White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  She’s robbed me… robbed me!

  There was nothing to be done about the theft or the injustice now. In any case, Rhodopis knew full well that neither Vélona nor Xanthes would care. To keep herself from crying—from screaming with rage—she lowered her face, unwilling to watch any longer as her stolen goods were presented in Archidike’s hands. All Rhodopis could think of was the amphora. It was nothing but an empty vessel now; everything she had was gone. Everything but the rose-gold slippers she now wore. They were the only wealth that remained to her.

  “It is sufficient,” Xanthes said. The words of the ceremony came to Rhodopis as if from under water, bubbling and rippling, obscured by the rushing in her ears. “I free you; go out into the world with my thanks for your loyal service.”

  A terrible pain squeezed in Rhodopis’ chest. She couldn’t draw a breath, couldn’t move, couldn’t believe the gods would be so cruel.

  You were a fool to trust Archidike, Rhodopis told herself. You were a fool to like her. She drugged Iadmon to help Xanthes steal you away. She was never a good person, never was your friend. She only used you, and would have gone on using you forever, because you’re a fool—fool, fool!

  There in the entry of Xanthes’ estate, bitterness sprouted in Rhodopis’ heart. Its roots found purchase where once only sweetness could grow. But it flourished quickly, sprouting thorns—and the thorns were sharp indeed.

  Wearily, she tried to calculate how long it would take her to regain everything she had lost. Another year at least as Charaxus’ special friend… probably more. She faced three more years in the Stable—three at the very least. Four or five seemed more likely.

  It’s not all that long. Rhodopis tried to comfort herself with that thought. Many girls live in bondage far longer.

  But after her certainty that freedom was close at hand, it seemed an inexhaustible eternity.

  6

  The Falcon and the River

  Life in the Stable carried on as before. Rhodopis still kept her engagements, still visited Charaxus often. But the atmosphere of Memphis grew ever more tense. Soon she was half convinced that the cloud of anger and despair that had clung to her since Archidike’s betrayal had grown to envelop the whole city.

  Parties were no longer the elegant, jovial affairs they once had been. Men argued easily now; tempers were short. There was always someone willing to come to blows over a disagreement about the Pharaoh and his policies—or worse, willing to draw knives. At one party on the western edge of town, a hetaera had gone home early, for her companion had drunk too much wine and ended with a sick belly. Not a quarter of an hour later, the woman had come running back to the host’s estate, tears streaming down her face, her beautiful linen dress smeared with dung. She had met a pack of Egyptian men on the road, and they had accosted her—cursing her Greek appearance, accusing her of enchanting the Pharaoh with her feminine wiles. They had pelted her with donkey droppings, picked up from the street. She had come back to the party for safety’s sake, and begged the host to give her guardsmen to see her safely home.

  There was no doubt in Rhodopis’ mind that Memphis grew more dangerous with each passing week. She couldn’t forget the raw anger in the men whom she’d encountered the night of Iason’s party, when she had foolishly walked home alone. How quick they had been to insult one another, how eager to pull their knives! Almost every night, one the girls in Xanthes’ Stable had another chilling tale to tell—fights breaking out at parties, or gangs of Egyptian youths who fell on Greek men in the streets, pounding them with their fists and leaving them injured in dark, cold alleys. Worst of all was the night just before the harvest festival, when a messenger arrived from Good Man Sophos’ house. The messenger’s tunic was ripped and bloodied. Callisto and Bastet were taking shelter at Sophos’ estate, the messenger had said, and would be there until well past sunrise, for a riot had broken out on the north end of town, and no one could navigate the streets safely, not even in a litter.

  “What could it all mean?” Efthalia wondered. “What’s it all leading up to?” For it was clear to all of them that tension in the city was building to some grand and terrible climax.

  “If Bastet were here,” Rhodopis said, “instead of hiding out behind Sophos’ walls, she’d say it means the Egyptians have finally had enough.”

  “They’re about to liberate Kmet,” Persephone said. She laughed ironically. “Liberate Egypt—from what, the Pharaoh? From Egypt itself?”

