White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  I haven’t done a thing to anger Xanthes, the thought. I’ve been perfect, absolutely perfect, since he first stole me from Iadmon.

  But the fact that the master had no just cause to be angry was small comfort. “Look sharp,” Vélona said. “It won’t do to keep him waiting.” Shivering, as much from fear as from her wet hair, Rhodopis hurried after Vélona as she led the way to Xanthes’ chamber.

  The rearing, gilded lion still decorated Xanthes’ door. Vélona knocked, and Xanthes barked, “Come.”

  Rhodopis entered alone, bowing as she went. She was aware that she looked disgraceful, with her wet hair hanging limp across her shoulders, her white tunic marked with splotches of water. All she could do was try to comport herself with dignity in spite of her appearance.

  Xanthes sat upright on his great, wide couch, rolling a wine cup absently between his palms. A blue robe covered his broad shoulders, but hung open at the chest, revealing a forest of dark hair. A book of accounts lay open on the bed beside him, but Rhodopis was under no illusion that Xanthes had been hard at work. Archidike was sprawled naked across his bed, one leg bent at the knee, her dark hair fanned out around her. She toyed with the long, slinking chain of a silver necklace, unfastened from her neck, lifting it high in the air and then lowering it to pool in her navel. She cast a lazy smile in Rhodopis’ direction.

  “You wished to speak to me, Master?” Rhodopis said quietly.

  “You’ve a patron now, I hear.”

  “Yes, Master. Charaxus of Lesvos. He’s the—”

  Xanthes stopped her with a wave of his hand. “I know who he is. How long have you been seeing him?”

  “He has been my patron for three weeks now, Master. I visit him two or three times a week, whenever he sends for me.”

  “And before that?”

  Rhodopis blinked at him. “Before that? I… I don’t understand what you mean, Master.”

  “How did you come to know this Charaxus fellow?”

  “He won me, Master, at Iason’s auction. Before then, he called for me once, to go out to his house. But he didn’t seem to like me then. I never knew him before that night. He says we met at a party, but I don’t recall it.”

  Xanthes stood. He stalked toward Rhodopis, his great, dark bulk towering above her. She bit her lip and looked up at him, praying she looked calm.

  “These gifts he sends you… they make me wonder. Is this Charaxus truly your patron? Or is he something more?”

  “Something more, Master? Do you mean—my lover?”

  Outrage burned Rhodopis’ face. She refused to meet Archidike’s eye, but she could feel the girl’s smug grin, her lazy, dimpling triumph twisting around the room—around Rhodopis—like a snake’s coils. Of course, it was Archidike who had planted the thought in Xanthes’ mind.

  “Tell me,” Xanthes said. His voice was dangerously low.

  Rhodopis lifted her chin, in what she hoped was a good show of haughty offense. “Master, Charaxus is nothing but a besotted fool. I’ve no feelings for him—in fact, I find him quite a bore. As for the gifts he sends me—I’m only doing my job, aren’t I? Isn’t that my purpose—to win men’s hearts, and gather in their wealth? That’s what your business is all about.”

  Xanthes looked her up and down. Rhodopis refused to quake before his eyes—and refused to give Archidike the satisfaction of seeing her unsettled.

  “Your patron gave you those shoes, didn’t he?”

  “Of course,” Rhodopis said, tossing her head as if she didn’t care one bit for the slippers. “He’s given me many gifts, Master. I’d turn them all over to Amenia, for they’re nothing to me, but as you know, Master, with him my patron and all—”

  Xanthes held up a hand again. Rhodopis fell silent.

  “Do not take a lover. Ever. If I hear again that you’ve done so, and I find out it’s true, I won’t be pleased, little lotus. Until you’ve raised enough money to strike out on you own, you are still my property. And your heart had best not come between my property and my profits. Am I clear?”

  “Of course, Master,” Rhodopis said lightly. She bowed, forcing a careless smile, and even managed to giggle coyly as she left Xanthes’ chamber.

  But as she stormed back toward the Stable, Rhodopis smiled no more.

  Archidike, she thought sourly. I’ll win my way free before you ever will, you double-crossing, mean-hearted bitch. Just wait and see if I won’t.

