White Lotus

by Libbie Hawker

  “It had something shiny in its talons,” Bastet said. “I thought it was a fish at first—the thing in the falcon’s talons, I mean. But then the bird flew right over the king’s throne, for it recognized him, you see, and dropped what it was carrying in his lap.”

  Rhodopis nodded silently, encouraging them to go on.

  “The king held it up. It was a shoe—a gilded slipper.”

  “It looked like one of yours, Rhodopis,” Callisto said. “Like the pair what-his-name sent you.”

  “It couldn’t be my slipper,” Rhodopis said quickly, her cheeks heating. “I got rid of those old things.”

  “You never did,” Bastet said. “You were wearing them this morning.”

  “I was wearing a different pair, and they aren’t anything like the ones Charaxus sent me. Don’t be silly.”

  “They must have come from the same shoe-maker, then,” Callisto said, “for the slipper the king held looked every bit like your old ones.”

  “What did he do?” Rhodopis said. “It can’t be a thing that happens every day—a falcon dropping a shoe in the king’s lap.”

  “No, I suppose not. Well, the Pharaoh held that slipper for a very long time, and just… looked at it. He set it on his table, there among the wine cups and the dishes of food, and wouldn’t let any of his servants take it away. For the rest of the night, I hardly saw him glance at anything else—not the dancers or the acrobats, not the men who approached to bow at his feet. Nothing. He was entirely taken with that slipper.”

  “It was an omen,” Bastet said. “A sign from the gods.”

  Efthalia rolled her eyes. “What do you know?”

  “Plenty, being Egyptian. Falcons are sacred—symbols of the god Horus, from whom the power of the throne descends. Any gift a falcon gives you has real meaning. Ten times as much, if you happen to be the king.”

  “Amasis has forgotten he’s Egyptian,” Rhodopis said. “He thinks he’s a Greek—or he wants to be Greek, so the men say.”

  “Ah,” Bastet sighed. “But he can’t deny he’s Egyptian now, can he? A sign delivered by Lord Horus himself. No Egyptian can ignore that omen.”

  “What did he do about the shoe, then?” Rhodopis asked.

  Bastet shrugged. “I couldn’t say. By the time the entertainments were done, we were all too busy playing the crowd—making new friends. I never saw what he did with the shoe. I suppose he must have it still.”

  The Stable door banged open; the girls scuttled for their beds, while Vélona bawled, “Not a word from any of you—not a whisper, not a sneeze! The night is quite late enough. I want you all asleep, or you’ll regret it in the morning.”

  Rhodopis settled back in her bed. Her long day of weeping had drained her, but the strange sight she had witnessed at the river—the omen, if Bastet was to be believed—remained vivid in her memory, warding away her dreams. She found she couldn’t drift off on sleep’s currents until she had slipped her hand beneath her pillow, and touched the rose gold of her one remaining slipper.

  Then, at last, sleep took her, but her dreams were strange and shadowed. Vague, fragmented visions haunted her—Charaxus drawing a knife from his belt and fighting with the king; naked Archidike lifting the silver chain, dropping it into her navel, lifting it again; the falcon’s wings reflected upside-down in the surface of the water, a great, golden fish in its talons.

  And over each strange, indecipherable vision, she heard the tap-tap-tap of Iunet’s stick, the rhythms she had used when she’d first taught Rhodopis how to dance. And then, clear and vivid, echoing in her ears, she heard Aesop say, “Now—” in that way he had, that simple but distinct way—the way that meant, “Begin.”

  7

  Rose Gold

  Vélona allowed all the girls to sleep in late the next morning, for the excitement of the Pharaoh’s feast had surely worn them down. Rhodopis was the first to wake, long before the Stable came to life. She climbed from her bed, checked to see that her slipper was still beneath her pillow, and dressed in the morning dimness of the great chamber.

  She leaned against the wall for an hour or more, watching the morning light fill the wind catchers and pool petal-pink along the floor. She thought of falcons—of omens—and of Aesop’s voice in the darkness.

