The last row of supplicants parted; Rhodopis stepped out into empty space to stand in the Pharaoh’s gaze. She bowed low to the king first, holding up her palms after the Egyptian fashion. Then she turned at once to the two women beside her and bowed to them in turn.
They must be the mistresses of all these servants, unless I miss my guess entirely. And only very important women would command so many servants.
Rhodopis straightened with a shy smile, and at once cast her eyes down to the polished malachite floor. But she took in every inch of the women as her gaze lowered. Both were young—no older than their early twenties. Their black hair was straight as an arrow’s shaft, quite unlike the tight curls of most Egyptians. Olive-brown complexions made the women too pale to pass for native-born Kmetu; even if their clothing had not marked them out as foreigners, the difference would have been obvious to any observant person. Robes of lightweight wool, heavily embroidered in a riot of colorful flowers and birds, fell straight down to their sandals; the robes closed in the front with a series of small metal clasps, quite unlike Egyptian gowns, which were draped and knotted into place, and ornamented with a hundred fanciful pleats. The robes had heavy sleeves that hung down past the women’s elbows, baring little of their flesh and giving them scant relief from the thick, humid heat of the Nile Valley. Each wore a long shawl draped over one shoulder, doubled back and knotted low around her hips. The shawls swung with layers of many-colored fringes and tassels—which, swaying and dancing, had the unfortunate effect of amplifying each woman’s trembling. They held themselves with an unmistakably regal bearing—indeed, they seemed more naturally powerful than Amasis on his throne—yet there was no mistaking their strained expressions. The younger of the two was red-faced, her lips pressed tightly together. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears.
Rhodopis turned back to the throne, her eyes still on the floor. “How may I be of service, my king?”
Amasis spoke in Greek. “I present to you, my ladies, Rhodopis of Thrace. She is one of the Ornaments of my harem, and a treasure to my heart. She alone of all my women speaks your tongue.”
That was not strictly true. Several of the harem women could speak Greek ably; they had confessed as much to Rhodopis, and sometimes teased her in her own language. They merely chose not to speak the language, as a point of pride—and they especially avoided using Greek outside the harem, where any Kmetu might hear. The last thing the other Ornaments of the Harem wanted was to be thought un-Egyptian. But Rhodopis, of course, did not correct the Pharaoh.
“Rhodopis,” Amasis said, “these beauties are Ninsina and Shamiram. They are daughters of Cambyses. You know who Cambyses is, do you not?”
“Yes, my king,” Rhodopis said. “He is the ruler of Persia.”
“Indeed, he is. Their father has sent them here to Egypt—to me—that they might become my wives.” He paused; Rhodopis glanced up. A slightly foolish half-smile played about the Pharaoh’s face. Clearly it delighted and flattered him, to have more beautiful women in his household. “With our marriage,” the king resumed, “we shall have a bond of kinship between Egypt and Persia. That’s very good, don’t you think?”
Rhodopis’ cheeks heated. What did it matter, whether an Ornament of the Harem—the youngest and newest, at that—approved of Amasis’ diplomatic marriages? Greek may be an unpopular tongue among members of the Pharaoh’s court, but most of them had no trouble understanding the language. What would they think of their king, for having sought the blessing of a harem girl? Embarrassment on behalf of the kind but bumbling Pharaoh flooded her; she felt dizzy and weak with the force of it. But he had asked her a direct question. She could not avoid answering.
“I place my trust, as always, in the good judgment of the Pharaoh,” Rhodopis said. “If it pleases you, my king, then how can I be anything but glad? I am your servant, and servant to the gods who love you.”
“Yes,” Amasis said briskly, oblivious to his lapse. “It seems these fine ladies do speak a bit of Greek—enough to get by—but they do not appear to know much Egyptian, if any. You will help them settle into the harem, won’t you, my jewel? I know they will be grateful for your kindness.”
