White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  Doricha bit her lip. What Archidike said couldn’t be true—or at least, it couldn’t be the whole of the picture. Aesop didn’t treat women that way, and he was a man. But then, Aesop was also a slave.

  Still and all, it’s a grim way to look at life, a miserable dark way of seeing half the people in the world. What terrible things had been done to Archidike in the past, Doricha wondered, to make such a young woman turn so hard and cynical? She almost felt sorry for the girl—but Archidike’s warning prickled along Doricha’s spine, and settled deep in her mind. She was too concerned now for her own safety to give herself over to sympathy.

  Archidike fell silent, watching the evening shadows creep across Memphis. By the time they arrived at Diokles’ estate, Doricha’s insides were so knotted up with anxiety that she could barely rise from the cushions and climb from the golden litter. Diokles’ household steward came forward to greet them and usher them inside; it took all of Doricha's training in composure and confidence—training that good, dear, forever-lost Aesop had given her—to keep her country-girl expression of pleasant innocence fixed to her face.

  But when they reached the modest andron, where Diokles’ celebratory feast was already well underway, Archidike’s typical pluck had returned. Diokles was young for a successful merchant—not yet in his late twenties, Doricha thought, to judge by his round, youthful face, lush crop of glossy curls, and the rather patchy state of his short-trimmed beard. His appetite for wine was boyishly robust, too. He sat upright on his couch, accepting the congratulations of his guests and eagerly taking a long draft from his very large wine cup each time someone called out, “Luck to Diokles!” or “A boy! A boy for Diokles!” The majority of his guests were just as youthful—a fact that was not lost on Archidike. As the girls accepted festive flower garlands from a female servant, then allowed the woman to rub their bare arms with fragrant rose water, Archidike gazed about the andron with a satisfied air. She growled in appreciation as a group of energetic young men dashed past her, jesting good-naturedly as they went.

  “Look at that one, Doricha, with the strong arms. No, not him—the dark-skinned fellow standing there beside the pillar. Couldn’t you just…?”

  “For someone who claims not to like men,” Doricha said wryly, “you do enjoy staring at them.”

  “Who said I don’t like men? I never did. I’m wary of them; that’s all. And I’ll have you know, I enjoy doing more to them than just staring. You won’t see me marry some withered old fool once I’m free, I can promise you that. I’ll keep working until the day I die. Some young ram like that one with the strong arms—he’ll ride me right into the grave.”

  Doricha laughed aloud in disbelief. She was relieved to see Archidike’s good humor returning, though. The hetaera’s sudden shift into darkness had frightened her, and had made Doricha feel even more hopelessly beyond her depth.

  “Listen, Duckling, and listen well: men only want to use us. It’s nothing to cry over; it only means we’ve got to be clever enough to use them first. And take them for every last hedj they’ve got.”

  “Before they ride you to your tomb,” Doricha giggled.

  “Just imagine, if you can, what the walls of my tomb will look like.” Archidike snatched a cup of wine from a passing servant’s tray. She tipped it back and drank deeply, until a trickle of red ran from the corner of her mouth. Then she raised the empty cup high above her head. “Rows and rows of cocks, adorning every wall, from one end of my tomb the other!”

  Archidike linked arms with Doricha and led her off into the crowd. They weren’t assigned to any particular guest at Diokles’ party; they, along with several other hetaerae, were only there to beautify the place, to fill it with feminine charm as they flitted from couch to couch.

  “This is my favorite sort of party,” Archidike confessed. “It’s a bore to be stuck entertaining one man all night long. But we can roam about and talk to everyone tonight. Make lots of friends—that’s good for future business.”

  Archidike fawned and flirted her way around the andron. Plenty of Diokles’ friends recognized her; several welcomed her with shouts and raised cups. Archidike was well known as the gamest hetaera in Memphis, and her presence could only enhance a night of fun. Of course, the other hetaerae in attendance also knew Archidike. But not all of them were pleased to see her. Several whispered to their friends behind their hands, following Archidike with narrowed eyes as she blazed a trail of laughter and coarse shouts through Diokles’ party.

