Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 10

  “It would anger the gods,” Rhodopis said breathlessly, “to kill their chosen king. The Nile would never rise again. The gods would—”

  Psamtik jerked her arm hard; the knife bit into her neck again, and a fresh stream of blood slid down her neck. She choked back a scream.

  “Nile?” he spat. “A Greek word, a Greek name! The river is called Iteru. That is its proper name, its Kmetu name. Say it.” He wrenched at her again; she stumbled, terrified the blade would slice deeper, and nearly lost her footing. “Say it!”

  “Iteru,” Rhodopis sobbed.

  “The Greek stain will soon be blotted from this land, make no mistake. When my father is dead, I will restore what is ours by right—what is Kmetu. What is true and maat.”

  Rhodopis trembled in his grip. She could feel the blood soaking into the neckline of her dress. The linen clung, heavy and wet, sticking to her skin. The salted-metal smell of her own blood filled her nostrils and singed the back of her throat.

  She never knew where she found the courage to speak again. She didn’t even know she had spoken, until her own words were ringing in her ears, too late to call them back. “When your father is dead? Do you plan to kill Amasis, then?”

  Psamtik’s laugh was slow, oily. “What if I did? No fear of the Iteru failing; I have every confidence that the gods would laud me for that deed, too, just much as my subjects would.”

  Rhodopis’ heart was racing now pounding loud in her ears. But even as panic flooded her mind, shrieking at her to break free at all costs and run, to scream no matter what Psamtik did with his knife, still one small corner of her mind remained sheltered, level and observant. He’s told me of his desire to kill his father, she thought. He won’t let me live. He’d be a fool, to let me go now.

  If that was true—if after all the gods intended her to die—then Rhodopis had nothing to lose. Psamtik was an impulsive and prideful man; if she antagonized him deftly enough, he might make some brief misstep, might give her just enough time to break free before he could sink his knife in further. It was the only hope she could cling to now, thread-slender though it was.

  “Then why don’t you do it?” Rhodopis said. “Why don’t you kill Amasis, and let Kmet and the gods alike shower you with their praises? You’ll be a hero, won’t you? Do it; go on and do it this very night. Or can’t you muster the courage? I don’t believe you can do it. I think you’re afraid of him, afraid of all his guards. You’ll never do it, Psamtik—never!”

  In the pale, cold moonlight, Psamtik smiled at her—a slow, satisfied curling of his lip. “Everything in its due time, little lotus. All in its time.”

  The knife lowered. Rhodopis’ heart leaped—with hope this time, not with fear. But the thread of hope snapped when Psamtik pulled her off the garden path. A circular grove of trees waited for him—for her—the trunks like stoic sentinels, or like the bars of a cage, eerily luminous in the moonlight.

  Rhodopis, choking back her sobs, went along with Psamtik, never daring to shout for help. She could sense his ruthlessness, his predatory resolve. If she emerged from that grove with her life, it would be a blessing from every god of the earth and sky.

  7

  Lady Nitetis

  Rhodopis leaned heavily against the rail of the Pharaoh’s great ship, staring down at the quay below. Amasis’ servants carried the last of the cedar crates up the ramp; they stored her false dowry on the ship’s broad deck, lashing the goods in place with great lengths of damp, twisted, fish-smelling rope. The whole quay smelled like fish—old fish, dead and rotting, with a pervasive undertone of decaying plants in watery mud, a stench like too many cattle held in a tiny pen. Why had she never noticed before how the river reeked, how its odor coated her nostrils, her throat? The river—the Nile. She would not think of its Egyptian name, would not remember the sound of the word on Psamtik’s tongue, the way he’d forced her to say it, too. She would not remember. She would not.

  The sun was far too warm already, though the morning was still young. It raised beads of sweat on her skin. The ship’s painted rail was so hot, it seemed enough to burn her skin. She let her body sag against it, let the heat soak into her flesh. She ached and stung in half a hundred places; Psamtik had left her hurting all over, though he had been careful to leave neither bruises or wounds—an experienced hunter of women. But bruises or no, Rhodopis felt every blow, every violation, every repulsive touch. Everything Psamtik had done repeated endlessly in the memory of her body, if not in her stubbornly closed mind. If she hadn’t been so tired, so pained, she would have screamed and screamed from the torment of it.