Rhodopis turned to the Persian women, and was met with a glower from the elder. The dark brows drew down like the fork of a bird’s foot; her painted lips pursed, and for a moment Rhodopis wondered if the woman would shout, demanding someone else for the task. Rhodopis was suddenly aware of the sheer linen draping her body, the openness of its weave, her flesh on display. It had never troubled her before; it was simply the Egyptian style, and she, a former hetaera, found no shame in nudity. But she was an Ornament—a concubine—whereas these Persians came to Memphis as wives.
It occurred to Rhodopis, too, that if she were to go about attached to new women of such admirable status, it would only serve to set her higher still among the harem. The women will all begin to hate me again, when I’ve only just found my feet among them. She could not accept the assignment. She must make the king change his mind.
“I… I have never worked as a translator before, my king,” Rhodopis said carefully. “I fear I am not worthy of the task.”
Amasis waved his hand dismissively, brushing away the rote demurral he expected at every new appointment. But Rhodopis had been quite sincere in her objection.
“Nonsense,” Amasis replied. “You’ll do the task admirably; none is better suited.”
Rhodopis bowed her head. Had they been alone in his bed chamber, she might have convinced Amasis to choose another woman for this delicate work. But here in the audience hall, where so many had heard the Pharaoh’s words… Rhodopis had no choice but to obey. “I shall be glad to serve you, my king.”
“Very good,” Amasis said, beaming. He raised his hand, beckoning across the length of the chamber, and spoke loudly—in Egyptian, this time. “I see my chief wife is here. My heart warms. Khedeb-Netjer-Bona, come forward.”
The crowd cleared a path for Khedeb-Netjer-Bona far faster than they’d done for Rhodopis. The chief wife glided easily toward the throne. She did not bow when she reached the foot of Amasis’ stepped dais; she merely stood looking up at him, serene and patient.
“You, my wife, must find whatever servants we have who are proficient in the Greek tongue. And any who may chance to know the Persian language, too. They will be useful in settling all these new servants here in the palace. As you can see, each of my new wives has brought her own household! We must make a place for them, yes?”
“Of course,” Khedeb-Netjer-Bona said smoothly. “It is fitting, that the daughters of a king as great as Cambyses should travel so well equipped. I shall set to work at once.” She turned without waiting for Amasis’ dismissal and left the hall, shadowed as always by her pair of guards.
“I have already instructed Pentu to prepare two good apartments for our new beauties,” Amasis said to Rhodopis. “Take them to the women’s wing now, won’t you? I am sure they’re very tired from their long journey.”
Rhodopis bowed to the king again. Then, turning to the daughters of Cambyses, she gestured to the path through the crowd, the swath of respectful space that remained in the wake of Khedeb-Netjer-Bona’s passing. “If it please you,” Rhodopis said carefully, quelling her Thracian twang with an effort, “follow me, my ladies.”
The elder woman—the frowning one—barked a few words in her native tongue. A small group of Persian servant-women detached themselves from the crowd, falling in behind their mistresses. Rhodopis led the way out of the audience hall.
“You must have traveled for many days,” Rhodopis said when the scarab doors had closed behind them. The murmur of the audience hall was muffled now; the corridors of the Pharaoh’s palace were serene, pleasantly dim and perfumed by myrrh smoke. “I don’t know exactly where Persia is, but—”
“Not ‘Persia,’” the elder snapped. “That is what you call it, you Egyptians.”
Rhodopis smiled timidly. “I meant no offense, my lady. What is
the proper name for your land?”
“Haxamanishiya. You can say it, can’t you?”
Rhodopis opened her mouth, prepared to try, but the woman never gave her a chance.
“No, of course you can’t.”
“Was the journey long from… your land?”
“Longer than I care to say. Longer than I care to remember. It has been a trying time. And now here we find ourselves, in a place where no one even speaks the proper tongue. I would call this place the home of uncivilized wild things, but for the city itself. And this palace is good. The art is garish—everything looks as if it were painted by a child!—but at least your architects know how to build. The city is almost as fine as Babylon—what little I saw of it. Your king’s palace cannot compare to my father’s, but I suppose it is the best one can hope for in a place such as this.”
