Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2)

by Libbie Hawker

  It took nearly a full hour for the litter to reach Kyrillos’ estate. All the while, Rhodopis kept an uneasy eye on the sun. It tracked to its apex, lightening the mid-day sky to pale blue; the sun was declining and the sky darkening subtly toward afternoon before Kyrillos’ estate came into view. Although the curtains of the litter shielded her face from the eyes of Memphis, still Rhodopis felt as if everyone she passed was staring—and worse, whispering the very rumors she hoped to outpace, passing the fateful story from mouth to ear.

  The litter finally turned into the gate of a riverside estate on the southern edge of the city; the bearers lowered the conveyance with groans of relief, for the journey had been an exceptionally long one. It was all Rhodopis could do to rise from the cushions with dignity and grace, rather than tearing the curtains apart and clawing her way up from the litter in a blind panic. The house was small, though it did boast two stories. It reminded her uncomfortably of Charaxus’ little estate. A guard stood beside the portico, nearly as brawny as Polycrates himself. The man toyed idly with the hilt of a long knife that stuck up from his leather belt.

  Rhodopis approached the guard with a warm, innocent smile. “Hello, good man. I am here to see Polycrates. He is in, I assume?”

  The guard chuckled, sounding rather surprised. “Did Polycrates send for you, then?”

  “He did,” she said. “He was most insistent that I should come this afternoon.”

  The guard braced his fists on his belt and laughed fully. She blinked in confusion, and for a moment she thought he had seen through her lie, and would send her away. But the guard did not seem to disbelieve Rhodopis. He only seemed… amused. He stood aside, ushering her through the portico with a smirk.

  The house was empty, though it was very fine and airy, with a comfortably lived-in atmosphere. She passed a small andron, then a reading room with shelves full of scrolls and tablets. Somehow Rhodopis doubted Polycrates found much use for his friend’s reading room; he didn’t seem like the sort of man who enjoyed the contemplation of philosophy or poetry. Beyond the reading room, she found a short hall and made her way down it. A large door confronted her, painted with fruits and all variety of birds. There was something too lush and showy about the fruits—unabashedly vivid, juicy and ripe. This is the sort of room Polycrates would choose for his bed chamber, and no mistake. She pushed the door open.

  “It’s about time,” a woman said from inside the chamber.

  Rhodopis froze on the threshold. She knew that voice. Rough, almost growling, but with a sweetness that was at curious odds with its coarser tones.

  There, sprawled across the chamber’s great, ebony-legged bed, lay Archidike. A corner of the sheet only partially covered her nakedness; One breast was exposed to view, as was her side, her hip, the firmly muscled leg, flung out casually across the mattress. She rolled over in an unhurried way and looked up at the door—and stopped when she saw Rhodopis. Her face grew harder by the moment.

  “Where is Polycrates?” Rhodopis said.

  The surprise fled from Archidike’s face. A cat-like grin of satisfaction replaced it. “Well. Rhodopis of Thrace. Not many people believed me at first, when I said you were back. It seemed more were ready to believe your nasty little tale, that I’m unclean. But they’re beginning to believe me now, after that show you put on for Iadmon. Oh, yes. You danced with all your might and mien, didn’t you? Rhodopis is certainly back in Memphis these days. Or will you still attempt to deny it?”

  “I won’t deny it,” she answered quietly. There was nothing for it now but to own up to the truth. Archidike had caught her out. “But you should know why I had to hide,” Rhodopis added. Quickly, she recounted the same tale she’d told Charaxus—that she couldn’t bring herself to love the Pharaoh, and so he had released her from the harem on strict orders to leave Memphis, lest he be compelled to take her back again, and never set her free.

  Archidike rolled her eyes. Clearly, she found the story less than convincing. “What an interesting life you lead,” she said drily.

  “Tell me where I may find Polycrates.”

  “Craving him, are you?” Archidike stretched, purring deep in her throat. “I don’t blame you; he’s good. But he sent for me, not you.” She paused, blinking up at Rhodopis. “Or did he send for you, after all? He does like two girls at once. More, when he can convince them to play along.”

