Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2)

by Libbie Hawker

  It’s only raw nerves, she told herself firmly as they turned down the final alley. The stars reflected off the river, spread before her now like a great dark swath of polished obsidian. Only nerves. You’re almost there.

  Rhodopis never knew what force compelled her to look back one last time. But when she did, there was no mistaking Archidike, striding through the alley behind her, uncloaked and exposed, her smile arrogant and mocking.

  “Oh, gods,” Rhodopis hissed. She took Amtes’ hand, pulling her faster toward the river.

  “What is it?” Amtes asked stoutly.

  “Archidike. She’s following us.”

  Amtes peered back into the alley. Then she set her jaw and picked up her pace. “Keep one hand on your knife,” the handmaid suggested. “That one’s dangerous.”

  They broke out of the alley, onto the broad, flat expanse of the quay. Several boats waited at their moorings; Rhodopis scanning each one as she hurried past, searching for the Omen, but she did not see Polycrates’ ship. For one panicked moment, she thought the Omen was not there. They had come to the wrong quay, or worse, Polycrates had set sail without them. But then she spotted his boat—second to last in its row, as he’d said it would be. The Omen’s high, curved prow was reminiscent of the Samian Wind that a sob of relief ripped itself from Rhodopis’ chest. Polycrates had been good as his word. “There it is,” she said, pulling Amtes toward the ship.

  Rhodopis heard the rush of Archidike’s running feet a heartbeat before the sharp-nailed hand closed on her arm. Rhodopis stifled a scream—of surprise, or anger; she wasn’t sure—and whirled to face her attacker. She would have drawn the knife, would have struck at Archidike with all the force of her fury, but Archidike had caught Rhodopis by the right arm, and her right hand was clenched around the hilt. She could never reach Archidike with her blade.

  “Don’t try to stop me,” Rhodopis growled.

  Archidike’s pale eyes glowed in the starlight, a cold fire. “If you try to leave, I’ll go to the Pharaoh. I’ll tell Amasis everything.”

  Amtes lunged at Archidike; the latter turned, and turned again, shoving Rhodopis between herself and the handmaid.

  “Haven’t you already told half the city?” Rhodopis twisting against Archidike’s grip. “Amasis will know soon enough, as it is.”

  “But he’ll know within the hour if you board that boat. He’ll send his fleet after you. You’ll be killed, Rhodopis—and well do you deserve it.”

  With a last, frenzied effort, Rhodopis wrenched herself free. Her arm felt bruised, but there was no time to fret. Her fist locked tight on the knife. “I’ll be killed either way! You don’t know what you’re meddling in. This is bigger than you think, Archidike. Leave off; crawl back under your rock and let me go in peace. If you do, I can promise you’ll never see me again. I will never interfere with your life or your fortunes. You’ll be rid of me forever. Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Hurry on, Mistress,” Amtes said, stepping between Rhodopis and the bristling hetaera. “We’ve no more time to waste.”

  Archidike snorted. “Mistress?” To Amtes she said, “Do you know who—and what—your mistress is?”

  “Ignore her,” Amtes said. She took Rhodopis by the wrist, tried to drag her toward the Omen’s ramp. But Archidike laid hold of Rhodopis again.

  A man’s voice cracked across the quay. “Let go of her!” Rhodopis thought it might be Polycrates. But then recognition flashed along her every nerve, sharp and unwelcome as the pain of a toothache. It was none other than Charaxus; he came pelting down the line of ships toward them.

  “Gods give me strength,” Rhodopis muttered.

  “I knew it!” Charaxus cried, half wounded, half victorious. “I didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was all there before me.”

  “Evidence? You’re talking nonsense, Charaxus.” Rhodopis jerked this way and that in Archidike’s grip, but the hetaera had locked her talon-like nails into the cloth of Rhodopis’ dress. She could not break free.

  “All the signs were clear. Yet I didn’t want to believe that you could be unfaithful, and seek the love of another man.”

  Rhodopis kicked out helplessly, trying to shoo Charaxus away. “Get away, you fool!” She was still unwilling to shout, afraid of raising her voice. “I’m a hetaera. You know that; you know I go with other men.”