“The palace displeases you?” That seemed impossible; the Pharaoh’s palace was the finest estate Rhodopis had ever seen, and she had been to more than enough rich men’s homes to be a judge of quality.
“Simple bread can only displease, after one has feasted on honey and spices for all of one’s life.”
“Haxamanishiya must be a very splendid place, if it can outshine Egypt.”
The woman turned to Rhodopis, one black brow arched in amusement. “So you can say it. Though your pronunciation leaves something to be desired.”
“I will do my best to make you happy, my lady. You must be worn out.”
“The journey was trying. The less said about it, the better.”
Rhodopis kept quiet and led them on. Had she been less observant, she might have taken the new brides’ stiff dignity for arrogance. But she noted their cheeks, pale as if long travel had wrung the blood from their bodies like water from a rag. She saw the thinness of their tight-pressed lips, the frightened shifting of their eyes, the shivering of their tasseled shawls. Their distress was plain to read. It brought back uncomfortable memories of Rhodopis’ own homesickness, when she had been a young girl newly arrived from Thrace.
At least I had my family with me then—Mother and Aella and the little boys. Father, too, when he still lived. These two have only each other, unless you count their servants.
If their dignity was feigned, the Persian brides seemed genuinely unmoved by the grandeur of the Pharaoh’s splendid halls. They followed Rhodopis in stiff silence, casting only the most cursory of glances to the left or the right as they passed towering murals three times the height of a man, depicting kings of the past in their war chariots, or striding across the land with the flail sigil in their fists, trampling tiny enemies beneath their feet. A forest of lotus pillars, tall and graceful like the trunks of Thracian pines, filtered glittering strips of mid-day light from the garden beyond the portico, but the new women hardly blinked at the beauty. The great blue-and-green archway that led into the women’s quarters left them similarly unimpressed. The elder of the two did not even look up to take in the brilliant color. She simply glided beneath the arch’s curve, fanning smoke of myrrh incense away from her face and coughing with a small, dainty sound that yet managed to fill the hall with an ostentatious ring.
Pentu had left the doors to the new wives’ apartments standing open. Sweet incense, burning on polished braziers within, drifted out into the hall. Rhodopis gestured to the first open door, and the women filed in.
The chamber was considerably larger, and far more beautifully appointed, than Rhodopis’ own. Plush rugs woven in bright patterns of red and blue nearly covered the floor, yet wherever the rugs did not reach, cheerful blue and green tiles peeped through, revealing a pattern of lotus leaves floating on a smooth pond. The furnishings were made of ebony wood, gracefully carved and well worked so that each slender curve shone with reflected light. Two broad dressing closets stood against the far wall, each so wide that half a dozen children could have hidden comfortably within. Their double doors were decorated with rows of turquoise cabochons and painted with the image of Hathor, goddess of love and beauty. The women stared in astonishment at the bed, for its mattress sloped head-to-foot, as all good Egyptian beds did. They did not seem best pleased, despite its stuffing of soft camel hair and goose feathers, and the fine, soft weave of the bright blankets and shawls spread across its surface.
Rhodopis pressed her own lips together rather firmly as she watched the women’s chamber servants inspect the room. With brisk efficiency, they took the measure of its closets, exclaimed over the small private bath that adjoined the chamber. A dreadful little thrill of envy rolled in Rhodopis’ stomach; she quelled it with an effort. These women were the daughters of kings. She may be the Pharaoh’s favorite, but she was only a hetaera, and a Greek one at that. By Pentu’s reckoning—and that of most of the harem—Rhodopis had barely risen from the puddle of back-alley piss where Amasis had found her.
Pentu told me my room was the only one left. She recalled the conversation with no small amount of bitterness. Yet no woman had departed the harem since Rhodopis’ arrival. Pentu had lied to her; there was no way around it.
But I won’t weigh on these poor ladies’ hearts by complaining. Not now.