  Rhodopis shrugged. “It’s clear they’re angry. Have been for a long time.”

  “Rhodopis knows,” Persephone said, “with all the wisdom of her fourteen years.”

  “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard the men say,” she muttered defensively.

  Persephone waved a dismissive hand. “This will all blow over, like a sand storm.”

  “I wish I could be so sure of it,” Efthalia said quietly. “Amasis has never been a well-loved king. He does his own country no good, in favoring Greeks over Egyptians. And I’m afraid it’s gone on too long for it all to be forgotten.”

  The Pharaoh Amasis, however, soon restored his reputation—among Xanthes’ hetaerae, if nowhere else in Egypt. Several days after the riot in the northern stretch of Memphis, Vélona swept into the Stable, beaming openly as that pinched, sour woman never had before.

  The girls, sensing good news, scrambled out of their alcoves and stood waiting.

  Vélona brandished a scroll of papyrus. “None of you will believe what I’ve got here. Do any of you recognize this seal? No? Well…” She opened the scroll with an exultant air and read: “Pharaoh Amasis, in celebration of the harvest to come and in fellowship to those who have been unfortunately affected by the insurrection in Memphis, will host a grand feast, one day hence, to begin at mid-day, in his own great house.”

  The girls stared at the mistress, wide-eyed. “The messenger told me,” Vélona said, “the feast is to honor the great Greek men whose contributions to Memphis have made it a city to be reckoned with, all the world over. And to do equal honor to the Egyptians who have worked hand in hand with the Greeks, and not spurned them.”

  “What does it mean for us, Mistress?” Bastet said.

  “Xanthes is certainly a great man of Greek extraction. He has been invited personally. And he intends to bring you girls, too, so that you may find more friends among the Memphis elite.”

  Squeals of excitement filled the Stable. Xanthes’ girls had gained entrance to many a great man’s house, but none had yet set foot inside the king’s palace. They set about planning at once, rifling through the dressing closet under Amenia’s watchful eye, discussing how they ought to comport themselves in the company of the king, and practicing their various talents—for all of them hoped they might have the chance to perform for the king and his court. Only the gods could say what doors might open for a woman who sang or danced for the pleasure of the King of Egypt.

  The cloud that hung over Rhodopis for weeks lifted in her excitement. Now, at last, she would make more influential friends than just Charaxus. If she was to earn back all the wealth Archidike had stolen—and do it before she was a withered old woman—she would need more than one patron. As the Stable hummed with activity, Rhodopis sat on her bed, rubbing her rose-gold slippers with oil and a soft cloth, carefully buffing away scuffs and scratches. If the gods were good to her—and the gods were long overdue to bring Rhodopis a measure of good luck—she would dance before the king, and win the admiration of countless powerful men.

  The girls stayed awake late into the night, chattering over their plans for the next day’s feast. All their habitual animosity was forgotten—for the time being, at any rate. They lacquered one another’s nails and tried new hairstyles, and told bawdy jokes until they were shrieking with laughter—and finally Vélona marched into the room, shooing them off to their beds.

  Bastet crept in behind Vélona; she had come from a party that night, and was still sore over having missed most of the fun of preparing for the
king’s feast.

  Vélona snuffed the lamps and shut the door on the Stable; moments later, the girls were back out of their beds, congregating in the middle of the room to whisper over their plans.

  “I hope you greedy cows left a few good dresses for me,” Bastet said. “If you only left me the plain tunics, I’ll never let you forget about it.”

  “Stop fretting,” Callisto said. “You know Amenia’s got hundreds of gowns. She’ll be sure you look your best. How was the party?”

  “Dull. Than’s parties are always dreadful. He wouldn’t know fun if it kicked him in the cock.” Bastet elbowed Rhodopis in the ribs. “I saw Charaxus there. Your sweetheart.”

  “He’s not,” Rhodopis said patiently. “You know that.”

  “He was properly peeved. It seems he wasn’t invited to the Pharaoh’s party.”

  “What?” Callisto said. “Not invited—a wealthy Greek?”