  Archidike was so engaged in greeting her many admirers that Doricha was left alone, standing uselessly by while the older girl worked the room. Doricha was left to introduce herself to the few men who spoke to her. At least there were no dogs or goats in the andron, she noted with relief.

  In time, Archidike remembered Doricha. She plucked two honey cakes from a serving tray and handed one to the younger girl. Her skin seemed to glow with vitality; she was tense with a curious energy, a kind of wild fervor that only served to make her more attractive.

  “When I’m working for myself,” Archidike said, “I’ll only have beautiful patrons—young lions like that fellow there, standing by the harp, or the one with the big, strong arms. I won’t have to put up with any more ancients like Nikostratos. Though, gods bless good old Nikos for giving me so much money. He’ll set me free years faster than I could have done without him. But—ooh, look at the chest on that one, Doricha. He’s welcome to be my top patron, once I’m away from Xanthes. Once I can pick and choose whoever I please.”

  Despite her coarseness and her cruel tendencies—which Doricha felt sure were unintentional—Archidike did know how to charm men. Doricha watched the older girl with frank fascination. Archidike remade herself swiftly to suit the preferences of each new man she encountered. Now she was giggling and shy, now barking with laughter at a crude joke. For one man, she was dignified and polite—for the next, she licked her lips and ran a hand up her own thigh in a way that made Doricha blush. She was like one of the little forest lizards from Thrace—the kind that changed from brown to green to brown again, matching whatever environment surrounded them. Young as she was, Archidike was already a master of her art. There was no trace now of the cynicism that had darkened her mood in the litter. Doricha herself could hardly believe that this pleasant, pretty young woman was the foul-mouthed, hard-eyed schemer of Xanthes’ stable.

  As the night wore on, Doricha began to attract her share of attention, too. A few of the men recognized her from the fateful New Year party at Xanthes’ estate; they called out, “It’s the Maiden of the Reeds!” and “Let’s have another dance!” as she passed. But the frantic cheer inside the andron had begun to overwhelm Doricha. She edged closer and closer to the garden door, until at last she was able to slip outside.

  The night air was cool, and sweet with the perfume of fruit ripening in the orchards. Doricha carefully dabbed beads of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, breathing as deeply as the tight green sash would allow.

  “Ho there, little dancer,” a man said.

  Doricha started in surprise and turned to face him. It was the fellow with the strong arms—the one Archidike had taken a liking to.

  “I had to sneak away to the garden,” she said. “I just love the smell of the flowers and the leaves at night, when the air turns crisp. Do you think Diokles will be angry that I’ve left the party?”

  “What, Diokles? Nothing ever upsets him. You certainly never could, charming thing that you are.”

  Doricha lowered her eyes. “You’re very kind to say so.”

  “I saw you dance at Xanthes’ party, didn’t I?”

  “You did if you were there.” Wish I could forget all about that gods-cursed night.

  “Ra—a—mose!” Several men, leaning together from the andron’s door, bellowed the name at once.

  The fellow with the muscular arms laughed back at them. “I’m out here, you drunken fools.”

  “Luck of Horus,” one of the men shouted. �
��Look what Ramose found! It’s that dancing girl with the red hair.”

  The men spilled out into the garden. Doricha clutched the knot of her green sash. Alone in the garden with a pack of drunk men, and not even Archidike anywhere in sight. Who could help her, if these drunken oafs set upon her? She couldn’t fight one of them off by herself, let alone all six of them.

  The men quickly surrounded Doricha; she turned about, looking for some path to slip past them, but they stood almost shoulder to shoulder.

  “Let’s have a dance!” one of them cried, lifting his wine cup.

  “Yes, yes! A dance!”

  Pushing down her panic, Doricha eyed the men more closely. They were grinning, bouncing on the balls of their feet, as playful as boys in a swimming hole. There was nothing predatory about them; the wine had made them too merry for violence.

  “Well, I can’t dance for you,” Doricha said, laughing. “No music, out here in the garden, is there?”

