gone off to war, she never could touch them, and the agony of denial showed itself plainly on her face. Long before the song had reached its midpoint, Doricha noted more than a few hetaerae dabbing at their eyes with linen kerchiefs; the faces of even the drunkest, coarsest men had fallen into thoughtful frowns. The copper-haired girl, small and slender as a reed herself, made them all believe the fantasy of her dance.

  At last, Doricha had circled the entire andron. She found herself where she’d begun; the music swelled toward its final crescendo. She spun, hands covering her face in the last display of the Reed Maiden’s grief, then wilted gracefully to the floor. As the river’s current took her, ready to drift her lifeless body north to her lover’s ship, Doricha arched herself in the most provocative pose she could manage. The music pattered into its last, wistful chord. But the moment it stopped, when Doricha had hoped to hear her audience’s shouts and applause, the andron was so still that she had to hold her breath to keep her ragged panting from filling the room. She was tired from the long, demanding dance; her muscles cried out for air. But to gasp and wheeze now would spoil the heart-rending effect of the Reed Maiden’s tragic death. The breath burned in her lungs, but she kept her face perfectly calm, refusing to show any discomfort.

  What had gone wrong? Had she displeased Xanthes’ guests? Perhaps she should have danced some drover’s tune after all. But just when she could stand the suspense no longer, a great crash of applause thundered through the andron. Doricha let out her pent-up breath with an explosive and grateful sigh.

  She rolled over and pushed herself up from the floor, moving with slow, careful grace to disguise the trembling of her limbs. She faced the audience and posed again, arms up and one leg out, accepting their acclaim. Then, a slave once more, she lowered her eyes properly and returned to Iadmon’s couch.

  Iadmon looked up at her with a foolish smile. Gone was his usual air of cultivated control; he peered at Doricha with bleary eyes, his face flushed and his forehead beaded with sweat. “That’s my favorite,” he said thickly. “My favorite, my famous dancing girl.”

  Doricha’s heart pounded, and not from the exertion of her dance. She looked at Iadmon’s cup. Only the smallest pool of wine remained, but it was dark, full-bodied—not the watered stuff he had restricted himself to all night long. But how can he be so addled up already? The dance had been a lengthy one, but not long enough for Iadmon to quaff five or six cups of strong wine. It would have taken that many at least to bring him to his present state.

  “Master,” Doricha said faintly, “are you well? You seem—”

  Iadmon flicked the back of his hand at Doricha, brushing away her concern. “More wine!” he called.

  Archidike, lounging on the couch beside Iadmon, picked unconcernedly at a cuticle and smiled.

  Xanthes’ servants were quick to respond to Iadmon’s request. Doricha stepped in front of them. “Please, no,” she told them quietly. She wanted to preserve her master’s dignity—she must; it was her duty. But his sudden state of intoxication frightened her. Something was amiss; the waters of the crocodile pool were rising rapidly around her.

  “Your dancing was magnificent,” the man with the wine said. But he did not listen to her plea; he stepped around Doricha and refilled Iadmon’s cup.

  “Please, you mustn’t,” Doricha said helplessly, clinging to the servant’s sleeve. “You can’t!”

  “What a night,” Xanthes boomed. “And Iadmon, what a friend you are. What could make this party better? Ah, I know. Why don’t we dice?”

  No. Gods have mercy, it’s just like the night with the necklace… just like that night…

  “Yes!” Iadmon said at once. “Yes, let’s have a gamble. I’m feeling lucky tonight, Xanthes. You had better beware.”

  Xanthes laughed heartily. He clapped his hands to be heard over the hum of conversation, and sent one of his slaves to fetch his dicing cups. Other blue-robed servants cleared the table between Xanthes’ and Iadmon’s couches, making ready for their game. Doricha could do nothing but stand beside her master’s couch, watching the dreaded event unfold with a growing sense of unreality. Minutes before, she had earned the highest acclaim with her dance. Minutes before, she had almost been the mistress of her fate. Her skill had taken her to the edge of greatness, and she could see a better future before her—just beyond her grasp, but not for much longer. Now, she was as helpless as a mouse in a hawk’s talons.