  When Vélona pushed open the door, her brows raised to see Rhodopis already standing beside her alcove curtain. But she nodded with satisfaction: clearly, Rhodopis had overcome the dark mood that had gripped her the day before, and was ready to resume the life the gods had laid out for her, with the quiet dignity that suited a woman of Xanthes’ stable.

  The girls rustled from their beds when Vélona called them, and stood yawning to receive their assignments from the mistress.

  “It seems you all worked hard and well at the Pharaoh’s feast,” she said. “I’ve already had several requests from new admirers. Well done, ladies.”

  But before she could dole out the day’s work, a clamor came through the wind catchers—shouts and the rumblings of a great crowd, rising up from the other side of Xanthes’ walls. The crowd was chanting the Pharaoh’s name: “Amasis! Amasis!”

  Vélona glanced back through the Stable door, a new strain around her dark eyes. Rhodopis had never seen the mistress worried before.

  “What is it?” Bastet said. “Another riot?”

  “Let us pray it’s not that,” Vélona said. Then she raised her voice. “Guards!”

  Callisto began to sniffle. “Mother Isis have mercy! Riots—and so close!”

  “Quiet,” Vélona snapped. “Keep your wits, all of you, no matter what may come.”

  A blue-robed guard did appear then, but he was grinning broadly. “Nothing to fear, Mistress,” he said to Vélona. “In fact, I think you’ll be most pleased.” He handed her a scroll.

  Vélona looked at its seal—then her eyes widened. “Gods bless me. It’s another message from the Pharaoh.”

  Fear gave way at once to excitement. The girls flocked around Vélona, urging her to open the scroll, to read out the king’s message.

  “Very well; get back, now, all of you. Give me some room.” Vélona unrolled the papyrus, read it over silently. Then she shook her head—in confusion or amazement, Rhodopis couldn’t tell.

  “ ‘To all the great houses of Memphis,’ ” Vélona read, “ ‘let it be known that the Pharaoh has received an omen from the gods.’”

  “The shoe,” Bastet whispered to Callisto.

  Vélona went on: “ ‘The king, in his wisdom, has consulted his priests and turned to the gods in prayer. The holy falcon of Egypt has given the king the gift: a woman’s slipper of most perfect beauty and artistry. The Pharaoh shall appear in each district of Memphis on this day, until he has found the woman to whom the slipper belongs. That woman will he take into his household, by command of Horus, Lord of the Skies, Wellspring of Power and Guardian of Egypt. Be it so.’”

  The Stable erupted with chatter, which Vélona tried unsuccessfully to quell. Rhodopis heard none of it. There was a strange rushing in her ears, a rising pressure in her chest. Her limbs had gone cold and shaky. She thought, Has my fate turned again? Or are the gods only toying with me?

  The sharp clapping of Vélona’s hands brought Rhodopis out of her daze. The mistress was hustling the other girls down toward the dressing closet—toward Rhodopis, who still lingered beside her alcove.

  “We have very little time,” Vélona cried. “Where is Amenia? Somebody go and get her—be quick! Open up the dressing closet; we shall have to get started without her. Make yourselves look as beautiful as you can, girls. I won’t have the house of Xanthes outshone today.”

  The market square was emptied of peddlers and farmers, just as it had been on the night when Rhodopis had crossed it alone. But it was daylight now—hot mid-day, sweltering and heavy with the scent of dust and bodies and the sun-struck bricks of the city’s rooftops.

  Xanthes’ girls clustered together under the great cloth canopies of sun shades, borne by their master�
�s blue-robed servants. They certainly were not the only women in the square. Every great house in central Memphis had sent its ladies to the square—providing they were unmarried and young or beautiful enough to catch the Pharaoh’s eye. For what family would not to see one of its daughters placed in the king’s own harem—and what master wouldn’t like to charge the Pharaoh the replacement cost of one of his best hetaerae?

  Every woman wore her most beautiful garb—robes of linen and gowns of silk were everywhere to be seen, trailing in the dust, trodden by the crowd, dulled and stained by sweat. A glint of gems and flash of gold came from every corner.

