Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2)

by Libbie Hawker

  “Of course I am.” Rhodopis didn’t intend to be snappish with the maids, but a dreadful humiliation was sinking deeper into her bones with each passing moment. The servants’ attention made her feel weak and helpless, as if she were an animal in a menagerie, caged for display. She shook her head impatiently. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be all right.”

  She made as if to stand. One of the servants restrained her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. Rhodopis sank back against her cushions, secretly grateful; the mere thought of putting weight on her feet made her ache and shudder. To stand would have been agony.

  “You must have a physician, my lady,” the maid said. “If those cuts aren’t cleaned properly, they may never heal.”

  Rhodopis sighed. “You’re right. Suppose you ought to send for the physician, then.”

  The two servants exchanged wary glances, brows raised under the dark, straight-cut fringes of their hair. Their silence was heavy as an overfilled wine skin. Then the one who had kept Rhodopis in bed shook her head slowly. “Oh, no, my lady—not us. Only the chief wife can send for the court physician. But don’t fret; Khedeb-Netjer-Bona will be here in a twinkling, and once she’s seen your injuries for herself, she won’t hesitate to have you treated.”

  “Khedeb-Netjer-Bona.” A new wellspring of anxiety filled Rhodopis’ stomach. “But I—”

  It was too late. The women had already gone, bustling away with their new errand. Rhodopis could do nothing but wait for the chief wife to arrive. Khedeb-Netjer-Bona was the last person she wished to see at that moment, but she could hardly leap up from the bed and flee the room. She lay with her trembling hands folded across her stomach, pressing her belly to ward off the queasiness of worry. At last, she heard the chief wife’s light but confident tread at the threshold of her door.

  “Chief Wife,” Rhodopis said, a polite greeting. She pushed herself up until she was sitting, propped against her cushions. “Forgive me for not standing.”

  Rhodopis knew that Khedeb-Netjer-Bona was in her late thirties, but if no one had told her so, she would have been hard-pressed to guess the chief wife’s age. Khedeb-Netjer-Bona was one of those smooth-skinned, serious-eyed women whose faces refuse to mark any passage of time—at least until they’ve achieved a truly venerable state, and then they seem to age all at once. The chief wife was not beautiful, exactly—her nose was far too bold, with a sharp hook like a falcon’s beak; her cheeks and chin were quite narrow, her eyes set rather close together. But in her unshakeable poise and proud bearing, she carried all the exquisite loveliness of a dozen goddesses. Regal and imposing despite her short and slender frame, Khedeb-Netjer-Bona stood in silence for a long moment, allowing the force of her presence to fill the room. Her dark brows were arched curiously; long, lacquered nails tapped in a thoughtful rhythm against Rhodopis’ little table with its untouched tray. The chief wife’s lips pursed as she considered the Greek girl, but her expression was unreadable. Rhodopis willed herself not to fidget under that silent scrutiny; she bit her lip, waiting for the chief wife to speak.

  “The servants tell me you have injured yourself,” Khedeb-Netjer-Bona said. Her voice was smooth as well-polished wood, low-pitched for a woman—a surprising sound, coming from such a small body. She drifted closer, peering down at Rhodopis’ feet, though without any of the recoiling horror the maids had shown. Only a flicker of startled disgust passed across her features, instantly quelled. “What in the all the gods’ names did you do to yourself, girl?”

  “I…” Rhodopis swallowed hard. “I was running, Chief Wife.”

  “Running.”

  “Without my sandals.”

  “I can see that. What possessed you to do such a thing?”

  Rhodopis lowered her eyes, fixing a dull stare on her clenched fists. Did she dare confess that she had left the women’s garden? She had done it quite by accident, of course, but that would make little difference. Even if Khedeb-Netjer-Bona forgave her for venturing beyond the stone urns, would she believe that Psamtik had menaced her—had tried to rape her?

  Still the chief wife waited, silent with expectation. Rhodopis could feel Khedeb-Netjer-Bona’s sharp eyes resting on her, weighing her, judging her. The insistence of that stare pricked like a hundred needles.

  “I was running from… someone who wanted to hurt me.”

