Rhodopis laughed. “You truly do appreciate rarity.”
Polycrates nodded, staring at her breasts.
“But I am rarest of them all,” she said. It was not a question. “No one in the world dances like me.”
“No one,” he said hoarsely.
“Do you think I’ll delight you just as much as they did, all those unusual women, once you have me under that sheet?” She stepped out of her sandals with quick grace.
“I’m certain you will,” Polycrates whispered. “I expect I’ll enjoy you most of all.”
He seized her; the breath left Rhodopis’ lungs in a sudden, startled rush as he pulled her against his chest again. She twisted her fingers in his hair and kissed him, blood roaring with victory.
Deep in the night, long after moonset, Rhodopis returned to her home in the litter Aesop had prepared. He had sent a contingent of guards, too, to protect Rhodopis on along the route through the North End, for Memphis still boiled with dissatisfaction. Aesop would have been loath to risk her safety at any time, but she was especially valuable now, with Polycrates in her hands.
I dare say there’s more reason for the guards, Rhodopis thought. Eulalia was gone forever now, and no mistaking it. Surely word was already circulating through the city: Eulalia of Lesvos danced every bit as well as little red-haired Rhodopis, the rustic beauty of Xanthes’ Stable. In a handful of hours—days at most—Memphian society would connect the story of Eulalia’s spectacular dance to Archidike’s tale that Rhodopis had returned, and was operating under a false name. I have perhaps two days at most, before Amasis sends his soldiers out to find me. When the Pharaoh’s men came for her, all the guards in Iadmon’s household wouldn’t be protection enough.
Real as that threat was, it occupied a small, insignificant place in Rhodopis’ heart. She still ached and throbbed with the feel of Polycrates’ rough, passionate attentions. His panting praises still whispered in her ear. He had called her the best, sworn she was the most wonderful, the most thrilling woman he had ever held. The Samian was hers now. She needed one more night to be sure of him, to enchant him so thoroughly that he couldn’t deny any request. Then she would be ready to present him to Cambyses, neat as an offering of figs in a basket.
I’ll be gone with Polycrates before sunset tomorrow. Let Amasis do his worst; I don’t fear him any longer.
When she reached her own courtyard, Rhodopis hurried inside, dismissed the guards, and stumbled through the darkness without bothering to light a lamp. She groped her way to Amtes’ bed and shook her awake.
Amtes sat up at once, wide-eyed and alert. The maid’s small window admitted just enough starlight for Rhodopis to read her expression—half expectant, half fearful.
“What is it, Mistress? Has something happened?”
“Something has happened, sure as the sun and moon. But don’t look so worried, Amtes. I’ve got a message for you; you must send it off to Cambyses tonight.”
Amtes scrambled out of her bed. She struck a spark to her lamp; the small room filled with cheerful light. Amtes slid a box from beneath her table, flipped up its lid, and found a scrap of papyrus and a small writing brush. She spread the scrap on her table and looked up at Rhodopis, ready for the message.
“Tell Cambyses,” Rhodopis said, “‘I have found your man.’”
20
Power in Her Hand
Rhodopis knew she was not clear of her troubles—not yet. But Polycrates’ enthusiasm was such a comfort and relief that she slept better than she had in months. Her dreams were sweet and hopeful, suffused with gentle music and the soft, warm smell of honey. She woke late in the morning and lay comfortably abed, contented and quiet, watching the mellow light move by increments across her room. A breeze drifted in from the garden, fresh and invigorating. Winter’s chill was almost gone now. It had given way to a rich, spicy warmth that enhanced her easy sense of satisfaction and achievement.
She reflected on the previous night with a quiet inner glow. Polycrates had been hers entirely. The praise he had showered upon her felt more like worship, better suited to a goddess in her temple than a mere hetaera. Rhodopis had no doubt that her roguish pirate would be glad to spend this evening in her company. She would make her offer tonight—promise Polycrates all the silver in Cambyses’ treasury if he only pledged his ships to the cause. She could keep fate at bay for a few more hours, until she had given Polycrates another taste of her charms.