  When Psamtik had finally released Rhodopis—when she understood that he would not kill her, after all—she had stumbled out of the grove of trees and back to her apartment, guided by a swath of moonlight. The women’s quarters had been perfectly dark; not even the smallest servant’s lamp still glowed. Psamtik must have held her captive for hours. She had staggered through the unlit hall, tracing her way through the corridor with one trembling hand against the cold brick wall, until at last she returned to her chamber. There she had huddled on her bed through the remains of the night, staring into the darkness, too shocked and horrified to cry, too stricken to sleep. When the sun rose, the Pharaoh’s guards had come to take her away.

  The handful of servants who would accompany Rhodopis to Babylon milled about the deck, muttering among themselves. It was obvious to them all that their mistress was distraught, yet what could any of them do? Khedeb-Netjer-Bona had carefully selected the servants from outside the palace; each believed that, despite her pale complexion and red-gold hair, Rhodopis was truly a daughter of the king. None would presume to comfort a member of the royal family in a setting such as this, with the eyes of so many Kmetu upon them. And a true King’s Daughter of Egypt would take offense if she were maneuvered into a public display of weakness. The servants could do nothing but watch and whisper as their new mistress slumped against the ship’s rail, mired in misery.

  Dull and detached, as if she observed from some unimaginable distance, Rhodopis watched the final preparations on the quay. The rowers boarded the ship, filing up the wooden ramp in an eager line. Their laughter and shouts would have offended her ears and cut her to the heart, had her spirit not been drifting in its comfortable absence. The captain shouted his orders; the great, heavy lines were drawn in, the ramp lowered to the shore, and the oars reached out from the ship’s sides like the probing legs of some great, garishly colored beetle. Memphis and the Pharaoh’s palace pulled away as Rhodopis was carried steadily to the center of the vast, green river.

  “Good-bye,” Rhodopis said curtly to the city—to Egypt itself.

  She was glad to be leaving. To think she had ever thought she would miss this place, this land that had given her nothing but grief and loss and imprisonment! Unknowable dangers waited in the court of Cambyses, but at least there she would be well beyond Psamtik’s reach. He was every bit the monster Khedeb-Netjer-Bona had feared. Rhodopis realized, with a chill of sickening certainty, that this mission to Persia was the only thing that had saved her from death at Psamtik’s hands. She had witnessed his treasonous words against the Pharaoh—his own father!—but why should he bother to kill Rhodopis, when Cambyses was certain to do it? And surely Psamtik, with his black heart and dispassionate scheming, saw clearly that Rhodopis could be of use to Egypt in Cambyses’ court. No, why should he do away with her, when she might serve the very throne he would secure with his father’s death?

  If I am to die, she thought bleakly, I’d rather die at Cambyses’ hands. There had been something so cold, so strikingly inhuman about Psamtik in the grove of trees. He had gone about hurting her methodically, almost without thought. Once he’d set to his terrible work, all his gloating anticipation had fled. Rhodopis felt sure that he took no pleasure in the act; he had done it merely because some dark impulse compelled him. Had a demon possessed him? Worse—had he worked the will of a god? With a grim knot tightening by the moment in her
stomach, she wondered whether any act, no matter how horrible, brought Psamtik any measure of joy.

  Rhodopis squeezed her eyes shut, lowering her brow to the sun-struck rail of the ship. The oars splashed and pulled through the water in a steady rhythm; the scent of the river was sweeter here, far from the shore—cool and clean and shadowy. She breathed it in greedily, then breathed deeper still, though her injured ribs protested with a stab of pain. She wanted to crowd Psamtik out, drive all memory of him from mind and flesh. If only I could chase him away, get him out of my thoughts. Somehow the residence Psamtik had taken up inside her mind seemed a worse violation than the rape. His presence, his violence, had infected her very thoughts and feelings. Perhaps Psamtik would never leave her; perhaps she would never be free of him, no matter how far the ship carried her from the Memphian shore.

