“Yes, please, for the gods’ sake,” Efthalia said, “eat some of the dates before Callisto shoves them all down her throat. She’s going to get even fatter if she keeps on like this.”
“Our own little party,” Archidike said, breaking away from the rest of the girls, pulling Doricha into a warm embrace. “Without any men to ruin the fun.”
“I though you like men at parties,” Doricha said, laughing. “Really, Archidike, I can’t keep you straight when it comes to men.”
“We do this for every girl when she becomes a hetaera,” Callisto said.
“It’s ever so sweet.” Doricha blushed.
The girls giggled and chattered around the tables, making short work of the honey cakes and stuffed dates. Callisto licked the stickiness of the last date from her fingers and said, “Come on, girls; let’s take the mulled wine and have a soak in the bath. Vélona got some new bath oil and I’m dying to try it.”
Each girl hurried to her alcove, stripped off her dress, and wrapped herself in a long, plush linen towel. Then they went together to the bath house, easing into the large, sunken pool. Its water had recently been refreshed from the big kettles, which were suspended over hot coals in the fire pit outside. The pool was still quite warm; its welcome heat relaxed Doricha’s body, adding to her pleasant glow of satisfaction. She sipped the spiced wine, enjoying the rare night of camaraderie. No girl picked on any other; no one hurled any insults, nor pulled any hair. The whole of the Stable was in a festival mood; Doricha was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.
“Let me take your hair down,” Efthalia said. “Clumsy Xanthes has just about ruined the style, anyway. He pawed at it like a dog trying to bury a bone, didn’t he?”
Efthalia carefully snipped the threads that held Doricha’s braids and curls together, then combed out her coppery hair with her fingers. “Gods, but you’ve got pretty hair, Doricha. Wish mine was that color.” She found a jar of rose-scented oil and began washing Doricha’s locks, while Callisto massaged Doricha’s hands.
Doricha was quite content to let herself be as pampered like a kitten on a silk pillow. The gods alone knew when her fellow hetaerae would ever be so kind to her again.
“Well,” Bastet said, grinning over the rim of her wine cup, “Tell us what he was like.”
“He was like Xanthes,” Archidike said. “You didn’t expect any different, did you, Bastet?”
Bastet rolled her eyes and grunted rhythmically. It was such a perfect imitation of the master in the throes of his pleasure that they all laughed until they were breathless. Archidike tried to mimic the face Xanthes always made when he reached his climax, and soon the girls were locked in a competition to see who could do it best.
“A real hetaera,” Callisto said when the laughter had finally died away. “No more green girdle for you.”
Bastet nodded. “Now that you’ll be going out as a working girl, earning your own keep and making your own friends, you’ll need a new name.”
“A new name?” Doricha sat up quickly, sloshing water over the edge of the bath. She remembered how, long ago, she had feared that Iadmon would take away her name. And wasn’t her name still the only thing she truly owned? “But why? What’s wrong with the name I’ve already got?”
“Nothing,” Callisto said quickly. “Nothing at all. It’s just the custom; that’s all. We all changed our names when we started working. It’s the way of hetaerae.”
“You changed your names?”
“Of course,” Bastet said. “No mother in Egypt has ever named her daughter Bastet. I was born Ahaneit.”
“And my name was Hestia,” Callisto said. “That’s not glamorous enough for a hetaera.”
“What about you, Archidike?” Doricha asked. “What were you called, before?”
The blue-eyed hetaera sipped from her wine cup, gazing regally into the distance. “Archidike has always been Archidike.”
Efthalia splashed her. “Oh, come off it. She probably had some dreadful dull name, like Klotho.”
The girls laughed, but Doricha chewed her lip, considering what they’d said. Now that she was a hetaera, she was entering a new world—one where she was the confident mistress of her own fate, or would be, as soon as she’d earned her freedom. She was leaving behind the person she had been—child and slave. She was even leaving behind Thrace, for now it was certain she would never return to her homeland again. Hope I’ll leave behind the poverty of my family, too, and become a rich woman someday. If ever there was a good excuse to take a new name, this was surely it. A hetaera was more than an ordinary woman, too—possessed of a privilege no other woman could hope to attain. Doricha the girl would have grown up to be Doricha the woman, essentially the same as she had been before. But the hetaera was another creature altogether. The hetaera could never be Doricha, the Thracian exile, the former slave.
