Archidike straightened a few of the feathers in Rhodopis’ mask, then nodded in approval. “You look a perfect goose now, and that’s the only time you’ll ever hear those words as a compliment. Tell me again how beautiful I look.”
“There’s never been a prettier girl that the gods ever made,” Rhodopis said sincerely.
Archidike had worked her influence over Vélona, convincing the mistress to send her off to Iason’s party dressed as the element of fire. She wore a tight gown fashioned from strips of glimmering silk, in myriad shades of scarlet and orange, bright golden-yellow and deep ember-red. Hundreds of tiny gold beads shone along her neckline and hem, and long strips of silk floated behind her as she walked, a colorful, drifting train. Archidike’s black hair was bound up simply in a net of red carnelians. Instead of a mask, she had painted her whole face, from the bridge of her nose to her hairline, a brilliant orange. The ingenious disguise extended even to her scent. She had foregone the usual floral or musky perfumes, and had instead burned a potent incense within the confines of her sleeping alcove, so that the smell of smoke followed everywhere she went.
“You’ll win the bidding for sure, Archi. Oh, you look like a flame come to life!”
“Come on, then,” Archidike said eagerly. “If we’re to win the highest bids, we’d best start making friends.”
They threaded their way through the crowd, pausing to join the conversations whenever opportunity permitted. Rhodopis was fairly made dizzy by the variety of costumes she saw, dazzling and glittering in the late slant of afternoon light.
Every variety of bird strutted through the garden—some with real feathers, some merely draped in gowns of the right color. One stately hetaera wore a flowing, white linen robe and a close-fitting hood that completely covered her hair and hid her slender neck from chin to shoulders. The hood was stitched all over with yellow beads, and a crest of white feathers bristled at the back of her head. Rhodopis grinned when she recognized the costume as an Egyptian vulture, one of the traditional symbols of the Pharaoh’s power. Iola, a hetaera known for her long, thin legs, played up her best feature to great advantage as a black-and-white stork. And one woman trailed a robe that must have weighed as much as her own body, for it was sewn with thousands of glimmering, blue-green faience beads. The beads caught the sunlight with a metallic flash as she moved slowly about the garden. The long jut of black beak she wore on her forehead, and the round orange patches painted on her cheeks, gave her away as a kingfisher.
There were plenty of butterflies, with graceful silk wings tied to shoulder and wrist. And oh, wouldn’t I be just about furious if I’d come as a butterfly, only to find so many others already here, Rhodopis thought as she watched two of them stalk stiffly past each other. Goddesses of Greece and Egypt—even of Mitanni and Rome—flaunted transparent linen robes and the features beneath, or balanced great wreaths of grapes on their heads. There was Hathor, with her breasts bared and the horns of a she-cow rising from her head; there was Aphrodite, with roses in her hair and an apple in her hand. Bastet was dressed as the cat goddess she was named for, with silk ears and tail, and a collar of gems beautiful enough to make any woman sick with envy.
No one, though, looked quite like Archidike. Her fiery disguise was a perfect match for her temperament; admirers and old friends exclaimed over its originality—and declared it a perfect fit for Archidike. In the sun, she flickered like a flame as she went from one group of men to the next, heating their conversation and igniting their lust. Then she moved on as quickly as she’d appeared, leaving nothing behind but the lingering odor of smoke.
Rhodopis was content to follow after, keeping well out of Archidike’s way, allowing her friend to shine like the fire she was. Nothing would please Rhodopis more than to see Archidike take the prize for the highest bid. She looked forward to the auction, and Archidike’s victory, with pleasant anticipation that was almost strong enough to erase her unease, for she still had not decided what she would do if she were so unlucky as to meet Iadmon at the party.
Restlessly, she turned this way and that, searching the crowds of laughing men for Iadmon’s unmistakable dark hair and upright, elegant bearing. She hung back as Archidike led her toward each new group of guests, cautiously peering at every face before she would approach herself.
That constant observation—and the protection of her feathered mask—allowed Rhodopis spot Charaxus before he saw her. The tall, handsome blond was standing quietly on the edge of a large group of men and their hetaerae, contemplating the wine in his cup with a despondent frown.
Rhodopis turned quickly away. “Blast!” she muttered. “Strymon blast him!”
