“I have done enough work for the kings of Cyrene and your own Lesvos to consider them both good friends… though I doubt they would be pleased to hear me say it. Pirates do not have the best of reputations, my lady. And there are others.” He ticked them off on his fingers, casually. “Quite a few well-placed men in Athens; Aeropus of Macedon; and important fellows in Corinth, Megara, and Sparta owe me dearly, as well. I have a few friends, scattered here and there.
“You’re playing,” she said reproachfully. “You don’t know all those great men.”
“I do.” Polycrates said it so simply, with no hint of his previous puffed-up bluster, that Rhodopis believed he was truthful. The secret spark of hope she had nurtured so carefully flared like a sunrise.
The steward’s thin voice called out from the direction of the portico.
“Sweet course is ready,” Polycrates said. He offered his arm again. “Though I wonder that Charaxus thinks he can offer anything sweeter than you.”
“You must tell me all about these kings you claim know,” Rhodopis said warmly. “If I believe you’re in earnest, perhaps you and I will go on an adventure together.” I’ll be ready to leave sooner than you think.
18
The Old Name
Rhodopis accepted a cup of dark spiced wine from a serving woman as she stepped into Heliodoros’ andron. The sharp bite of garlic, warmed by rosemary and tangy marjoram, drifted from the kitchen. She paused, drawing a deep breath, savoring the scent. The odors made her heart leap with unexpected recognition and a curious throb of nostalgic longing. Where had she smelled such cooking before? Ah, yes—in Iadmon’s household. It makes perfect sense, she thought, for Heliodoros’ cooks to use the same spices Iadmon favored. Both men are both from Samos.
And tonight’s feast would feature the best Samian food, wine, and entertainment that Memphis could offer. Heliodoros had sent word around the city that he intended to host a true Samian feast, with every homeland delicacy his cooks could re-create. Rhodopis had caught wind of Heliodoros’ plans via one of Charaxus’ guests; the next morning, as soon as the sun rose, she had sent Amtes out to seek an invitation for the lady Eulalia. Polycrates was likely to make an appearance at any Samian celebration. After getting to know the pirate at Charaxus’ select dinner party, Rhodopis felt sure that within his thick, undeniably coarse shell there beat a rather sentimental heart. Polycrates, so far from home, was unlikely to miss the opportunity to bask in the comforts of Samos.
“Eulalia!” someone shouted from among the men’s eating-couches. Another fellow called, “Welcome, lady!” She answered with a rather distracted wave, scanning the room for a glimpse of Polycrates’ black beard and bullish shoulders. There was no danger of Charaxus appearing at tonight’s party—Heliodoros had insisted that only Samian men attend. He would have limited the entertainment, too, but Samian hetaerae were in short supply; he’d had no choice but to broaden his selection of female guests, or risk leaving the men wanting for company. The knowledge that she could go about her business freed from Charaxus’ jealousies filled Rhodopis with a delightful sense of good fortune. Success was all but guaranteed tonight—indeed, she felt a tickle of joy moving delicately around the edges of her ever-present anxiety. It seemed tonight the gods were on her side. She was determined to win Polycrates’ trust and confidence, but she would gladly settle for a mere hour in his bed—anything that would move her closer to securing his ships for Cambyses.
It took only a few moments for Rhodopis to see that Polycrates had not yet arrived. If he had, the andron would be shaking right off its pillars from the great, drum-like boom of his laughter. No matter, she told herself. He arrived late to Charaxus’ party, too. He would appear sooner or later, and when he did, Rhodopis would be quick with her charms.
She made her way across the andron, undaunted, savoring the rich, spicy wine. The usual ripple of intrigued murmurs followed her—Lady Eulalia inspired interest wherever she went—but Rhodopis could not help but notice that the comments lacked some of the enthusiasm she had generated earlier in the season. Eulalia’s novelty was wearing off. Soon she would become a fixture of Memphian life, no longer the exotic newcomer… common as dust in the alleys. It was well she had found Polycrates while her star still shone in the Memphian sky. Once the pirate was secured to her cause, Rhodopis could leave Memphis and never look back.