She watched the younger bride as the woman stared about the room. Those great, dark, red-rimmed eyes were both distant and painfully confused. She seemed hopelessly lost, and past the point of surrendering dully to a miserable fate.
“This is a very fine apartment you have here,” Rhodopis said cheerfully. “It’s ever so much grander than my own. Why, the chief wife herself can hardly have better, though I admit I’ve never seen her chambers before. Look, you’ve got two windows, and doesn’t the breeze from the garden smell lovely?”
The elder sister shut the door abruptly. Its thud reverberated hollowly in the large room. With the corridor cut off from view, an unexpected sense of isolation came over Rhodopis. Her skin prickled with an anxiety she couldn’t name. She did not fear the new brides, but their stoic dignity and the quiet shuffling of their servants left her with a sinking feeling of futility.
“I’ll show you how to get out into the garden, shall I?” Rhodopis’ voice was too loud in the silence of the chamber. “It’s very pleasant at this time of day. There’s plenty of shade under the trees, and—”
The elder woman cut her off with a great, huffing sigh. “Can’t you be quiet, you tiresome thing?”
“Don’t be harsh with her, Shamiram,” said the younger—the one with the tragic eyes. “At least she is kind. It is good to see a friendly face in… in this strange place.”
A thick quiver distorted the younger woman’s voice—She’s Ninsina, then, Rhodopis thought. Both of Ninsina’s smooth, bejeweled hands flew suddenly to her mouth as she struggled to hold back a sob.
“Don’t start,” Shamiram said, not unkindly. “Not again. You know you must retain your dignity, little sister.”
With a wail of despair, Ninsina threw herself into her sister’s arms, weeping against the bright pink silk of Shamiram’s embroidered shawl. Shamiram barked a few quick words to the servants. They filed swiftly from the room; a moment later, Rhodopis heard the muffled thump of the other chamber door closing behind them.
Still crying like a baby torn from its mother’s arms, Ninsina slid weakly to the floor. She huddled beside the bed’s ebony footboard, her knees gathered to her chest, rocking and keening in her grief. Shamiram bent over her sister, speaking tightly in Persian. Rhodopis could not understand the words, but all the kindness was gone from Shamiram’s voice. She was rapidly losing patience.
Rhodopis hurried across the chamber to the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Ninsina, wrapping an arm around the woman’s shuddering body, pulling her close. Ninsina babbled in her own tongue, her mouth distorted by weeping, her face so red it was almost purple. Shamiram, crouching in front of her sister, answered her harshly. Rhodopis caught the older woman’s meaning easily enough, even if the words were foreign to her. Brace up, Shamiram seemed to say. Remember that you are a daughter of Cambyses.
&nb
sp; But Ninsina went on wailing, shaking her head and pressing her face against her knees. The bright threads of her embroidered robe were soon spotted with tears.
Shamiram raised her hand; Rhodopis saw at once that she meant to strike her sister, to slap the sense back into her. Rhodopis reached up quickly, took Shamiram gently by the wrist. “Please don’t, I beg you.”
“You dare to touch me—you, a concubine? Perhaps I ought to strike you instead!”
Ninsina looked up. “Don’t do it,” she said. “You leave her be. She is kind. That is more than we can say for Fate.”
Shamiram jerked her wrist from Rhodopis’ grasp, but she lowered her hand, giving Ninsina no harsher treatment than a disappointed glower. Ninsina leaned into Rhodopis’ embrace. Rhodopis held her, murmuring into her ear until at last the flood of tears subsided.
When Ninsina was calmer, Rhodopis pushed her gently back until she could look into her eyes. “Are you well now?”
Ninsina sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I will never be well again. How can I? We shall never see our home, our families—nevermore!”
Rhodopis leaned back against the smooth, cool wood at the bed’s foot. After a moment, Ninsina did the same, swallowing her hiccups and dabbing the tears from her cheeks with the edge of her shawl. Shamiram sighed, and scooted around on her backside until she, too, was leaning against the bed.
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 6
