Drakon leaped to his feet. “Here, now!” But before he could move toward Archidike, she jerked herself free from the men’s hands, whirled, and stormed through the open door into the twilight garden.
“I must apologize,” Drakon said to Rhodopis. He was trembling faintly as he resumed his place beside her. “Archidike… no one can predict her, as Nikias said.”
Rhodopis waved a hand, brushing away her companion’s concern. But inside, she was thrumming with pleasure, relishing the feeling of having sunk a few well-deserved barbs into Archidike’s back. “Think nothing of it, my friend. The dear thing will cool her temper, and gods willing, she’ll be granted the help she needs. Let’s not allow her outburst to ruin our good time.”
She reclined on the couch once more, with Drakon’s arm around her. But all the night through, as she laughed and jested with her client and his friends, Rhodopis kept one eye on the garden door, poised for the possibility that Archidike might return… and bring the whole construction of Rhodopis’ disguise crashing down around her ears.
16
Another Startling Reunion
The gods and Archidike were merciful. The mercurial hetaera never emerged from the garden—at least, not that Rhodopis saw—being, perhaps, too humiliated by Rhodopis’ attack to feel comfortable in the andron for the remainder of the night. Now and then, as Rhodopis conversed with Drakon and his friends, she felt the odd, stray twinge of guilt. It had been very harsh, to suggest something as ruinous as an illness plagued Archidike. But every time that pang of regret stirred in Rhodopis’ heart, she smothered the spark of remorse before it could kindle itself to a flame. Archidike deserved what she had received. She had played Rhodopis false, and would have destroyed her career just as surely, if the falcon and the Pharaoh had never intervened. Amtes would declare the whole business maat: Rhodopis had restored the balance of her own small, private cosmos by putting Archidike firmly in her place.
Rhodopis had been grimly relieved when Drakon whispered a suggestion that they might leave the party and retire to his own grounds. She wouldn’t have stayed to face Archidike’s growing wrath for all the gold in Babylon. Alone with Drakon in his beautiful, elegant home, Rhodopis found that all the tricks of her former trade returned with natural ease. She earned not only her payment—the first money she had ever received that was hers alone, with no part owed to any master or keeper of the Stable—but ample and generous compliments from her client.
“I can see why your reputation preceded you,” Drakon had said as he walked her through the starlight to her waiting litter. “I understand why all of Memphis resounds with your name. You are the most delightful companion I have ever passed the time with, Lady Eulalia.”
Drakon’s generosity extended beyond the edge of his bed. He was effulgent with his praise, spreading word among his well-placed friends that the new hetaera from Lesvos was every bit as desirable as rumor made her out to be. Six weeks after her first engagement with Drakon, she had made several new friends among the Greek elite, and had worked hard to make each as happy as she’d made Drakon. Better still, she had seen nothing of Archidike since Praxiteles’ party. Freedom from that threat, coupled with her success as a hetaera, left a pleasant glow hanging about Rhodopis each night as she climbed, exhausted but satisfied, into her own silken bed.
“But I’ve no doubt Archidike is still roaming the streets of Memphis,” Rhodopis said one morning to Amtes, “busily spreading the word that I am back, and pretending to be someone I am not.”
They sat together in the garden, where they could speak without fear of being overheard. A pile of tablets and scrolls was heaped on the table between them—requests for Eulalia’s company, sent by some of the finest men in the city. Amtes gave a disparaging grunt as she pored over the contents of the letters.
Rhodopis stirred her breakfast of figs in rose water. “I don’t suppose her rumors matter much now, though. Very few hetaerae took any notice of me before; neither did many men. No one else is likely to recognize me. My disguise didn’t hold up to Archidike, but Drakon gave no sign of knowing me.”
“I hope you’re right,” Amtes said.
“I suppose I did the right thing at that first party, turning the tide on Archidike. She came out looking like a perfect fool—”
“While the reputation of the great Eulalia of Lesvos grows by the day.” Amtes dropped the last scroll on the stack of requests with a pleased air. “I can’t keep up with all these letters. It’s as if you’ve worked a spell on the men of this city. All of them insist: they must have your company!”