She glided past the small circle of couches were Iadmon lay, talking easily to his companions. Rhodopis did not peek from the corner of her eye at her former master, though the temptation was almost irresistible. She was not surprised to find him here—he was Samian, of course, and it seemed every Samian worth knowing had gathered at Heliodoros’ party. The risk that Iadmon would recognize her was slight, yet still, Rhodopis preferred caution. Tonight she would avoid making friends with any man in Iadmon’s circle—at close quarters, Iadmon very well might see past the dyed hair and fine cosmetics, and remember the red-haired girl who had once brightened his household with the magic of her dance. This was a large party; Heliodoros’ house was a grand one. Providing Rhodopis could maintain a healthy distance between herself and Iadmon, she felt safe enough in his presence. As she passed him by, she could not help but note that he was dressed in the same yellow silk he’d worn the first time she had seen him, as a starving child in Tanis. She brushed one hand down the length of her hip, luxuriating in the water-smooth texture of her own silk, dyed a vibrant red, far finer and costlier than Iadmon’s garment. Iadmon did believe I would rise to great heights. But sure as the sun and stars, he never pictured me climbing this high.
Rhodopis found a circle of men near the back of the andron. She did not know any of them by name, though one or two had vaguely familiar faces. No doubt she had seen them at parties past, but had spent no significant time with any of these men. There was only one other hetaera among them—a woman nearing her thirties, with rich brown hair and a deeply sun-bronzed complexion. Rhodopis did not recognize her.
“May I join you, good men?” she asked, speaking with the melodious, cultured tones Eulalia was known for.
“Of course!” One of the men rose eagerly, extending his hand. She allowed him to take her own and kiss it. He was young and attractive, with a bold nose, dark hair, and strong arms. “I am Kleon of Samos,” he said. He added with a rueful laugh, “Though, who here is not from Samos?”
“I am not,” Rhodopis said, lowering herself gracefully to his couch. “I come from Lesvos.”
Kleon’s eating-couch was perfectly positioned: she could watch the entrance to the andron as avidly as a hungry hawk, without any show of doing so. When Polycrates arrived, she would make some excuse to her Kleon and his friends, and go to the pirate before any other woman could assert herself. Though I dare say, no other woman is apt to want Polycrates, Rhodopis mused. His beard is like a lion’s mane, and his manners are even wilder than that. He was unlikely to attract the interest of the refined hetaerae at tonight’s banquet.
“You are Eulalia—am I correct?” said Kleon. “There has been plenty of talk about the dark-haired hetaera from the islands. I see that rumors of your beauty fell far short of the truth.”
She smiled at him gratefully. A servant arrived with a fresh pitcher of wine; Rhodopis took the pitcher and filled Kleon’s cup herself. “I am far from home,” she said, “but I find Memphis most agreeable. I thought to remain here for a year or two, and then return to Lesvos—or perhaps take up elsewhere in Greece. But Memphis is rather pleasant. Perhaps I will stay after all.”
“We would be glad for you to stay on,” said her companion. His friends were quick to agree.
You say that now, Rhodopis thought, but I see how the wind blows. Another month or two, and Lady Eulalia will find herself rather short on invitations to parties.
“Do you know Lysandra?” Kleon asked, gesturing with his wine cup toward the other hetaera.
Rhodopis’ ears twitched. She knew the name, if she had not recognized the woman. Lysandra had a reputation as on
e of the best hetaerae in Memphis; Rhodopis had often heard the girls at the Stable speak of her in hushed, admiring tones. Lysandra’s singing voice was said to be the best the city had ever seen, and she was an admired wit, too. She had bought her freedom after only nine months of service; the woman was a legend among her kind. It’s a wonder I never saw her before, Rhodopis thought. She tasted her wine, stalling as a chilling thought reared like a cobra in her head. I must have been at parties with her before… back when Memphis knew me as Rhodopis. It’s simply impossible that we never crossed paths.
Kleon and his friends were watching Rhodopis expectantly. She swallowed her mouthful of wine. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lysandra.” She smiled at the woman; what else could she do? “I am certain we’ll become good friends.”
“Do you know,” Lysandra said, “you seem somehow familiar to me, even though you have only recently come from Lesvos.”
“I’ve heard as much from others, since arriving in Memphis.” Inwardly, Rhodopis cursed. So she had entertained with Lysandra before. Fighting down a flush, she realized Lysandra had almost certainly been at Iason’s mask-party, with that thrice-cursed disaster of an auction. All the best hetaerae had attended; with Lysandra disguised, as everyone was, Rhodopis never would have known her. She could only pray that her goose costume had shielded her from Lysandra’s eye. “It’s strange, isn’t it? You know, I have heard tales of people meeting their doubles in darkened alleys, or at night-time crossroads. Bad luck always follows. Let us hope I never meet this uncanny double of mine!” She laughed gaily to ward off a wave of dread.