  The memory of one of Aesop’s little stories sprang up unbidden in her heart. It was a sweet, short tale about an old woman with a wine jug. The woman could not stop herself from smelling the jug, though it had long been empty. But the scent left inside was redolent with the memory of the wine’s surpassing quality. “How nice must the wine itself have been,” the old woman said, “when it leaves behind in the vessel which contained it so sweet a perfume!”

  Rhodopis hung her head. Would the memory of the outrages Psamtik had inflicted upon her linger all the rest of her life? Would her mind and body reek with the stench of his remembered violations?

  A jolt of painful realization made Rhodopis lurch up from the rail. Aesop! In her fear and despair, she had forgotten the letter. “No, no!” she cried, reaching out across the rail, her hands straining toward Memphis as if she could catch the city and pull it back, hold it close to her heart.

  The servants appeared at her side almost at once; they had been waiting, she realized, for the right moment to crowd around her, to offer whatever comfort they could give. A few of the women clucked in sympathy, patting her shoulders and back.

  “My lady Nitetis,” the oldest servant said, using the false name Khedeb-Netjer-Bona had assigned, “please don’t shout and cry. You’ll only weaken yourself, and you must keep up your strength for the journey.”

  “Poor thing,” another woman said. “She misses her father already, and her sisters, too.”

  Rhodopis shook her head wildly, batting away their hands. She wanted no one to touch her, could tolerate no one’s body so near her own. How could she explain? What could she say to these bumbling fools to make them understand—and why would they not get away from her?

  “Dearest Lady Nitetis, the sun is so bright this morning. Come into the shade. Look here; we’ve a nice cabin prepared for you, and it’s cool and dark inside.”

  Rhodopis shrank from the women’s hands, pressing her back against the railing. “Aesop—Aesop! I must tell him—I must!”

  “Who is Aesop?” the oldest servant asked patiently. “We don’t know that name, my lady.”

  The old woman reached for Rhodopis again; she pushed away the age-spotted hand. “Leave me be!”

  “You heard her,” a voice barked from among the servants. It was low, dark as a smoke-filled temple, but distinctly female. “Back off, all of you; give my lady room to breathe.”

  The others edged away. Rhodopis heaved a deep, cool breath in the circle of empty space; her trembling calmed. A tall woman stepped forward, some twenty years old, slender and poised. Her deep-brown skin was well oiled, so it glowed like a perfectly polished stone; a rich, herbal scent emanated from her body, at once soothing and compelling. She smiled lightly. Beneath the heavy fringe of her braided forelock, her eyes were steady, unblinking—and faintly conspiratorial. “Now scatter,” she said to the other servants. “I’ll take Lady Nitetis to her cabin and remain with her there. I’m sure the rest of you can find useful ways to occupy your time. If you can’t, I’ll be sure to tell the chief wife as much when next I write to her.”

  The servants dispersed. The tall one watched them go with a satisfied air, one fist propped on her hip. Then she turned to Rhodopis, flashing a grin. “Come on, my lady. Old Tia’a was right about one thing: the sun is entirely too hot. You’ll like the cabin. If you don’t, I’ll make them tear it apart and rebuild it to suit you.”

  She started off across the deck; Rhodopis followed her in a daze.

  “Amtes,” the woman said over her shoulder.

  Rhodopis blinked at her back. “What?”

  “My name. And you—” Amtes pulled the red linen curtain of the cabin aside, gesturing for Rhodopis to enter— “are Lady Nitetis, King’s Daughter of Kmet.”

  Rhodopis sank onto one of the cushions that had been strewn rather casually around the cabin floor. She stared up at Amtes, torn between horror and relief. There was no mistaking the way the woman had spoken. She knew.