Rhodopis stretched her arms overhead, yawning, reveling in the warm flush of success. Too late now for any knife-wielding killer to sneak into my chamber. Before the end of the week, I’ll be sailing north with Polycrates, faster than the Pharaoh’s ships can go!
The chamber door did open at that moment, but it was only Amtes. The handmaid hustled inside and shut the door firmly behind her, pale-faced and scowling. “I’m glad to find you awake, Mistress, though it would be better if you were already up and dressed. What do you think? Charaxus is here.”
“Oh…” Rhodopis pressed her palms against her eyes until spots of light bloomed behind her eyelids. “Of course. Of course, the gods would send him to spoil my mood now, just when everything has gone so well for me. What does that tiresome lout want?”
“He wants to speak with you,” Amtes said. “And he is none too pleased.”
Rhodopis sat up quickly. “Blast him! Can’t he leave well enough alone?”
“Evidently he cannot. It was all I could do to convince him to remain in the sitting room like a decent man, and not barge his way in here to confront you directly. Quickly, now; put yourself together. The sooner you handle Charaxus, the sooner he’ll leave.”
Groaning, Rhodopis dragged herself out of her bed and pulled on a robe. It was not her finest garment, but after all, she had told Charaxus she’d been ill. A simple, serviceable robe would do nicely; no woman wore her best to her sickbed. Amtes combed out her mistress’s hair, but left it hanging free, spilling own Rhodopis’ back in dark, shining waves. There was no sense in putting it up—a woman recovering from a minor illness wouldn’t bother, but more to the point, Rhodopis felt no inclination to make herself beautiful for Charaxus. One day more, and she would never see him again. All his silly affection—and his oppressive dreams of taking Rhodopis for a wife—would be left in the dusty tombs of memory.
As soon as she was presentable, Rhodopis stomped through the small estate’s hallways and into the sitting room. Amtes was right: the sooner she dealt with her caller, the sooner he would leave her be. Then she could return her focus to the pleasures of the night ahead: Polycrates and his ships, the revelation of Cambyses’ plan. She found Charaxus pacing from the portico to the garden window and back again, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes distant in a face darkened by anger.
“Good morning,” Rhodopis said neutrally.
Charaxus stopped abruptly, but he turned to look at her with a deliberate slowness that made Rhodopis feel distinctly uneasy. There was a peevish light in his eye. “Are you feeling well today?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well, thank you. A day’s rest was just what I needed.”
“I’m glad you’ve recovered from your illness. Recovered enough to dance at Iadmon’s party last night!” He threw those last words at her like a soldier’s spear.
Rhodopis felt the color drain from her face; her arms prickled with goose flesh. She had known rumor would move quickly through Memphis, but she had never imagined that word of her exploits would reach Charaxus overnight. Does Amasis know already, too?
“What are you talking about?” she said levelly.
Charaxus rushed at her suddenly, white with a desperate pallor. Rhodopis staggered back, appalled by his strange urgency. “I heard the news this morning,” he said. “My servants were discussing it. An incredible dance, they said—one of the best anyone has ever seen.”
“It was never me! I was here, sick in bed.”
He laughed bitterly, spraying a drop of spittle from his lip.
“Really
, Rax. There are dozens of good dancers in Memphis. How silly, for you to assume that I—”
“A black-haired woman,” Charaxus said, “of your build and approximate age—young, at any rate—who could dance like Terpsichore herself. With skin as light as alabaster. You can’t fool me, Rho—”
She lurched toward him and clapped her hand over his mouth. “Watch yourself,” she hissed. “You know the danger I’m in… the danger we’re both in. No one must hear that name—not even my servants.”
Charaxus knocked her hand away. “You lied to me. You said you were home with an illness, but you lied. I wonder, what else have you been hiding?”
“Why should I hide anything from you?”
A nasty laugh forced its way out between clenched teeth. “That’s what I’d like to know. Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I given you everything a woman could ask for? I’ve even promised to make you my wife—and after you’ve spent so long as a hetaera, bouncing from one man’s bed to the next.”
“Indeed; how generous,” Rhodopis said drily.