  “Yes.” The word was half a sob. “But I didn’t know you would actually go with another man. Yet here you are, trying to board his ship. Trying to leave.” Charaxus’ face twisted in disgust, in harsh disbelief. “And Polycrates, of all the foul, rutting beasts in the world!”

  Silently, Rhodopis cursed the gods. Then, wrath overwhelming fear, she cursed Charaxus aloud. “You thrice-damned, mindless, shit-pot fool! You followed me here?”

  “I saw you leave your house,” Charaxus said, speaking quickly. He looked feverish with his awful triumph. “All wrapped up like some lowly maid. I thought you must be sneaking off for a private meeting. But I never thought… Polycrates!”

  Archidike laughed, but she did not loosen her hold on Rhodopis’ dress. “I swear, this is better than honey cakes. I’ve never seen such a good show, not even in the amphitheaters.”

  “I won’t let you go with him,” Charaxus cried. His voice rose to a dog’s bay, an inconsolable howl. “I won’t let you! You’re mine—my love, my only!”

  “By Aphrodite’s tits, what is going on down there?” At the rough, bullish shout, all of them looked up to the Omen’s deck—Amtes, Rhodopis, and her two attackers. There stood Polycrates, the curtain of his cabin swinging shut behind him. In the night’s pale gleam, he seemed as broad and stony as a monument. As soon as he recognized Rhodopis under her silk scarf and basket, he leaned over the rail of his ship. “Leave, Charaxus.” There was a distinct note of amusement in Polycrates’ voice. “This is none of your business now. Believe me; you don’t want any part of it.”

  Charaxus trembled as he answered. “I won’t leave her. I love her; she’s to be my wife.”

  “Oh, I am not!” Rhodopis thrashed helplessly, side to side. When that got her nowhere, she stamped down hard on Charaxus’ foot. He grunted with pain, and clenched his teeth he did not let go of her wrist.

  Polycrates stormed down the Omen’s ramp. He crossed the quay in half a dozen quick, furious strides then leaned very close to Charaxus’ face. “Go. Now,” he snarled. “Before I kill you.”

  Charaxus recoiled briefly; his grip loosened, and Rhodopis pulled free. Polycrates gave Rhodopis a firm shove; she stumbled toward the ramp, slipping quickly into the narrow passage between the Omen and its neighboring boat. Archidike, laughing, refused to loosen her hold. Rhodopis dragged her along behind. She could hear Archidike’s sandals scuffing against stone as that miserable creature dug in her heels. If only Rhodopis’ dress would tear, and set her free!

  “Go,” Rhodopis said to Amtes, nodding ahead. Obediently, the handmaid strode a few paces ahead. Then, her uncanny composure cracking at last, Amtes bolted alone up the ramp.

  Rhodopis strained along the quay, striving for the ramp, which still wobbled with the speed of Amtes’ flight. The next moment, she froze, trembling. There was no mistaking the high, cold hiss that rang out across the quay: the song of a blade sliding from its sheath. She stopped, staring back at the men.

  Charaxus had drawn his sword. “Fight me, if you dare,” he said rather breathlessly to Polycrates.

  Polycrates’ hand flew to hilt of his sword, but he laughed heartily. “Are you so eager to die, little man?”

  “Fight me,” Charaxus said, quivering, “and whoever is left standing will have Rhodopis forever.”

  “Now this is a good show.” Archidike let go of Rhodopis and backed away, but the hetaera now blocked the only route away from Charaxus. The two men bristled at one another between Rhodopis and the boat’s ramp. Rhodopis could do nothing but cower on the narrow quay, clutching her cloak around her body, waiting for a chance to bolt in one direction or the othe
r.

  As Polycrates drew his blade, Amtes dropped her basket on the deck of the ship. She made as if to return to her mistress, but Rhodopis shook her head, silently commanding her to stay where she was. Amtes’ face paled, but she remained on board. Amtes clutched anxiously at the rail, leaning over it as Polycrates had one—as if she might will Rhodopis to fly up to the Omen, like one of her messenger pigeons.

  At least I know Amtes will make it back to Persia alive, Rhodopis thought. All hope for herself had crumbled. She is known to Phanes; she can explain Polycrates to the king.

