As they stepped from the litter, Rhodopis greeted the next two guests, gentlemen older than Charaxus by some ten or fifteen years.
“You must be Good Men Dareios and Eusebius,” she said. She lifted the vase of rose water that waited beside the nearest pillar. “Please, freshen your hands. I’ve a towel here for you.”
When the guests had dipped their fingers in the water and patted their hands dry, Rhodopis gestured to the servant who lurked nearby, waiting for her summons. “Wine?” Rhodopis said, offering each man a small cup.
“By Zeus,” said Eusebius, “it is a delightful surprise to find traditional female hospitality so far from home.”
“One never expects such inviting domesticity in Egypt,” Dareios agreed.
Rhodopis beamed at them with a gentle, wifely smile. “I will see to it that you enjoy the evening, Good Men. Nothing could make me happier. Please, do go in. The master of the house waits in the andron.”
More guests arrived—a fifth, a sixth, a ninth and a tenth. Rhodopis treated every man with the same charm and kindness, but her hopes wilted with each successive arrival. Inside the house, Charaxus had already cued the musicians; a traditional Samian folk song came forlornly out into the courtyard, the sound pooling rather weakly between the garden walls. The kitchen-maid would be making her rounds now, filling each man’s cup of wine. The dinner party had begun, but Polycrates of Samos had not arrived.
Rhodopis knew she must return to the andron. Charaxus would be waiting for her. But she couldn’t make herself abandon her hope. She lingered by the portico, waiting for the pirate, even as the night grew colder and the moon crept higher in the sky. A half hour passed while she watched the entry gate, praying for the gods to send their mercy. But the courtyard remained empty, and inside, the musicians played on.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder; Rhodopis started.
“Come inside, my love,” Charaxus said. “My guests want to see you, and bask in your radiant light.”
Reluctantly, Rhodopis followed him inside. She lay beside him on his eating couch, simpering at his guests.
“This is Eulalia,” Charaxus said proudly, “the celebrated hetaera from my homeland.”
The men murmured their approval. “We thought you had gone and found yourself a wife,” one of them said.
Charaxus smiled and squeezed Rhodopis’ shoulder. “Perhaps someday soon.”
How can any of these fools think me an admirable Greek wife? Rhodopis thought, queasy with irritation. A proper Greek woman wouldn’t linger in the andron. I wonder why Charaxus hasn’t sent me off to that dull little gynaeceum he keeps for his female servants. It’s where a proper Greek woman would eat her supper, rather than lying about like a whore on a man’s couch.
But of course, Rhodopis could not afford to let her disappointment to show. Charaxus’ happiness was of paramount importance—as was his complacency. If he wished to display her like a common porna, even as he played this tedious game of husband-and-wife, then so be it. Rhodopis emanated a glow she did not feel, and responded to the men’s compliments with as much grace and proper feminine humility as she could conjure up. When they made their jests, she laughed musically, and even offered a few of her own, carefully measured to please the palates of these refined and dignified men.
Charaxus seemed to grow more satisfied by the hour as he watching Rhodopis play the hostess in his home. His beaming smile set her secret fury boiling. The gods knew, if she were ever to become his wife Rhodopis would take no role such as this in Charaxus’ home. She would be sequestered away behind thick curtains and stone walls, hidden from the eyes of male visitors, not holding forth in the andron, coaxing laughter from the men as she filled their cups with wine. Did Charaxus wants a wife, or a hetaera? He could not have both; it would never be accepted in Lesvos or in Greek-controlled Memphis.
An hour dragged by, as did the first courses of the meal. The food was delicious and well prepared, but Rhodopis could eat very little. Disappointment and anxiety sat like twin stones in her gut, heavy and dry. The servants entered, bearing a palate-cleanser on their trays: bright green cucumbers stuffed with pungent goat cheese. The cheese looked entirely too thick and rich for Rhodopis to handle now. Her stomach lurched at the mere thought. She must find some gracious way to leave the party early. She had played the gracious wife for as long as she could stand; now she wanted only to hide herself away in Charaxus’ bed chamber, where she could give vent to her stormy emotions, and weep without restraint over how cruel fate had thwarted all her desperate plans. But just as she was gathering her skirt to stand, a booming laugh rang from the edge of the andron. Rhodopis sat up sharply, staring.