  From somewhere outside, on the streets beyond Polycrates’ borrowed home, rough shouts rang out, a cacophony of anger and fear. Rhodopis stood like some helpless creature stunned by the blow of a hunter’s club—swaying, senseless with the shock, struck cold and useless by a grim certainty that her doom had come. Amasis had tracked her to this estate; his men were circling even now closing in… But in the next moment, she realized the shouts were nothing more than ordinary unrest, the anger that boiled over to run hot and red down every street of Memphis. She shuddered, fighting back the chill in her blood. She was safe this time. But would the next voices she heard be those of Amasis’ guards, coming to drag her before the Pharaoh, to face his judgment and execution?

  If not Amasis, then Cambyses will do me in. It will take days for Amtes’ pigeons to reach Babylon. The only place I’ll be safe now is on the deck of Polycrates’ ship.

  “I’m here on business of my own,” Rhodopis said, straightening her spine by main force, staring down at Archidike with eloquent scorn. “I’m not here to entertain Polycrates. And if I were here for that sort of thing, I wouldn’t work alongside you.”

  Archidike snorted. “Prudish as always. Gentle little Rhodopis, blushing and cringing away from the men.” The hard angles of Archidike’s face softened for a moment. She tapped her lower lip thoughtfully. “You should have stuck with me, you know. We could have had the best double act in Memphis, playing off one another that way. You, the delicate flower, innocent and fresh, afraid of being despoiled. And me…” She rolled onto her stomach, kicking her feet lazily in the air above her taut behind. “Ah, me.”

  “It was you who left me,” Rhodopis snapped. She knew she oughtn’t to let Archidike needle her. Yet somehow, she couldn’t help it. Archidike deserved to hear the truth; she deserved to know what pain her vile acts had caused. “It was you who betrayed me. The worst of it is, you played at being my friend—more than a friend. You’re nothing but a sly rat, a filthy beast who creeps about the alleys in the darkness. You think only of bettering yourself—never of anyone else. You don’t deserve to be a hetaera. You’re nothing more than a common porna at heart.”

  Archidike sat up. She looked at Rhodopis with such confusion, such frank startlement, that for a moment Rhodopis wondered whether she had remembered their life together in the Stable correctly. “No, Rhodopis—you sabotaged my career for your own glory. Cut me out, all to gain a little temporary fame at the auction. And after all that—after you did me such a nasty turn, and dashed my hopes—you still ended up with the wealthiest patron. Then it was off to the Pharaoh’s harem, wasn’t it!” Her face fell; the glare she leveled at Rhodopis was so dark, so full of naked hate, that a shiver crept along Rhodopis’ limbs. “The gods have always hated me,” Archidike said. “Well, fuck the gods anyway, and fuck you, too. I’m making my own fortune now—making it in my own way. You and the gods had both better stay clear of me, if you know what’s good for you. I’ll walk right over anyone and anything that gets in my way. I’ve worked too hard, suffered too much, to be denied any longer. I will have what’s mine, Rhodopis. I’ll have the life I deserve.”

  Before Rhodopis could frame a reply, she and Archidike both started at the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Rhodopis whirled in the doorway, half expecting to see one of the Pharaoh’s guards, or perhaps Charaxus, come to finish what he’d started back at her estate. But it was only Polycrates. He was staring down into a pitcher of wine as he walked; he did not see Rhodopis.

  “Archidike,” he shouted, “I’ve found your favorite in Kyrillos’ cellar—Spartan sweet red. Are you ready for—”


  Archidike rolled on the bed, tangling herself in the sheets, purring with low, mocking laughter. Polycrates looked up—and stopped in his tracks at sight of Rhodopis, pale and silent before him. A great, bloody gout of wine sloshed over the rim of the pitcher, splashing on the clean white tiles of the floor.

  “Eulalia,” Polycrates said. “What a surprise.”

  “She couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Archidike said.

  Rhodopis gathered her linen cloak tightly around her shoulders. “I’ll go. I’ll come back later, when you’re… not so busy.”

  “Oh, don’t go,” Archidike said slyly. “There’s really no need for it.”

  Polycrates eyed Rhodopis. Though he stood several paces away, she could all but feel his hands on her, untying the knots of her gown as he’d done at Iadmon’s party. The speculative flicker in his eye quickly bloomed to open desire. “No need, surely” he agreed. A grin spread among the thick black curls of his beard. “None whatsoever. Why don’t you join us, Eulalia?”