  “Ah.” Khedeb-Netjer-Bona folded her arms beneath her small breasts and walked to the garden window. Her back remained turned to Rhodopis, yet still her voice managed to fill the room with ease. Its tone was flat, devoid of sympathy, but at least the words were understanding. “You needn’t say any more, girl. I take your meaning. There are certain dangers lurking in this palace; no one knows that better than I.” She spun abruptly on her heel, so suddenly that Rhodopis flinched. Khedeb-Netjer-Bona stared at her with that same sober, indecipherable composure. “I am not inclined to like you, Rhodopis—but I believe you know that already. However, I can find no fault in your actions. What happened to you last night could have happened just as easily to any woman under my care.”

  Khedeb-Netjer-Bona sighed. Her shoulders sagged a little—as much a display of desperation as the chief wife ever permitted. “I’ve often prayed for war, you know. Wicked of me, yet I won’t deny it. And do you know why I pray for war, girl? So that one will be sent off to the battlefield. If the gods were merciful, they would remove him from my path entirely.”

  Rhodopis blinked at the chief wife in surprise. “But isn’t he your son?”

  Khedeb-Netjer-Bona laughed—a hoarse, rattling cough that seemed too deep and cynical to have come from her small, delicate body. “Gods, no. Amasis had another chief wife before me. She succumbed to a fever and left her vicious whelp behind to plague not only my days but my every waking thought, too. Psamtik is her son, not mine. But he is my problem, never the less, and not only because he chases the Pharaoh’s women about like a leopard after gazelles. Someday he will take the throne, you see. On that day, I must give him one of my daughters to wed.”

  Rhodopis sat up straighter. “But must you, Chief Wife? I wouldn’t like to be married to that man, and… oh, I hate to think of your daughters, young as they are—”

  Khedeb-Netjer-Bona cut her off with a wave of her hand. “You come too close to impertinence, Rhodopis.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her cheeks heated; she sank back against the cushions again. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “No, I don’t believe you did. But it’s true: I must marry one of my girls to the king’s son. It is the way of things—the tradition we’ve kept here in Kmet since time past remembering. If I were to rebel against a tradition so old, so revered, it would be…” The chief wife made a lost, grasping gesture, her empty hands sifting uselessly through the air as she searched for the right word.

  “Not maat?” Rhodopis suggested.

  Khedeb-Netjer-Bona offered a tiny smile, the merest curve of one side of her mouth. “Exactly. It would not be maat. I don’t like it any better than you do. And yet, I can’t help but feel that whichever of my daughters goes to Psamtik’s marriage bed is the lucky one. For I know—I see already—that the other girl, and I, will be in far greater danger on the day Amasis dies.”

  “How can that be, Chief Wife?”

  Khedeb-Netjer-Bona returned to the garden window. She gazed out at the greenery for a moment, the placid leaves and cheerful blooms bathed in warm morning light. She said dully, “Do you know what young lions do, Rhodopis? Out there in the desert? When they depose an older male from his pride—or when they kill him—they maul all his little cubs to death. It makes the lionesses receptive, so the new males may sire their own get upon the females. Psamtik will take no chances; no one with any claim to the throne, no matter how slim, will be left alive to oppose him.”

  Rhodopis shuddered. In Khedeb-Netjer-Bona’s slender body, in the stillness of her posture, she read a new vulnerability, where before she had seen only icy and carefully maintained dignity.

  The chief wife glanced at Rhodo
pis again. Her mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown; she seemed to understand that she had said too much, gone too far in confiding to the Greek newcomer. She brushed her hands together, a gesture that said, “Let us turn to our task,” and headed toward Rhodopis’ door with a brisk step, gliding beyond the reach of their dark conversation. “I’ll send for the physician,” she said. “It will be painful, I think, to clean and treat those injuries. But you’ll bear it, I expect. You seem a tougher and more sensible girl than I’ve given you credit for.”

  It took nearly two full weeks for Rhodopis’ feet to heal—two weeks of unpleasant ministration from the king’s physician, a pinch-faced old man whom the gods had not seen fit to bless with gentle hands. Two weeks of swabbing with concentrated wine—it burned like a malicious fire—and salving with thick, noxious-smelling oils. In all that time, Rhodopis was half convinced she would never dance again—indeed, that she would never walk again without limping and crying out piteously—though every day the physician reassured her that her feet were healing exactly as he expected.

