Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2)

by Libbie Hawker

  She pressed her lips together and did not respond.

  “Let me see your hands,” Phanes said.

  Rhodopis lowered her arms and held out her hands, palms up. “Empty, as you can see.”

  Phanes turned her hands over roughly. He picked and pried at her finger-rings, jerking and twisting each one in turn.

  “Ow!” Rhodopis cried. “You’ve hurt me! What do you think you’re doing now?”

  “Searching for hinges and clasps,” he said. “Hollow rings. Anything that might hold poison. Let me see your necklace.”

  She held the emerald bauble out to him; he pried at it, but the ornament revealed no hidden compartment, no deadly phial that might take Cambyses’ life.

  “Are you satisfied now?” Rhodopis said. “I’ve got no weapon, nor any poison. And if you don’t let me go in to the king, who has summoned me, after all, he’ll be looking for the reason why.”

  Phanes backed out of the room. “Very well. You seem safe enough this time. But I will learn the truth of you, Nitetis. Don’t think you can put me off forever.”

  She jerked her chin high and strode past him, pulling her clothing back into place, burning with fury and fear.

  Phanes rapped on the chamber door.

  “Come,” Cambyses called.

  Rhodopis was all too glad to put the heavy lion door between herself and Phanes. When it closed, she breathed a quiet sigh of relief and looked upon the king’s private chambers for the first time. Rhodopis had thought her own accommodations spectacular, but next to the king’s, her rooms seemed as quaint as a peasant’s mud-hut. Cambyses’ rooms were so large, they seemed to occupy the entire upper story of the palace. Half a dozen doors ran down opposite walls of the chamber, each one leading (Rhodopis assumed) into another room. A huge table of ebony wood dominated the great chamber; it was covered with neat stacks of tablets and baskets of scrolls. A small wooden rack on the table held a variety of writing tools: an ink brush with fine, pointed hairs, a variety of styli and tiny stone chisels. Did the king eschew scribes, and write his own letters? If so, this was the very desk on which Cambyses had composed his threat to Egypt. Rhodopis shivered and looked away from the table. Two groups of couches ranged to either side of the room. What any man—even a king—would need with two separate sitting areas, Rhodopis could not begin to imagine. There was a corner strewn with cushions, half-screened by small fig trees that sprouted from clay pots. Through the figs’ leaves, she could see a rack that held several strange instruments, with round, bulbous bodies made of polished wood and long necks, up which ran pale strings like those of a harp.

  Across a veritable sea of matching blue carpets, Cambyses stood with his back to the chamber, gazing out one of a series of tall, rectangular windows. The stars had brightened, multiplied; their pale glow graced the desert through a curtain of purple-dark night. A damp, greenish scent of garden fountains drifted in through the window. Although the great wooden shutters were folded back and tied, the king’s chamber was not cold. Several large braziers burned on golden tripods; the air above them wavered with heat, and the wood coals within crackled, emitting coils of resinous smoke.

  Cambyses raised his hand, beckoning without turning to look at Rhodopis. She crossed the vast room rather timidly and stood silently beside the king.

  The city of Babylon spread itself across the desert below. Lamps flickered to life throughout the city, illuminating every window, blossoming like red flowers on the rooftops. Pinpricks of fire danced and moved along the streets; the commingling of many individual lights set spires of temples and ziggurats apart from the blackness of the desert. The city’s subtle glow warmed the huge, pointed mounds of the ice-houses, great storage domes like the hives of enormous bees, where blocks of miraculous, milk-white ice were preserved intact against the desert clime, even in the killing heat of summer. Beyond Babylon’s walls, beyond the faint silver strip of its river, the desert was an expanse of wool-soft blackness, stretching like an unending sea toward the invisible horizon. It was beautiful, that uninterrupted, untamed land. But the serenity of the view did nothing to calm Rhodopis’ fears. Her heart only seemed to beat all the harder as she gazed out at the placid scene. Blackness was all around her. She was surrounded by enemies; soon Phanes would learn her secret, one way or another, and then it would all be over. Perhaps this would be the last beautiful thing she ever saw—this quiet night, this undisturbed peace. Then the blade would drop, and no one—not Aesop, not her lost family—would know where she had gone, or what had become of her. Perhaps not even the gods would know, for this was not Thrace, not Egypt. It was the land of Ishtar and Ahuru-Mazda—strangers to her.

