“Come here, girl,” Xanthes snapped. “Bring that wine.”
Doricha looked up quickly. Xanthes was leaning eagerly from his couch, his smile wide and anticipatory. But his eyes were searching, darting. They seemed almost cautious. She did as she was told, stepping carefully around the empty couches as she crossed the andron, trying to drift like a cloud in a Thracian sky, hoping the strain of carrying the heavy pitcher didn’t show on her face or in the trembling of her arms. Xanthes held up a cup made of polished horn, its mottled sides banded with silver. Doricha poured carefully, and was pleased when she didn’t spill, but Xanthes tutted at sight of the wine that had already splashed onto her hand. He gestured to his table, and Doricha, hesitating, set the pitcher down.
Xanthes man took her hand gently and wiped away the wine with one of his linen napkins. “Aren’t you a pretty thing,” he said, looking up at her with a crooked half-smile. His gaze tied a knot of caution in her stomach. “Such delicate beauty, and yet… how would you describe her, Nikandros?”
The blond-haired man eyed Doricha for a moment, too, then said with a dismissive toss of his head, “Rustic.”
“Yes. A rustic charm peeks through the trappings of refinement. Whatever polish Iadmon hopes to put on her, this one is still a naïve little country girl, isn’t she?”
Doricha’s heart beat loudly in her ears. Xanthes still clung to her hand, though now his thumb moved slowly where the cloth had before, lightly brushing her skin. She didn’t like his touch, but she knew what duties awaited her once she became a hetaera. She schooled herself to stillness and did not pull her hand out of Xanthes’ grip, no matter how she longed to rid herself of his touch.
Xanthes nodded toward Iadmon’s couch. It was strewn with more flower petals than the rest, and had the softest and best cloths draped along its length. “Fill the master’s cup,” Xanthes said.
Doricha turned to retrieve her pitcher, but Xanthes kept her hand captured tightly in his own. Caught between the man and his command, she stared at him wide-eyed, frightened and out of her depth. She saw how his broad, heavy body had already crushed the petals on his couch, bruising their tender edges.
Xanthes tugged her back toward him, roughly, making her stagger on unsteady feet. For a moment, Doricha thought he would pull her down on the couch, and the blood roared in her ears, for she didn’t know what she would do—or could do—if Xanthes tried to overpower her. But he released her hand with a roar of laughter, amused by her discomfiture. Doricha stepped back, out of his reach, struggling to keep anger and fear from showing on her face. She was losing that battle, and quickly, too. She could feel her cheeks and forehead beginning to heat as Xanthes threw back his head, shaking his neat black curls as he laughed.
Doricha took her pitcher and filled Iadmon’s cup as quickly as she could manage.
“Be sure to fill it well,” Xanthes said.
“Full, then fuller still,” Nikandros added. “Just the way Iadmon likes it.”
“There’s nothing your master loves more than wine—unless it’s innocent little flowers like you.”
“Or a game of chance,” said Nikandros, chuckling into his own empty cup.
Doricha filled Nikandros’ cup, then retreated to her place beside the serving table, grateful to be well away from the men. She set the heavy pitcher down with a graceless clunk and stood with her back to the andron, trying to slow her heartbeat, praying that the trembling in her arms would cease. As she stood shivering, Aesop led in another group of guests—these had all arrived together, it seemed, and were already in a festival mood, clapping Xanthes and Nikandros on the shoulders, shouting out jests and offering loud, half-drunken acclaims to Iadmon and his hospitality.
Once Aesop saw the guests settled in their places, he passed a subtly questioning glance to Doricha. By then, however, her training had asserted itself, breaking through her fear. She was in control once more, poised and calm. She smiled at Aesop briefly, coolly, as if to say, There’s not a thing to worry about. The flush of mortification had left her face.
“My good men,” Aesop said to the room at large.
The guests quieted their boisterous talk, more or less, and Aesop drew aside the heavy red curtain to reveal Iadmon, standing proud and dignified in a flowing chlamys of vivid green. His hair was neatly oiled, held back from his brow with a beaded circlet reminiscent of the old Egyptian style. A wide collar of carnelian and lapis beads rested on his strong shoulders.