  Finally, though, the worst of her lacerations closed and the raw, red scrapes hardened with scab. If she moved with care, Rhodopis found she could walk well enough, and soon she was even permitted to trade the linen wraps that bound her wounds for ordinary sandals, though the doctor admonished her to keep them impeccably clean, and to bless them with the smoke of myrrh incense morning and night, which would prevent foul spirits from clinging to the soles and reintroducing infection. The fear that she would never dance again fled from Rhodopis’ mind. The departure of that constant dread left her feeling lighter and more joyous than she had since her first day in the Pharaoh’s palace.

  Buoyed and glad, Rhodopis found herself craving for interaction with the other women. The yearning for company—for conversation and laughter, if not true friendship—seized her with a grip as powerful as the worst hunger she had endured as a child. Most of the women still seemed to dislike Rhodopis. She was Greek, after all, and were not the Greeks the source of all Egypt’s troubles? But she was determined to find her feet among them, to make the most of her situation.

  Spinning linen threads was the traditional pastime of the Pharaoh’s women. For thousands of years, the king’s household had occupied itself with spindles and distaffs, transforming the long, pale-gold fibers of the flax plant into soft, pliant threads. Women of senior standing wove the threads on their large, intricate looms, producing vast lengths of fine linen, pale and flowing as moonlight on water. Amasis’ women took their work very seriously indeed—for now more than ever before, it seemed critical that they preserve the old ways, the customs and honored traditions that had defined them as Egyptians for uncountable generations.

  Rhodopis threw herself into spinning with earnest enthusiasm. She was quite hopeless at the work. She wielded the distaff no more gracefully than a child playing with a wooden sword. Her fingertips cracked and blistered from the friction of the dry flax stems, but despite her sacrifices and dogged determination, her threads remained abysmally kinked and marred by ugly slubs. The other women gossiped and joked and sang their songs, and all the while perfectly smooth and uniform threads seemed to sprout from their fingertips like seedlings from the dark Egyptian soil. They achieved what Rhodopis could only dream of, and apparently without the least bit of exertion or concentration. She would have been envious, if not for the pleasure she took in their company. For though they still disapproved of the Greek girl whom the king had dropped among them like a pebble carelessly tossed into a jewel box, the women seemed to approve of Rhodopis’ dedication to her spindle and distaff. She may not be Egyptian, but she seemed bent on learning the ways of a true Egyptian woman—on taking a proper role within the harem. For now, it was reason enough for them to tolerate Rhodopis’ presence.

  One bright, humid morning, in a circle of white stone benches beneath the shade of a rustling sycamore, Rhodopis sat with the harem girls, spinning in the sweet garden breeze. The women chattered and jested as always while spindles dropped from their hands and rose again, dropped and rose in a steady, soothing rhythm. The twirling spindle weights flashed their blurred colors against the pure white of the women’s skirts. Rhodopis listened to their conversation, trying to concentrate more on their talk than on the feel of her threads, which were embarrassingly rough, as ever.

  “Did I tell you,” Nebetiah said, “I’ve had another letter from my mother?” Her thread seemed to form itself between her deft fingers. She spun easily as she talked, a spider casting out its gossamer web.

  “Not yet,” Iset said, “but I have a feeling we’ll hear about it now.”

  “The riots in the northern end of the city have been quelled—at least for now. That’s what Mother said.”

  “Good news,” said Sobek-Neferu.

  Iset emitted a tiny, delicate snort. “Is it good news?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? You don’t want violence and destruction, do you?”

  “Mm,” Iset said noncommittally. She shrugged as she caught her spindle and dropped it again. Her eyes never left the weight as it whirled at the end of her thread, but she spoke rather forcefully, and loud enough for every woman to hear. “No one wants violence and destruction, but neither do I want to see good and true Kmetu people roll over like dogs in the street, with their bellies exposed.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Sobek-Neferu protested.

  “Like dogs,” Iset said. “Whining in their throats, tails between their legs, pissing on the spot, out of pure terror of their masters!”

  Nebetiah laughed. “You do paint a vivid scene. I’d hardly call the Greeks masters of any Kmetu.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t you?”

  At Iset’s wry murmur, other women in the spinning circle nodded. “She’s right,” someone said from the other side of the small courtyard.

  Iset went on. “If there are riots, at least it means our people fight back.”

  “Fight back?” said Sobek-Neferu. “No—they are only fighting. Fighting solves nothing.”

