It seemed an unforgivable arrogance, to assume that a common girl’s happiness mattered one whit to the gods. And yet… If they did mean for me to come to Babylon for my own sake, wouldn’t it be a terrible defiance of their will if I refused to settle in and enjoy my life?
For one glorious moment, while the flush of certainty warmed her, Rhodopis believed it could be true, must be true. But in the next heartbeat, that wild hope ebbed away. Stout sensibility—a trait it seemed she could never shed, no matter how many beautiful dreams it spoiled—prevailed.
Even if the threat of an Egyptian assassin didn’t hang constantly over her neck, Rhodopis still couldn’t allow herself to feel too much at home in the harem. Cambyses did not trust her—not yet, not entirely. She knew it was so; she could sense his emotional distance in the way turned so brusquely to his business when their lovemaking was finished. He never failed to ask Rhodopis for information about Egypt and Amasis, but he scrupulously avoided showing her the briefest peek at his own designs and mortal failings. It never seemed to matter how cleverly or obliquely she pried. Cambyses was too alert, too much the careful king, even in the sleepy moments after their bed-games had ended. The king’s closed nature pained Rhodopis, despite her resolve to remain aloof and unattached.
She turned her troubled frown upon the moon. The month had fled; Khedeb-Netjer-Bona would be expecting a dispatch soon. But thanks to the king’s reticence, Rhodopis had nothing to tell. She was almost glad—pleased she had nothing to reveal to the Pharaoh who had shuffled her off into such terrible danger without a second thought. She owed no debt of gratitude or loyalty—not to Amasis or his chief wife. They controlled her only by threat of danger.
Ah, but what a threat it was! The dark, tangled garden seemed to close around Rhodopis like the thickets of the pine forests in deepest Thrace. Any creature at all might be lurking in the shadows. Lions or leopards, their eyes cold and small, their fangs dripping blood… or men with hard, long knives.
Enough of these dark thoughts, Rhodopis scolded silently. What good do they do? These musings only make you miserable.
She turned away from the terrace ledge, ready to return to the lively warmth of the party. But some quick movement on a garden terrace some distance below caught her attention. She remained at her vantage, staring down through the dark. A man was walking through the beds of a lower garden, moving with a deliberate stride even though he carried no light. Rhodopis’ stomach churned with fear. Was this her killer, coming so soon to put an end to everything? A moment later, that particular fear passed, replaced by another—quieter and more insidious. It was Phanes who walked through garden—she knew his way of moving by now, his confidence, his Egyptian dignity. Rhodopis watched as he bent over a bed of herbs, plucked a few stems from a plant, and slipped what he’d gathered into a basket. Was the physician gathering herbs for his cures? Or was it a poison he intended to brew? If the latter, Rhodopis had no illusions about who its recipient would be.
She may rightly fear the Pharaoh’s assassins, but Phanes posed the most pressing threat to Rhodopis’ position and security—maybe even to her life. Unless she could find some way to ingratiate herself with Cambyses—to truly make him trust her, to believe that she was ready to count herself Haxamani first and Egyptian second—Phanes would continue to darken Rhodopis’ every thought and haunt her very dreams. How much longer would the loyal physician allow her to dally with the king before he exposed her as an impostor?
I must find some way to beat Phanes to the thrust—strike before he can.
But how? It seemed an impossible task, to place herself—a newcomer to the palace—so highly in Cambyses’ confidence that not even the word of his most trusted advisor would turn the king’s heart. Her position was utterly futile; despair surged in her chest, choking off her breath for one terrible moment.
Impulsively, Rhodopis knelt in the flower bed. It was damp from winter dew; her knees sank into wet soil, and a chill crept beneath her shawl. The last withered flowers of the season nodded tiredly around her shoulders. She raised her hands to the sky and prayed—first to her familiar Greek gods, to Strymon and Aphrodite, to Dionysus and Apollo and even distant, mocking Zeus. Then she prayed to the gods of Egypt, merciful Hathor and Mother Isis, wise Toth and raging Sekhmet—and to Horus, the war-falcon who had sent her to Babylon on his cryptic mission.
