Rhodopis nodded. Now it was her turn to stare into the distance, remembering, sorting through the misty visions of memory and experience. It was true that noble Egyptian women always sat with their men at the Pharaoh’s feasts; there was no gynaeceum where they dined apart. Hadn’t she seen it a dozen times from the dais beside Amasis’ throne, where she had perched on display with the other women of his household? That dining together, the mingling of male and female, was a remnant old traditions. Why had she never questioned the practice before? The significance had never struck her before—the knowledge that Egyptians, when alone with their own people, behaved so differently from the Greeks?
She nodded for Phanes to continue, but she listened more thoughtfully to his words.
“Terrible poverty afflicts so many people now. Of course, there was always poverty before—it seems to be the way the gods have ordered the world. But only in years when the river’s floods failed have the Kmetu known such extremes of hardship. In the days before Amasis, before the tide of Greeks came rushing in, any child born to the poorest farmer could hope to achieve a better life through hard work and clever exploitation of opportunity. But now, a chasm separates the elite and the poor. How can anyone hope to cross such a divide? Amasis’ fondness for Greeks—and the manipulations of greedy merchants—has torn Egypt apart. The desires of the few—their hunger for riches, their grasping for power—has thrust far more people into poverty than ever before suffered under that lash.”
“Yet Egypt is still one of the three great powers,” Rhodopis said. “The nation holds together, despite the changes you say have come. Are those changes truly such a disaster, then?”
“Egypt holds together,” Phanes agreed, “but for how much longer? How many more years can this sad state endure? The nation is like a brewer’s pot, too tightly sealed. The pressure from that simmering brew builds day by day. What will happen if no one ever breaches the lid of that brew-pot, my lady, and relieves the pressure? Have you ever seen the ruination in a brewer’s shop when some careless apprentice seals the pots too tightly?”
“No.”
“It’s not a sight one forgets soon. The pot breaks—but explosively, like a great knotted piece of wood splitting suddenly in a fire. Shards of pottery fly everywhere, strewn across the room, out into the street—and beer drips and runs down every surface.”
Rhodopis smiled tentatively at the image.
“Now imagine,” Phanes said grimly, “that it’s not beer dripping from every surface. Imagine it is blood. The present state of affairs is a monstrous danger for everyone in Egypt: men and women, little children—nobles and slaves, the Pharaoh and the simplest farmer toiling in the fields. All are in danger—and any of them, or all of them, stand to lose their lives.”
Chilled by Phanes’ description, Rhodopis said rather coldly, “Then why doesn’t Cambyses make his move? Why doesn’t he conquer Egypt, if it is ripe for the plucking, and stop the pot from bursting?”
“You don’t sound the least bit worried by that possibility—that Egypt could be conquered.”
“Should I be so concerned? You heard my words today: I am Haxamani now. I know your wife and sons still live on in Egypt—or so I pray. But Egypt holds nothing for me.” Nothing except Aesop. Does he see this danger, too? Can he leave before it’s too late?
Phanes seemed to accept her excuse without qualms. “Cambyses cannot simply pluck Egypt like a pomegranate from a bush. It’s a vast nation, with many people in it—many soldiers. Even with Amasis lazing on his throne, worshiping his Greek friends and their Greek gods, it would be too dangerous a maneuver for Cambyses. Egypt is broken into factions, but they would unite at once to stand against an outside threat. Before Cambyses can succeed, something must change within Egypt. Events must fall into place, just so, if our king is to expect a victory—and even then, war is always an uncertain venture. Haxamanishiya did not become a great empire through the reckless actions of hasty or foolish kings. Cambyses learned from his father—his forefathers, too. He is patient, but also watchful. He will act when he sees his best chance, and not a moment before.”
“What is his best chance?” Rhodopis asked slowly. “What must change before Cambyses can reach for Egypt?”
The idea of a true and traditional Kmet—an Egypt where women stood equal to men once more—shone before her mind with fierce radiance. If what Phanes said was true, perhaps the old Egypt could live again. With Egypt restored to its former ways, thriving under a more sensible king, the nation’s influence might spread beyond its borders. Perhaps even Greece could be altered by a restoration of Egypt. Why not, if Egypt had been altered by Greece? Why should the weight not swing in the other direction?