His eyes widened. A dizzying new revelation seemed to dawn on him. “All those reasons you gave for delaying our marriage, for staying here in Memphis… for continuing to work as a hetaera, a glorified whore… Those were all lies, too, I expect.”
Rhodopis tossed her head defiantly. She had been lying, of course—about everything. But she was not likely to admit it now. “How dare you, Rax! You hurt me so. What else could I be, for the sake of our love, but honest and true? And yet you fling insults at me! It’s not my fault I am what I am. The gods have made my fate, as they’ve made every person’s fate, even yours. And you fell in love with me, the hetaera, the glorified porna. I haven’t changed one bit, yet now I’m not good enough as I am? Now I’m broken and unclean?”
In the blink of an eye, the anger fled from Charaxus. An expression of great agony came over him; he clutched Rhodopis’ hands impulsively, squeezing so hard that the bones of her fingers ground painfully together. She resisted the urge to jerk her hands away. “Whether you were telling the truth or not, I… I can’t abide this anymore. I can’t stand to know that you visit other men… entertain them. You must go away with me to Lesvos. I can have a ship ready to sail tonight. Come away with me, and be a proper woman, a proper wife.”
For one brief, wild moment, Rhodopis considered his offer. Charaxus was a fool, and a thorn in her sandal—but Lesvos was a long way off. Suppose Phanes’ plan fell apart? Suppose Polycrates would not give Rhodopis his ships after all. She might find safety in Lesvos. She might take another name, shed her history, and disappear quietly into Charaxus’ household. She might become a proper, subservient, altogether invisible Greek wife.
But in the next heartbeat, Rhodopis cast the thought aside. If she agreed to marry Charaxus, she would sacrifice forever the freedoms a hetaera enjoyed. Well did she remember Phanes’ story of Egypt as it was in days gone by, before Greece had encroached with its confining, oppressive influence. Many dangers still lay ahead; she might yet find that knife in the darkness, another blade pressed to her throat as Psamtik’s once had been. But if she died carrying out her task, at least she would die a free woman, acting by her own will, making her own choices. No. The last thing Rhodopis wanted was to become a good Greek wife. Reckon I’d rather become food for the vultures.
She pulled her hands free of his grip. “I won’t do it. I told you my reasons; I’ll stay here until I’ve fulfilled all my obligations.”
“Blast your obligations!” Charaxus clenched a fist; for a moment, Rhodopis thought he might strike her. But then he bit down on his knuckle, as if struggling to contain his emotions—or trying desperately sort through the few options that remained.
After a moment, Charaxus seemed to calm himself. He walked slowly to the garden window; Rhodopis relaxed a little. The storm has passed. He understands me now. He’ll go away in a moment—apologize and leave, and in another day or two, I’ll leave as well. This mess with Charaxus will be over and done with. He’ll forget me, find another woman to be his wife.
Charaxus did not turn away from the window. He stared stiffly out into the garden and said coldly, “If you do not prove your love for me by leaving tonight and marrying me, then I will have no choice but to tell the whole city that Archidike’s rumors are true.”
Rhodopis sucked in a silent breath. So Charaxus had heard Archidike’s tales. And who else? Did all of Memphis know? Then, in a flash, a great, gouting flume of anger replaced her icy fear. How dare this vain, mooning lout threaten her! She, who had been an Ornament of the Harem—she, who had been wife to Cambyses, lord of Haxamanishiya! She would have blessed every god above the earth and below, if one of them had only risen up in that moment to strike down that fawning, spineless creature—made him vanish from her home. Now, in the very next second!
“You never would!” Rhodopis said, breathless with rage.
Charaxus turned to stare at her. His smile was slow, mocking. “Do you really think I won’t?”
She spun on her heel, headed back toward her chamber, but Charaxus crossed the room before Rhodopis was even aware that he’d left the window. He seized her painfully by the arm. The horrid, blood-red memory of Psamtik’s attack flashed back into her mind; before she could stop herself, Rhodopis whirled and lashed out with all her force. She struck Charaxus hard across his face.