When her list of gods ran short, Rhodopis lowered her hands, trembling and breathless. She had beseeched every deity she could name, and yet she felt instinctively that it was not enough, that somehow she had erred. One desperate sob wrenched itself from her throat before she could calm herself and quiet her thoughts. Think, damn you—think!
In that moment, the peace of certainty swept over her, soothing away her fears. Of course, Rhodopis thought with an inward laugh. You are in Babylon, not Egypt. It’s Ishtar you must appease. The matron goddess of Babylon would surely hear her plea, if no other god would could be bothered.
Rhodopis tipped her face up to the crescent moon. “Please, Mighty Ishtar, Leader of Hosts, Lady of Victory, Torch of Heaven and Earth—give me a chance to prove my loyalty to the king. Only one chance; that’s all I need. I’ll take it, if you provide it. This I swear to you, Lady.”
Later that night, long after the new baby’s feast had ended and the women had found their beds, Rhodopis remained awake at her little beside her window. She had sat still and silent for hours, gazing out at the stars in the mud-black sky. On the table before her lay a scrap of papyrus—the message intended for Amasis, written in Amtes’ careful hand. When the sun rose, the message to Egypt would be carried out of the palace by Amtes, then sent via pigeon to the oasis of Tadmor. From Tadmor, another bird would fly to Memphis with the tiny scroll tied to its foot. The note read simply, “As yet, I have no useful information to report.” But although the message contained nothing of value for Amasis or his chief wife, still it was a symbol of Rhodopis’ continued cooperation with Egypt. She couldn’t allow Amtes to send it—not yet.
First she must wait for Ishtar’s reply.
Two days passed before Rhodopis received her answer from the goddess.
She stood with the other women below the sunshades in the courtyard, cheering on the king as he drilled with some of his men. The mood was festive and light, as it ever was when Cambyses practiced with his weapons. Rhodopis did her best to ignore Phanes, who stood aloof among the men on the other side of the courtyard. She sipped iced melon juice—she was still astounded at the miracle of ice in the desert, for even in the winter the days were far too warm to countenance it—and nibbled on sweet cakes, and laughed with the harem women as the men grunted and whirled and sweated in the sun, swinging their swords at one another with boyish enthusiasm. A shared contentment flowed around the courtyard in a happy current. All was well, everything in its ordered place—all was maat, as an Egyptian would have said. Yet despite the sense of shared happiness, Rhodopis could not rid herself of the tension of waiting.
She concentrated determinedly on the king and his military drills. Cambyses believed in keeping fit, both physically and mentally—honed for battle, even if it was unlikely that he would ever personally take to the field again. But, as he had told Rhodopis one night when she lay in his arms, pleasantly tired by their lovemaking, he didn’t believe in asking his soldiers to do anything he himself was unable or unwilling to do. And so, the king drilled as often as duty permitted, parrying and thrusting in the glaring sun, swinging his blunted practice-sword against one opponent or half a dozen at once. He always fought as if his life depended on it, as if the heat and urgency of battles long past returned to him in a surging blood-rush. Now and then, Cambyses used a live sword, and practiced defense with this bronze-studded shield. Those days sent a lump of fear into Rhodopis’ throat, for sometimes Cambyses would lift his shield a heartbeat too late, and the tip of a sword would graze his arm or slice a piece from his thigh. The cuts were never severe—the men he fought did not dare attack their king in deadly
earnest—but the sight of blood chilled and sickened her.
Today, Rhodopis was grateful that the swords were blunted. Strung up as she was by lingering fear—by the weight of that small scrap of papyrus in her chamber, still unsent—she did not think she could tolerate a single drop of blood falling to the courtyard’s stones. It would have set her to screaming like a mad woman, all her terrors boiling over at once. She sipped her melon juice steadily, and watched the men parry and spin. She joined in now and then as the women cheered, and once she laughed, when Cambyses knocked the blade from one of his cursing opponents’ hands and sent it skittering across the practice yard. But the pleasant, orderly sense of maat that hung like a gentle haze around the other women never truly touched Rhodopis.