Rhodopis shut her eyes for a moment, overcome by the intensity of her imagination. She saw before her mind’s eye a Greece as liberated as the Egypt of past generations. Women owning property, never fearing destitution if their husbands or fathers died. Women free to dine with men, to talk with them of the world’s affairs, whether they were hetaerae or no. She saw women walking about the streets of a shining city, unaccompanied by anyone but their sisters and friends—and girls seated in rows with scribes’ tablets on their laps, learning to read and write alongside boys. Women leaving the husbands who beat them. Women who might find justice from sensible king if they were cheated, wronged… raped. The thought—the mere possibility—stole her breath away. Could it truly be possible? She had gone into slavery to save the lives of her siblings—the twin boys, and little Aella. What more could she do for Aella, and for countless girls like her?
“Amasis has ingratiated himself with so many powerful Greeks,” Phanes said. Rhodopis opened her eyes, looked at him again. The passionate intensity had return to the physician’s his face. His calm yet eager voice wrapped around her mind, drawing her to him, compelling. “If Cambyses were to attack now, the Pharaoh would simply turn to Greece for aid. Greece and Egypt together would be powerful enough to crush Haxamanishiya. But if Greek powers pay little heed to Egypt or Amasis, they are no threat to Cambyses. The moment our king attacks Egypt in earnest—”
“Greece will come down around Cambyses’ ears,” Rhodopis said.
Phanes leaned from the edge of his chair. “Precisely. So, then—when Cambyses sees his chance, his attack must be swift and sure, all but guaranteed to succeed, before any Greek ally has a chance to retaliate. The stage must be properly set, you see. Everything must be aligned, just so. And Amasis must not be able to alert his Greek friends too soon.”
Memories of Thrace—and of her family—flooded into Rhodopis’ heart with a painful rush. Was it simply all this talk of Greece that had done it, she wondered—or recalling her little sister? Aella would be ten years old now, or near enough. Rhodopis remembered dry, sunny days below the pines, when she and Aella had run up the slope, racing to see who could reach the patch of wild berries fastest. She had always let her sister win, holding back, watching golden-haired Aella pull away from her, flying free as a soft little sparrow in the sun. What I wouldn’t give up, to go back to Thrace—to those early times, those simple times. And what I wouldn’t give to see my family again.
Rhodopis’ melancholy must have shown on her face. Phanes maintained his silence. When Rhodopis focused on the physician again, his mouth was unmoving, tightly pressed. His eyes were deep with sympathy.
After a moment, Phanes said, “I don’t know who you truly are, my lady, or what your real story may be. Perhaps you will never tell me. But I know you are not Egyptian. I can only guess how you came to be in the Pharaoh’s harem, a place usually reserved for noble Egyptian ladies or ambassador-brides, like Shamiram and Ninsina. But it is clear to me that you are neither a noblewoman nor a Kmetu. Therefore, I can only speculate.” He drew a deep breath, as if reluctant to expose her history without her permission. Yet he persisted, and his words stung Rhodopis relentlessly. “Your family traveled from Greece to Egypt, looking for work, but found none. They perished there, starving in the streets, and
to save yourself—”
“They didn’t starve,” Rhodopis said abruptly. Her voice was edged with fire, the heat of fierce pride and an even stronger pain.
Phanes paused. His sympathetic silence invited her to say more.
“I didn’t let them starve.” All her pretense at refinement fell away; she surrendered to her true nature, grateful to set down the burden of her disguise. “I’m proud of that, and reckon I’ve got good cause to be proud.” As the unmistakable Thracian twang emerged in her voice, Phanes’ eyes widened. He leaned toward her again, eager for more of the tale.
“We came from Thrace when I was only ten years old. My father was a laborer—but he wanted his own farm back in Thrace. There was no silver to buy the land, though, and nothing to trade for it. One day, he heard from a few sailors that there was always work down in Egypt, building for the Pharaoh, and they took all comers who were reasonably young and sound. So off we went to seek our family’s fortune.
