White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  Four hundred hedj! It was an astounding sum… a ridiculous sum. Rhodopis had only recently debuted as a hetaera; she was not yet a known personality, and far from an established commodity. Certainly, she was not as popular as Archidike, even though they had often worked together. Archidike had worked so hard, and for so long, to nurture her reputation, cultivating a brazen style that no one else in Memphis possessed. Hadn’t she earned her freedom by now?

  And haven’t I robbed it from her? Though the gods know I never intended to do it.

  Another thought occurred to Rhodopis as Charaxus led her from one chamber of Iason’s house to the next, checking for an empty room. If I wasn’t known before, I will be now. Every hetaera in the city will gossip about the simple little goose-girl who fetched four hundred hedj at Iason’s auction. Every man of means would wonder what secret the goose-girl was hiding—what Charaxus knew that no one else did. My reputation’s made, all right. And how will I ever live up to it? Sweet gods have mercy on me now.

  Charaxus found an empty chamber; he impatiently kicked the door closed. The room was a small—not much larger than her old room back at Iadmon’s estate—but prettily appointed, with two small clay lamps already conveniently lit, a couch spread with fresh linen sheets, and the air scented by burning cones of sandalwood incense.

  As soon as the door was decently shut, Charaxus set to work undressing Rhodopis. It seemed the auction had enflamed him like nothing else—having almost lost out on her, Charaxus could wait no longer to possess her.

  Rhodopis stepped back as he removed her feather mask. She stared up at him, utterly lost in confusion.

  Charaxus reached for her again, but then he hesitated. At least, Rhodopis thought wryly, he was unwilling to force her compliance.

  “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said, making no attempt to culture her voice. The Thracian girl was on full display now. “Playing me cold like you did back at your house, and then behaving a perfect fool, right in front of everybody. Really, Charaxus—what’s a girl to think of a man like you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment, and only spoke again when she could be reasonably certain she wouldn’t shout at him. “When you invited me to your house, you seemed to like me well enough. But then you went cold on me the moment I suggested we go to bed. What had you brought me for, if not for that? And then when you sent me off, you paid me so poorly! I don’t know how I could have offended you, but it’s sure enough I did. And now there you were, bidding on me as if your life depended on winning me. You played right into Kleitos’ hands, Charaxus! I’m not worth four hundred hedj. You over-spent on me, and that’s just what Kleitos intended. But really, Rax: ten hedj one night, four hundred the next… you’ve completely tweaked my wits, and no mistake!”

  To Rhodopis’ surprise, Charaxus fell on his knees before her. He clutched both her hands in his own. “Since I first saw you at Diokles’ party—since I saw you dance, I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind.”

  “You told me as much already,” Rhodopis said. She tried to free her hands, but Charaxus held tight.

  “You’re not like the rest of the hetaerae,” he said, “cunning and calculating, only thinking how they might better themselves. You’re real, Rhodopis. There’s nothing false about you, in a world where everyone, everything is false! Your innocence, your fragility… they’re all I’ve ever wanted in a woman. And I know I was cold to you, when you came around to my place. I shouldn’t have been; it was wrong of me. I just couldn’t face the fact of what you are, darling. When you were so direct… when you asked me about… well, about lying together… the beautiful illusion shattered, and cruel reality came to me. You aren’t a free woman, whom I may court and marry. You aren’t what I want you to be—what I need you to be. The fact of it depressed me, I’m afraid, for I’d so set my heart on you. You mustn’t mind my moods; it’s the curse of my family, you see. Sappho is just as moody as I, but she can use it to her advantage, to write beautiful poetry. I’m a poor beggar; I’ve no such skill. I’m a creature of my moods, Rhodopis. I wish it weren’t so, but it is. I’ve no words like my sister’s, none to tell you how I feel. All I can tell you is… well…” Charaxus burst out with sudden, loud passion, “No other woman will do, none at all! Yet how can we be together as I want us to be—as I need us to be—when you are who you are, and what you are?”