He stumbled back, holding his cheek. Rhodopis gasped at her own audacity. Her hand tingled, imbued with a thrill of power.
“A proper wife would never do such a thing,” Charaxus said, low and cold.
“I am not your wife,” Rhodopis growled. “I’m a hetaera. And so long as I am still a hetaera, you cannot touch me without my leave. If you had any respect or love for me, you would understand what you’re asking me to give up, and all for the honor of becoming your wife.”
He lowered his hand. His cheek was red, marked by her fury. All his coldness melted away in the face of his sorrow. “Doesn’t our love mean anything to you? Anything at all?”
Rhodopis glared at her former lover, every bit as cold as he had been, moments before. “Go; spread your rumor, if it will make you happy. Have me killed by Amasis, if it pleases you. But so long as I am still a hetaera, and still living free, I will not be ordered about by any man.”
Anger and despair warred on Charaxus’ face, the dark cloud of each emotion eclipsing the other by turns, until only an indecipherable darkness remained. Then he turned briskly and left her home.
When he had gone, Rhodopis stood alone in the sitting room. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps; shock at what she had done stabbed through her, followed a strange, fatalistic awe at the terrible events she had set in motion. She had no way of knowing whether Charaxus would make good on his threat. Perhaps by sunset, the streets of Memphis would overflow with a story that corroborated Archidike’s unlikely tale. It was possible that his pride was so wounded that he would leave off and hold his tongue, knowing everything was finished between them. Was he the vengeful sort? Would he prefer to see Rhodopis brought low—even killed—rather than slink away quietly to lick his wounds? She had no idea what she ought to expect from Charaxus—and she was dreadfully afraid to find out.
There was no time to waste. She must secure the Samian fleet now, this very day, or the knife in the dark would surely come.
“Amtes!” Rhodopis shouted, hurrying back toward her bed chamber. She loosened the tie of her robe as she went; by the time she shoved her chamber door open, it trailed out behind her nakedness, half-shed already.
Amtes had been perched on a stool beside the garden window, stitching the seam in a torn tunic. She looked up in alarm, then leaped to her feet when she saw the wide-eyed fear on Rhodopis’ face. “What has happened, Mistress?”
Rhodopis tossed the robe across her bed. “Make me beautiful—now. I must go to Polycrates immediately.”
“But he hasn’t sent for you.”
“I don’t care; I’m going to him all the same
. Be quick! As soon as I’ve gone, you must send a note to Aesop. Tell him he must prepare to leave Memphis before sunset. My hair, Amtes—help me put it up! Oh, I have to see Polycrates; he must give me his ships today, or everything is lost!”
21
A Distasteful Errand
At Iadmon’s party, after his lust had waned and they had fallen into conversation, Polycrates had told Rhodopis that whenever he was in Memphis he made use of a certain riverside house that belonged to an old friend of his, a wine merchant by the name of Kyrillos. Rhodopis did not know where Kyrillos’ waterfront estate was; for all she could tell, it might lie far to the north or south, well beyond the city limits, among the farms and vineyards that fringed the outer edges of Memphis. Wherever the wine-seller’s house was, she knew she must find it—and pray that Polycrates was in.
Amtes had called up the litter-bearers while Rhodopis had been busy with her jewelry casks, finding the right adornments to make herself look, once again, like the exquisite rarity Polycrates longed for. When enough jewels winked at her throat and wrists, she hurried back through her little house and out into the courtyard, where the litter stood waiting.
“Remember,” she said to Amtes, “you must send that message to Aesop straight away.”
“I will, Mistress.”
She turned to the chief bearer. “Do you know where to find the house of a wine merchant called Kyrillos? It’s a waterside home, I understand.”
“Yes, my lady, I know the place. But it will take at least half an hour to get there… maybe more.”
Rhodopis gritted her teeth. Another damned delay. While she crept uselessly through the streets of Memphis, the twin rumors spawned by Archidike and Charaxus ran through the city, multiplying like rats everywhere they went. “Very well,” she said, willing herself to remain calm. “Take me to the wine merchant’s home, quick as you can.”
Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 30