“My father was not a foolish man, nor was he impulsive. I believe if we’d come to Egypt a year or two sooner, we would have found all the silver we needed in short order and gone home rich—as rich as Thracian farmers ever can be. But by the time we arrived, there was little work to be found. So many people had come to Egypt, you see, looking for work, and then there were all the Kmetu who wanted work just as badly. We were hard pressed to make our way, let alone to earn the fare to get back to Thrace again.
“Somehow we managed to keep our spirits up, even though times got worse and worse. We always told ourselves that it was only a matter of months before we had all we needed—weeks, maybe—and then we’d see Thrace again. We lived two years that way, scrimping and scraping just to stay fed. Then things went from bad to worse. My father was killed by thieves—though even a blind man could see he had nothing worth stealing. But that’s the way it is in Egypt, isn’t it? Men lashing out at men for no reason at all—‘There’s a knife in my hand and anger in my heart, so you’ve got to die.’ Simple as that.”
“Yes,” Phanes said quietly. “It seems all of Egypt had gone that way. I am sorry to hear of your father’s death.”
Silently, Rhodopis collecting her thoughts. She recalled her father, how full of hope he’d been when they had arrived on Tanis—and her mother, pretty despite her age and the effects of her difficult life. She hoped her mother had found her way back to Thrace, hoped the two thousand hedj of Rhodopis’ sale—of Doricha’s sale—had been enough to keep her family in comfort. If the gods had any shred of mercy left, Mother had made home, with Aella and the boys each in one whole and healthy piece.
“Somehow,” Rhodopis resumed, “we managed to get by for another year without Father. I’ll never know how we did it, though. My poor mother… She was at her wits’ end. When she was as desperate as ever a mother can be, she thought to sell me to a man who trades in flesh—only she couldn’t go through with it after all. She brought him to our house—what passed for a house, the dirty little flea-infested hut where we lived. But she tried to turn him away at the last minute, all crying and broken as she was; she said she couldn’t sell me after all, and the trader must go away without me because she’d changed her mind.
“But I wasn’t about to stay, and see my sister and my two little brothers starve—yes, I’ve two brothers, twins like your sons.”
Phanes smiled sadly.
“I told the trader I would sell myself to him, long as he promised to give my family a good price. And he did; he was good as his word. He always was that good, long as he stayed away from the wine. Iadmon was the trader’s name. I went away with him—to Memphis—and never saw my family again. I’m sure the gods never mean me to see them, either. I can only pray my mother got Iadmon’s money, and made it safely home to Thrace.
“Iadmon told me I wasn’t to be a common whore. He had bigger plans for me: I was to become a hetaera, and make a fortune for him and for myself. Soon as I learned just what a hetaera was, I was ready to learn, and do my best. Not for the money’s sake—though a hetaera can buy her way free, you know. I wanted to be a hetaera for the freedom, for the way I could move about at will, as other women can’t do. With that goal before me, I found the strength to press on. I did my best to forget about my family; I threw myself into my lessons. I was determined to become the best hetaera in all of Egypt. I had nothing else to live for, you see—nothing to hope for, except my goal.”
“How old were you?” Phanes said.
“Twelve years, going on thirteen.”
Phanes breathed a soft, rather pained sigh. “So young, for such difficult work.”
Rhodopis’ spirits rose. “But it wasn’t difficult work—not while I was in Iadmon’s house. He was a good, kind master, and he saw to it that I learned—oh, everything there was to learn. I liked that part… the learning. And the dancing… I liked that, too. After a year, I was settled right in, and happy as a slave can ever be.
“But Iadmon, my master… he had his own share of troubles. What man doesn’t, I suppose?”
Phanes made a gesture of mute agreement, a sympathetically helpless toss of his hands.
“Iadmon had a rival, you see—Xanthes. I could tell Xanthes wanted nothing more than to bring Iadmon low, to see him humiliated and scorned. He set his sights on me, for he saw that I was Iadmon’s treasure, and the hope for his future riches. One night at a party, Xanthes got Iadmon so drunk, all his common sense fled. He tricked my master into gambling me away, as if I was nothing more than a fine necklace or a race-horse. I traded hands in the blink of an eye… and that’s when my life became truly difficult.