  5

  An Empty Vessel

  Rhodopis dipped a soft linen cloth in a pitcher of cool water, wrung it out, and wiped the sweat from her neck and shoulders. Then she dropped into a chair, arms and legs sprawling, and panted, trying to recover her breath.

  She had finished her performance for Charaxus and his friends. She could scarcely recall a time when she’d danced for so long, or so vigorously. She was exhausted, as wrung out as the linen cloth draped across the handle of the pitcher. But she had danced beautifully, and she was proud. Rhodopis was alone in the small chamber—Charaxus had thoughtfully set it aside for her exclusive use, so that she might recover from the performance in peace. She could still hear the applause of her patron’s friends, muffled by the chamber’s walls, but she didn’t need to hear how they’d loved her to know that she had done well.

  Rhodopis had been the focus of the entertainment at a small, select party. The musicians Charaxus had hired were first-rate; the poignant beauty of their music had transported her far away from her troubles with Archidike. But it had been she who’d captured the attention and the hearts of Charaxus’ guests.

  She had opened with the joyful, clapping, stamping shepherd dances Charaxus so enjoyed, and then eased, song after song, into far more elegant pieces. Clad only in the traditional fringed belt of an Egyptian dancer—and, of course, the beautiful rose-gold shoes—Rhodopis had enchanted the men and their hetaerae for more than an hour.

  When at last she struck the final pose of her last dance, her small but appreciative audience had sent up a clamor of praise that could surely be heard in the village across the river. To Rhodopis’ surprise, the hetaerae in attendance—all of them older than she, more established and mature—had been the first to applaud, and their delight in her performance seemed genuine. Perhaps that was because they were already free women, beholden to no master. No longer locked in competition for clients, they could be free to treat other hetaerae with kindness and respect.

  What a change that’d make at the Stable, Rhodopis thought wryly. Then she silently promised the older women, Someday I’ll be among you—someday soon.

  Charaxus’ servant tapped on the chamber door, then carried in a cup of some sweet-smelling liquid. “Melon juice with salt and mint,” he said. “It will help you recover.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rhodopis gulped the salty-sweet mixture greedily. A light river wind drifted through the chamber’s small window. It cooled her pleasantly; Rhodopis finished the cup of juice and leaned back in her chair, giving in to the simple pleasure of the breeze’s caress.

  Soon another knock sounded at the door. “Come,” Rhodopis said, straightening in her chair.

  Charaxus entered. Rhodopis stood, though her tired body protested. Nude save for the fringed belt, she faced him unashamed, leaving off her usual pretense of the shy country girl. She was proud of herself tonight; she had no need to blush or hide herself from anyone.

  “You were glorious,” Charaxus said, eyes glowing. “Better even than I’d expected you to be. The gods blessed you, my love… and they blessed me.”

  He held out a small basket. Rhodopis could see that it brimmed with silver coins. Her eyes widened; there must have been at least two hundred hedj in the basket.

  “From my guests—and from me. Their companions, the hetaerae, also contributed. You’ve impressed them, Rhodopis. I knew you would.”

  She shook her head uncertainly. “But you don’t want me to sleep with all of them… do you?”

  “No, never!” Charaxus laughed. “You charming, in
nocent little thing. They expect nothing more from you. Not all men are that way, you know—like Xanthes, I mean, and his friends. Some of us are more refined. Some of us appreciate a woman for her talents.”

  “Xanthes appreciates women for their talents,” she said with a giggle.

  “But only their talents inside the bed chamber. My friends and I—we know there’s more to you than just that.”

  Tears of gratitude blurred her vision. “And the other hetaerae—they contributed, too? Why, it’s so much money.” This will cut six months at least off my earnings, and no mistake.

  “You deserve it,” Charaxus said. “You dance like a goddess. I couldn’t be happier for my friends to see you, beautiful and talented as you are.”

  Rhodopis could see that Charaxus had thoroughly enjoyed showing her off to his friends. That pleasure gratified him almost as much as any other. Why shouldn’t they all recognize the quality of his tastes? Why shouldn’t they envy what he had: access to this exquisite, rare young hetaera?

