White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  “Now sit here, on this stool,” Archidike said. “Right up close beside the lamp. Hold my mirror up so you can see your face; I’m going teach you how to paint yourself like a real, high-class hetaera.”

  Doricha pressed her lips together, smothering a smirk. Archidike was the last girl in the Stable with any claim on class. But she was grateful for the help, and had no desire to alienate her only friend in this dangerous new world.

  “I had another slave’s help with the paints, back at Iadmon’s place. With my hair, too.”

  “You’ll get a helper here… eventually. But no new girl ever has help with her paints. You’ve got to earn that kind of attention from the master—and from Vélona. We all share the hair dressers, though, even the new girls like you. And Vélona only hires the best, believe me. Hair is too easy to get wrong, and takes too long to fix if you make a mess of it. The hair dressers will be along shortly. You’ll see; they’re marvelous at their art.”

  Archidike led Doricha through the ritual of lining her eyes, darkening her lashes, and brushing her lids with bright colors. The older girl was skilled with paints and the thin antelope-hair brushes, but the lovelier Doricha looked, the lower her spirits fell.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Archidike said, taking the mirror from Doricha’s hands. “Can’t you cheer up, even a little? It’s me has to work today, not you.”

  “All I can think of is how long it’ll take me to pay for these things,” Doricha said. “The kohl and the lip-color and all the rest. And use of this robe, and the hair dresser, and… oh, it seems to me I’ll never get free.”

  Despite her natural hardness, Archidike did seem to have a soft, sympathetic side. She patted Doricha on the shoulder, then gave her a bracing squeeze. “Once you have patrons of your own, you’ll be amazed at how quickly your money adds up. You’ll learn what each man likes, and you’ll learn how to present yourself in the way that pleases each patron best. That’s the way to get the most money: make yourself over for each patron especially; be the living embodiment of his fantasies. Any pretty girl can pass for a hetaera, if she can talk without sounding too foolish. And if she can fall on her back at the right time. But if you can transform yourself for your patrons—if you can become the secret fruit they hardly even knew they were craving—then you’ll be one of the great ones.” She winked, flashing her dimples. “You can trust my word on that count. I’m very close to buying my freedom already.”

  “Are you?” Doricha said, surprised. “But you can’t be old enough. How old are you, anyhow?”

  “I’ll be seventeen soon. Been a working hetaera for three years.” She raised her voice, so all the girls in the Stable could hear her boast. “But I’m one of the best there is—not only in Xanthes’ Stable, but in all of Memphis.”

  Callisto answered with a doubtful snort. Archidike’s fist tightened on the handle of her mirror; she held it stiffly at her side as if it were a sword, staring around the room, silently challenging the other girls to deny her claim. No one spoke against her, though several of the girls snickered or cast peevish looks in Archidike’s direction.

  Archidike tossed her head. She returned to Doricha and dabbed another touch of red paint on her lips. “Success at this age is rare,” she said coolly, “but it can be done. I’m living proof—or I will be, with a bit more silver saved. You’ll get there, too, Doricha. Just follow my lead, and be glad you have the chance to learn from the best.”

  After the hair dresser had finished with them, the two girls hurried to the gynaeceum and made quick work of their breakfast, a light meal of emmer porridge and fruit. Then Archidike presented herself to Vélona, so the mistress might approve her looks.

  “You’ll do,” Vélona said, which Doricha took to be the highest praise one might expect from a woman of her sort. “Off you go, then. The gate guards will expect you back by the time the sun is high.”

  “Why aren’t we sent off in a litter?” Doricha asked Archidike as they strolled out through the vine-wrapped gate. Doricha was made to carry an ostrich-feather fan on a long pole, which was meant to keep the sun from burning her skin and ruining her tender complexion. She fussed with it as they walked, trying to find a comfortable way to hold it. “Seems to me a litter would be safer.”

