Polycrates had come prepared for Iadmon’s party, she noted with dismay. Rather than taking his pick of the women whom Iadmon had invited, the pirate had procured two hetaerae of his own. The women clung to his arms, one on each side. Both were beautiful and delicate; their feminine shapes only seemed to underscore the large size and imposing presence of their Samian companion. And both women were exceptionally beautiful. Their features were well-made, perfectly carved as if by a craftsman of unsurpassed skill. When it came to grace and enticing curves, there was nothing to choose between them. Rhodopis’ heart sank lower still as she evaluated Polycrates’ two hetaerae. How could she hope to compete? She would never stand apart, when set against such loveliness, such feminine perfection. There was something earthy, something overtly sexual about both women, evident even in the way they stood beside their companion, casually taking in Iadmon’s party. An appealing, raw sexuality seemed to rise from their bodies, compelling as the scent of a lotus flower. However can I expect Polycrates to want me, when he’s already set his appetite for those two playthings?
Iadmon stood, somewhat stiffly and reluctantly, and went to greet Polycrates.
“Iadmon!” the pirate roared. “You old sack of balls, you. How is business?”
They clasped hands, Iadmon looking rather pale and uncertain as he murmured a more genteel response to Polycrates’ ebullient greeting. Aesop stepped close to his former master, smiling as he spoke to both men, his air bracing and encouraging. Rhodopis wished she were close enough to hear what her friend had said.
Polycrates took his place on the last empty couch; a servant hurried to him, bearing the first-course dish. The two hetaerae who had accompanied Polycrates were obliged to stand, since there was little room for either to lie beside their friend. Polycrates’ booming laughter filled the andron as he greeted the men positioned nearby and offered up his unrefined jests. As he talked, his hand roamed freely over the body of one of his women, fondling her backside in a cursory, almost distracted manner.
With the final guest was present at last; the supper began in earnest. As trays of rich food circulated the andron and conversation rose, Rhodopis shrank back into the shadows between pillars. She did not want the serving staff to approach her again; the mere smell of roasted beef and onions, normally so delicious, was enough to make her gag tonight. She remained cloaked in comforting shadows, shivering, squeezing her eyes shut. The noise of the feast—and of Polycrates’ laughter—seemed to roar amid the pillars of the andron.
“Doricha.” Aesop’s whisper was barely audible, but it was enough to startle Rhodopis. She jumped, pressing a hand to her heart, and turned. Aesop was there in the shadows beside her; he laid a comforting hand on her back. “Are you ready? It’s almost time.”
She nearly choked on her words. “No, I’m not! I’ve never been so unready before. Oh, Aesop, how can I do it? Everyone will know me—word will get back to the Pharaoh. How, how can I go through with it?”
He patted her back gently. “Trust in your own ability. And trust in the music, too. Let it carry you on, let it guide you—you know how. They’ll all think you’re wonderful. And you will be wonderful, in truth.”
“It doesn’t matter what they think. It only matters what… he thinks.” She couldn’t make herself speak Polycrates’ name.
“You will enchant him, too—him, most of all. He’ll be yours after tonight. His ships are as good as yours already.”
“You don’t know that.” She croaked with despair. “You can’t know it.”
“But I know you. I know the magic of your dance. And I know the strength of your spirit, my friend.”
“My spirit’s weak. Weak, Aesop! I’m all shivery inside; I don’t think I can take a single step, let alone dance! I was a fool to think this would work!”
“You are no fool,” Aesop said drily. “Your cleverness and careful thought have already carried you through far worse dangers.”
“There is no danger worse than this.”
“And yet,” he said, “there is no way out of this danger, either. No way out, except to face what you fear the most. You must give Cambyses what he needs, if you’re ever to be free.”
She swallowed hard. “What if Polycrates doesn’t like me after all? I’ll be exposed; everyone will know it’s me, that I’ve been lying all this time, hiding my identity… What then? Amasis will find out, and—”
“At least,” Aesop said, taking her hand, “you won’t be alone. Whatever happens to you, I will take on the same fate.”
She was horrified by the thought of Aesop dying for her own foolhardy actions. She rounded on him with a frantic, desperate energy. “I can’t let you do that—I can’t!”