  “I really can’t,” she said quickly. “I must be going. I—”

  “Come, now.” He moved past her, his shoulder brushing against her own, and set the pitcher of wine on a table. “It’s all in fun. And Archidike won’t mind, will you?”

  “Not in the least,” Archidike said, amused.

  “Surely you don’t—” Rhodopis began.

  Polycrates finished the sentence for her. “Want both of you at the same time? Oh, surely I do, my precious delight—my rare treasure. I most certainly do.”

  Rhodopis hesitated. She swallowed hard, but the lump in her throat remained.

  “Never fear,” he cajoled. “I’ll pay you well for it. I always pay well, don’t I, Archidike?”

  She thought frantically, There’s no way out. If she was to have any hope of convincing Polycrates to give her the fleet, she had to keep him happy. And there was no time left to stall. She must take the gamble, or Charaxus—and the Pharaoh—would win.

  She stepped into the chamber, loosening her linen gown. It fell to the floor with a whisper. Rhodopis climbed on the bed beside Archidike. She fixed a smile on her face for Polycrates’ sake, but she could feel the fire of hatred burning in her own eyes. For a moment, she and Archidike stared at one another, each challenging and furious, each daring the other to back down. Then, with a low, rumbling laugh of anticipation, Polycrates joined them on the bed.

  22

  Confession

  As soon as the act was finished, Rhodopis scrambled from Polycrates’ bed, pulled her gown up, and knotted it hastily over one shoulder. She threw the linen cape around her neck without looking back at Archidike or Polycrates, and hurried from the room. Rhodopis stormed down the hallway, burning with shame, tears blurring her vision. Every moment of that awful encounter replayed itself in her memory, in cruelly vivid detail. Archidike’s smug air of victory. The crawling sensation on Rhodopis’ skin whenever she had chanced to brush against Archidike. Worst by far was the plain and powerful delight Polycrates took in the other woman. Rhodopis may be the rare, exquisite dancer who had piqued his appetite for the finest, most unusual things… but Archidike was clearly the more desirable plaything, in Polycrates’ estimation. He had positively fawned on her, only reaching for Rhodopis now and then, as an afterthought. The whole embarrassing tableau had made her feel like an especially small and wilted radish, served up alongside a roasted goose.

  Mortified and afraid, Rhodopis very nearly swept right out of Kyrillos’ estate, climbed into her litter, and returned to her home. But just before she reached the portico, she halted. Charaxus was somewhere out there, prowling about the city, enacting his vengeance even now. If she left without securing Polycrates’ ships, everything was finished for good. She had to make one last attempt. Her life—and Aesop’s—depended on getting out of Memphis before the Pharaoh heard her name.

  Rhodopis turned reluctantly and made her way back through the halls. She found the painted door and stood staring at its bright red fruits for a long moment. She could hear muffled voices inside—Polycrates murmuring in the pleasantly sleepy sensation that always overcame men when their passion was spent, and Archidike, chattering happily, laughing to herself, well pleased with her day’s work.

  Damn her. Damn them both. How could she get Polycrates alone?

  She peered this way and that, searching the hall for a likely hiding place. There was a small closet near the bed chamber, cramped and dark; Rhodopis crept inside. She shut the door carefully and backed up against a row of dusty shelves. Groping slowly, carefully, she found sealed clay jugs beneath her hands—wine, she assumed—and hard, flat wheels of some smooth, waxy substance. They could only be cheeses.

  A fine predicament for Lady Eulalia, she thought bitterly. Cowering in a cheese closet while the Pharaoh hunts for her head.

  Rhodopis pressed herself against the door and listened. The house remained still and silent. She waited for half an hour or more, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the growing ache in her back. Just as she began to convince herself that it was hopeless after all, that she must return home hope for the best, the hinges of the bed chamber door creaked.

  “I’ll be back in two days, then,” Archidike said.

  Polycrates’ muffled reply came from somewhere inside the chamber.

  “Perhaps we’ll have another guest in our fun.” Archidike’s laugh was thick with cruelty. “Though I doubt we will find another as interesting as… Lady Eulalia.”