As long as no one took her name by force, Doricha didn’t mind exchanging it for a new identity.
“All right,” she said gamely. “How does a girl go about choosing a new name?”
“You should call yourself what you hope to become,” Bastet suggested.
“No, no,” Callisto said. “Take on a name that describes you—one that will make your patrons think of you instantly, the moment they hear it, and never mistake you for anybody else.”
“Call yourself after a physical trait,” Efthalia said.
“You should name yourself Copper,” Bastet said. “No one will mistake you then. No other hetaera has hair like yours.”
“Copper?” Efthalia stuck out her tongue. “That’s what a soldier might name his horse.”
Archidike snorted. “Good; maybe it’ll inspire them to ride our little Doricha hard and often.”
The girls went on arguing over the best way to choose a name, offering up suggestions and discarding each one. Doricha blushed ever deeper as their proposed names became more absurd, more coarse and vulgar, until finally Archidike leaned forward and pinched Doricha’s cheek, as she’d done the night of Diokles’ party.
“I know the right name for this one: Rhodopis.”
“Oh,” Callisto sighed. “That’s just perfect. Really it is; no more jests. It goes so well with your style, the way you play the innocent little country girl.”
Doricha glanced around at the other girls, shyly. “Do you think so?”
“No man will be able to resist it,” Bastet said.
Doricha grinned at Archidike. After what they had shared—not only the afternoon in Archidike’s bed, but the party where they had worked so well together, Doricha was grateful to her friend. She was glad to take her working name from Archidike’s own suggestion.
“All right. Then I’m Rhodopis, from this moment on.”
II
Hetaera
1
Charaxus
As the year advanced, each season brought new excuses for the wealthy upper class of Memphis to celebrate with feasts and parties. And with each new event she attended, the girl who had been Doricha felt ever more at home in the skin of Rhodopis, the confident and hard-working courtesan. At first, Rhodopis had been a mask for Doricha to wear—the costume she donned when she left the Stable for her assignments, the cloak she removed again when her alcove curtain was drawn and she crept to her bed in the small hours of morning. But as her renown spread, and as she garnered praise even from Vélona, Rhodopis became just as real to her as Doricha ever had been. By the time the harvest season ended and another New Year loomed, a few short weeks away, the fourteen-year-old hetaera doubted whether she could still answer to the name Doricha as readily as she now answered to Rhodopis.
Her friendship with Archidike grew, too, over the course of that year. The two girls had become fast friends, attending most of their parties together. They were seen so often in one another’s company that Memphis society now considered them part and parcel, going together like wine and honey, or bread and olive oil. Almost without exception, wherever one girl went, there would go the other.<
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Rhodopis had yet to establish a relationship with any dedicated patron; she was still being sampled, as it were, tested and tried by the elite of Memphis until she found the handful of clients who would take most strongly to her particular charms. Rhodopis felt no anxiety over her lack of steady clients—not yet. She could see how well the men of Memphis responded to her flirtations; she knew she was gaining a following. In time, that following would produce a patron or two. That was the way the business worked, Archidike assured her; and she’d only just begun her career. Patrons came with time, with the careful nurturing of a hetaera’s unique style and reputation.
A few men had begun to express increasing interest in Rhodopis as the New Year approached, and so she looked forward to the good fortune the rising of the Dog Star would bring. Most of the men who had inquired about her were great fans of Archidike—which was to be expected, given how often Archidike and Rhodopis entertained together. Anyone could see the natural chemistry that existed between the two girls. Men seemed to especially enjoy the startling contrast between the two girls. Rhodopis was all wide-eyed naiveté and delicate, pale beauty—but Archidike was a carnal creature. Her dark hair, dusky Egyptian complexion, and strange, piercing blue eyes were as different from Rhodopis as the moon was from the sun.