“Step on something sharp? What’s gotten into you, Rho?” Archidike had just worked her charms on a new group of men, and was now drifting, smoke-like, across the garden.
“You won’t believe, Archi. Worse than if Iadmon was here. I thought nothing could be worse, but this—!”
“You’re banging on, Duckling. Or should I call you Gosling today? Steady, now. Tell me what’s got you so upset.”
Rhodopis leaned close to her friend. She whispered, “Charaxus is here.”
“Oh, by the hairy balls of Zeus. Don’t look back; I’ll do the looking. You just stay inside your mask.”
Archidike linked her arm with Rhodopis and glanced over her shoulder. “What does he look like? That man with the streaks of gray in his hair? No, there he is—I see him. Yellow curls?”
Rhodopis nodded.
“Come on. Iason has a big garden, and if we’re quick on our feet, we can keep the whole thing between us and Charaxus all night long.”
“But you can’t, Archi. You’ve got to make friends. The auction—”
“I’ll make friends easily enough. Don’t think I’ll neglect the auction; I’ve been waiting for it all year long. Good thing the mask hides most of your face.”
“Not my hair, though. Everyone can see my hair, and there’s nobody else with hair like mine.”
Archidike scowled. “That’s true enough.” She hauled Rhodopis across the garden all the faster, turning now and then to wave and smile as hetaerae called out compliments for her costume.
They found some shelter behind a hedge of rose bushes, and peered out at the party. Charaxus was now wandering from group to group, glancing into each small knot of guests and then moving on.
“Maybe he’s looking for someone else,” Archidike said.
“Can’t imagine why he’d want to see me, anyway, after the way he treated me.”
Several guests wandered back behind the rose hedge, roaring with laughter as they came. “Tell another one,” a man shouted. “Kleitos has the best jokes in Egypt!”
“Nothing for it,” Archidike said. “We’d best go over and make friends with Kleitos. If the jokes are coarse enough, maybe they’ll keep the dandy Good Man Charaxus away.”
The girls ingratiated themselves with Kleitos and his friends, and made a good show of appreciating the man’s rather sophomoric humor. But after a time, Rhodopis saw Charaxus approaching from the other end of the rose hedge. Drawn by the raucous laughter, he had come to investigate. Rhodopis tried to shrink back behind Kleitos, but the man kept bobbing and weaving as he reeled off an especially theatrical story. Charaxus started when he caught sight of her, and hurried toward the group.
“Ignore him,” Archidike hissed, pulling Rhodopis close. She edged further into the group, maneuvering Rhodopis out of reach.
The men and hetaerae roared with laughter again, but as soon as it died away, Rhodopis heard an urgent whisper from beyond the group. “Rhodopis! Rhodopis!”
She groaned. Charaxus would not leave her be until she spoken with him; that much was clear. She gritted her teeth, pretending she hadn’t heard.
But he went on calling to her, and soon the men in Kleitos’ circle were laughing at Charaxus instead of at their friend’s stories.
“What is it, Charaxus? Lost something?”
“Lost his dignity,
” somebody muttered.
“Come, now. Good Man Rax gets plenty of dignity from his sister. It’s where he gets everything else.”
Rhodopis’ cheeks flamed. She knew it was silly to feel embarrassed on Charaxus’ behalf, yet she did all the same. To spare him more mockery, she left the group abruptly and allowed him to follow her across the grass.
When they were well apart from the group, Charaxus took Rhodopis by the arm. She spun to face him, and had to press her lips firmly together, stopping herself from hurling the insults and accusations she longed to fling in his face.
“You look beautiful,” he said rapturously. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”
“I’m dressed as a goose,” Rhodopis said drily.
“But still the most beautiful. I’ve been searching for you since I arrived. I had to find you, and tell you…”
He hesitated, and for a moment Rhodopis thought he would apologize. But then he said, “I had to tell you… how lovely you are.”
“You say that now,” Rhodopis said bitterly. “Can’t imagine why, when you were so cold at our last meeting.” She was so stung by his inexplicable attention and the memory of how he’d shamed her that she let all pretense at sophistication slip. The pout she’d been holding back for days won out. She braced her hands on her hips and glowered up at him through the feathers of her mask. “D’you know what you nearly did to me? Got me whipped, you careless fool! Wasn’t for this party, my back would probably still be red from the strap. Why, if I never was to see you again in this life, it’d be too soon for my liking.”