“I’ve heard much the same,” Kleon said. He grinned mischievously. “Have you ladies heard the story of the cattle drover at the crossroads? It’s a real, old-fashioned Samian tale—perfect for a party like this one.”
“I never have,” Lysandra said.
“But it is rather chilling. Should I tell it, or will it frighten you too much?”
“Do!” Rhodopis said at once. Gods, please—anything to distract Lysandra from her memories of me. “I like to be frightened. It’s good fun.”
Kleon began the tale, but Rhodopis turned her attention at once to the andron’s entrance. Her previous sense of happy confidence was melting away, faster than ice in the desert. Polycrates had better appear soon, she thought. I can’t just hop up and run away; it’ll seem too queer. I’d be remarked on, and thought suspicious—and then Lysandra will set to thinking about me, and she’ll realize where she saw me last, and who I am. I must wait here patiently until he arrives. But gods, I feel I’m half in a snare already!
As Kleon’s story went on, Rhodopis could feel, every now and then, Lysandra’s searching gaze, as if the hetaera could not shake off the certainty that she had seen Rhodopis before. Sweat dampened the red gown beneath Rhodopis’ armpits. Was Lysandra wondering, even now, whether there was truth to Archidike’s rumors, after all? Surely a hetaera as well-connected as Lysandra had heard Archidike’s tale a dozen times already. Was she even now thinking: Why has Rhodopis returned to Memphis with her hair dyed black, in some feeble attempt at a disguise?
Rhodopis tipped back her cup, draining it in one long draft; her eyes locked on the entrance of the andron, wide with desperation. In the next moment, she spluttered, almost choking on the wine. A man had entered—one she recognized instantly. But it was not Polycrates—no, not at all. This man was smaller in stature, with dark-brown skin and curly black hair. But he bore himself with as much pride and confidence as Polycrates ever showed… despite the noticeable tilt to his shoulders, caused by the twist in his spine.
Aesop’s sudden re-appearance in Rhodopis’ life was such an astonishment—and such a relief—that for one dreadful moment she lost all control of her emotions. A sudden, painful lump rose in her throat. Tears burned her eyes; she barely blinked them away before they spilled down her cheeks, ruining her kohl. Kleon reached the end of his story just then; Rhodopis, clutched her necklace as if it were a talisman against evil and batted her lashes. The frightening tale provided a convenient excuse for tears.
“I’ve upset you!” Kleon exclaimed.
“Dear gods, but it was such a chilling story!” Rhodopis said. She blinked the tears away and smiled. “Do you suppose it’s true?” I wouldn’t know; I didn’t hear a word of it.
“Who can say?” one of Kleon’s friends answered. “Strange things happen at crossroads in the dark.”
“Don’t tease the poor dear,” Lysandra said. “She’s quite overwhelmed!”
Rhodopis watched Aesop make his way into the andron, carrying a scroll in one hand. He handed the scroll to Iadmon on his couch, exchanged a few words with him, then proceeded across the andron alone—coming directly toward Rhodopis, and the corridor’s mouth behind her.
Rhodopis smiled at her companions as their chatter went on, but as Aesop drew nearer she stared at him intently, willing him to look at her, pleading with the gods to work their powers in her favor, and make him look at her, make him see her. Aesop’s gaze passed over Rhodopis, neutral, politely blank, as if she were just another woman in the crowd. Rhodopis’ breath caught in her throat. But in the next heartbeat, his attention snapped back to face. His eyes widened subtly. Ever careful, ever deliberate, Aesop gave no other outward sign of having seen her. His pace did not falter; his expression remained perfectly mute. But his eyes never left her own as he made for the corridor. Rhodopis understood that Aesop was waiting, in his turn, for her to give some sign of having recognized him.
She glanced toward a nearby garden door, then back to Aesop. He diverted at once, turning before he reached Kleon’s couch, strolling out into the night. The nearness of her friend—her only friend!—sent a thrill of wild gladness through Rhodopis’ body. She waited a few minutes longer, laughing along with Kleon’s friends, stroking her companion’s shoulder—though every moment was an agony of delay. Then, when a lull came in the men’s conversation, she turned to Kleon with an apologetic smile.