  And whether I live or die, Psamtik might yet lose his throne. Remembrance of Psamtik—of the foul creature she had sworn to destroy—flared up, bright and painful, in her mind. She may be a hunted beast, backed into a corner, but she would yet find some way to ensure the King’s Son fell from power. She pictured herself dragged before Amasis, harried and abused by his soldiers… but before they ran her through with their bloody swords, might she not find some small chance to sink that tiny belt-blade into Psamtik’s throat?

  Charaxus chose that unfortunate moment to duck away from Polycrates. He clutched at Rhodopis again. With the memory of Psamtik still hot in her head, she ripped her small blade from its sheath before she could stop to think. She very likely would have killed Charaxus then and there—spilled his blood on the cold stone of the riverbank—if Polycrates hadn’t chuckled with pure disdain.

  “It will be hard to fight me, man to man,” Polycrates said, “with your darling in your arms. Or do you plan to use her as a shield? Release the girl, and I’ll oblige you by killing you. That seems to be what you’re driving at, after all.”

  Charaxus shoved Rhodopis behind him. He sprang toward Polycrates with a hoarse cry of rage. The Samian parried the first thrust of Charaxus’ sword, and the next, moving with arrogant ease. But Charaxus’ attacks were fierce, unrelenting. He fought with deadly earnest—and why not, Rhodopis thought, dizzy with disbelief. Love itself was at stake.

  Polycrates was far larger and certainly more brutal than his opponent, but Charaxus was surprisingly agile. More, fury made him tireless, filling him with an energy and resolve Rhodopis could scarcely credit. He dodged Polycrates’ blows like a fly dodges a whisk. Then, as Polycrates lumbered about to face his rapid assault, Charaxus darted in from the side and landed a blow to the pirate’s arm. Polycrates grunted with pain and rage.

  Gods! Charaxus is a better swordsman than I ever imagined he could be.

  He drove Polycrates back, and further backward still, inching the towering, bearded man toward the edge of the quay… and the dark water below.

  Charaxus will kill him if I don’t do something!

  Polycrates could not be talked into giving up the fight, boarding the Comet, and sailing away. Rhodopis knew better than to try. His pride was more sensitive than his cock—wasn’t that the case with all men? He would see this fight through to the bitter end, even if he died in pointless, wasteful combat. If Rhodopis hoped to get the pirate back on his ship—and to Babylon in one functional piece—she must find some means of forcing him aboard, before Charaxus wounded him so grievously that he could not sail.

  The men fought on while Rhodopis wrung her hands, but in the space between two ringing blows of their swords, she heard the low, mocking purl of Archidike’s laugh. All at once, Rhodopis knew what she must do. She slipped one hand down to the little knife. Then she stumbled a few steps backward, feigning fear over the men’s confrontation, and waited for the right moment to strike. Charaxus forced Polycrates back again, and—yes, now!—the fight moved past the foot of the Omen’s ramp. Rhodopis leaped at Archidike; she pressed the tip of her blade against the hetaera’s throat.

  Archidike went very still. The laughter died on her lips. She looked at Rhodopis with an unearthly calm; for a moment they stared at one another, and Rhodopis thought she saw the briefest flash of regret in the eyes of her former friend.

  “Come with me,” Rhodopis hissed. Now it was her turn to take Archidike by the arm, digging in her nails with relish. She shoved Archidike along, marching her up the boat’s ramp while the men went on fighting on the quay below, oblivious to what Rhodopis had just done.

  “Take her,” Rhodopis said to Amtes.

  Amtes obeyed, wrenching Archidike’s arm up behind her back. Rhodopis passed the knife to her handmaid. “Keep the blade at her throat. If she tries to break away, kill her.”

  Archidike laughed, hoarse and dry. “You won’t kill me. I know you, Rhodopis. You’re far too soft, too tender—the delicate, innocent white lotus.”

  Rhodopis made no reply; she only stared into Archidike’s eyes. She could feel her rage boiling over, all the anger that had long simmered inside her rising to a swift and terrible head. The pain and shame of what Psamtik had done to her—the loneliness, the terrible waiting during her time in the Pharaoh’s harem. And Persia—the fear, the awful, snared, trapped-animal feeling that had never left her, never let her rest. She was not Iadmon’s precious white lotus any longer. The gods had remade her, fashioned her anew. Archidike saw the truth now; her blue eyes widened with a fearful new understanding. She swallowed hard, her throat moving gingerly against the point of the blade.