A great, dark-haired man with a curly beard was striding purposefully into the room. Charaxus’ steward scurried along behind him, protesting feebly, trying to convince the man to slow down, to give his name, to observe the established protocols of a high-class supper party. For one terrible moment, Rhodopis thought Cambyses had come to Egypt himself, for the express purpose of striking off her head. The newcomer looked so much like the Persian king, tall and broad and bearded.
“I am sorry, Master,” the steward said to Charaxus. “I tried to get this man to wait, but he—”
“It’s all right, Epaphras,” Charaxus said to his servant. “He is here at my invitation, and he has always enjoyed making an entrance.” Charaxus rose from his couch and said heartily, “Polycrates! My old friend; you’ve come after all. It has been too long since I last saw you.”
Rhodopis shuddered with relief. She rose, too, forcing herself to do so with grace. She fought down the urge to skip across the andron singing. The gods had relented after all!
“I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Good Man Polycrates,” Rhodopis said. She offered a hand. “My name is Eulalia.”
Polycrates took his time in kissing the backs of her fingers, staring the whole while into Rhodopis’ eyes. “What a toothsome little thing you’ve got here, Charaxus. A hetaera, eh? Perhaps I’ll take her to my bed tonight!” He roared with laughter.
Charaxus shifted on his feet, flushing; the other guests covered their mouths to hide a collective amusement that was perhaps a bit too keen and eager for propriety. Ah, Rhodopis thought. This Polycrates fellow hasn’t been in Memphis long, but it seems he already knows it’s considered great sport around here to bait Charaxus, the tiresome dandy of Lesvos. She liked Polycrates straight away.
Recovering himself, Charaxus indicated the empty couch that waited for Polycrates. He called for wine.
“Plenty of it,” Polycrates added to the pourer as the young man came forward with his pitcher.
“I haven’t seen you for a good many years,” Eusebius said to Polycrates as the latter settled on his couch. “I recall we had an unfortunate encounter some time ago, in the Delta.”
“We did,” Polycrates said. “This was ten years back, at least. Old Eusebius and I had both just moored our ships outside Tanis, at one of the toll stations. He had his crew dressed right smart, all in matching tunics with his colors on display, like some fucking king’s flag in the middle of a battle.” Polycrates wheezed with laughter. “Eusebius went ashore for some reason or other—to enjoy taking a shit without hanging his arse over the rail of a ship, I suppose—and while he was gone I coaxed a few of his crew over to my boat. I had good beer and some nice honey wine, and a few pretty girls traveling with me. They came over for conversation, to wait while the inspectors made their rounds. Well, I waved the inspectors over to my ship first. They took stock of my goods—the goods they could see, at least; I’ve got more than a few hidden compartments on my boats—and they saw Eusebius’ men there, painted up in those unmistakable colors like a lot of two-for-a-hedj pornae! ‘Right, then,’ the inspectors said to me, ‘we’ll add this lot of cargo to the totals on Eusebius’ other ship.’ I said, ‘Excellent. My master Eusebius has told me to be off, as soon as I’ve passed inspection, for this cargo has to arrive at its destination tomorrow and we can�
�t spare another hour.’ The fools waved me along. I sent all of Eusebius’ men back to the shore and sailed away… and Eusebius was kind enough to pay the toll for me!”
Polycrates bellowed with glee again. The other men cast worried glances at Eusebius, but the old fellow was laughing, too. Evidently time had taken the sting out of the pirate’s trick.
Rhodopis observed Polycrates carefully as the next course was brought around. She found she had enough appetite to eat heartily, now; the soup of onions and radishes was delicious. The Samian pirate launched a barrage of jokes and outrageous tales across the andron, proving himself every bit as coarse and shocking as Charaxus had warned he would be. Rhodopis found Polycrates rather amusing. She would have liked to lie on his couch instead of Rax’s, if only to goad Polycrates into ever more entertaining comments, and test how deep the well of his shocking stories ran. But of course, she was more interested in the pirate’s fleet—and his connections within Greece—than his fascinating array of curses and scandalous tales.