Her reputation as a dancer had grown favorably, too. Indeed, demand for Rhodopis’ dancing eclipsed her popularity as a bed-mate. This did not displease her. She still loved dance better than anything else in the world, and welcomed any opportunity to perform before a crowd. Sometimes she was paid just as well for dancing as she would have been for other services; if she could have earned her freedom by dancing alone, she would have done so gladly.
Every party presented a new opportunity not only to dance, but to hone her skill as a conversationalist, too—and there she was also building a reputation. She often used the witty stories she had learned from Aesop to enchant men at feasts and celebrations. Something about her simple, uncultured speech, combined with the deeper intelligence of the tales she told, amused and delighted the most sophisticated men. Rhodopis nurtured her skill at conversation assiduously. She knew it took more than just bed-play to make a successful hetaera, and she intended to be the very best of them all.
But as the year came to its close, Rhodopis finally began to wonder when she would ever find her first patron. She confided her worry to Archidike, the only other hetaera whom she knew she could trust. Archidike was quick to comfort Rhodopis. “The offers will start pouring in, and soon, too. Don’t worry, Duckling; sometimes even the best hetaerae have a slow start. Often it’s only because the men can sense how good she is. Most of them think a truly dazzling woman is too far beyond their means.”
Rhodopis was fourteen years old. She knew only a fool or a beggar would think a girl of fourteen was beyond his means.
One day, however, when the smell of rich, soil-laden water hung thickly in the air—a sure sign that that the New Year was upon them—Rhodopis strolled into the Stable from the women’s private garden to find Vélona waiting for her. Rhodopis had been practicing a new dance, with Archidike playing the flute; she was still dressed in her dancing belt, the skimpy silk garment hung with tassels of many colors.
Vélona clicked her tongue when she saw it. “I do hope you plan to wear something nicer tonight, Rhodopis.”
“Why, Mistress? Are we to go off to another party tonight?”
“Not a party. I’ve received a private request for you.”
Rhodopis smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Mistress. We haven’t done a private entertainment in a long while.”
“Who is it?” Archidike asked eagerly.
Vélona paused, savoring her power to make the two girls wait.
“Oh, won’t you tell them, Mistress,” Callisto cried. “We’re all dying to know, aren’t we, girls?”
“It’s Charaxus,” Vélona said.
A murmur traveled around the room. “He’s the brother of Sappho,” Persephone said. “You know who Sappho is, don’t you, Rhodopis? The famous poetess from Lesvos.”
“Charaxus is as wealthy as they come. Lucky Rhodopis.” Bastet didn’t sound congratulatory; there was a venomous sting of envy in her words.
“Wealthy as they come,” Vélona agreed, “but not yet the patron of any hetaera. This is a good opportunity for you.”
Archidike tucked her flute under her arm. “We should get ready straight away,” she said. “We’ll want plenty of time to get the look right—a private event, with a man as rich as Charaxus!”
Vélona raised a hand. “I know the pair of you most usually entertain together. But Charaxus was specific: Rhodopis only.”
Archidike wilted. Rhodopis turned to her friend quickly, just in time to catch the disbelief as it flickered across her face. But Archidike, professional as she was, banished the emotion.
Rhodopis took her hands. “I’m sorry. I wish it could be both of us together.”
“No doubt you do,” Bastet said. She waggled her two fingers at Rhodopis and Archidike, then dodged a cuff from Vélona, and ducked back into her alcove.
Archidike shrugged. She kissed Rhodopis on the cheek. “I’ll make good use of a night off. I could do with a few extra hours of sleep. Make him happy, Rho. Maybe this Charaxus will become your first patron.”
Well after sunset, under a peaceful cloak of twilight blue, Rhodopis was carried south along the river to Charaxus’ home. To her left, the Nile lay smooth and dark, not yet reflecting any the early stars that had just begun to bloom overhead. Far across that great expanse of water, pinpoints of golden light marked villages on the eastern shore. The peace of the night comforted Rhodopis, fortifying her confidence. It soothed away some of her regret over leaving Archidike behind.