“Ah!” Xanthes said with a chuckle. “One would think the Pharaoh himself had come among us.”
Iadmon lifted his hands, a gesture of welcome. “My friends! The river is high and the fields have gone to sleep beneath the waters. In days of old, Egypt celebrated the flood with feasting, good drink, song, and dance. We may not be Egyptians—not exactly—but tonight, let us do the same!”
The guests cheered raucously, raising their cups in salute. Doricha seized the opportunity to dart among the couches, pouring here and there, ensuring no cup remained empty for long.
Helena emerged from behind one of the red draperies. Her arms were draped with chains of lotus flowers. The waxy blooms with their spiky petals gave off a heady aroma as she wove through the andron, draping each guest’s neck with a garland. The lotuses were symbols of Egypt—appropriate for a celebration of the flood, yet Doricha couldn’t help but wonder what Helena, a true Egyptian through and through, thought of Iadmon’s party and the rather frivolous use he made of the sacred flowers. Doricha tried to catch Helena’s eye, but the woman kept her face turned down. She had a resolute smile fixed to her face. It did not waver, no matter what any of Iadmon’s guests said to her.
One of the men sniffed ostentatiously at his lotus garland as Doricha filled his cup. “Quaint,” he said. “Why, I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time a hundred years, and were being feasted at one of the old Pharaohs’ palaces.”
“Gods preserve us,” another said from nearby. “The last thing we need is to push Egypt backward a hundred years.”
Doricha moved on, tending to their cups as if the wine vessel were her only care in the world. But she listened intently as the men joked and laughed.
“Our good King Amasis,” a man called, raising his cup in salute. “Let the native Egyptians curse his name! Let them throw his effigy to the crocodiles! The best thing he ever did for Egypt was to turn it into Greece. See how we prosper now!”
“Careful,” Xanthes said, sipping casually at his wine. “That sort of talk is all well and good among Greek merchants at a private feast, but woe to you if you say such a thing where a true Egyptian can hear you.”
Doricha burned to look at Helena, but she kept her eyes on the cup she was filling.
Nikandros said, “Woe to you? What can the Egyptians do, except mutter and give you dark looks? What will they do, beyond that? I’ll tell you what: nothing. You know how fanatical they are about their Pharaoh. Even when they despise him, they still uphold his rule.”
Iadmon broke smoothly into the conversation. “How not? They believe he is the very mouthpiece of the gods. To native Egyptians, his word is holy and his whims are to be obeyed—even, it seems, when his whims cut against the grain of everything Egypt has ever stood for.”
“Don’t be so sure the natives will never resist the will of their Pharaoh,” Xanthes said darkly. “I believe that even Egyptians have their limits, and good King Amasis might soon push them to the brink.”
“Oh?” Iadmon raised one dark brow.
“Only yesterday, near one of my warehouses, an Egyptian man was killed. He attacked a Greek—a big, strong fellow who works as a guard at another warehouse. Why this Egyptian thought it wise to throw himself upon a man of Timon’s stature is anybody’s guess, but he was shouting out his hatred for all Greeks as he did it. Pulled a knife on Timon—stabbed him a few times, too, though Timon isn’t seriously injured. It would take more than a knife to bring that fellow down.”
“How did it all end?” Nikandros asked, sudde
nly sober. “I’ve seen Timon at the warehouses many a time. I wouldn’t fancy tangling with him. He looks like a warehouse himself, huge and blocky and solid.”
“It ended with the Egyptian’s neck broken,” Xanthes said bluntly. “Though not before a few more Egyptians joined in the fray, and some more of Timon’s fellows, too. It was an outright brawl, I tell you. Could have erupted into a riot, if Timon hadn’t killed his attacker almost at once.”
Nikandros gave a low whistle. “Dangerous days.”
“Still,” Xanthes went on comfortably, “I’d rather be a Greek under Pharaoh Amasis’ rule than an Egyptian. At least we are favored by the man in charge, while his own Egyptians… well…” He trailed off, finishing the thought with an eloquent shrug that shifted his garland of lotuses against his burly chest.