When the onion soup was finished, the guests stood, stretching, and allowed the servants to clear away the dishes. The party wandered out into the garden, leaving Charaxus’ people to freshen the small andron. There they would while away the time until they were called back for the sweet course. Rhodopis slipped away from Charaxus as the little crowd spilled out from beneath the portico, into the crisp night air. Now was the moment she had been waiting for these days past—these days that had felt like years. Now, at last, she could speak to the pirate alone. If the gods were good, she would work the charms of a hetaera upon him, and Polycrates would be hers.
Rhodopis found Polycrates among the flowers—an improbable setting for the hulking man. He was bent low over a pot of jasmine, sniffing lustily at its sweet, early buds. It was so strange to see a man of his stature worshiping those white blooms like a blushing maiden that Rhodopis giggled as she approached.
Polycrates looked up, grinning rather sheepishly. “You’ve caught me; I do have a weakness for sweet and pretty things.”
“Do you?” She swayed closer. “What other sweet, pretty things do you enjoy?”
“I can tell you one thing—” Polycrates gestured toward the silk sash snugged around her waist. No—he was indicating a place somewhat lower than that. “There’s a flower I’d much rather smell.”
Rhodopis’ mouth fell open in feigned shock at his comment. “My good man! That is an outrageous thing to say to a woman of my sort.”
“A woman of your sort? You’ve heard worse, I dare say.”
She smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps I have. Shall we walk? There aren’t many paths through Charaxus’ little garden, but we can at least be off by ourselves.”
“D’you fancy being off alone with a man of my sort?”
“Perhaps I do.”
Polycrates offered his arm with as much dignity as any of Charaxus’ better guests might have done. Rhodopis slid her hand to the warm crook of his elbow. His muscles were firm beneath rough skin. Polycrates led toward the rear of the garden, until they were as far from Charaxus as they could get.
“You haven’t been in Memphis long,” Rhodopis said.
“No, Lady Eulalia. I try to avoid Egypt as much as my work permits. The tolls and taxes are burdensome, and Eusebius is not always conveniently to hand.”
She laughed lightly. “I sometimes find Egypt rather tiresome, myself.”
“I must say,” Polycrates said, “Old Egypt has been a more palatable place since it became Southern Greece. I don’t miss much about Egypt as it was before.”
“Before?”
“In my younger days.”
“Ah,” she said, plucking a winter flower, smelling it casually, “I thought you meant before Amasis came to the throne.”
“I do mean exactly that, I suppose. But some of Egypt’s old shortcomings have been covered up nicely by Greek importations. Hetaerae have improved the place immeasurably, for example… and you are among the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”
She tucked her flower into his beard. “Surely you’ve seen prettier hetaerae than I.”
“I certainly have.”
Rhodopis gasped with pretended ire. “You aren’t supposed to say such things, Polycrates, even if they are true. You ought to insist I’m the most beautiful woman the gods ever made.”
He laughed. “That’s how the game is played, isn’t it? Gods, but I’m glad to be in the company of a hetaera again. I’ve been on the sea for too long, and then on the river. And though I will admit the ordinary women here in Memphis are well enough, in their way, there’s no woman who can compare to a real Greek hetaera—not if you’re after a good time.”
“Surely some of those ordinary women know how to have a good time.”
“The Greeks might. The Egyptians don’t,” he said shortly.
“You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of Egypt.”
“Should I? It’s a dusty old place, stodgy and all too traditional. The world moves on—the world improves—but Egypt remains, unchanging, like honey in a sealed jar. It’s unnatural.”
“I understand it has changed rather a lot under Amasis.”
“That it has,” Polycrates said. There was something glum in his words. “But the people aren’t best pleased. If they had their way, Amasis would have been a king like all the hundreds who came before him. I have no special love for Amasis, but at least he has given Egypt a bit of a stir.”
“Shaken it up, you mean.”