  “Surely you’re right,” Iset said airily. “That must be why the Pharaoh keeps such a large army: to accomplish nothing whatsoever.”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Nebetiah said. “You hiss at each other like a couple of vipers. What good does it do?”

  Sitmut, a plump young woman who was always quick with a jest, tossed out a careless laugh. “Better a hissing viper than a whining dog with its belly exposed. Am I right, Iset?”

  “You’d rather see riots than peace.” Sobek-Neferu sounded weary and sad.

  “It’s not that we want riots,” Sitmut said. “But how else are Kmetu to find any justice? We’re all here in the harem at the pleasure of the Pharaoh. But you know he cares nothing for justice or peace.”

  “That’s not true.” Sobek-Neferu didn’t sound convinced by her own words.

  “The time for peaceful negotiations is long past,” Iset said. “Negotiations with Greece… negotiations with our king…”

  Sitmut kicked a pebble in Iset’s direction. “You had better take care. If the chief wife hears you say such things—”

  “What can she do to me?” Iset said defiantly. “Throw me out into the street? Very well; I’ll join the riots!”

  Nebetiah chuckled as she pulled more flax from her distaff.

  Iset rounded on her. “Do you find something amusing?”

  “Nothing at all.” Nebetiah shrugged, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her face. She broke out in full-throated laughter, nearly dropping her spindle and distaff as she rocked and shook. “It’s only… the thought of you, pounding up and down the streets, shouting and throwing stones! You’d break off a fingernail, and then, gods help us all!”

  “Gods help the Greek pestilence,” Iset growled.

  All laughter died on the instant. Rhodopis felt a dozen pairs of eyes turn in her direction, but she couldn’t have said whether those looks were apologetic or challenging. Reckon a bit of both is about right, she thought.
Her cheeks heated, and she kept her own gaze downcast so she wouldn’t be forced to meet either an accusing stare or a sympathetic one.

  “Don’t stop talking on account of me, girls; you mustn’t,” Rhodopis said. “Anyway, I don’t disagree—not with any of you. Of course I don’t like the riots—who does?—but it just about looks as if the… the Kmetu have been pushed past what anyone can bear.” She smothered a sigh. She had very nearly called the native people Egyptians, and none of the Pharaoh’s girls—proud Kmetu, one and all—would have looked kindly on such an error.

  “See?” Iset said, triumphant. “Even the Greek pestilence agrees with me.”

  A week ago, Iset’s words would have been nakedly barbed. Now she sounded friendly, almost jovial. Rhodopis peered up through her lashes and offered Iset a shy smile. The dark-eyed young woman grinned back and bumped Rhodopis’ shoulder with her own.

  “Somebody teach this poor flea how to spin, though, for the sake of sweet Goddess Nit! Look at her threads; they’re like a ship’s lines.”

  “It’s true!” Rhodopis laughed helplessly. “If we send my thread to the weaving house, the older women will think we’re trying to play a terrible joke on them. You couldn’t weave a grain sack from my spinning!”

  Nebetiah eyed Rhodopis’ thread, trying once more to hide a smile… and failing. “Your thread might make a serviceable fishing net.”

  “Not even that! I’m about as much use as a two-legged horse.”

  “The important thing is that you’re trying,” Nebetiah said. “With enough practice, you’ll learn.”

  The women’s conversation drifted on, all question of riots and pestilence forgotten for the time being. But the placid smile faded slowly from Rhodopis’ lips as she played her companions’ talk over again in her mind. What she’d told them was true: it was clear as daylight to any blind fool that the Egyptians of Memphis—and elsewhere in the Pharaoh’s lands—had endured more than any people ought. How much longer would they tolerate their king’s outrages? And when they’d finally had enough, what could Amasis expect? What could any Greek in the city expect? The mere thought was enough to make Rhodopis shudder with dread. She held no affection for Egypt. Indeed, Memphis society had taken much from her: she could only pray that her family had made it back to Thrace safely, for she had no way to contact them now; nor had she a friend in the world, thanks to the hard culture of the ever-warring hetaerae. Egypt could fall as fast and hard as hail from the Thracian sky, and Rhodopis would never shed a tear. The country was nothing to her; it was merely the place where she had washed ashore, the culture in which she found herself embedded and unwanted, like a sliver of wood in tender flesh.