Cambyses’ opponent chased after his lost sword, retrieved it, and came swinging at the king with a roar. Cambyses side-stepped him easily, and the women broke into laughter again.
But their merriment cut off abruptly when the guards at the portico, standing watch over Cambyses’ practice, leaped suddenly into action. They drew real blades; the sun glinted off the well-honed bronze with a fiery flash. For a moment, Rhodopis thought they intended to attack the king, taking advantage of his moment of vulnerability, armed as he was with an edgeless practice-sword. The cup fell from her hand, shattering on the stones, but Rhodopis hardly noticed. She could think of no reason why Cambyses’ men should hate him—but she was not the only woman who feared for the king’s life. Several of his concubines screamed; someone began to pray loudly, shrieking out a panicked invocation to Ishtar, begging the goddess to defend the king. Another woman clutched Rhodopis’ arm in desperate dread, but she did not look around to see who it was. Her attention was fixed on the Cambyses, and on guards beneath the bull-crowned pillars.
The guards surged back under the portico—away from the king. They were not attacking Cambyses after all; they had turning on someone hidden in the shadows, some threat undetected till now. “Be calm,” Rhodopis called to the other women, “The king is safe!” But the women did not seem to hear her. Their shouts went on, as did the loud prayer to Ishtar.
A moment later, two of Cambyses’ guards dragged the man out into the light of the sun… and Rhodopis’ momentary relief withered again into cold fear.
The man was Egyptian. There was no mistaking him—the shaven face, the bare chest covered with the most rudimentary of shawls, the white kilt hanging to his knees. He jerked against the guards’ restraints, baring his teeth at them, cursing in anger.
Cambyses raised his hand in wordless command. The guards released the Egyptian. The man straightened his clothing with an air of grievously injured dignity.
“Ambassador Turo,” Cambyses said. A bright streak of amusement colored his voice. “What brings you here, to interrupt my practice?”
“Apparently I must interrupt your practice, to gain any sort of audience with you. It seems I must be handled like a rabid dog by your guards, as well. You have refused to see me at any audience. This morning—and the day before, and for three days before that—all my requests to speak with you have been most egregiously ignored. My king.” Turo spoke the Haxamani tongue well, but he added the title belatedly, with a distasteful twist of his mouth.
Cambyses grinned broadly. “I am a busy man, Ambassador.”
Turo eyed the blunt sword in Cambyses’ hand, the sweat running down his chest. “I can see as much for myself. But if I must speak to you here, among these scrapping men, and with all your women looking on… then so be it.”
“My women always look on,” Cambyses said coolly. “One never knows when a woman’s sharp eye, or her particular sort of wisdom, might prove valuable.”
A murmur of appreciation moved among the assembled women, now that they had regained their composure. Rhodopis held very still, heart pounding, blood as cold as the ice spilled at her feet.
“What is it you want, Ambassador? Be quick; I’ve many things to see to.”
“My Pharaoh has sent me to insist that you withdraw your troops from Edom.”
Rhodopis’ mind worked furiously. Edom lay between Egypt and the southern edge of Cambyses’ empire. It was the last frontier, the final boundary he would break before he invaded Egypt—if he invaded Egypt. The loss of Edom as a stronghold must be one of Amasis’ greatest fears.
Cambyses chuckled. “Edom is contested; you know that. So does your Pharaoh. He has no rightful claim on that place.”
“Neither do you, my king. And as Haxamanishiya and Egypt are at peace, surely you have no need to maintain troops in the region. Withdraw them, and the Pharaoh will forgive your insult.”
“Oh?” Cambyses lifted his blunt blade; he inspected its length casually, tested its weight in his hand. “Are these two kingdoms at peace, Turo? Are they truly?”
“You know we are at peace. Egypt and Persia have sealed their alliance with marriages: your two daughters in exchange for the Pharaoh’s.”
Rhodopis risked a glance across the courtyard. Phanes locked eyes with her, catching her like a fowl in a hunter’s snare—the guilty flush of her cheeks, her timid posture. Rhodopis flinched.
Cambyses lifted a hand, summoning more of the guards who lingered in the shadows of the portico. “Come, men—see Ambassador Turo back to his quarters. We will speak of this matter more in the audience hall tomorrow.”