Charaxus pulled Rhodopis into his arms and kissed her. Her fists clenched; she wanted to push him away, but she had already gone too far in chastising him. She was lucky he was kissing her now, instead of running to Vélona or Xanthes to report on her cheek. You may not be a slave exactly, not anymore, she told herself, but you aren’t free, either. Remember that, and don’t slip up again. She marshalled her control, and pulled gently away from his embrace.
“Good Man Charaxus,” she said with a coy smile, “if you want to pay to see me again, I would be glad to meet you.” Her smile slipped. “And I’ll do my best to make you happy, though I confess I can’t imagine how I might go about it.”
Charaxus opened his mouth, about to make some reply, but at that moment a great shout went up across the garden. Archidike waved to Rhodopis: “The auction is starting. Hurry!”
“I’ve got to go now,” Rhodopis said. “You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course.” He lifted her hand to his lips. Rhodopis joined the other costumed women, who streamed toward the great central courtyard where the auction was to take place. She subtly wiped her hand on the fluttering feathers of her tunic, scrubbing away Charaxus’ kiss.
Iason had appointed his chief household steward to run the event. As soon as the majority of Iason’s guests were assembled, the steward stepped up on the low, limestone wall of a flower bed and raised his arms to the crowd. Silence descended over the garden.
“Good men,” the steward called, “my master Iason is honored that you should all gather here tonight, in remembrance of Night Star, the noble horse whose loss the master still feels.” Jeers from the crowd, mingled with salutes to the long-dead horse. Rhodopis couldn’t decide whether the salutes were ironic or sincere. “And now, with no further delay, let us begin the one event the men of Memphis anticipate all year long! Let the goddess Hathor come forward!”
The woman dressed as Hathor stepped up beside the steward while the crowd cheered her on. She waved gaily to the men, and the steward opened the bidding.
Rhodopis watched with delight as one hetaera after another presented herself before the crowd. The women turned to display their stunning garb, basked in the praises of their admirers, then joined their highest bidder, his dedicated companion for the rest of the night. No one referred to the hetaerae by name; they had assumed the identities of their costumes, and that illusion of anonymity—however thin—added to the thrill of the event.
Bids rose ever higher as the auction went on, for Iason’s servants were everywhere in the crowd, filling guests’ cups as soon as they were emptied. One of the butterflies went for a handsome hundred and fifty hedj. A female incarnation of Dionysus, god of wine and revelry, took nearly three hundred; she let out a victorious shout entirely appropriate to her identity. The kingfisher and the vulture landed bids of three hundred and fifty apiece.
“Who do you think will take the prize for the highest bid?” Rhodopis whispered.
“It has to be me,” Archidike answered grimly. “But it’ll be hard to top three hundred and fifty.”
At that moment, the steward called, “Let the Element of Fire come forward!”
“Luck!” Rhodopis shouted as Archidike stepped up on the garden wall.
The crowd’s shout of approval was long and loud. The lowering sun shimmered on the golden beads at Archidike’s neck, casting a triumphant light on her face. Her blue eyes looked brighter and more intense than ever among her mask of orange paint. She held herself regally still until the tumult died away. Then she nodded her assent to the steward.
“Let us hear the bids for twenty,” he said.
It was the usual starting price, but far too low for the notorious Archidike. Her admirers knew that at once. “A hundred and twenty!” someone shouted.
“Ah!” the steward said. “It seems one among you is eager to get burned. Who else bids? Or are you afraid of the fire?”
Archidike wiggled her hips, making her trails of bright silk dance. The bids rose higher—and higher still. She beamed out at them, pure pleasure and gratitude melting away the habitual hardness of her face. It was rare that no trace of anger or cynicism tainted Archidike’s expression; Rhodopis had seldom seen her friend genuinely happy. She grinned and clapped her hands every time a new bid came in; by the time Archidike’s bid reached three hundred and seventy hedj—the highest of the night—Rhodopis was dancing from foot to foot with joy.