  Rhodopis was silent. For a moment, her quick mind was struck blank and dull by Charaxus’ startling revelation. Finally she said, “But I can only be who and what I am.”

  He climbed to his feet, still clutching her hands. “And I can only be what I am: a man who loves you passionately.”

  “Loves me?” Rhodopis nearly laughed. “Darling, we hardly know each other! How can you love me?”

  “It’s just as I told you: my family is passionate and love-lorn. It is our curse, I suppose. I cannot write you poetry, Rhodopis—I cannot tell the world how you make my heart soar and how you haunt my dreams at night. But this love is no less agonizing to me. And so, when I saw Kleitos bidding on you, I couldn’t let him win. We may be fated to be forever apart, but still I cannot stand the thought of another man having you, even though I know you are…”

  “A hetaera.”

  Rhodopis finally tugged her hands free and turned away from Charaxus. If the chamber had had a window, she would have stood beside it, gazing out at the garden as she had so often done, in her own private room at Iadmon’s. There, alone with her thoughts, she could have pondered over Charaxus’ strange confession and what it might mean to her. But there was no window—only the two small lamps. Rhodopis stood beside one and watched its flame dance, bending and swaying, fluttering each time her breath disturbed it.

  It was plain that Charaxus couldn’t truly love her. She was only fourteen years old, and new to womanhood, but Rhodopis had enough good sense to know that Charaxus’ proclamation of love was absurd. Yet there had been real sincerity in his eyes. Clearly, he believed every word of what he’d said. This silly idea of love was real to him—truth to him—whatever Rhodopis may think of it. And if the results of the auction were any indication, then his feelings were strong enough to drive him into any sort of foolishness.

  The flame twisted and bowed again. With a lurch of regret, Rhodopis thought of Archidike. What would she do, if she stood in this chamber with Charaxus—if she had received this outrageous pronouncement?

  Reckon it’s time I start thinking more like Archidike, and less like the Thracian urchin.

  Especially now that her alliance with Archidike was uncertain. Rhodopis felt a twinge in her rib, in exactly the place where, on the first night they’d met, Archidike had pressed her sharp nail into Rhodopis’ skin. For all she knew, Rhodopis was on her own now, left to navigate the world of the hetaerae with no oar but her own.

  Charaxus is one of the wealthiest men in the city. I can use his wealth to my advantage. Play him right, and I’ll secure the best patron a girl like me could hope for. But can I play Charaxus at all? Oh it’s so much simpler with other men! All they want is my body—not my heart.

  She knew at once that Charaxus would not be easy to please. If he was to become her patron, he would expect more from Rhodopis than she might be able—or willing—to give. But if she could win his generosity, then his patronage would bring her freedom all the faster.

  “Rhodopis?” Charaxus said uncertainly.

  P’raps I’ll just have to run the risk, and let him love me… and deal with the consequences when they come.

  What other prospects did she have? Inexperienced as she was, she could never live up to the expectations set by the four hundred hedj. It must be Charaxus, or no one.

  Rhodopis turned back to him, offering her warmest smile. “Darling, you must forgive me. It’s only that no man’s ever said such things to me before, and… well, I didn’t know how to take it, like. Imagine, a simple country girl like me—and owned property, too. I never t
hought I’d have the affection of such a great man.”

  “It’s more than affection,” Charaxus insisted.

  Rhodopis lowered her eyes shyly. “Love,” she said.

  Suddenly, Charaxus tore at his blond curls in a display of hopeless longing. “Oh, but what’s the use of it? We can never be together. The gods are so very cruel!”

  The moment had arrived. Rhodopis went to him, laying one trembling hand on his chest to calm him. “But we can be together… after a fashion. What if I were to see you special?”

  Charaxus released his grip on his hair. He lowered his hands, staring fixedly at the wall. Finally he said, “You want me to become your patron.” He didn’t sound as if the idea appealed.