“Then you must trust in our plan. It will go well; I know it. You must believe you can make Polycrates want you. Believing is the first step along that path.”
The servants cleared out of the andron; Iadmon’s guests tucked into their beef and onions. The host’s voice rose above the murmur of the feast—and Rhodopis twitched at the sound of her old master’s command. “Let us have some entertainment while we eat.”
“Get ready,” Aesop said.
“No,” Rhodopis panted. “I can’t do it!”
Iadmon called, “I have brought a dancer for you all to enjoy while we eat. My musicians may begin when ready.”
Rhodopis clenched her fists and her aching jaw, shaking her head in mute horror.
Aesop leaned closer. “Now,” he whispered in her ear.
On the instant, Rhodopis stilled. That simple word, that friendly order, full of confidence that the girl Doricha could succeed, if she only deigned to try… She felt again the hot sun in Iadmon’s garden, the lazy river breeze stirring the fringe of her dancing-belt against her thighs. The memory of a shivering beam of wood came back with such vivid force that Rhodopis threw her arms out to either side, as if to balance herself against a fall. But she wasn’t going to fall, of course. Aesop was there beside her, urging her to try, seeing the fullness of her hidden, untapped potential. Fear faded—not completely, but enough that Rhodopis could make herself stand eye to eye with fate. She stepped out from behind the pillar and walked steadily to the center of the andron.
Rhodopis took up the dancer’s pose. Murmurs of conversation died back; the room filled with the glad tension of expectation. She could feel it tingling up her spine. Rhodopis was dimly aware that Iadmon had gone very still. His face was turned toward her; there was an amusing strain of disbelief in his posture. But Rhodopis did not look directly at her former master. She gazed beyond Iadmon, beyond the straight white pillars, out into the hall of the gods. She had time for one fleeting prayer before the music began.
Here you have brought me, Rhodopis said silently. Strymon, Aphrodite, Zeus… Iset and Hathor, Horus the Falcon. Here you have brought me, Lady of Victory, Ishtar of the Blue Gate. I stand at the crossroads of fate. Do with me now whatever you will. I am ready… I am ready.
The music rushed up to meet her, catching Rhodopis by her raised arms, pulling her up and up into the soaring ecstasy of dance. Aesop had found the very best musicians to carry her through this most crucial hour; the harps and horns sang together in a superb chorus of emotion. She had intended to perform her own, rather seductive variation on a Samian folk dance, rustic and rousing—one she had been certain Polycrates would recognize. But as harmony and counter-melody wrapped around her, surged through her, bore her on a current of feeling, Rhodopis abandoned that carefully laid plan. Rapt and glowing, she heeded the call of Terpsichore, Muse of dance—and chose instead to invent every step and sway, every subtle, precise movement of hand and foot as inspiration directed.
She began by circling the room, just as she had done so long ago, when she had first danced before Iadmon’s guests, a nervous and half-trained slave. Now, as then, she paused briefly at every man’s couch, forging a connection with gesture and touch—a brief locking of eyes, a slow and suggestive smile. How easily she slipped into the role, that b
eloved part she hadn’t played for nearly two years. Gods, but it felt good to dance before an audience again. Every man and woman present was graced by her flitting nearness, a there-and-gone warmth like fitful rays of sun after a long and arduous winter. Charm and innocence were still evident in her every movement and expression. They were hers by nature, unquelled by the hardships of life, still shining in her eyes like a temple fire despite the long, dark night of her dangerous journey. Rhodopis found her audience eager and keen, once she had led them all into the shimmering new world she made with deft feet and descriptive hands. She even came near Iadmon, bending to reach for him with a brief show of regret. She looked him fearlessly in the eye, and saw the shock of recognition that lit his face, sun breaking through a dense veil of clouds. But before Iadmon could do more than stare, she whirled away, spinning off toward the next man.