  “If we had a long way to go, or if the weather were bad, we would certainly go by litter. But Xanthes and Vélona know I’m a girl who can be trusted. They’re pleased to let me walk, if my patrons are nearby. And I’m glad for it; litter-bearers don’t work for free, you know. Every hedj I can save is another piece of silver to buy my freedom. Besides, walking is pleasant, don’t you think? It’s nice to get some fresh air after the Stable’s stink—all that perfume and oil in one place, not to mention the way some girls come home reeking of sex. I’d much rather smell the garden and the breezes off the river. Walking keeps you from growing too plump, as well.”

  “But what’s to stop either one of us from running off?”

  “You’d be a fool to try it,” Archidike said. “Xanthes’ girls are well known, all throughout Memphis. Some of us have reputations that reach beyond Memphis, too. You will certainly be well known in the city, with your dancing. You’d be caught straight away and brought back to Xanthes. He’d probably have you maimed in punishment.”

  Doricha shivered.

  “What would you do then?” Archidike went on. “You’d never work as a hetaera with your beauty spoiled, that’s for certain. No, escape is right out—too risky. Earning your way out is the only sensible thing. But why would you want to get out, anyhow? It’s the easiest life there is, Duckling. Oh, I know the Stable and Vélona are horrid, but they won’t last forever—not for a couple of likely girls like us. What would you rather do, except be a hetaera? Go take up as the wife of some goat-herd out there in the western hills, and whelp a litter of screaming brats in the mud? I don’t think so.”

  Doricha laughed comfortably. What Archidike said was true enough. She was still mourning the loss of the easy life she’d enjoyed in Iadmon’s house, but even so, Doricha knew she hadn’t fallen so far that she couldn’t pull herself back up again. The crisp, damp air rolling off the Nile did seem to refresh her spirits. She smiled up at the sun dazzling on the roof-tops of Memphis as she and Archidike moved south along the river, and waved gaily to the group of young men who shouted greetings as they passed. Memphis was beautiful in the morning light, blushing like a maiden, the white-plastered houses and merchants’ shops picking up the rose-petal tint of the sky. Doricha had lived in the city for more than a year, but she had never been allowed to wander freely. Now she understood why Iadmon had always proclaimed Memphis was the grandest city in the world. Its quiet, dignified beauty stirred Doricha’s heart with pride; the shops and inns she passed thrilled her with their intriguing combination of old Egyptian and new Greek styles.

  As she followed Archidike across a market square—just beginning to fill with the peddlers who would soon noisily hawk their wares—Doricha noticed the square, high roof-tops of a distant building peeking above even the tallest estates.

  “Look,” she said, pointing, “what’s that place, there? That big building rising over the rest?”

  “Don’t you know? It’s the Pharaoh’s palace, for Hathor’s sake!”

  “Never saw it before, that’s all,” Doricha said rather sulkily. “Or if I did, I never noticed it much. But oh, it looks so pretty with the light running all along the top of it, like melted honey. It’s the biggest house I ever saw.”

  “It’s even bigger than it looks from here. King Amasis lives in high style, I can tell you.”

  “How do you know? Have you been inside his palace?”

  “No,” Archidike admitted. She sounded resentful. “Not yet. The Pharaoh doesn’t have much use for hetaerae, does he? He’s got wives and concubines by the dozen. As for how I know… he’s the Pharaoh, Doricha. The richest, most powerful man in all the world. How else would he live, except in the very highest of styles?

&nb
sp; Doricha shrugged.

  “I would like to see the king’s palace someday, though,” Archidike mused. “I’d wager the whole place is leafed in gold, and even the privies smell like myrrh. It seems half the men I know think King Amasis is a proper fool who’s forgotten how to be Egyptian, but a Pharaoh can’t be that bad, can he? Otherwise, the gods would be rid of him. They’d replace him with a better man. And anyhow, I don’t see why it’s so much better to be Egyptian than Greek. I’m half of each, and I do all right.”

  They came upon a lane that curved toward the riverfront; the air was dense with the rich smell of water warming in the ever-strengthening sun. Doricha could see the dark, damp stone quays ahead, and the flat expanse of the Nile winking and glinting between them.

  “Why are we going to the river?” she asked.