  Rhodopis pressed her lips together again. She struggled to keep her anger from flaring up. What does the silly ass want me to say? I am what I am: he said himself. Not ’s if I have any say in the matter, not ’til I’ve got all the money I need.

  She made herself take his hands in her own. She lowered her eyes again, and let the heat of anger flood her face—a passable substitute for a girl’s shy blush. “I wish it could be different for us. I wish we could be free to love each other without any cares in the world. But until I’m freed from Xanthes…”

  “Perhaps I can buy you,” Charaxus said hastily.

  Rhodopis fluttered her lashes to keep herself from rolling her eyes. She was certain that even a man as wealthy as Charaxus wouldn’t be able to meet her master’s price—especially not once word of the auction reached Xanthes. Now the shrewd old bull was sure to consider Rhodopis more valuable than ever before. He would set her price high—whether that price was for another man to buy her, or for Rhodopis to purchase her own freedom.

  “But if you buy me, then I’ll still be owned, won’t I? And we’ll be in the same fix.”

  “I’ll free you!”

  Rhodopis thought quickly. “But you’ll always know that you had to buy me first. Everyone else will know the same. It will only taint our love—poison it—and I couldn’t stand for that to happen. Won’t it be better, dear, if I continue as a hetaera for a little while longer? I’ll make my future in the usual way, earn my own freedom, and all the respect that goes with it. Then, perhaps, everyone in Memphis will think I’m good enough to be your bride.”

  She stroked his knuckles with her thumb. “If you’re my patron, Charaxus—if you contrive to see me often, then I’ll earn my freedom in no time.”

  He pulled his hands free, turning away. “But in the meantime, other men will have you.”

  “Only for a while, dear… only until I’m freed and we’re together. And then we’ll forget all about those men, for they mean nothing to me… nothing at all! Only you matter. Oh, please say you will! Without you, I’ll never hope to get free. And I want to be free… I want to marry a respectable man, and be a good, honest wife. Save me from this fate, dear Charaxus!”

  Rhodopis played the role of the helpless innocent so well that Charaxus’ passion returned. It swept over him in a hot gust, scorching away the last of his resistance, the last of his fears. He reached for Rhodopis hungrily, pulling her into a kiss. She returned the kiss, as if the same fire burned in her heart, in precisely equal measure.

  Still kissing her, Charaxus stumbled toward the couch. But just before he pulled her down onto it, Rhodopis pushed back from his embrace. She gazed up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, until at last he blurted out the promise she sought.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll do it. I’ll be your patron. You know I would do anything for you, Rhodopis!”

  An hour later, Rhodopis was finally able to extract herself. Charaxus’ passion had taken a long while to exhaust itself. He was inclined to savor the moment he had dreamed of for so long. He had drawn out their play so excruciatingly that Rhodopis wanted to scream with frustration—and was tempted more than one to take control of events, employing one of the tricks Archidike had taught her to finish off any man with speed.

  But a show of haste would never do. She had to convince Charaxus she was sincere—make him believe that she loved him as much as he did her, and that she longed to be his wife above all else.

  When at last the deed was done and Charaxus drifted off to sleep, murmuring with satisfaction, Rhodopis counted to one hundred to be sure he was truly gone. Then she sprang up from the couch, collecting her tunic, sandals, and mask from the chamber floor. She pulled the tunic on over her mussed hair, jerked it straight around her body, and smoothed the silken feathers as much as she could. She stood over the couch for a moment, frowning down at Charaxus.

  She hadn’t liked to make all those promises, for she knew she could never live up to them, and felt instinctively that it was a great and terrible wrong—an affront against the gods themselves—to swear love where none existed.

  But what else could a girl like Rhodopis do? Got to look out for myself now. If the gods are angry, then they’ve no one to blame but themselves. It was they who made me a slave, after all—and a hetaera.

  She turned toward the door, but paused, casting one last, regretful glance at Charaxus. He had been fumbling in bed, and rather silly with all his love-proclamations. But he had touched her face gently after the deed was done, in a way that had gone straight to Rhodopis’ reluctant heart.