Nikandros raised his cup. “To being Greek! To our good King Amasis!”
The andron fairly rattled with cheers. Doricha looked up from her work in time to see Helena hurrying out of the room, her face dark and her eyes narrowed to slits.
By the time the men had settled back into conversation, the first courses of the meal were carried into the room, accompanied by a small group of musicians who soon filled the andron with traditional songs of old Egypt. Doricha took Iadmon’s bowl, filled it with the best portions of each dish the cooks had prepared, then returned to the master’s couch, offering his supper with a graceful bow. When she straightened, it was to find Iadmon smiling at her with great satisfaction.
Shrewd-eyed Xanthes didn’t miss the exchange. He said, “Tell me, Iadmon: where did you find this little delicacy? Her copper hair is very charming.”
“Thrace, by way of Tanis. Her family was stranded there, as so many are these days.”
“And so,” Nikandros chuckled approvingly, “you made fortune out of others’ misfortune.”
The glance Iadmon gave Doricha was quick, but not unsympathetic. “Doricha, go and get me a little pot of that fish sauce I like. The cooks should have some on one of their trays.”
She set off across the room, flushed and furious—though whether she was angry over Nikandros’ unfeeling mirth or over her dismissal, Doricha couldn’t have said. But she kept herself attuned to Iadmon’s voice as she crossed the andron, filtering his smooth words out of the buzz of conversation around her.
She heard Xanthes say, “You can’t find looks like that in Egypt. Of course, I figured she must have come from the north.”
“I hope her exotic appearance will pay well.” That was Iadmon, forthright and elegant as always.
“I should think one like that will pay well. As the Egyptians grow more desperate, more and more of the pornae are of the local type—dark and dusky and rather plain. A porna with a fresh, unexpected look will be a rare treat for all her customers.”
“Ah,” Iadmon said smoothly. “This girl will not be a common porna. I mean to set her up as a hetaera. Xanthes, my good fellow, I hope you won’t find me too intimidating as a competitor for your business.”
Both men laughed in a brotherly way, but a tingle of foreboding raced up Doricha’s spine. She hurried back with Iadmon’s fish sauce and deposited it on his table. Just as she tried to dart back to her serving table, Xanthes caught her by the hand again. She resisted the instinct to jerk her fingers out of his grip.
“Little hetaera-to-be,” Xanthes purred, “your master’s wine cup has gone dry.”
It was true; the master’s cup was empty. I only just filled it. He must have a terrible thirst. She fetched the wine pitcher. One of the cooks had refilled it while she’d lingered beside Iadmon and Xanthes, and now it was heavier than ever. She filled Iadmon’s cup carefully, but almost as soon as it was full he lifted it and swallowed a long draft.
“All the way to the rim,” Xanthes said to Doricha in a low, slinking voice. “You mustn’t let the master go thirsty.”
Doricha topped up the cup once more, then hurried off to other corners of the andron, before Xanthes could speak to her again. Each time he looked at her, there was a glimmer of speculation in his dark eyes. Doricha didn’t like it. And whenever he spoke, there was a subtle note of taunting in his voice, though Doricha couldn’t have said whether his quiet needling was meant for her, or for Iadmon. She made the rounds of the couches, filling cups and smiling complacently whenever a man spoke to her. But by the time she returned to Iadmon’s table, she could see that his cup was nearly empty again. When he called out gleefully to one of his guests, his voice had lost some of its usual, smooth control.
Doricha shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“Go on,” Xanthes said. “Fill your master’s cup.”
“I…” She swallowed hard. Was she even supposed to speak to the guests, let alone answer them back with a refusal? “I don’t think I ought to, my good man.”
Xanthes chuckled indulgently. He patted the edge of his couch. “Come here, girl. Sit.”
Still she hesitated, fear fluttering in her belly.
“Hasn’t Iadmon taught you how to obey?” Xanthes said, annoyance edging his words.
Doricha set the wine pitcher on the floor and shuffled reluctantly to Xanthes’ couch. He took her by the hand and pulled her down beside him, stroking her bare shoulder, twisting in his fingers the wispy, stray curls that had escaped her braid.