  “It’s Nikostratos’ preference. Remember, I said every man has a secret fantasy, and the best hetaerae play up those fantasies to make their living.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, Nikostratos likes to pretend I’m a newly married woman who’s meeting him for a tryst. So naturally, we carry out our transactions in secret, out-of-the-way places. It’s not at all necessary—Nikostratos’ wife is dead in her grave, and even if she weren’t, nobody would bat an eye at a man as rich as Nikos carrying on with a hetaera. But all the sneaking about makes his cock harder than anything else. And the old fellow needs all the help he can get in that regard.”

  They left the narrow lane, stepping out into the sun-struck barrenness of the quays. Archidike scanned the docks until she found her patron’s boat, a small, blue-hulled vessel bobbing gently in its loose mooring. Archidike headed toward the boat the moment she’d spotted it. Evidently this wasn’t the first time she’d met Nikostratos at the riverfront.

  “There he is,” Archidike said. “The white-haired fellow standing beside the boat’s ramp. Now watch me closely. The great act begins now, long before I’m stripped down naked. This is how you make your patron happy.”

  Archidike drew herself up; her face opened, softened, shed its habitually carnal leer. She transformed before Doricha’s startled gaze—so subtly, Doricha couldn’t have described precisely how the change took place, yet there was no denying that an entirely new woman stood beside her. Where before Archidike had been rough and brazen, now she fluttered like a delicate blossom tossed by harsh winds. She batted her eyes, sighing as if the world were all too much for one girl to bear—as if she needed a man to protect her. She clutched anxiously at the neck of her sky-blue robe and headed toward her patron’s boat, darting glances this way and that. Doricha followed as closely as she dared.

  Nikostratos was nearing the end of his sixties, if he had not already surpassed them. Despite his advanced age, he was tall and broad-shouldered; the hint of a stoop and a nearly undetectable limp were his only physical concessions to age. His hair was still passably thick, but it had gone as white as the walls of Memphis. He had a kindly smile that put Doricha at ease.

  “Ah, my little honey-cake,” Nikostratos said when Archidike reached him. “So you decided to come after all.”

  “Oh,” Archidike said in a high, breathy voice, all her usual gravel and grit smoothed away, “I barely got away without my husband noticing. He’s so jealous, you know; he watches me like a hawk watches a mouse. Oh, Nikos… I’ve only been married to that beast for three weeks. How can I bear a whole lifetime as his wife? He’s cruel and cold-hearted… not like you.”

  Nikostratos glanced at Doricha. His bushy white brows raised. “And who is this, my darling?”

  “Erm…” Archidike though quickly. “My maidservant. I told my husband’s men that I was going to the market, so naturally they required me to take my maid with me. But she’s mute—” with a sharp, meaningful look at Doricha— “so don’t worry. She won’t say a word about us. She can’t. And if she ever finds some way to tell my husband, I’ll stick a knife in her.”

  A chill raced up Doricha’s back. Was Archidike’s threat only part of the game? Or did Doricha sense a hint of real malice in her words?

  “I see she’s untouchable,” Nikos said, letting the mask of their play-acting slip.

  “Yes. I’ve got to train her. Mistress’s orders.” The high, teasing lilt returned to her voice. “You don’t mind, do you Nikos? She won’t interfere with us. She’ll be a good little thing, I promise.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” Nikos said. He stepped forward and wrapped Archidike in his arms, planting a series of wet-sounding kisses along her neck.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” Archidike said. “It’s so bad, so wrong. The gods see me! What will I do if my husband finds out?”

  “My honey-cake,” Nikostratos said thickly, pulling Archidike toward the boat’s ramp. “You know you’re safe with me. At least until I get you into my bed.”

  Archidike giggled, and Nikostratos growled with the force of his appetites. Doricha, suppressing a sigh, followed them both up the ramp and onto the boat, which had already begun to rock wildly against its lines. She could only pray that Archidike’s assignment would be finished quickly. She had never felt more reluctant or embarrassed in all her life.

  12

  The Master’s Money

  The gods did not see fit to answer Doricha’s prayers. By the time Archidike and Nikostratos had finally finished their transaction, the sun was near its peak and the streets of Memphis were unbearably hot. Archidike collected her silver from her patron, tucked it safely away, and headed briskly back toward Xanthes’ estate.