  Bastet leaned farther into the circle, relishing her gossip. “It seems Charaxus’ sister—that poet Sappho—wrote some verses about our good king Amasis. A copy of the poem made found its way from Lesvos to Memphis. Needless to say, the Pharaoh found Sappho’s opinion of his royal self quite disagreeable.”

  The girls giggled softly, but Rhodopis felt a prickle of dread. Long after they had all finally gone off to their bed, Rhodopis lay away, staring at the dark ceiling of her alcove. Charaxus, not invited… what would it mean for her? Nothing, surely. There was no reason why Rhodopis should be barred from the party, even if her patron was.

  In the morning, though, when Vélona roused the groggy hetaerae from their beds, she brought the news Rhodopis had been dreading.

  “You may stay abed, if you like,” Vélona said as she passed by Rhodopis’ alcove. “Your patron is not attending the king’s feast, and has sent for you to entertain him instead.”

  Rhodopis sat up slowly, chilled to her marrow. “What, Mistress?”

  “I am sure you heard me perfectly well, Rhodopis. Now, the rest of you—up! Up and off to breakfast. You must all be dressed and in your litters an hour before mid-day.”

  “No,” Rhodopis said faintly.

  Vélona turned to her with a hard, affronted stare.

  “No!”

  Rhodopis leaped from her bed. Wounded as she was by Archidike’s betrayal, Vélona’s news shattered all the fine control Aesop had once taught her. She raced down the length of the Stable, her fingers bent like claws, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. She grabbed Bastet by the front of her tunic and hauled her out into the great room.

  “You did this—you!”

  “Let go! Get her off me!” Bastet cried.

  “You’ve always envied me, because I’m the better dancer! You convinced Charaxus last night—told him to call for me today, so I couldn’t go to the Pharaoh’s feast!”

  Bastet made no reply; she only stared coolly into Rhodopis’ eyes.

  A moment later, Vélona’s hand clenched in Rhodopis’ hair; she shrieked in pain and rage as the mistress dragged her away from Bastet.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t mark her,” Vélona spat, shaking Rhodopis hard, “or it would have been the strap for you. Back to your bed—at once! And the rest of you, get dressed before I keep you all back, and make you scrub out the privies!”

  Rhodopis flung herself across her bed, sobbing miserably into her pillow. Her scalp ached from Vélona’s terrible grip, but it was nothing next to the pain in her heart. Archidike had taken her money, and now Bastet—or Vélona—or that damnable, blind fool Charaxus had taken this grand chance to start her fortunes over again, to fight her way up from the depths of this pit. She would never forgive them—never—not a single one of them!

  Soon the girls, glittering in the best finery Amenia had to offer, were filing out of the Stable. Vélona herded them through the door, then looked back over her shoulder at Rhodopis, who sat huddled miserably on the floor beside her alcove.

  “Charaxus will be sending his litter around for you soon. I want you ready by the time he arrives.”

  Rhodopis made no reply, and Vélona left, slamming the door hard behind her.

  Rhodopis did not prepare herself for a day with her patron. She remained crouched on the cold floor, all her bright hopes shattered around her. By the time Vélona returned to the Stable, some two hours later, Rhodopis was still hunched in her plain white tunic, and its linen was damp with her tears.

  “Get up, girl,” Vélona said, not unkindly.

  Rhodopis didn’t move; after a moment, Vélona took her under the arms and jerked her roughly to her feet.

  “The litter is here for you, but I can’t send you off to Charaxus looking like this. I shall just have to send word that you’ve taken ill.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “I know you’re disappointed,” Vélona said, “but this behavior will not be tolerated a second time. You may have the day off to recover your… mood. But I expect you alert, compliant, and ready to work on the morrow. Am I understood?”

  Again, Rhodopis nodded.

  “Good. Now get out to the baths and clean yourself up. You look like a mouse mauled half to death by a house-cat.”

  Rhodopis left the Stable, but she did not go to the bath house. She ran through the garden, half-blinded by her tears, past the pond that had once hidden her precious hopes. She ran through the courtyards and flower beds, past the stand of sycamores that filtered the wind from the river.