  “If the gods are merciful,” Rhodopis said to Amtes, “I’ll be back in a heartbeat. But you must keep Archidike here, no matter what may happen.”

  Before Amtes could protest, Rhodopis flung her basket off her shoulders and hurried back down the ramp. She winced and dodged as the men’s blades flew, clashing and ringing in the cold moonlight. Charaxus and Polycrates broke apart, only for the most fleeting moment while they steadied themselves for another attack—but Rhodopis did not wait for them to charge in again. She threw herself between the men, arms flung out, face hot with anger in the cool night air. Polycrates was already making his next thrust; his blade whistled past her face, so close she felt the wind of its motion stir the fringe of her head-scarf.

  “Blasted crazy slit!” Polycrates cursed. His sword point clattered against quay stone.

  “Look!” Rhodopis pointed up at the Omen. Polycrates turned—and saw Amtes standing above, Archidike pinioned in her grip. The moon glittered on the blade pressed against the hetaera’s throat.

  “You bitch,” Polycrates snarled at Rhodopis. He hesitated only a moment, bouncing uncertainly on the balls of his feet. He cast a hateful glare at Charaxus, but he slammed his sword back in its sheath, turned without another word, and sprinted up the ramp.

  Rhodopis lunged to follow him, but Charaxus seized her at once. She thrashed—and then held perfectly still. A cold, hard bar had pressed across her stomach. Its edge was wickedly sharp, biting through the cloth of her tunic and cape, into soft flesh. Charaxus had slung his sword across her body. She turned her head, trying to see his face. But she could only feel his cheek pressed against her own, his hot breath whispering in her ear. “I’ve gone through too much to lose you again. You will not betray me a second time.”

  Rhodopis panted with the force of her desperation, but she could not break free of Charaxus. She called up to Polycrates, “Sail! You know what you must do.”

  Polycrates had freed the hetaera from Amtes’ clutches. He wrapped his lover in his arms, then cast a sour look at Rhodopis. But despite his bitterness, Rhodopis could still see the silver flash in the pirate’s eyes. He would go to Babylon. Cambyses would pay him well; Polycrates had already made up his mind.

  “If you harm a hair on Amtes’ head, you’ll face the king alone,” Rhodopis shouted. “She is your safe passage. She will speak in my place.”

  “Mistress,” Amtes called. The pain in her voice wrenched at Rhodopis.

  “You know what you must do.” Rhodopis did not know whether she spoke to Polycrates or Amtes, but she was calm now. Charaxus was unlikely to alert the Pharaoh to Rhodopis’ double-dealing, so long as she played the obedient wife. And sailing off with Polycrates, Archidike could do nothing to harm Rhodopis. The rest of her fate would unspool and weave itself as
the gods intended. “Sail on, Polycrates. Amtes knows where to go, and what you must do.”

  “You’re a weak, mewling, blind fucking fool,” Polycrates shouted at Charaxus. Charaxus said nothing, but his breath hissed more harshly past Rhodopis’ cheek.

  Polycrates threw off his lines, and Amtes, her face contorted with what might have been weeping, pulled up the Omen’s wooden ramp. The boat glided swiftly from its mooring, out into the wide, flat darkness of the river. The Omen would ride the current north, and meet up with Polycrates’ other waiting ships, with his crew of rowdy men. If the gods were sensible and merciful—on that count, Rhodopis had no faith—the fleet would arrive in Gebal in two weeks’ time. Polycrates of Samos would bow before the king in Babylon before the moon renewed itself again.

  And Rhodopis… she would remain in Memphis. Behind Charaxus’ firm, hard body (shivering with triumph) she sensed the chaos of the city rising, building, shuddering with the pressure of the people’s unrest. Did rumor still stew in that pot of discord? Would it boil over, and send news of Rhodopis to the Horus Throne in a hundred hot runnels of accusation?

  As Charaxus hauled her away from the quay, Rhodopis’ thoughts were all for Aesop. She must find some way to speak to him. Together, they could formulate a new plan—decide what they must do next. For the gods had spoken: Rhodopis would not return to Persia after all.

  Also by Libbie Hawker

  The White Lotus trilogy

  White Lotus

  Blood Hemlock (September, 2017)

  The She-King series