“It’s only because I’m still so new.” A wash of glumness darkened Rhodopis’ mood. “There truly is nothing special about my performances in bed—I know it’s true. And I’m good-looking enough, but I’m hardly any sort of great beauty. Once the shimmer of novelty has dulled away, or when a more exotic and fascinating hetaera comes along, I’ll lose all my advantage. It worries me terribly, Amtes.”
“Why should it worry you?”
Rhodopis sighed. She dropped her spoon into the bowl of figs with a graceless clatter. “Six weeks, and I still haven’t found the right allies—the right connections to crumple Amasis’ ties with the Greeks. You’ve been sending your notes to Phanes regularly, I know, but not a single word we’ve sent has been encouraging.”
Rhodopis had tried to soften the blow of her bad news by promising Phanes and the king that she was still working diligently toward their secret end—and that she felt sure of a breakthrough soon. But the truth was, she felt no such certainty. The same fear that had haunted her in Babylon had begun to gnaw at her in Memphis. How long could she fail at her task before the king she served grew anxious, and put her out of the way? Rhodopis had no illusions that Cambyses felt any special attachment to her, no matter how much he had enjoyed her in his bed. Her confession of betrayal had unpicked every last stitch of that goodwill. She must deliver a powerful Greek ally to Cambyses—soon—or she couldn’t hope to remain alive much longer.
Oh, why did I ever agree to this? I should have sent Phanes packing. I could be enjoying a quiet, peaceful life in Babylon now. I could still be a wife of the king!
“There is nothing for it but to keep trying,” Amtes said sensibly.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Rhodopis picked up her spoon again and ate steadily, determined to face whatever lay ahead with dignity and grace.
“Well, Mistress,” Amtes said, turning back to her stack of letters with business-like efficiency, “you must decide which of these men you will see tonight.”
“Whichever is the best connected,” Rhodopis said at once.
“They are all well connected. This is Memphis, after all.”
“I’ve attended ever so many grand parties with crowds of guests,” Rhodopis mused. “And I’ve got nothing to show for it. Perhaps this time I ought to take a different path. A small, intimate affair, I think, with a handful of distinguished guests. Or even something entirely private, if we have such a request. Perhaps a different setting—a different mood—will give me the chance I need to bring a man over to the cause.”
“Leave it to me,” Amtes said. “I’ll find just the right client for you. Meanwhile, you must go and bathe, and call one of your servants in; I’m going to send her off to fetch a physician who’s skilled with massage. Look at yourself—your shoulders look stiff as stone. You must relax, if you’re to make it through the next few weeks with your wits intact.”
“Just as you say,” Rhodopis agreed. She stood and went into her house to prepare for the evening ahead, resolute as a soldier marching off to war.
That evening, Amtes sent Rhodopis off to a small but elegant affair, a gathering of a dozen men of the glass merchants’ guild. They were all older fellows, most of them gray-haired with lines around their eyes. As such, they were not given to wild times; Rhodopis felt sure that whatever else the gods may have in store for her tonight, she was unlikely to encounter Archidike at such a dull and dignifie
d party.
The host, Chares, was a pleasant, grandfatherly man with rather stooped shoulders and an endearing creak in his voice. Nevertheless, despite his age, he welcomed Rhodopis with a warmth and charm that made her feel pleasantly secure. As he led her toward the andron, he slipped a small purse, heavy with silver, into her hand.
“I am still somewhat new to Memphis,” she said, surprised. “Is it the custom here to pay a hetaera before she entertains?”
“No, Lady Eulalia, it is not. But if you should choose not to slip off with any of my guests,” Chares said with a quick wink, “I still want you to be well compensated. I have asked you here for your company, first and foremost… and for your beauty, of course, which so enhances my humble home. You have no obligation to do anything else, unless you fancy it. But I won’t see you go without pay, whatever may come.”
“I thank you,” Rhodopis said graciously. “It is a most kind and thoughtful gesture.”