  Cambyses turned to her suddenly; Rhodopis lifted a hand, trying to dash away her tears before he could see. But it was too late. He touched her shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Nitetis. Why do you weep?” A broad smile shifted the curls of his beard. “Ah—you are a virgin, and afraid. Is that it?”

  Rhodopis hung her head, hoping the posture made a convincing display of bashful innocence. She could think of nothing to say to him.

  “You need not fear,” Cambyses said softly. “I will be good to you.”

  “I have heard.” She could manage nothing louder than a hoarse whisper.

  Cambyses chuckled. He pulled one of the folding shutters across the window. “My ladies in the harem have been educating you. I am glad to hear it. Have they made you feel welcome?”

  “Yes,” Rhodopis said, quite honestly. “They are most kind and generous, my king. I… I like them quite a lot.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it, though I expect nothing less of them.” He pulled the other shutter closed, secured it tightly to its mate with a leather cord, then set to work shuttering the rest of the windows. “We are one family here, one body, one heart. I trust them all, you know—all my women. That first day, when you saw me wrestling in the courtyard—” He laughed again in remembrance— “You must have been shocked to find me in such a state, but even a king must have his leisure… and his due distraction from more serious matters. On that day, if the women of my house had not approved of you, I would have sent you back to Egypt.”

  She blinked up at him, startled. “Would you truly?”

  “Yes.” He brushed her cheek lightly with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. “The happiness of all my wives and concubines is of great important to me, Nitetis—yours not the least. I shall place as much trust in you as I place in them. After all, you undertook a long journey to join me here. I know your coming was an act of loyalty to your father, and to Egypt—but I value the sacrifice as much as if you had done it all for me.”

  Stabbed again by shame, Rhodopis lowered her gaze. Cambyses’ eyes were too earnest, too kind for her to look at him any longer.

  “What unusual eyes you have,” he said. “They’re pale-green as the river. I’ve never seen an Egyptian with such eyes.”

  “Many people have told me that my eyes are unusual,” she muttered. “But I am as the gods have made me.”

  “So you are. And the gods have made you beautiful.”

  Gently, he lifted her face. Then he bent and kissed her. His beard tickled, but his mouth was soft and slow. Even so, Rhodopis tensed, recoiling—remembering Psamtik’s brutal assault with a vividness that stirred a terrible revulsion in her gut. She trembled, trying to master her body and her emotions, willing herself not to cringe away from the king’s embrace.

  Cambyses seemed to take her flinching and fidgeting for young woman’s inexperience; his hands moved with careful purpose up and down her back, soothing her as he might have done a skittish hound. When she relaxed, his hands roamed farther, playing softly over her hips, the roundness of her backside, straying up beneath her fringed shawl to warm the bare skin of her arms.

  The longer he touched her, the calmer and more reassured Rhodopis became until, all at once, the heat of desire ignited inside. She raised up on her toes and kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck, pressing he
r body against his in mute insistence. Rhodopis didn’t know whether she was stepping into her expected role—as she had done so often as a hetaera—or whether the king had tapped some true well of fire within her. Perhaps it was only the fear and tension of her encounter with Phanes, working its jittery way out of her bones down the only path presently available. But when Cambyses picked her up and carried her to his great, lion-footed bed, for the first time in her life, Rhodopis found real pleasure in a man’s hands, in his flesh, in his tongue.

  Rhodopis had no way of keeping time in the king’s chamber, but when Cambyses finally sank into exhausted sleep, she thought at least two hours had passed. Never had she entertained a man for so long; she ached between her legs, and a terrible thirst left her feeling wobbly and half-sick, yet she was also suffused with a delicious warmth of satisfaction. She had enjoyed her time with Cambyses—honestly enjoyed it, without the need for any artifice or pretense. She smiled as she listened to his deep, rhythmic breath, then rolled from his bed and began hunting for her robe and slippers. Two of the braziers still burned; by their dim light, she could see that Cambyses had made a mess of her garb, strewing every stitch of her clothing across the patterned carpets and under the furnishings.