  “Dicing is never any fun without a wager,” Xanthes said.

  “You are so right,” Iadmon slurred. “What shall we wager? For I tell you, I can’t lose tonight, my good man.”

  Doricha knew what Xanthes would say. How long had he waited for this chance? How long had he planned? Like a spider, he had carefully woven this plot, laying a trap to undo Iadmon, whose only slights against Xanthes had been cleverness and a good head for business. Doricha hung her head, avoiding Xanthes’ narrow, calculating eyes. But she couldn’t shut her ears to the cold triumph in his voice.

  “Since you are agreed, Iadmon, and since it is the New Year—a time of great luck, you will agree—then I propose high stakes. Whoever has the best throw will keep your dancing girl.”

  “Ah!” some of the nearby guests exclaimed. It was a bold proposition, after the whole room had witnessed Doricha’s dancing, and seen what a great treasure she was.

  “Very well,” Iadmon said.

  “You heard him,” Xanthes called out good-naturedly to his friends. “The bet is on; whoever has the luckiest throw will keep the girl.”

  Grinning, Iadmon scooped the ivory dice into his cup, but nearly fumbled and dropped them. His movements were slow, clumsy. Doricha chewed her lip as she watched him. Clearly, something more sinister than mere wine was affecting him. Had Xanthes slipped a drug into his cup? No, not Xanthes… Archidike lolled and purred beside Iadmon as he shook his cup in the air and spilled out his throw on the table. Three of his dice bounced to the floor—out of bounds, by the rules of the game, and ineligible toward his score. Doricha narrowed her eyes at the hetaera. Archidike seemed to sense her accusation. She looked up at Doricha, dimpling innocently, shrugging as if to say, You know how men are. So weak and silly when they’re in their cups.

  The game was over with brutal swiftness. Xanthes threw his dice carefully and well; not a single one fell, and his score was more than enough to handily defeat his opponent. Xanthes clapped ag
ain, and his servants hurried in to clear away the dice and the table.

  Iadmon sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the place where the table had been—at the place where his fate had turned.

  Say something, Doricha silently begged. There must be something you can do, something you can say to change this. Master, please!

  When Iadmon finally raised his face, he stared at Xanthes with hard, hate-filled eyes. The loss had sobered him up, but it was too late now to take back the wager. Far too many men had witnessed it; the bet was as good as a bond. And Iadmon had lost.

  Desperation wracked Doricha’s body, chilling her like a blast of Thracian wind. Ignoring all propriety, she wedged herself between Archidike and Iadmon. She clung to her master’s arm, drawing his sad, regretful, entirely bemused gaze.

  “Master, send for Aesop,” Doricha said quietly. “He’s clever enough to find some way to make this all right again.”

  Iadmon did not speak. He only shook his head slowly.

  “Aesop will know what to do,” Doricha said. “He’ll know how to—”

  Iadmon stood abruptly. He shook Doricha’s grip from his arm, then, refusing to look at her or at Xanthes, he strode stiffly out of the andron.

  “Master!” Doricha cried. She hurried after him, ignoring Xanthes’ guests as they shouted praise for her dancing. Most of the had not seen the gamble; they didn’t know that Iadmon’s foolishness had just wasted Doricha’s hopes for her own future.

  As soon as she had caught up to Iadmon, in the dimly lit hall beyond the andron, Doricha seized his arm again. She clung harder this time, wrinkling the silk of his sleeve in both her fists. She dragged at him, weeping desperately, not caring that the hot tears were making a mess of her paint.

  “Please, please, Master! Don’t leave me here, I beg you! Don’t leave me to Xanthes. You know what he wants to do to me!”