She was, as Chares had said, a general ornament of his party—one of only four hetaerae present. As she was not assigned to entertain any particular man, Rhodopis enjoyed considerable freedom to move about Chares’ small but pleasant andron and his larger, more opulent garden. Amtes had chosen well: at such an event, Rhodopis would find ample opportunity to make new acquaintances. Surely one among them would lead to a useful connection between Egypt and Greece.
Chares’ guests were all as pleasant as their host. They strewed Rhodopis’ path with flattery; they took great pains to offer her sweets and savories, fine wine and pleasant conversation. After a time, someone called, “Let’s have one of these beautiful women dance, shall we?” and Rhodopis’ heart constricted with painful longing. How she would have loved to dance for an audience again—especially one so refined. But she and Amtes had already agreed that dancing would be too great a risk. Black hair and the very finest clothes might fool Memphis, but a reckless display of a truly unique feature would undo everything in the blink of an eye.
“Do you dance, Eulalia?” one of the guests asked.
She lowered her eyes. “I am afraid not, Good Man. The gods did not bless me with grace—nor with a sense of rhythm.” She turned to another of the hetaerae, tall and buxom with nut-brown hair. “But I have heard that Aspasia here dances beautifully.”
Aspasia, too, attempted to demur. “I’m not sort of dancer at all. Perhaps one of the other hetaerae—”
“Come, now,” Chares said. “I’ve seen you dance a dozen times, Aspasia. No one can compare!”
“Yes,” said one of the other men. “I watched Aspasia dance at Iason’s party two weeks ago. I’m sure we would all enjoy a repeat performance.”
Cajoled, Aspasia took up a pose in the center of the andron and waited for the music to start. The moment the harp chords swelled, a curious sensation thundered through Rhodopis’ body, envy and appreciation twined in a single, white-hot bolt. A flavor both bitter and sweet rose in her throat. She seized a fresh cup of wine from a passing servant’s tray and drank deeply, trying to wash the cloying taste from her tongue.
Aspasia’s dance was good, and her enjoyment of both music and movement seemed honest enough. But Rhodopis identified a thousand things she would do differently—better—if only she were dancing instead. As the music swelled to its climax and Aspasia spun gracefully back to her starting position, Rhodopis was obliged to press the heel of one foot hard against the toes of the other, forcing herself to remain still. What a torment it was, to sit idly watching, pretending she was enjoying the entertainment without betraying the least flush of envy.
When Aspasia posed to accept her praises, Rhodopis excused herself from Chares’ couch and paced restlessly across the andron. She lingered at the garden door, sipping slowly from her cup, hoping her body would soon forget that terrible, compelling itch, the long-suppressed desire to commit every movement and emotion to music. She watched the bats flit over Chares’ garden, swift and darting, dipping down through the deep-blue shadows of night on a sudden spread of angular wings. Her mind wandered through a mist of hopelessly mingled thoughts, shapeless things she could not sort, while the music from Aspasia’s dance repeated relentlessly inside her head. With a sudden surge of desperation, Rhodopis recalled how she had danced alone in the desert—on nights very much like this one, violet and blue—with only Amtes’ bone flute and the groans of the camels for accompaniment.
A slow, stirring awareness breached her reverie, pulling her back from the edge of darkness. A name… someone had called a name out in greeting, and she knew it well. Rhodopis tensed. She did not turn around, but every sense strained to its natural limit, waiting for someone to speak that name again. A sudden fear chilled and soured her.
It’s not really him. I didn’t hear his name. It can’t be; the gods wouldn’t be so cruel.
But when, Rhodopis wondered bitterly, had the gods ever been good to her?
That name was shouted out one more, and there was no mistaking it now. “Charaxus! How good to see you, my young friend.”
Sickness swelled in Rhodopis’ belly. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her frantic thoughts. Her hand tightened on the wine cup, and it shook until a few drops spilled over the rim, trickling down her knuckles. Think, damn you. Think! Aesop didn’t train you to go to pieces at the slightest little fright. And you’ve faced worse than this, besides.
So Charaxus was here. Very well; he could not be avoided. Rhodopis understood at once that there would be no point in denying her true identity to him, as she had done with Archidike. Charaxus had been madly in love with her—perhaps he still was. He would certainly recognize her, and no denial would put him off. She could not evade him. She must take this wild horse firmly in hand straight away, and tame it before it could gallop beyond her reach.