“The audience hall?” Turo cried. “Do you take me for a fool? You’ll put me off again, as you have for days running! Egypt will not be denied, King Cambyses. We have tolerated insults from your nation for many years, but no longer! If you do not heed my request, and do what is necessary and right—if you do not maintain a true and faithful alliance with the Pharaoh—then Amasis will send your two daughters back to your household in shame, and I will take Amasis’ daughter Nitetis back with me to Memphis. The Pharaoh has authorized me to do it.”
Cambyses halted his guards as easily as he’d summoned them. The king went very still. He stared at the ambassador, astounded by the threat, silent and tense in his fury. Cambyses opened his mouth, no doubt to pronounce some terrible judgment on the ambassador—perhaps even to declare outright war on Egypt. Rhodopis stepped forward quickly, before the king could speak. As she moved, breaking away from the other women, a quiet certainty filled her. This was the chance Ishtar had provided—this was the goddess’s answer to a desperate but heartfelt prayer. Rhodopis must take the chance, must act decisively now. Ishtar had provided a way forward—a path to victory, for She was the Lady of Victory.
Rhodopis went where the goddess led her. She walked calmly across the courtyard to stand before the ambassador—and the startled king. When she spoke, she did so almost without thought, allowing the inspiration of the moment to carry her, praying feebly in the farthest corner of her mind that Ishtar would be merciful, and protect her.
“I am Nitetis, the daughter of Pharaoh Amasis,” Rhodopis said loudly, so every man and woman in courtyard and corridor would hear. “And I will not return to Egypt. I am Haxamani now; this is my home, and this is my husband, the king you insult with your shouts and your vile threats. My father Amasis is a weak, ineffectual king. I do not belong to Egypt, nor Egypt to me. I renounce Egypt, for Haxamanishiya is stronger and better. The glory of Ishtar and Babylon will prevail.” She added lightly, “You may tell the Pharaoh I said this; it is all one to me what he thinks.”
With that, Rhodopis turned her back pointedly on the Egyptian ambassador.
Silence hung thick over the courtyard. Rhodopis stared past the women and their sunshades, refusing to look at their faces—for she was certain she would break into hysterical, panicked laughter if she caught a single friendly gaze. She trembled, and her heart thundered so loudly in her ears she thought it would deafen her for good. Then the tension broke; Cambyses’ roaring laugh of approval rose up above the sudden exclamations from the women and the king’s guards. But all Rhodopis cared for was Cambyses’ joyous laughter.
“This is my true wife,” the king said. “
You heard her words, Turo. Take her message back to Amasis, if you dare, and let the Pharaoh make of it whatever he will.”
Rhodopis, her back still turned to the Egyptian, stood straight and proud in the Babylonian sun. Her trembling ceased. Once word reached Amasis and Khedeb-Netjer-Bona, they would curse her name. Perhaps they would truly send the assassin Rhodopis had so feared. But Ishtar filled her with peace; she knew she had acted well, knew she had pleased the goddess.
Better still, Rhodopis knew she had won. Cambyses would trust her now—how could he not, after such a display of loyalty? She had built her own fortress against any accusation Phanes might think to make. For as long as she remained alive—as long as she could avoid an Egyptian killer—Babylon could be her home indeed. The gods in all their strange, unfathomable mystery had brought her here, at last, to a place where she could be welcome and free. Here she was determined to remain.
12
Phanes’ Lamp
Cambyses dismissed his cadre from the courtyard as soon as Turo was led away, grumbling. “I’m off to my chambers,” the king said, “to make ready for my supper.” But it was far too early in the afternoon for such preparations. Rhodopis wondered whether his confrontation with the Egyptian ambassador had left Cambyses more shaken than he dared to let on. Or perhaps, she mused as she hurried back to her own quarters in the women’s palace, he had business at that great, dark writing table, the indoor battlefield that dominated his royal apartment. Was Amasis soon to receive an answer to Turo’s threats? Of a certainty, Cambyses’ reaction would not include a withdrawal of his forces from Edom.
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 17