  Doricha trudged along beside her. Her head pounded in the heat. She was sweaty beneath the green girdle; there was grit in her eyes and mouth from the dusty streets, tasting of the faint, oily fishiness of the Nile waters. She was thoroughly worn out from her long ordeal of embarrassment, for she had sat upon on a stool in the corner of the boat’s cabin while Archidike had gone about her business, trying to look anywhere but at Nikostratos and Archidike, wishing she could stop up her ears to shut out the mortifying sounds of what was transpiring, too.

  Doricha had noticed, though, that the older girl seemed to genuinely enjoy her work—not because Nikos brought her any real pleasure, but because to Archidike it was all one amusing lark. She had played the role of the shy but unfaithful wife so well that even Doricha had begun to believe the narrative, and would have bought into the fantasy entirely, had Archidike not reminded her of the truth now and then. Whenever she was sure Nikos was distracted, Archidike would catch Doricha’s eye and comically yawn, or cross her eyes and roll her head on her neck, in a mockery of being ridden so hard that she was losing her wits. More than once, Doricha had come dangerously close to laughing.

  But the scene had dragged out for what seemed an eternity. In spite of his advanced age, Nikostratos was as vigorous as a he-goat. Now, as they made their way home through the noon heat, Doricha could hardly countenance Archidike’s energy. Wasn’t she worn out from the work? Doricha certainly was, and she’d done nothing but perch on a stool, trying to pretend she was somewhere else.

  Archidike seemed more energized than ever before. She fairly bounced down the street, calling out to friends and acquaintances as she passed. “Why, there’s Phobos, back on his feet. Is your broken leg all healed? Call for me at Xanthes’ place—I’ll break it for you again!” And later, “Djedi, how’s business today? Made enough hedj to come and see me yet? Too bad—next month for sure.” She kissed her hand to the admirers who shouted her name from across streets and market squares, and accepted a flower from a man in an old-style Egyptian kilt, who ran to catch her as she stood in the shade of a shop’s awning, waiting for a train of donkey-drawn carts to pass by. Archidike squealed in delight over the flower, tucked it coyly into her hair, and then, when the man had showered her with compliments and gone on his way, she had rolled her eyes dramatically.

  “That was Seth,” she said. “Used to be a man of some means, and saw me as often as he could, but he fell on hard times and lost all his fortune. I
think he’s quite in love with me,” Archidike added lightly, and continued across the street.

  “It was sweet of him to give you a flower,” Doricha said. “It’s good he remembers you.”

  “I’d like him to go on remembering me, in case he ever comes into money again. But sweetness is all poor Seth has to offer now. That sort of thing’s all right if you’re a wife, but a hetaera can’t pay her debts with flowers and gentle words. It’s silver I’m after. Jewels also gladly accepted, as are goldwork pieces, half-share in profitable businesses, and scripts of ownership to estates and farms.”

  “You never got paid with anything of that sort,” Doricha said, laughing despite the pounding ache in her head.

  “Jewels and gold bracelets, I have—necklaces, too. If it’s got real value, I’ll take it. But I do know a few girls who’ve been paid with scripts of ownership. They’re the most fortunate of all, for silver is gone once you’ve spent it, but a good piece of land can go on paying you handsomely for years. Those are all free girls, though—the ones whose patrons gave them estates.” Archidike breathed a satisfied sigh. “One day, Duckling… one day. Freedom isn’t so far off, believe me.”

  Doricha eyed Archidike carefully as she sailed down the street. The silver pieces Nikostratos had given her had long since disappeared, secreted away in some hidden fold or pocket of her dress.

  “How far off is freedom, anyhow?” Doricha asked. “For you, I mean. I’ve only just started.”

  “You haven’t even started yet, but I’ve no doubt you’ll hold the record for shortest stay in the Stable. As for me, I expect I’ll be out in half a year. Maybe a touch longer. I’m only glad it’s easy work, so the time will go by quickly.”