  Another figure appeared in the circle of men, slender and dark-haired. Light spilled out from Diokles’ house as someone opened and closed the andron door; the wash of lamp light flickered over the flame-orange dress. It was Archidike, lurking silently in the shadow between two broad-shouldered men. Archidike’s pale eyes lowered briefly to Doricha’s sash. Don’t think that protects you, said her dry, sober expression.

  “We’ll make music for you,” Ramose said.

  “You haven’t got any lyres or pipes.” Doricha hoped that would be the end of it. The circle of men, and Archidike’s sudden appearance among them—Archidike’s cool, judgmental silence—had made her far too nervous to dance. If she tried, she would only blunder about like a blind cow.

  But the men were too keen on the idea to give it up. They began to clap their hands in a brisk rhythm; after a moment, they stamped their feet, too, a jaunty counterpoint to the clapping. They raised their voices in a ragged, off-key version of an old Egyptian drinking song—one Doricha had heard early in her career. It was, in fact, one of the earliest songs Iunet had taught her. The steps of that traditional dance were simple enough. Perhaps Doricha could satisfy them with a quick demonstration, and then they would let her alone. Feigning delight, she gave into their urging and began to dance.

  The easy, rustic steps lent themselves to plenty of improvisation. As Doricha succumbed to the rhythm, she did her best to channel Archidike’s slinking, suggestive style, and made her way around the ring, flirting with each man in turn, using her sweet, batting eyes and her innocent smile to great effect. Now and then she touched one of the men, sliding her hand down a strong arm or pressing briefly against warm flesh—and she found, to her surprise, that she liked the feel of their bodies.

  She had intended the dance to be brief, but before long, Doricha was laughing with real joy. She didn’t want to stop. She pulled one of the men into the circle with her, urging him to match her steps. Then she tried another fellow. None of them could dance with her, intoxicated as they were. She twirled away from one partner after another, putting on a great, humorous show of disgust at their inability to keep up. She tugged playfully at their short robes, and even dared to flip the hem of Ramose’s kilt, almost revealing what he had underneath.

  By the time the old Egyptian song was nearing its end, the men were so happy with Doricha’s performance that they couldn’t manage to sing the final lines. Instead, they burst into one great, wordless roar of approval, laughing and shouting, pounding on one another’s shoulders, lifting their empty cups in salute.

  Archidike, too, joined in the praise, and even embraced Doricha. “Marvelous,” she said. “Really, Doricha. You’ve got such a talent for dance. And you make it look so easy, too.”

  Doricha could sense no cynicism in Archidike’s words, but she couldn’t quite make herself trust the other girl, either.

  Ramose edged closer to Doricha. His grin was almost sheepish, his eyes reddened with wine. But he looked down at her earnestly—even hungrily. “How much to get you into bed?”

  Doricha’s cheeks heated like a smith’s furnace. Couldn’t he see her green belt? Surely, even in his intoxicated state, he understood what it meant. She opened her mouth and shut it again. She couldn’t speak to the man.

  “Look at that,” Archidike said in playful rebuke. “You’ve ruined her complexion, Ramose. Now her cheeks are glowing so hot, I don’t think they’ll ever go back to white again. Master Xanthes will be very cross with you, for ruining his little dancer.” Archidike pinched Doricha’s cheek—gently, with a sisterly smile. She said to Ramose, “You can’t have our little Rhodopis yet. She’s too young. Didn’t you notice her girdle?”

  Rhodopis. Doricha blinked. The name meant “rosy cheeks.”

  Archidike pressed herself against Ramose’s chest. Her playful mood evaporated, replaced by a seductive smolder. “You can have me, though. I’ve got no green belt, as you can see. I’m ready… and more than willing.”

  Ramose’s grin widened. He didn’t even glance Doricha’s way as his arm snaked around Archidike’s narrow waist. He began tugging her toward a darkened corner of the garden.

  Archidike looked over her shoulder, fixing Doricha with a firm stare. “Stay here. Keep talking with that country-girl charm of yours. And don’t go off with anyone, do you see? I’ll come and find you when my work is done.”

  Then she winked, laced her arm through Ramose’s, and disappeared with him into the blue-black depths of the garden.