The steward took the final bid—three hundred and eighty—and Archidike hopped down from the wall to roars of approval. Hetaerae kissed her cheeks in congratulation; men slapped the winning bidder on the back with rueful expressions—for who among them wouldn’t like a night with the very personification of a wild, leaping flame?
When the crowd quieted, the steward called, “And now, the little russet goose. Where is she?”
Rhodopis swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. She didn’t know whether anyone would bid on her tonight. No hetaera had yet failed to win at least a few bids, but Rhodopis was still little-known in Memphis, and had spent the party yielding to Archidike, helping pave the way for her victory. It would be dreadful to only get twenty hedj, she thought as she stepped shakily up onto the wall.
The steward raised his hand, ready to speak. But before he could even open his mouth, Charaxus stepped to the front of the crowd. “One hundred!”
The guests laughed. “Well,” the steward said. “No one told me that Good Man Charaxus has taken up cooking. See how eager he is to stuff a goose!”
There was more laughter—from everyone but Charaxus. He stared at Rhodopis with a steady, sober expression, as if willing her to leap from the wall and into his arms.
Should have known he’d bid, she though, forcing herself to smile at him. At least this’ll be an end to it. A hundred hedj is a respectable price, too. Thanks to the gods, and get me down from here!
But Charaxus’ opening bid was not an end to the ordeal. Kleitos, it seemed, was in the mood for more of his jokes. He, too, stepped from the crowd, leered at Charaxus for a moment, and then shouted, “A hundred and twenty!”
“One hundred fifty,” Charaxus said at once.
Rhodopis’ wide-eyed stare darted from one man to the other. Gods, don’t let this be real. Put a stop to it now!
“Come on,” somebody shouted from the crowd. “Make Rax work for it, Kleitos!”
Kleitos raised his wine cup. “One hundred
seventy.”
“Two hundred,” Charaxus said coolly.
Rhodopis shifted uncomfortably, swaying from foot to foot. She cast a glance of mute appeal toward Iason’s steward, but the man only grinned back at her, pleased with the bids.
“Two hundred and fifty!” Kleitos said. His friends bellowed with laughter.
Charaxus’ jaw was clenched; he tore his eyes from Rhodopis only long enough to glare his hatred at Kleitos. “Three hundred and fifty.”
It was such a leap of a bid that the crowd gasped collectively. Let it end there, Rhodopis prayed to the indifferent gods.
Kleitos tipped back his wine cup. For a moment, Rhodopis thought the gods had heard her, and the jokester was ready to surrender. But when he lowered his cup to reveal a drunken smirk, she knew the ordeal had not yet ended. “Three hundred sixty,” Kleitos said.
“Please,” Rhodopis muttered. “Please, enough.”
Charaxus dashed his wine cup to the ground; the dark dregs spilled out across the paving stones. The crowd exclaimed over his sudden show of temper.
He raised a clenched fist toward Kleitos. “Four hundred!”
Kleitos shrugged casually and turned to his friends. “It seems our friend Charaxus is determined to pluck this goose. Who am I to stand between a man and his meal? Enjoy, Rax—enjoy.”
“There it is, then,” the steward proclaimed. “Bidding is closed, at four hundred hedj.”
Rhodopis had gone numb with shock. When Charaxus grabbed her wrist and pulled her down from the garden wall, she stumbled weakly after him. She only looked back once—and all she could see was Archidike’s disbelieving stare. Those blue eyes, vivid in their mask of carnelian paint, watched Rhodopis with all the pain of betrayal… and all the promise of retribution.
3
Highest Bidder
Rhodopis couldn’t erase Archidike’s stare from her mind as Charaxus pulled her out of the garden and into Iason’s house. She had never expected the bidding war to erupt. She prayed viciously for the gods to curse Kleitos with eternal impotence, for having the cheek to prod Charaxus into over-spending. How could she have known Kleitos would do such a thing? Yet now, the sensitive and easily angered Archidike surely thought Rhodopis was a traitor to their friendship. Archidike had thought herself so close to winning her freedom—and at such a young age, too! Rhodopis would have wept for her friend, but she couldn’t afford to do it now. She must put on a show of flattered happiness, for Charaxus’ sake—when all she wanted to do was cuff him and scorch him with her tongue.
White Lotus Page 21