  She dropped to her knees, groping beneath a couch, trying to recover her silken sash.

  “Nitetis,” the king called softly.

  Rhodopis lurched to her feet, clutching her shawl up to her chin, trying to cover her nakedness. Cambyses laughed at the sight of her. “What are you doing, girl?”

  “Dressing, my king!”

  “Why?” He chuckled again. “And why in Ishtar’s name do you cover yourself? Haven’t I already seen every bit of you?”

  She blushed, lowering the white shawl slowly.

  Cambyses lifted the corner of his wool blanket. “Come. Get back into bed.”

  She hesitated—only a moment, for the king had given a clear command. She went to him, eager but confused. Only Charaxus had ever stopped her from leaving once her work was done. Even Amasis never kept her back for mere affection.

  She slid beneath the blanket, glad in the solid comfort of his strong, warm body beside her.

  “Talk to me,” Cambyses said.

  It was such an unexpected request that she laughed aloud. She couldn’t help it. “About what, my king?”

  “Anything. Tell me about Egypt. What is your father like? I have never met him face to face, you know. What kind of a man is he?”

  She turned to him with a playful smile. “Are you plying me for secrets? Do you think to use this information against my father?”

  “Yes, quite.” Cambyses grinned, warming to her game, and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Why do you think I sent for an Egyptian bride in the first place?” His hand stroked her hip, then roved up her side to caress her shoulder. “It was all a ploy learn Egypt’s secrets. Certainly, it had nothing to do with getting a beautiful woman into my bed.”

  “You’ve got plenty of beautiful women already in your harem, so it must be true. You’re only hoping I’ll betray my father and tell you something interesting, if you can manage to take my breath away in this very bed, and make me too dizzy to think before I speak.” She pressed close to his beard again, and kissed him.

  “How right you are,” Cambyses said, his voice low and purring. “Is it working? Tell me everything—everything!”

  His voice was playful enough, his smile gently teasing, but Rhodopis was quite sure there was more than a little truth in the words themselves. She pulled back and looked at Cambyses gravely. “You know I can’t betray my father’s interests, my king. What kind of a daughter would I be? Disloyalty is not a trait any man values in his wife.”

  Cambyses took her hand, stroking it gently. “Nitetis, I swear to you—I’ll swear by any god you please—that I will not harm your family. I will never ask you to betray them. But I must expand my empire however I may—that is the task the gods have given me, and I cannot deny them. But for the sake of our marriage, I will deal with Egypt peacefully, if that is what you wish.”

  She swallowed, blinking back the burn of sudden tears. His earnestness moved her—and surprised her. There had been truth in his letter, along with the threat of war. Cambyses honestly intended the marriage with Egypt to seal a peace between them.

  “Of course I wish it,” she said. It was true; she wanted no harm visited on any person, Egyptian, Greek, or Persian—except for Psamtik. Every god in the heavens and earth could curse him to a thousand eternal deaths, and scatter his bones to the jackals, and she would never feel the least prickle of remorse.

  “Then it will be so. But I must know more about Egypt, one way or another—for now we are the two greatest empires in the world. We will meet as enemies, sooner or later. If I am to navigate that clash as peacefully as possible, I must have information about your father and your homeland.”

  “Must you?”

  He gave her a confused half-smile. “I must have information.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. Must you… meet as enemies? Must there truly be a war?”

  Cambyses sighed, a long and weary sound. “I hope to avoid a war. Wars are always costly, both in wealth and in men’s lives. But a conflict—ah, that is inevitable, I’m afraid. This is the way the gods have made nations and men. The pattern is predictable: we strive for ever greater power, some of us are conquered, some do the conquering. Sooner or later, there are only a few left standing—as there are now: Egypt, Greece, and Haxamanishiya. We will meet as enemies, but that meeting need not be violent. It won’t be, if I can do anything to prevent it—if the gods will allow it. But I swore I would treat your family gently, and I shall, no matter what may come.”

  “You have ambassadors to teach you about Egypt,” Rhodopis said. Her duty to Amasis and Khedeb-Netjer-Bona was already taxing enough; she wanted no part of whispering into Cambyses’ ear. “Why make me betray my family in this way, even if you have sworn to be gentle?”