  Some half hour later, Archidike re-appeared, quietly slipping back into the circle of men that had remained in Doricha’s orbit. They had lingered, apparently content to listen to her stories, chuckling indulgently over her rustic accent. They’d even coaxed her into teaching them a few simple dance steps, though some of them could hardly remain on their feet, let alone master the easy dances she had tried to teach them.

  Now that her dancing had won their respect, Doricha found she enjoyed talking to the men. None of these fellows was likely to assault her, and the air was pleasant in the garden, rich and sweet and bracing, so far from the stifling center of Memphis.

  All Doricha needed to do was talk, playing up her innocence, acting the unspoiled girl. Archidike re-appeared, tugging her dress back into place, and cozied up to another of Doricha’s admirers. Minutes later, the older girl led him off into the night—and then, some fifteen minutes after, she pulled another man away, too.

  By the time Archidike had parted ways with her third companion of the evening, Diokles’ party was coming to its end. Most of the guests had already departed, riding their litters off into the night with the ragged ends of song still trailing from their lips. Archidike and Doricha kissed their hands to Ramose and his friends, and sank back on the cushions of their golden litter to shouts of farewell from the men.

  “Diokles had better invite you two the next time he throws a feast,” Ramose called.

  “You make sure he does, and we’ll be there,” Archidike promised.

  The litter’s curtains dropped; the bearers hoisted it to their strong shoulders. Archidike lay back, sighing with satisfaction. In the close air between the curtains, she smelled strongly of the work she had done, but she seemed to revel in it—proof of her own competence, her desirability.

  “Three in one night. Now that’s the kind of party I can enjoy. We make a good pair, don’t we, Duckling? And do you see how easy it is, now? All you need do is just what you do best: dance like a swaying reed, and then hold the men captive with your silly little country girl act. Leave it to me to drag them back into the bushes and do what I do best.”

  “Why did you do it?” Doricha asked. “Stop them from taking me, I mean. You said yourself that this girdle doesn’t go between my legs. That drunken Ramose could have gotten it off me if he’d really wanted to.”

  Archidike turned to Doricha with another sigh, but this one was more exasperated than satisfied. She pinched Doricha’s cheek again—but now, unlike in the garden, the pinch was hard. “I’ve told you a hundred time
s, Rhodopis: the work isn’t as bad as you think. You’ll have to do it someday, when Xanthes says so. In fact, you’ll probably have to do it with Xanthes himself, the first time. So you’d best stop being terrified, and get used to the idea.”

  Archidike released Doricha’s smarting cheek. She turned her face away, maintaining a pensive silence for the rest of the ride back to the Stable. Archidike was brusque—there was no denying that. But through her prickly exterior, Doricha thought she could feel a strange, hesitant friendship forming between them.

  14

  A New Name

  The flood waters rose, as they had done in Egypt for thousands of years before. The first month of the new year slipped by while Doricha became better acquainted with the rhythms of life in the Stable. Xanthes’ other girls were every bit as harsh, as ruthlessly focused on self-preservation as Iadmon had once warned Doricha they would be. As the newest and youngest among them—not yet even a woman—Doricha felt herself very much at the bottom of the heap, the lowest in the Stable’s complex social order.

  Vélona assigned Doricha to the best speech tutor she could find, for the mistress was driven to distraction by Doricha’s unsophisticated accent. She was determined to force some polish onto Doricha, or perish in the attempt. Doricha did her level best to make Vélona happy, but she often found herself backsliding into old habits, and more than once her palms were whipped for speaking like a classless sheep-herder.

  Pashon, the first month of summer, was drawing to a sweltering close. On a miserably hot and humid afternoon, Doricha crept to her sleeping alcove, her hands still stinging terribly from her speech tutor’s rebuke. She curled up in her bed, a sour mood hanging over her, head aching fretfully. She felt vaguely ill and more than a little angry, though she couldn’t say what exactly had upset her so. She curled her body in a tight ball, enjoying the silence of her alcove, hoping she would sleep long enough that the worst of her malaise would be gone by supper time.