Once Rhodopis felt that settling of satisfaction, the calm glow that told her she had woven them all into her spell, she transitioned to the earnest, candid core of her dance. The Muse spoke, and Rhodopis responded, telling the story of her young life through movement and music, rhythm and pulse. She danced the joy of her early life in Thrace, poor but unfettered among the hills and pines. Great, long, reaching strides carried her, as if on a Thracian storm-wind; her outstretched arms were like wings of a gull, flying high and free. With bent back and drooping head, she told of hunger and strife in Egypt. She danced the sorrow of her father’s death, the weight of woe that dragged at her, the fear and pain that buckled her. The Muse led her close to Iadmon’s couch again, and there she expressed the delicate unfolding of tender new hope. Like a seed sprouting from dreary mud, she grew and stretched and thrived. She reached toward the rising sun, the beautiful prospect it promised—a bright glory of opportunity and prestige. But then—ah!—a great loss, the rending of her hopes. Xanthes. Rhodopis’ harsh, jerking movements and the reluctance grimace she wore stood at odds to the fine, flowing music. But she could feel her audience respond to the change, leaning in, ever more engrossed by the turning of her fate.
Archidike was next. Rising to her toes, tottering this way and that as if she sought to flee from a reality too terrible to be borne, Rhodopis danced the pain and incredulity of a friend’s betrayal. And then, falling to the floor, clutching her body as if she could wring the sorrow from her agonized spirit, she told of the plunge into stark despair, when her freedom, which had been so close she could all but taste it, was torn away again.
With hands spread like a falcon’s wings, Rhodopis painted an image of the still, indifferent river. One by one, she cast her dreams and expectations into the water—and Iadmon’s guests followed the arc of their flight, staring, moving their heads as if they could see the dancer’s hopes drifting away on a tragic current. And then—the rapid dive of the great, gray bird, the strange intervention of the gods—and Rhodopis, scooped up like her slipper, carried off to the Pharaoh’s palace in the unbreakable grip of the falcon’s feet.
She moved as if in a dull, stifling dream—trapped in the gilded cage of the harem. She danced her longing for true freedom, for love. She danced her anger at Psamtik, the pain and humiliation of his assault—and her fanged, ravenous hunger for revenge. In the next moment she broke free, bursting out of the Pharaoh’s palace on a wave of hazard and dread… and no small amount of excitement. She danced unfettered below the desert moon, and the land around her—invisible, yet somehow seen by her audience with a magical clarity—turned purple in the peace of solitude and twilight.
When the time came to tell of the passion and pleasure she had found in Cambyses’ bed, Rhodopis moved ever closer to Polycrates. Before his avid eyes, she exposed the softness and heat of her flesh—bare inner arm, strong pale thigh—bending and panting, shameless in the heat of her desire. She was absorbed in her own story, giddily freed by its telling—and wild with the triumph of her power. But she did not fail to note the interest in Polycrates’ dark eyes, heating from a spark to a flame. Nor did she miss the way he twitched suddenly, loosing his hold on the two beautiful hetaerae as he leaned toward Rhodopis, his mouth agape with awe. She spun out of Polycrates’ reach before he could attempt to touch her.
The brilliant musicians seemed to sense that the dancer’s story had reached its end—and Rhodopis wondered faintly, even as she whirled into her final pose, whether this was in fact the end—whether now the gods were finished with her, and the knife in the darkness would come. The music ceased. Rhodopis held her pose. As she panted for her breath, her gaze swept the andron. Men and hetaerae alike were clambering to their feet, rushing to acclaim the dark-haired dancer. Shouts of praise crashed like waves against stone. She saw Iadmon’s pale-faced disbelief, the stunned stillness of his body. Rhodopis ignored them all—shocked Iadmon, cheering women, men with their fists raised in excitement. She even ignored Aesop’s triumphant grin. Rhodopis saw no one in the room, acknowledged no one, save for the Samian pirate. She offered Polycrates a slow, inviting smile.
He rose from his couch slowly, as if in a dream. The two hetaerae clutched at him, but he shook off their hands. He came Rhodopis through the cheering crowd, as if some unseen muse guided him, too.
Rhodopis’ heart sang with victory. She took Polycrates by the arm.
They left the andron together while the room still rang with praises. Neither Rhodopis nor Polycrates spoke, yet she was keenly aware of the urgency burning inside him as they hurried along Iadmon’s corridor. Polycrates tried one door after another, and finally found a guest chamber. The servants had prepared it well: a single lamp burned on a table beside a pitcher of wine and two cups. In one corner, raised on a thin iron tripod, a diminutive brazier sent up a pale ribbon of incense smoke.