Charaxus’ home was located in an elite district on the southern edge of the city. The noise of crowded Memphis was so far behind her now that Rhodopis could hear the sweet monotony of frog song along the river bank and the sighing of wind in the date palms. The streets of the southern district were still and serene; no one accosted her as she was carried through the dark lanes. The only other people she saw were the bearers of other litters. No doubt the litters concealed hetaerae like herself, drifting gracefully from one appointment to the next.
Reckon I could get used to visiting this place often. If I can make this Charaxus like me well enough, I should like to be his special friend.
Rhodopis thought back to all the parties that lay behind her, all the private assignments. Where had she met Charaxus before? Surely he could be no stranger to her. No man sent for a girl he’d never seen before. But she couldn’t place him. Nor could she summon up his face, no matter how many times she repeated his name in her mind. She knew nothing about him, other than what Vélona and Persephone had told her.
Presently, the litter arrived at her companion’s house. An erudite slave came out to greet her; the man put Rhodopis in mind of Aesop, and she wondered what that dear fellow was up to nowadays—whether he was managing Iadmon well enough, or whether Iadmon had sunk down deeper into his private shame.
Charaxus’ slave led Rhodopis out of the courtyard, into the warm, well-lit, riverside house. The house was not large, but it was exceptionally beautiful, decorated with fine goods that were nevertheless displayed with admirable restraint. The house stood two stories above the river—a real luxury, for even in this wealthy district, most of the homes were only a single story in height, with rooftop courtyards open to the sky.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” the slave said. “My master is concluding some business in his private chambers. He will arrive shortly.”
Rhodopis nodded, and the slave departed. She drifted about the main room, examining the finely made furniture, the well-woven textiles, the clever little sculptures displayed in their wall niches. Everything Charaxus owned seemed to be of the highest quality—expensive, yet understated, a testament to his excellent taste and elevated class.
Two narrow doors stood o
pen on a railed balcony. Rhodopis stepped outside. The balcony was small, and looked down on a garden that was hardly any bigger. But even in the dark of night, the sweeping view of the Nile made up for whatever the small house and garden lacked. The water sparkled with the reflection of stars, and over that starry vista, the dark silhouettes of Egyptian boats drifted smoothly by.
“I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”
Rhodopis turned. Charaxus stood in the doorway, framed by lamp light. He was tall and handsome—young, too, she noted with pleasure. He was no older than twenty-five, a startling age for a man to have attained so much wealth and success. He wore a red tunic and white chlamys, both free of any ostentatious embroidery, but Rhodopis noted the smooth sheen of the garments, and knew they were made from the finest silk. He offered her a polite bow; his tumble of blonde curls ruffled in the river breeze.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Good Man Charaxus,” Rhodopis said.
He laughed lightly. “Ah, but we have met before. Don’t you remember?”
Rhodopis smiled at him timidly.
“Diokles’ party—to celebrate the birth of his first son. My friends and I were shamefully drunk that night, but I remembered you. You danced in the garden, while we clapped and stamped like a noisy herd of bulls in a mud-wallow. How foolish you must have thought us!”
Rhodopis laughed. “Of course—Charaxus. How could I forget that night… or you?”
In truth, she had no recollection of Charaxus at Diokles’ party. If he had been one of the drunken fellows whom she had danced for, he had done nothing to make himself memorable. But Rhodopis was too clever to let her companion know that she had never noticed him in the first place.
“You remembered me, after all those months?” she said. “You flatter me too much.”
Charaxus stepped forward. He took both Rhodopis’ hands in his own, staring down at her with a sudden intensity that took her aback. “I’ve never forgotten you, Rhodopis. You’re all I’ve thought about since first I saw you. Business and family affairs have kept me out of Memphis for the better part of a year, but I am back now, and I intend to stay here for a good, long while. I’ve followed your career—seen you at a few parties, too, though propriety—duty to my hosts—kept me from approaching you. But believe me, I have longed for you since that night in Diokles’ garden. And now at last, here you are: a hetaera without the green sash. The gods are good to me.”
White Lotus Page 19