“I hope you will forgive me. I feel the need for some fresh air—that story, you know. I’ll step outside and put my wits back together, but I will be back, if you’ll be glad to have me.”
“Of course,” Kleon said. “Are you well? Do you need anything? I can send for—”
“No, no.” Rhodopis patted his smooth cheek. “Please, don’t trouble yourself. I need only a walk in the garden. The turn of the seasons always takes me this way; I fear it makes me susceptible to any powerful mood.” She held his gaze for a moment, allowing the suggestion to thrill him. Then she rose gracefully. “It was such a delight to meet all of you. Lysandra—” Rhodopis bowed her head to the woman, then departed for the garden.
The night surrounded Rhodopis with its welcome darkness, its quiet seclusion. Insects, waking as the oncoming summer warmed the earth, chorused in the grasses. Rhodopis made herself walk easily through Heliodoros’ garden, though every impulse in her body screamed at her to run, to find Aesop and throw herself into his arms—and to weep with the joy of reunion. She circled the entire garden and crossed through its whispering heart before she found him. Aesop waited on a stone bench in a small, circular court, half-hidden by an overhanging arbor of vines. She grinned and laughed; a dizzy, frantic happiness surged inside her. Aesop rose to greet her, stretching out his arms; they took one other by the shoulders, both shaking their heads in disbelief, each staring at the other in silent contentment.
“Well!” Aesop said at last. “I thought I recognized that beautiful young hetaera, but I couldn’t be sure.”
Rhodopis laughed shakily. “It’s a wonder you knew me at all, with my hair the way it is.” She noticed for the first time that his blue sash was gone. He was dressed like any other Greek man—like any free man. “You’re no longer…?”
Aesop shook his head. “I freed myself. I am now a man of some small but distinctive influence, I am pleased to say, though I still work most often with Iadmon. He asked me to attend this party tonight, to help him negotiate a
new deal with another trader who is here. It was a job of work, I hear—getting Heliodoros to admit me. I am most definitely not Samian.”
“Free! I’m so glad for you, Aesop.”
“And I for you.” Aesop released his hold on her shoulders. Reluctantly, Rhodopis did the same. “Iadmon was inconsolable for a long time after he lost you. He really did think highly of you—not only for the fortune he’d hoped to make, but for your own sake. Your sweetness was missed around the old estate—your bright, charming ways. With you gone, we all felt as if a lamp had gone out in Iadmon’s house, and no one could get it lit again. But I think your loss was a call the master needed to hear. He has been perfectly behaved since then. He never over-indulges in wine anymore, no matter who tempts him.”
“I’m glad to hear that, too.” Rhodopis sat on the stone bench, silent for a moment as a flood of memories scoured her.
Aesop joined her. “You disappeared for quite some time. I tried to find word of you, but news was scarce—and what little word I could find seemed too strange to be believed. Tell me what has happened since we last saw one another.”
Rhodopis breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the sweet with the perfumes of the garden. The fresh air seemed to crowd out all the doubt and fears inside her. She released her breath with a long, satisfied sigh. Then she spoke. “I went to live with Xanthes, as you know. I was a part of his Stable, and worked for him for a year. Oh, Aesop, so many terrible things happened while I was there.” She told him of her friendship with Archidike, of Charaxus and the rose-gold slippers. She told him of the auction—how it had led to Archidike’s betrayal, and the hopeless aftermath. “I was so torn up over Archidike, I made as if to throw both of my slippers in the Nile. But the strangest thing happened, Aesop. A falcon scooped one up and flew away with it. I’d never seen such a thing in my life—the sight of that bird, flapping away with my slipper in its talons, was unbelievable enough. But what happened after was more unbelievable still. That night, the girls of the Stable told me how a falcon had appeared at the Pharaoh’s feast, and dropped a rose-gold shoe in his lap. Well, I’m sure you heard what happened next. Amasis took it for an omen, and went out into the city, determined to find the woman who owned that slipper. Archidike tried to best me again—I’ll never forget her standing before the king, claiming to be the owner of my shoe—but I’d been clever enough to bring the other with me. That proved my identity right enough. Amasis claimed me then and there, and put me in his harem.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 27