“Yes, exactly. Now, whether anything new and original grows out of the dust he has agitated remains to be seen. I don’t have much hope; once Amasis is gone, that dust will settle back into its old patterns. All will be as it was before… and before… and long before that.”
“I admit that I do find Egypt rather tedious,” Rhodopis said. “I miss Lesvos. But I’m here to make my fortune, and there’s more silver to be had in Memphis just now than anywhere else.”
“I’m here to make my fortune, too. Nothing else could have drawn me back to this dry old dusty place. Well… almost nothing else. Memphis is bleeding silver just now, and that’s good for both of us. He may have stirred up the dead old dust of Egypt, but Pharaoh Amasis is not the wisest man who has ever sat upon a throne. His policies have stabbed a hole in Egypt’s side, and wealth spills out like blood. The hole will heal itself eventually—that’s the way of nations—but in the meantime, I shall stand beneath that gush with the biggest basin I can carry, and catch every drop.”
“I have heard some men wonder how much longer Amasis can hold the throne,” Rhodopis said casually. “Many of the men I go with say this Pharaoh won’t last.”
“Nor will he. It’s a wonder he’s held the country together this long, but it’s only a matter of time now before the whole damn thing gives way, and one enterprising Greek king or another takes over. Egypt has been dying for generations. You’re wise to make your fortune now, while you still can, and then get out before it all tumbles down.”
“Which Greek king do you think is most likely to come in and clean up once Egypt falls?” she asked playfully.
Polycrates grunted. “The city-state of Cyrene is still young enough to be hungry. I could see Cyrenian forces mustering a larger army from among the allies, and descending upon Egypt… perhaps. And Macedon is at least confident enough to try it, though I can’t say whether King Aeropus truly has the interest. The Chrysaorians could make a move toward Egypt, I suppose, though they have always been more interested in defense and trade than empire-building.”
“Persia might move toward Egypt,” Rhodopis said. “I’ve heard from many men that their king, Cambyses, is eager to expand his empire.”
“Ah, that he is.”
“Have you ever been to Persia?”
“I have visited parts of the empire, but I’ve never been so far as the king’s seat in Babylon. Hard to sail a ship across the desert, you know.”
“I would love to see it,” Rhodopis said. “There’s no adve
nture like traveling, and seeing new lands.”
“You like adventure?” Polycrates scratched his thick beard, looking down at Rhodopis with an air of consideration—and definite interest.
She grinned wickedly up at him. “More than you know. But until I can get to the Persian Empire and behold it myself, I’ll have to content myself with adventures closer to home. Tell me what Persia is like.”
Polycrates recounted a few brief tales from the few Persian-controlled cities he had visited. He did appear to have more enthusiasm for those far-off ports. As he spoke, Rhodopis found none of the contempt he had shown for Egypt, and she took it for a good sign. Polycrates might be amenable to her plan. If I can only find a likely way to broach the subject.
She returned her attention to Polycrates’ stories. “…And two days after leaving Halicarnassus,” he was saying, “I made it to Sidon. Now, there is a fascinating city, if ever the gods made one.”
Rhodopis blinked in surprise. “Halicarnassus to Sidon in just two days?” She had seen plenty of maps; if what he said was true, the pirate had sailed the route with astonishing speed.
“I’ve the fastest ships in the world,” he said frankly. “Ships—not just one. I have acquired an entire fleet of my own in recent years. It’s gratifying, to own the sea.”
Rhodopis laughed. “You own the sea?”
“I might as well. With a fast ship, a man can go anywhere—do anything, before any other man knows about it.”
“But you can’t go to Babylon,” she teased. “Across all that desert.”
“I don’t need to go to Babylon. I’m sure Cambyses’ great city is a sight to behold, but I’ve got good friends in many other places, with palaces that surely rival his.”
Rhodopis, of course, had seen Cambyses’ palace—had lived inside it, walked among his magnificent gardens, watched the sun set over Babylon below. No other palace could compare; she was utterly convinced of that. But she made a show of being thoroughly impressed. “Do you, really? Tell me who else you know.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 26