  Rhodopis was not surprised to find Archidike among the women. She stood apart, attached to no particular household now that she was free, in the company of no particular friends—for Archidike had ever been a solitary creature. Rhodopis watched her from the other side of the market square. She couldn’t help but think Archidike looked beautiful, flawless in a pale blue robe, her hair twisted and curled atop her head. A simple silver chain circled her throat, and she stood without fan or sun shade, apparently untouched by the heat. Freedom suited her well. Rhodopis regretted that she couldn’t wish good luck and good fortune on the girl who had once been her friend. But the bitterness that had grown in Rhodopis’ heart had never uprooted itself. It had grown to fill her; she had no room left for any kind feelings toward Archidike. All she felt now was the ache of the freedom she herself had lost.

  But perhaps today, Rhodopis would have a new chance at freedom. The other women of Xanthes’ house had decked themselves extravagantly, scrambling for the best dresses and jewels in Amenia’s closet. Rhodopis had been content to dress more simply. She wore a silk dress, simply cut and dyed a pale pink hue, with a sky-blue sash looped several times around her waist. She wore no gems. She needed none, for concealed in the folds of the blue sash was the only treasure she required. She kept her hands folded at her waist, to help hide the strangely shaped bulge of the rose-gold slipper beneath her clothing.

  The afternoon grew hotter, and the crowd more restless, but still the Pharaoh did not appear. Murmurs began to circulate—rumors that he had already found the woman whose foot fit the miraculous, god-given shoe, somewhere in another district of Memphis. Rhodopis tried to shut her ears to the rumors, but as the day wore on, they became harder to ignore. Perhaps, after all, her chance had passed. It wouldn’t be the first time the gods had taunted her.

  But then, with a fanfare of reed pipes and drums, the king arrived. The crowd parted, making way for the royal presence.

  A vast litter carried him into the market square: sixteen bearers to the front and back, each wearing the striped blue-and-white kilts of the king’s service. The litter’s arms were gilded, and so well polished they made Rhodopis squint. The throne of Egypt sat upon that great platform, a chair of elegantly simple design, yet its every surface as covered in gold.

  King Amasis himself sat upon the throne, regally still, a man in his fifties with soft, somewhat troubled eyes. The towering double-crown of Egypt, white on red, was balanced on his brow.

  The crowd in the market square bowed, murmuring their respects, as the litter sank to the ground.

  A small, thin man with a shaven head stepped out in front of the king’s litter. Rhodopis took him for a royal herald, for he unrolled a scroll and began to read from it, shouting out his instructions.

  “I, the king’s steward, am in possession of the blessed object, the gift of Lord Horus. Each woman who wishes to present herself to the king must wait her turn in line, for the royal presence will tolerate no insult to our dignity. Each woman will have but one chance to prove the slipper is hers, and if it be a match for her foot, then she will be welcomed to the Pharaoh’s household. Such may it be, by the will of Lord Horus.”

  Vélona shepherded her girls toward the line, but it had formed rapidly—the women pushing and shoving as much as they dared, before the eyes of the king. By the time they reached the queue, Rhodopis was well back from the throne.

  Patience, the counseled herself. The gods can’t abandon you now. She hoped it was true.

  Rhodopis craned her neck to watch as, one after another, the steward tried and rejected the women at the head of the line. She was not surprised to spot Archidike there, standing among the first of the women. True to form, the girl must have dodged to the front of the crowd and slipped to the head of the line just as it was forming.

  The steward tried another woman’s foot, and then another. Each left in disappointment, red-faced and grumbling.

  Then Archidike faced the steward. She gazed up at the king for a moment, resplendent in her blue silk. She bent her head in a graceful bow, and even at a distance, Rhodopis could see the radiant smile on her face—a look of sweetness that was not hers by nature.

  Archidike’s foot slid neatly into the shoe. King Amasis leaned back on his throne, smiling with satisfaction and no small amount of relief.

  “No!”