“Xanthes’ household was nothing like Iadmon’s had been. The other hetaerae were vicious creatures—though I suppose it’s none of their fault. We were each trying to survive, weren’t we? And each of us set up to be rival to the others, all of us competing for the same rich men, the same money, the same narrow route to freedom.
“I started working in earnest while Xanthes owned me. But I had my share of admirers, and soon enough I was setting by a good, tidy treasure, so I didn’t mind the hardships so much. I felt sure I would be free of Xanthes and his vicious girls soon enough—another year at most, before I could buy my freedom. But I… I was cheated by a friend. Or someone I’d thought was a friend. She stole all my worldly goods, except the shoes on my feet—beautiful rose-gold slippers, a gift from my patron. I was left with nothing; I was forced to start all over again.
“I was so angry that I threw one of those useless slippers into the river, and would have thrown the other, too, but a falcon flew down and caught up the one I’d tossed away. I learned later that night that the bird was one of Amasis’ own, and it had flown back to the palace with my slipper in its claws, and dropped the slipper in the Pharaoh’s lap. He took it for an omen, of course, and decided the god Horus had sent him a personal sign. Amasis went out searching for the other slipper—and the woman who owned it. I proved it was mine, for I had retained enough sense to keep the other slipper instead of flinging it into the river. Amasis claimed me for his harem, right there on the spot. I think he was all the more pleased because I’m Greek, but I can tell you, nobody else was glad to see a Greek hetaera in the Pharaoh’s household. The harem wasn’t an easy place for me to live. I was almost relieved to go, when Amasis sent me away in place of his daughter.”
Rhodopis fell silent. She took another draft of wine, long and deep. Her throat had gone quite dry.
“A harrowing story,” Phanes said. “You have seen so much, for a woman so young. And you say you were a hetaera; not any woman may attain a position so high. That is to say—” he shifted uncomfortably. “A hetaera stands very high for a Greek woman.”
“But not for an Egyptian.” She raised one brow, unsure herself whether she gently mocked Phanes—or whether she was in perfect earnest. “Do you fancy yourself better than me, because you’re Egyptian—because your people treat their women better than mine do?”
“No,” Phanes said at once. “Plea
se don’t be offended, and don’t misunderstand. I want to know more about hetaerae, you see. They were only beginning to emerge in Egypt by the time I was exiled. What is a hetaera’s life like? I know almost nothing about them.”
Rhodopis shrugged. It was the life the gods had given her; she knew no other, and she hadn’t the least idea how to explain the world of the hetaerae to a man of Phanes’ sort. “It was… a life of hard work and danger. I did get to know ever so many rich and powerful men… well, Greek men. The Egyptians didn’t often go in for hetaerae.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t. It’s a foreign concept to Kmet, but after a time, I suppose it would have caught on among Kmetu men.”
“If they were wealthy enough,” Rhodopis agreed. “That was the main thing: only the best and highest Greek men could afford the companionship of a hetaera. I do admit, there was something gratifying in the work—something nice in knowing such powerful men fancied you, and were willing to spend so much money just for the privilege of talking to you.”
“Talking?” Phanes smiled wryly.
“You may laugh, but it’s true. Any hetaera worth the least speck of silver had to be good at conversation. We weren’t simple pornae, up against the wall in some stinking back alley. We were refined, you see—worthy. We had to be. No other Greek women are permitted to eat alongside men, hear their talk of great, worldly affairs, and take part in the talking themselves. We had to know as much as we could learn about the world, and the trades of the men we served, and kings and powers… all the things, anything wealthy, powerful men might discuss together.”
“And you said it was dangerous work.”
“Yes, but the danger came from the other girls—competition—not from the men. The men were more apt to fall in love with us.” She laughed, thinking of the mooning Charaxus. “Though, I suppose that was a special threat all its own. The rest of the work—the dancing and the feasts and lying with men—it wasn’t much of a patch by comparison to keeping the other girls from beating you, or cutting you up, or stealing your goods. I look back on those days now, and all I can really remember is the struggle to survive, to come out on top among Xanthes’ hetaerae.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 19