  “I have ambassadors, yes—but which of them can I trust more than my wife?”

  “Your Egyptian wife.”

  He kissed her nose again. “My wife may be Egyptian by blood, but she is Haxamani now, by marriage.”

  Rhodopis drew back from him, wide-eyed, smiling with mock disbelief. “Do you call that a marriage? That day in the practice field, you half-naked and sweating, and simply proclaiming I was your wife?”

  “I’m fully naked now, and every bit as sweaty. Do you find me disagreeable in such a state?”

  Rhodopis giggled. She sank back on her cushion, pressing herself closer to Cambyses. “Very well. Since you swore gentle treatment, I will tell you about Egypt and my family—whatever I am able to tell.” Anything she could say of Amasis was likely to be common knowledge, anyhow, Rhodopis reasoned. What did a concubine of only a few months’ standing know about the Pharaoh of all Egypt, even if she had been his favorite? She could do Amasis no harm. And she liked lying beside Cambyses, liked the feel of his strong, solid body, his beard brushing her skin. Wasn’t it worth keeping the king of Persia happy, when he made her feel so very safe?

  11

  Ishtar’s Reply

  The new moon hung low in the sky, a slim crescent sailing like a golden boat through a river of stars. Rhodopis paced slowly along the edge of the garden terrace, contemplating the sky. Jubilant songs and ululating cheers came intermittently through the night—the women were enjoying another feast, this time to celebrate the birth of a healthy baby. Rhodopis had joined in the singing and dancing, clapping her hands and raising her cup to salute the newborn child, but after a time, a spell of melancholy overtook her. She had slipped off into the darkness when no one was watching, craving whatever silence she could hope to find tonight.

  Her thoughts were a hopeless tangle, and whenever she tried to follow one twisted thread, it led inevitably back to Cambyses—to the first night she had lain with him, nearly a full month ago. It seemed impossible that she had truly live
d in the king’s harem for little more than a single turn of the moon. So much of her life, of her self, had changed. She had formed bonds among the women that might be called friendships, if she could stand to draw a little closer. It seemed to her impossible that she would ever have a friend again, after Archidike’s betrayal. Nevertheless, she enjoyed playing her part of the harem’s busy, bright, joyful routines. She had been called often to Cambyses’ bed, but she received no ill treatment from the other women on that account. And as for the king himself… Rhodopis shivered with a delightful anticipation that was tempered by chagrin. There was no denying that she enjoyed playing her part in Cambyses’ bed, too. The pleasure she found with him was all too real—unlike her experiences with other men, the clients she had entertained back in Memphis.

  The raspy, gurgling cry of the new baby drifted across the terrace, followed by a collective “Ah!” of admiration from the women. Rhodopis smiled rather sadly at the sound. For all the forays into Cambyses’ bed, she had taken precautions to ensure that she would never personally enjoy a party like this one; Amtes had come prepared with a variety of teas, tinctures, and pessaries, each more potent than the last and guarantees to ensure that Lady Nitetis remained as barren as the desert sands. It was better this way, she told herself firmly. After only a month, Babylon already felt far too much like home. She mustn’t get too comfortable here, for the gods alone knew what might be in store for her. If she were to send out tentative, fragile roots here in the king’s palace—if she were to become the mother of one of the king’s children—it would only make the inevitable separation more painful, impossible to bear.

  Rhodopis stared down at the city for a long while. It looked just as it had that first night with Cambyses, quietly glowing in hues of honey and old, aging gold. A sudden frown creased her brow. Why shouldn’t I root myself in this soil, after all? She was happy here—far happier than she’d imagined she could be. Amasis and his damnable, pinch-faced chief wife had fretted so over why the falcon god had chosen Rhodopis. Had neither of those fools ever considered that perhaps the falcon hadn’t intended to move Rhodopis about as a pawn for the Pharaoh? Perhaps Horus—perhaps all the gods—were working on Rhodopis’ part, not on behalf of the Egyptian king. Maybe the gods maneuvered me along this strange path so I would end up here, in Babylon and in Cambyses’ household… where I can finally find peace and happiness. And don’t I deserve it, after all I’ve suffered through?