She stared at Iadmon, pleading with wide eyes and trembling lips. It seemed to take the master an eternity to recognize, through the haze of his wine, exactly what he was seeing.
Iadmon cleared his throat. “Xanthes, my good friend,” he said thickly. “I’m afraid little Doricha is not ready for that sort of work yet.”
“Oh, isn’t she?” He ran one finger along her collarbone.
Doricha curled her toes in her sandals, resisting the urge to spring up and flee.
“How I hate to disappoint you,” Iadmon said. “But she is still in training, and I won’t have a girl of such magnificent potential spoiled by too-early use. Surely you understand, as you are the very best purveyor of hetaerae in all Egypt.” Iadmon was slurring his words now, but his eyes had sharpened, and he held Xanthes with a firm, challenging stare.
Xanthes’ hand fell away, and Doricha stood, forcing herself to move with casual grace, as if she were not in the least disturbed by the man’s pawing, and in no hurry to remove herself from his reach.
Xanthes peered up at her, making no attempt now to hide his speculation. “Potential, you say? She looks rater young to be accomplished at anything.”
“She is an excellent dancer. One of the best I’ve yet seen.”
Doricha flushed. She lifted the wine pitcher from the floor, holding it tight against her chest as if it were a shield or a soldier’s armor. Iadmon was drunk; there was no truth in his words. How could she extricate herself from this situation without utterly humiliating herself and her master? She edged back toward the serving table, but Xanthes pounced on Iadmon’s proclamation like a cat on a wounded bird.
“A dancer! What better entertainment for this quaint festivity? Come now, men! Who doesn’t love to see a pretty girl dance?”
Several men around the andron raised their voices, and their cups, too. “Yes, a dance! Let’s have a dance!”
Trembling and queasy, Doricha looked helplessly around the room, searching for someone—anyone—who might help her. She avoided Iadmon’s eye, frightened he would seize on the moment and issue and outright command. Then there would be no hope of evasion.
Doricha caught sight of Aesop, barely visible across the andron, peering out from behind the curtain. She pleaded with him silently, hoping he could read her distress from that distance. But if he did note her uncertainty, he remained unmoved. He nodded in what was surely meant to be encouragement; to Doricha it felt like the command she had dreaded receiving. If her tutor would not save her, then there was nothing for it but to dance—and pray she didn’t embarrass her master in front of all his guests.
She set the wine pitcher aside, stiff with anger. Then s
he returned to stand ready in front of Iadmon. She hadn’t even a dance belt; surely the master wasn’t so drunk that he would miss that important detail. She couldn’t be expected to dance in the fine blue silk.
But Iadmon was apparently unaware of Doricha’s predicament—unaware, or uncaring, shrouded as he was by the haze of wine. He called out to his musicians. “Give us another tune in the old style; something truly Egyptian.”
At this, the guests cheered, and Doricha felt a current of dread race through her blood. The old, traditional dances were not the strongest in her repertoire, though Iunet had taught her plenty of steps. She would have preferred something more modern and familiar, something Thracian or Greek. But the men were invested in the party’s theme; nothing but the charming steps of a bygone era would satisfy them now.
Doricha found Aesop again. He watched her levelly, his eyes shining with simple, confident expectation. As she held his gaze, the words of one of his lessons came back to her, quiet and insistent in her mind. Look closely, girl, and trust your own eyes. Blind yourself to hopes and fears, and see what is honestly before you.
While the musicians consulted quietly in the corner, deciding on which traditional tune they might play, Doricha narrowed her eyes and peered more shrewdly around the andron. Every face she saw was flushed, every eye rather glassy. Iadmon wasn’t the only man who’d gone deep into his cup, though he was perhaps the farthest along. Only Xanthes seemed to be firmly in control of himself, yet Doricha knew, from the way he’d held and stroked her hand, that she could do no wrong in his eyes tonight.
They’re all too drunk to know whether I put on a real Egyptian show or not.
The music began: a short and lively marching beat, with high, piercing trills of a flute. It brought to Doricha’s mind the songs of springtime birds. Springtime in Thrace—where the seasons were distinct and true, unlike the oppressive, year-round heat of Egypt.
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