  She was so grateful for his help that she would have lain with him then and there, if there had been a convenient couch, or even a tabletop large enough to support them. But of course, Rhodopis knew her sentimental patron better than that. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the andron. No doubt he felt pressure already to return to his guests, and play the role of the gracious, attentive host.

  “Keep that money for me in your chamber, won’t you?” Rhodopis said. “We’ll be there together later, when they’ve all gone home.”

  “I’m looking forward to that.” Charaxus kissed her, long and deep. “Come back to the party only when you’re ready. The gods know you’ve earned a rest.”

  Rhodopis was thoroughly worn out by the time she returned to Xanthes’ house. The party had stretched on into the middle of the night. Afterward, Rhodopis had found herself in no hurry to leave Charaxus’ bed. For the first time in their acquaintance, she had taken real delight in lying with him. He was not a skilled lover, but his generosity had moved her, and it made her glad to entertain him

  Dawn was just beginning to break as the litter-bearers set her down in Xanthes’ courtyard and drew back her curtain. Rhodopis’ eyes were gritty and sore; she couldn’t stop yawning. But she couldn’t return to her bed just yet. By the pale light of earliest morning—the pink flush that tints the sky just before sunrise—she hurried out into the garden with the basket of hedj under one arm.

  Rhodopis went briskly to the pond, and sat on its edge for some time, looking carefully around the garden to be certain she was unobserved. Then, as the birds woke in the trees overhead, she ducked her arms under the lotus leaves and heaved the amphora up from the pond.

  It had taken on water, and was heavier than she’d expected. Rhodopis pried the lid free, then poured out the water that had seeped inside, letting it soak the short grass. She reached into the jar, satisfying herself that her treasures were still safe inside. Then she tipped the basket of silver coins into the amphora, re-sealed it as tightly as she could, and sank it in the pond once more.

  Faint morning light rippled over the pond’s surface. Rhodopis, nearly asleep on he feet, watched the enchanting patterns of pink light and blue shadow. She stood staring at the pond until the ripples stilled, musing comfortably on her future. Two hundred hedj added to her fortune. How close was she now to obtaining her freedom? Perhaps she need spend a few more months with Charaxus, and then she would be free.

  A grim realization snapped her out of her sleepy reverie.

  Once I’m free, I’ll have to deal with Charaxus himself.

  He was kind, to be sure—but nothing about him made her heart race. She would have to let him down easy once she was out from beneath Xanthes’ heel, for there could be no question of settling down as Charaxus’ wife.

  With any luck, he’ll find another woman to fall in love with, and forget all about me. She prayed that it would be so, and the sooner the gods made it happen, the better for them both.

  A great yawn cracked Rhodopis’ jaws and shook her frame. I’m for bed now, she told herself. Time enough to sort the problem of Charaxus in the morning.

  Rhodopis headed back toward the Stable. Her steps dragged; the rose-gold slippers scuffed along in the grass. She could get two or three hours’ sleep, she thought, before Vélona came and woke her up.

  “What in Seth’s name happened to you, Rhodopis?”

  She looked up in alarm. Bastet was slinking toward the bath house, a long towel draped over her naked shoulder. But she stopped in her tracks, staring as Rhodopis came through the garden.

  Rhodopis felt the drops of pond water still clinging to her arms, the splotch of wetness soaked into the chest and belly of her tunic. She didn’t dare to look down, didn’t dare confirm Bastet’s suspicions.

  “Who’s awake already?” Rhodopis said acidly, “and going to the baths, no less?”

  Bastet snorted. “You look like you’ve been in the baths yourself.”

  “I’ve just come back from my patron’s,” Rhodopis said.

  “Did he ride you right into the river? Or doesn’t he know where to drop his seed?” Bastet laughed harshly at her own joke.

  “Don’t see what there is to stare at,” Rhodopis snapped, then turned abruptly and hurried back into the quiet of the Stable.

  In her alcove, Rhodopis stripped off the damp tunic. She wrung all the pond water she could from the garment, then flicked the dirt from its linen. When it looked as innocent as she could manage, she hung it on the peg for Amenia to collect later that morning.