  The self-serving hetaera—burgeoning hour by hour inside the shell of the Thracian urchin—only hoped she hadn’t left her companion too satisfied. I wouldn’t do for Charaxus to feel entirely sated. He must never quite have his fill of her, or he would soon transfer his affection—his love, as he insisted it be called—to another girl. Rhodopis had no doubt that he would do just that, the moment another woman caught his eye. Charaxus was not in love with Rhodopis. He was in love her act—her style, as the women of the Stable called it.

  And it was an act, indeed. Charaxus wanted a simple little country girl, but Rhodopis was not that. She had been separated from Aesop for two years, but she was still Aesop’s pupil—careful and canny, always alert for any twist in fortune’s road, any new path, however rocky, that would lead her ever closer to her goal: freedom.

  Still, because she was careful and canny, Rhodopis knew she couldn’t let Charaxus slip from her grasp until he had served his purpose.

  I can’t go off and leave him like any old hetaera would—in and done, and thanks for the pay, see you at the next party.

  If she hoped to maintain the illusion of love, she must part as a lover would. Briefly, she considered leaving a piece of jewelry with Charaxus, so he would know she had been thinking tender thoughts as she’d slipped through the door. She quickly dismissed that idea. Jewelry would have to be paid for, and Amenia knew every bead and pearl in the collection.

  Instead, Rhodopis plucked one of the russet goose feathers from the side of her mask. It was soft and delicate, just as she was, within the pink mist and sweet perfume of Charaxus’ fantasy. She placed the feather carefully in his half-curled fist. He would find it when he woke.

  Rhodopis let herself out of the chamber, closing the door softly behind her, and hurried back along the corridors to the garden. She could hear the party in the distance, bursting with laughter, vibrating with rollicking song. The sun had set; a pale purple twilight hung over the garden, dimming the former brightness of the hetaerae’s costumes and disguising the far boundaries of Iason’s estate in shadow.

  Rhodopis searched every face in each new crowd as she made the rounds of the garden. All she could think of now was finding Archidike, explaining to her what had happened—that she’d had no part in the bidding, it had all been the fault of that fool Charaxus. But Archidike was nowhere to be found.

  She came across Bastet, purring as her companion for the night stroked her silk cat ears.

  “Where’s Archidike?” she whispered.

  “Don’t know,” Bastet snapped. “I’m not her keeper.”

  “Please, Bast; it’s ever so important.”

  “Last I saw, she went off with the fellow who’d bid for her. But tha
t was long ago. You know Archidike; she finished him off quick, like she always does. I can’t say where she might be now.”

  P’raps she’s gone back to Iason’s guest rooms with her man. Archidike liked to work quickly, but she was always game for another round. Rhodopis started back toward the wing of guest chambers, but she halted halfway there. Last thing I want’s to find Charaxus, coming out of his chamber. He’d never let me get away again.

  Rhodopis skirted the side of Iason’s massive house instead, working her way through a side garden where grape vines grew in profusion, climbing up the trunks of whispering date palms. She stumbled now and then in the darkness, and once cried out as she stubbed her toe against a half-buried stone. But the side garden was empty, save for herself; no one tried to stop her.

  She reached Iason’s front court yard a few minutes later. The guests’ litters stood rank upon rank in orderly rows, waiting to carry their owners home. Dozens of litter bearers were gathered by the estate’s front wall; Iason had provided them with lamps, and they crouched around the pools of light, amusing themselves by throwing dice, or with games of senet, the playing boards scratched into the dust. Rhodopis wandered among the litters. In the twilight gloom, they all looked nearly the same. She searched for the one that had carried Archidike and herself to the party—the one with the harpy’s wings and lion’s heads—but it was nowhere to be found. With dread rising rapidly in her gut, Rhodopis scanned the groups of litter-bearers. Here and there, she found men in Xanthes’ dark-blue robes, but not the fellows who had carried her to the party.