While Chares’ guests were still greeting Charaxus, Rhodopis set off around the perimeter of the andron, drifting gracefully from one patch of shadow to the next. Two of Chares’ friends pulled her into one of their half-drunken jests; she laughed happily at the old fellows’ game, then moved on as quickly as she could. She tossed a winsome smile over her shoulder as if she hadn’t a care in the world—and all the while her heart rang loudly in her ears. She was terribly, unshakably aware of Charaxus—his familiar form looming in the periphery of her vision, the tenor note of his voice cutting across the murmur and music of the party with invasive force. Finally, Rhodopis slipped behind a large pillar. There, trembling, she waited until Charaxus disentangled himself from his friends, accepted a cup of wine from the pourer, and began to wander through the andron.
She listened to his voice as he made his greetings and his excuses, drawing ever nearer to Rhodopis’ hiding place. She swallowed hard, firming up her spine. Then, when he was close enough to her hiding place, she hissed softly.
Charaxus looked around, startled, but he saw nothing. Rhodopis edged out from behind the pillar, letting the light of the nearest lamp fall warmly on her face for the briefest moment. Just as she slipped behind the pillar again, Rhodopis caught the flash of recognition as it lit Charaxus’ eyes—a sudden flowering of disbelief, mingled with surging hope and joy.
Quickly, before he could utter any foolish declarations of love, Rhodopis held a finger to her lips. She nodded toward the garden door, then turned at once and left the andron, praying to all the gods that he would keep his mouth shut and follow her. It seemed the shock of seeing her again had rendered Charaxus silent with awe. He slipped out into the evening air behind her, quickly but quietly.
“Thank the gods we can be alone here,” Rhodopis said breathlessly, before Charaxus could speak. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking the cup of wine from his hand. He embraced her tightly, uttering a low, wordless moan of adoration. Rhodopis felt him bend toward her, trying to kiss her; she pushed away from his chest before his lips could find her own. “You can’t know how badly I’ve wanted to speak to you, to send you a message—oh, anything, Rax!”
“Rhodopis, my love—my life! Whatev
er happened to you? That woman who runs Xanthes’ operation—”
“Vélona.”
“Yes, that’s the one. She is so unpleasant, I must say. After she stopped answering my letters, I went to Xanthes’ estate many times and asked to see you, but all that woman would tell me was that you’d gone off to the Pharaoh’s harem. She wouldn’t utter another word on the subject. It was terribly rude treatment, after I’d been so generous as your patron.”
“It’s true,” Rhodopis said. “The Pharaoh took a fancy to me and swept me off into the harem, but I didn’t care for him at all. How could the Pharaoh’s household interest me? Oh, Rax!—all the riches in the world can’t compare with your love. I’ve missed you so. I was hoping I would find you, praying I would, once I got out. The Pharaoh let me go, you see, but only if I promised to leave Memphis forever and never come back. He swore his heart would break if he knew I was here, within reach but never to be his.”
“I can understand him,” Charaxus said huskily. “You’re a treasure no man would want to give up.”
“But I couldn’t leave Memphis—not until I found you again. So you see, I must hide in plain sight. That’s why I look so strange, with my hair dyed and all—and it’s why I must use a different name now. No one must know it’s really me, Rax. Amasis will never let me go a second time. If he knows I defied his orders and stayed here to find you, why… I fear very much that he would separate us… forever. You do take my meaning, don’t you, darling?”
Charaxus nodded slowly. “It seems the sort of thing a jealous king would do.”
“But we’re together again now. That’s all that matters! And so long as no one ever learns it’s truly me, we need not fear Amasis.”
Charaxus drew a short, sharp breath, as if his heart pained him. “It truly is you. I’d almost given up hope. I’d thought I would never see you again, and I must let the beautiful dream of our happiness die.” His voice quivered with barely restrained emotion. “But we really will be together, after all. You are in my arms…” He embraced her again; she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. “This is no dream. It’s real, isn’t it, my treasure? We are united once more. The gods have blessed us with their mercy.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 24