  Rhodopis would not allow Archidike to steal what was hers—not again. She dodged out of line, leaping from the cool sanctuary of the sun shades to the full heat of the afternoon sun.

  “Rhodopis!” Vélona’s angry shout cut through the crowd’s murmur of surprise. “Get back here, girl!”

  Rhodopis ignored her. She ran down the line, the hem of her pink robe flapping, shouting, “Wait, my Pharaoh! Please, wait!”

  She heard Vélona bellow with rage again, but Rhodopis pressed on. She couldn’t falter now, couldn’t give up. If it was already too late to claim the slipper as her own—or if the king simply didn’t accept her proof, then Rhodopis would accept her fate. The dull drudgery the gods had planned for her, even Vélona’s most savage beating. But she wouldn’t surrender her newfound hope until she was certain it was well and truly lost.

  The king’s soldiers moved to block her; Amasis himself scowled down at Rhodopis as she ran gracelessly toward him.

  She fell on her knees in the dust, as close to the throne as the guards would allow. “Please hear me, my king!”

  Amasis leaned from his throne, consulting quietly with his steward. After a moment, during which Rhodopis herd nothing but her own ragged breath rattling in her throat, the steward gestured for her to rise.

  Rhodopis climbed to her feet. The guards parted; she came forward, until she stood shoulder to shoulder with Archidike. The other girl’s blue eyes held all the familiar hurt and pain—Archidike’s savage spirit, glittering out from her heart.

  “What is it?” the king said from his throne. “Speak, girl.”

  With Archidike beside her, Rhodopis could not have spoken to save herself from damnation. Instead, she reached into her sash and pulled out her rose-gold slipper. She held it up before her face, offering it to the Pharaoh.

  Amasis jerked his head, a silent command—the steward whisked the slipper from Rhodopis’ hands. A moment later, it was in the Pharaoh’s grip. He stared at it, silent, contemplative, turning it over to examine it from every angle.

  “Please,” Rhodopis whispered. Beside her, Archidike growled deep in her throat, a groan of pure loathing.

  The king rose slowly from his throne. He parted his guards with a steady hand, then approached Rhodopis, his soft eyes questioning, wondering. Archidike sank to her knees before him. Rhodopis tried to do the same, but Amasis caught her gently by the chin and held her, so she had no choice but to look up into his eyes.

  She blushed—and how could the king resist her then? She, timid and beautiful, soft as a petal—the very picture of an ideal Greek girl. No Greek-loving king could turn away from that magical charm.

  “What is your name, girl?” the king asked.

  She swallowed hard, sure her voice would betray her. But when she spoke, the words carried. “Rhodopis, my lord. Rhodopis of Thrace.”

  Amasis raised his arms to the crowd. “The god Horus has spoken,” he cried. “He has brought this girl to me, to serve in my harem. Let the god’s will be done: Rhodopis of Thrace, Horus wills tha
t you join the house of the Pharaoh.”

  The king took her hand in his own. Every man and woman in the square—noble and lord, merchant and soldier, servant and slave—bowed low before her.

  Also by Libbie Hawker

  The White Lotus trilogy

  Persian Rose (February, 2017)

  Blood Hemlock (April, 2017)

  The She-King series

  The Sekhmet Bed

  The Crook and Flail

  Sovereign of Stars

  The Bull of Min

  The Book of Coming Forth by Day

  House of Rejoicing

  Storm in the Sky

  Eater of Hearts

  Tidewater

  Mercer Girls

  Daughter of Sand and Stone

  Baptism for the Dead

  About the Author

  Libbie Hawker writes historical and literary fiction featuring complex characters and rich details of time and place. She lives in the beautiful San Juan Islands with her husband an two naughty cats.

  When she’s not writing, Libbie can be found road tripping, decorating cookies, and working on her podcast about Jem and the Holograms.

  Connect with her below, and don’t forget to join Libbie’s mailing list (at LibbieHawker.com) to receive updates about new books and get exclusive previews of works in progress.

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  Copyright © 2016 by Libbie Hawker

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