Polycrates pulled Rhodopis inside. He slammed the door.
“Did you like my dance?” she teased.
His growl of desire was like the purr of some great, lazy lion. “Do you know you’re the most exquisite dancer I’ve ever seen?”
“Surely not. You’ve been everywhere in the world… everywhere fast ships can go. You said as much at Charaxus’ party.”
Polycrates moving toward her, one slow step, then another. All this haste was gone now. He had her, like a bird in a snare, and now he seemed to savor the delay of his gratification.
“You are,” Polycrates insisted. “The most beautiful, most exceptional dancer in Egypt or in Greece.”
“You’ve been outside Egypt and Greece,” she said, pouting mischievously. “What about the Persian Empire? Am I the most beautiful, most exceptional dancer in Persia, too?”
“I’m quite serious. I’ve never seen any woman move the way you do.”
Rhodopis shook her head. The flirtatious pout fell away in a self-deprecating laugh. “That can’t be true, Polycrates.” It truly couldn’t—in Egypt alone, there were hundreds of women better trained than Rhodopis, with years’ more experience—but she was glad Aesop had been right about Polycrates’ tastes. He had been right that Polycrates would go mad for her, too. Good old Aesop, clever as always. I never should have doubted him.
“I must have you,” Polycrates said hoarsely. He took another slow step toward her.
Rhodopis bent her neck shyly, demurely. “I am yours for the taking.”
Polycrates moved with sudden force, sweeping Rhodopis into his arms. His kiss was rough, insistent—as were his hands, which seemed to be everywhere at once, squeezing, clawing, crushing her against his chest. For one moment, Psamtik intruded in her thoughts, and she tensed—but the next moment he was gone again. Rhodopis found that she liked the ungentle way Polycrates handled her; his force and haste felt like manifestations of her own power, a reflection of her strength and will, long nurtured in secret, fruiting on the vine. His touch was a foreshadowing, too: a glimpse of the wrath to come, the vengeance Rhodopis would bring down upon the heir to the Horus Throne.
Polycrates untied one of the knots at her shoulder. The blue gown slid, exposing her breast almost to the nipple.
&nbs
p; “I appreciate women like no other man does,” he said.
“Oh, do you?” She shrugged her bare shoulder
“I’ve sampled far and wide, and you are among the finest.”
“Everywhere a ship can sail,” she said teasingly.
“I’ve enjoyed a great many women, Eulalia.” He untied her sash next. The gown loosened around her waist, and the incense-smoked air cooled the sweat of her dance. “A great many.”
“Do you think to impress me with such a boast?”
“I mean only to say—” Polycrates untied the other knot at her shoulder. The gown gave way entirely, falling to the floor. Rhodopis stood in nothing but her sandals, naked and pale before him. “—that I make it a point to take a woman to my bed as often as I can. But I never truly enjoy it, unless I know I’ve found the best.”
“The best? What sort of woman is the best? Do you mean the most beautiful?”
Polycrates stepped back, the better to look at Rhodopis, taking in the entirety of her body by the soft glow of the oil lamp. His gaze was both appraising and hungry, appreciative and impatient.
After a moment, Polycrates said, “The best woman is not necessarily the most beautiful—though of course, beauty is fine in its own right. But the world is full of beautiful women; mere beauty can’t satisfy me. The best woman is an intriguing one—a rare one. I like unusual women.”
“Tell me about the unusual ones,” Rhodopis said. She turned slowly, stepping over the fallen gown, moving closer to the lamp so he could see her, every inch of her bareness, as he recited the names of all the women who had pleased him best.
“There was Berenike, who could bend her body into positions you can’t begin to imagine. And Euanthe, who could fight any man with a sword or a spear. And Meritamun—yes, and Egyptian—whose skin was whiter than yours, and her hair was the color of dried flax. She couldn’t go out by day, for the sun would burn her and blind her; she had eyes of a peculiar color, a haunting, pale red. Melisse could sing sweeter than any bird. Myrrine had a third nipple.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 29