  She still had no safe place to keep her slippers, so Rhodopis placed them under her pillow and sank into bed. If the gods were good, Rhodopis thought as sleep claimed her, Bastet would soon forget their strange encounter in the garden.

  The week crept by, and although Bastet cast plenty of suspicious glances at Rhodopis, nothing came of their encounter in the garden. Rhodopis was gripped by a desperate anxiety, plagued with worry for her treasure. But she avoided the pond carefully, in case Bastet had spilled out the story to any of the other girls.

  One morning, Vélona woke the girls earlier than usual. They scrambled from their beds and stood naked beside their alcoves, blinking and yawning, shivering in the cold morning air.

  “You’re all to dress in your house tunics,” Vélona said, “and meet in the entrance hall, outside the andron, in half an hour’s time.”

  “What’s going on, Mistress?” Callisto said.

  Vélona smiled, cool but pleased. “Today you will witness one of your own put forward the silver to buy her freedom. May it be an inspiration to all of you; may you all work just as hard.”

  The Stable rippled with conversation as the girls hurried to dress and comb their hair. But as Rhodopis reached up to take a fresh tunic from her shelf, her eyes traveled to the empty alcove across from her own.

  Archidike was not there. She alone, of all Xanthes’ girls, was absent from the Stable.

  A sickening weight settled in Rhodopis’ gut. She dressed as she was directed, tying her belt with numb, trembling fingers. She retrieved the rose-gold slippers from beneath her pillow and pulled them on her cold feet, then followed the other girls to the entry hall. Rhodopis did not join in their excited chatter. Archidike’s name was on everybody’s lips, for by that time they had all noticed her absence from the Stable.

  The girls filed into the entry hall. Vélona fussed among them, arranging them in a half-circle. When she was finished, she called for silence, and the flurry of gossip died away.

  Xanthes entered from the direction of the andron. He was dressed in his finest chlamys—a rich midnight-blue embroidered with red leaves along its hem. He looked as fine as that big, broad man ever did.

  Behind him, Archidike moved with a grace and confidence Rhodopis had never seen in her before. She was dressed in the same provocative, scarlet-and-turquoise dress she had worn on their first meeting—the transparent linen hiding nothing, revealing her beautiful, slender for
m for all to see. Her black hair coiled in several thick braids around her head, and the kohl around her eyes only heightened their victorious glow.

  Several household slaves walked behind Archidike, each carrying a lidded basket. She turned to face Xanthes, and the slaves set their burdens at her feet, then backed away, bowing.

  Vélona edged forward. “Master, this woman has served you loyally for many years. Now she comes before you to beg your consideration and grant her freedom.”

  “Can you pay the cost?” Xanthes said to Archidike.

  Archidike bowed low, but as she did, she glanced over at the girls and winked. One among them shuffled on her feet—Bastet. The weight in Rhodopis’ stomach turned cold as a winter wind.

  “For every year of my service, Master, I have collected one thousand hedj.” Archidike spoke clearly, boldly, reciting the words of the ceremony. “Or goods of equal value. Thus I shall repay you for your kindness in my keeping.”

  Xanthes gestured for Archidike to show him the pay. She lifted the lid from the first basket. It contained only coins, which Xanthes pawed through briefly. He was adept at estimating, by feel and sight alone, how many coins a basket of that size and shape could hold.

  Archidike lifted the lid from the next basket. One by one, she took up the goods it contained, holding them up for Xanthes’ approval.

  The breath seized in Rhodopis’ throat.

  There was the necklace Charaxus had given her—the three emeralds set in their golden discs—and there, the lapis lazuli ankle cuffs. There were the pearl earrings, the ivory hair combs, the golden bracelets inlaid with turquoise.

  She’s robbed me, Rhodopis thought frantically. Gods save me, the treacherous beast has found my hiding place and robbed me!

  She cut a stare toward Bastet, who only smiled sweetly back at her. Rhodopis could do nothing but watch as Archidike—who had once been her friend, and more than that—presented every coin and bauble Charaxus had given her to Xanthes.