  Rhodopis could have run on forever, but the land had given out. She had reached Xanthes’ private quay. His boat waited, moored to the stone, just beyond the bed of reeds where she now stood, panting.

  Doesn’t matter where I want to go, what I want to do—the gods always stop me, she thought miserably.

  She sank down among the reeds, kneeling in the damp earth, and wept until her eyes were dry and scratchy. Then she tore helplessly at the innocent green reeds, ripping them from the river’s bank, shredding them in her angry, powerless fists.

  Rhodopis looked up to the sky, her hands full of the broken reeds. The scent of their crushed stems rose all around her, green and sharp. High above, in the pale-blue arch of the mid-day sky, a single bird turned lazily on the wind.

  I danced the Maiden of the Reeds once, she thought bitterly. Maybe I ought to be the Maiden of the Reeds.

  She pictured it—her small body in the river, lifeless from the terrible force of her despair. Drifting north on the river’s current.

  North—that way lay Iadmon’s house. Iadmon and kind, patient Helena, who was a slave, too. And the little messenger boy with the split lip, and Iunet with her sharp tongue and quick, lashing stick.

  And Aesop. Rhodopis missed him more than anyone else. More even than her family, for they were a distant memory now, abstract and far away. She wanted her friend again—Aesop, the only true friend she had ever known.

  “I’ve got no friends at all,” she said softly. She let the broken reeds fall from her hands.

  She had no one to confide in, no one to love. She had only Charaxus, clumsy and embarrassing in his affections.

  That’s all I’ve got to look forward to, for years to come. Charaxus, and no one else.

  Rhodopis leapt suddenly to her feet. She kicked off one of her rose-gold slippers, seized it, and hurled it out over the river.

  She had thrown with all her strength. The slipper flew up and up, and seemed to hang immobile for a moment at the peak of its trajectory. Then, just as it began to drop toward the water, a streak of blue-gray fell from the sky, quick as a bolt of lightning, and collided with the slipper.

  Rhodopis stopped her weeping; she stared in awe. The blue-gray streak was a bird—a falcon. It threw out its sharp-pointed wings, pulling out of its swift dive mere inches above the water.

  The falcon climbed through the air on powerful wing-beats. As it rose, the sun bounced up from the surface of the Nile and glinted on Rhodopis’ slipper—clutched tightly in the falcon’s feet.

  She shook her head slow
ly. Hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I never could believe… The falcon must have mistaken her slipper for a bird—a duck or a pigeon.

  She turned to watch the bird as it flew away, shading her eyes with one hand. It was fast on the wing, and growing smaller by the moment. But still she could make it out, a black dot against the hot blue sky. The falcon passed back over Memphis, heading steadily toward the Pharaoh’s palace.

  Rhodopis slid the other slipper from her foot, but she did not throw it. Instead she clutched it to her chest, turned away from the river, and ran back to the Stable.

  Near dawn, the girls returned to the Stable, breathless with their tales of the party. Rhodopis sat, calm and composed, on the end of her bed. She listened silently as they clamored to tell her everything—how glorious the palace was, how fine the food, how beautiful and regal were Pharaoh’s many wives and concubines, who sat on dignified display in a railed gallery near the throne. And, of course, the array of powerful men in attendance—all the finest, wealthiest men in Egypt.

  “Tell me about the dancers,” Rhodopis said. “I would have so loved to see them.”

  “The dancers were fine enough,” Callisto said, “but they weren’t the most exciting entertainment.”

  “Jugglers? Magicians?”

  “None of that,” Bastet said. “The best part of the feast, the Pharaoh hadn’t even planned.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Efthalia leaned toward Rhodopis, her eyes alight with mystery. “In the midst of the entertainment—I think it was while some woman was singing—one of the king’s trained birds flew into the feast hall.”

  A thrill of certainty raced up Rhodopis’ spine. She said nothing—only waited.

  “It was a hawk,” Efthalia said.

  Bastet rolled her eyes. “No, you brainless fly, a falcon. Can’t you tell the difference?”

  “Anyway,” Efthalia said, with a sideways glower at Bastet, “the bird circled the whole vast room—and the room was simply huge, Rho, with hundreds of tables and couches.”