  Footsteps, moving lightly down the hall. Rhodopis waited until she could no longer hear Archidike’s retreating steps. Then she counted to fifty and eased herself out of the closet. Just as she emerged, Polycrates appeared, too, whistling happily. He had tied a simple, rumpled white kilt around his waist—the sort Egyptian men wore. It looked perfectly ridiculous on the inveterate Egypt-hater.

  Polycrates gave a great start of surprise at the sight of Rhodopis slinking from the wine closet. Then he laughed uproariously. “What, back for more?”

  Rhodopis shook her head. “Not for more of… that. Please, Polycrates. I must speak with you. It’s why I came today, and it’s terribly important.”

  He paused, considering her earnest face and trembling hands as he scratched his beard. His brows drew together in a peeved frown, and Rhodopis knew he intended to send her on her way. She clutched her own hands in a show of pure desperation.

  “I’ll fall on my knees and beg, if that’s what you want.”

  Polycrates sighed. “All right, all right. No need to fall on your knees—you can save that for later. I’ll hear what you’ve come to say, if it’s so blasted important. But only over wine and food. I’m famished; the two of you worked me like a horse in the traces. Come along to the andron.”

  She followed him down the hall. Polycrates sprawled across a couch with a groan of exhaustion; Rhodopis took the couch opposite with considerably more grace. Polycrates called for his servants, and in moments a woman appeared from the kitchen, bowing, resting her hands in the simple sash that marked her as a slave.

  “Bring good cheese and the best bread,” Polycrates said, “and some of those figs in honey. Is there any more smoked fish?”

  “Yes, Master, indeed there is.”

  “Bring me a great pile of the fish, then.” As the kitchen slave turned away, he said to Rhodopis, “Smoked fish is not my favorite, but it’s fortifying after any especially taxing exertion.”

  “Good Man,” Rhodopis began, “I wanted to ask you about—”

  “Ahh… Archidike,” Polycrates sighed. His eyelids slid half-closed, an expression of heavy satiety. “Is she not the most delicious, the most delightful, the most entertaining of women?”

  Rhodopis raised her brows and said nothing.

  “I had her several times last year when I came through Memphis. After I left, I tried to find another woman who excited me half as much—the gods know, I tried. But I never could. She is like a force of nature. Like a brush fire o
r a great, raging storm.” He sighed again.

  “I thought you liked the most exquisite things,” Rhodopis said. “I grant you, her blue eyes are interesting against her dark skin, but she can hardly be called exquisite. She’s so… coarse.”

  “I like the most unusual things,” Polycrates said. “Archidike is certainly unusual. It’s not just those blue eyes, though Poseidon knows they are as fascinating and wild as the sea. It’s… everything. Every damned and blessed thing about her.”

  Rhodopis stared at him in frank disbelief. Archidike had always lacked dignity and refinement, ever since her days in the Stable. Some men certainly seemed to enjoy her wild spirit, but few seemed inclined to sing her praises.

  “She’s like a lioness stalking her prey,” Polycrates said appreciatively. “Dangerous.”

  “Archidike is certainly that,” Rhodopis answered drily. Perhaps the gods were amusing themselves by setting up a contest between Charaxus and Archidike. Whose tale about Rhodopis would reach Amasis first?

  The kitchen slave appeared with a tray of food; she set it on the table between Rhodopis and Polycrates. The pirate tucked into his meal with zest, but Rhodopis could only stare despondently at the food. Time was growing shorter by the moment; the gods laughed in their realm of power, watching the twin snakes of rumor twist ever closer to Amasis—while Rhodopis could do nothing but lie on a pirate’s couch, miserably contemplating a wedge of cheese.

  “In Miletos, I found a girl called Elpis,” Polycrates said, his mouth stuffed with figs and fortifying fish. “I had her for two weeks straight. She was had a fearsome streak, just like Archidike—angry and strong, with hard eyes and sharp nails. Ah, very sharp indeed! I thought she would surpass my little Memphian demoness, but when it was time to sail on to the next port, I came very close to forgetting all about Elpis. It was Archidike I thought of instead—hungered for, really. I craved her, with an instinct quite outside the realm of rational thought, even outside of dreams.”

  Rhodopis made some small, inarticulate noise, trying to hurry Polycrates along the path of reminiscence.