  Before Rhodopis could reply, Amtes let the curtain fall shut behind her. A dim, ruddy light filtered through its cracks and the slubs of the linen’s weave. By that strangely intimate light, Amtes rummaged through a small case made of hardened and intricately carved leather. She pulled out two items: a faience jar with a tight-stoppered lid, and a heavy pouch with its mouth tied securely shut. Amtes tossed the jar to Rhodopis; she caught it, just barely, with numb, fumbling hands.

  “My oil,” Amtes said, holding up her arms to show her meaning. “It smells good, doesn’t it? Not to mosquitoes, though; they hate it. It will keep them off you. They’re a plague out here on the river.”

  “You’ve…” Rhodopis sniffed, choking back a hiccupping sob. “You’ve sailed the river before?”

  Amtes offered no answer, save for a sly little smile. She held up the pouch by its tie-strings. “And this is for your hair. It will turn it black as the sacred bull—your eyebrows, too. Keep yourself plucked there, under your skirt, for it’s much harder to dye that hair, and if your new husband sees golden hair in the Valley of Iset, the whole game will be over and done.”

  “So… you do know.”

  Amtes shrugged. A large jar of water that squatted in the cabin’s corner; she lifted its stopper and splashed a handful into a shallow bowl. Then she trickled a bit of dark powder from her bag. “I know how to dye hair, if that’s what you’re asking.” It was certainly not what Rhodopis had been asking—they both knew it. “Some King’s Daughters have had pale skin like yours, but no Kmetu has hair like that. We’d best turn you properly dark, don’t you think?”

  Rhodopis nodded. She poured some of the fragrant oil into her palms and rubbed it over her skin, watching as Amtes stirred the dye with a small wooden spoon.

  “You’re the one who will write for me, aren’t you?” Rhodopis asked.

  Amtes nodded. “I’ve a good hand. Anything you tell me will go safely to the Pharaoh and the chief wife—nowhere else. That, I am willing to swear by any god you please. I’ve been well paid, and I know my work. I do it better than anyone else.”

  She took a square of soft linen from her leather case and wiped Rhodopis’ cheeks. Her touch was gentle, almost maternal—a startling contrast to her rough, low voice and brusque manner. “It’s a good thing you haven’t any kohl on today,” Amtes said, “or half your face would be blackened by your tears. But you must paint yourself tomorrow—or I’ll do it for you, if you prefer. Otherwise, the rest of the servants will begin to wonder and whisper among themselves. A King’s Daughter seldom goes about with her face unpainted.”

  “I don’t care,” Rhodopis said dully. “There is nothing I care for less right now than painting myself up like some pampered bit of royalty.”

  Wordless, Amtes took Rhodopis by the chin and lifted her face gently. She stared at the raw, red marks on Rhodopis’ neck—the cuts from Psamtik’s blade. They were the only visible marks he had left on her body, though he had left all too many unseen scars behind. Amtes’ mouth turned down in an angry frown. She released her hold on Rhodopis’ chin and turned away, rummaging through her case with a vigor that spoke of helpless fury—a state it seemed all women knew too well. “Pa
int yourself when you’re ready, then,” Amtes said shortly, but not unkindly.

  She produced a fine-toothed comb from her case. “Turn about; put your back to me. The dye is ready now.”

  Rhodopis turned. Amtes scooped a bit of the dye onto the crown of Rhodopis’ head. With the comb, she worked it gently through the red-gold strands of hair. The woman’s hands were both deft and careful; the comb never snagged or pulled, although that morning, Rhodopis had given her long, unbraided locks only the most cursory and distracted attention. The dye was cool where it touched her scalp—cool and soothing, with a faint tingle that was not unpleasant. Amtes had mixed in some fragrant oil of lavender and sacred basil; the pungent herbs nearly covered the smell of the dye, which had a distinct ammoniac bite—most likely derived from urine, Rhodopis thought with a shudder.

  She held quite still as Amtes did her work. The gentleness of the woman’s attentions, and the low murmur of the lullaby she hummed, filled the dim cabin with a peace Rhodopis had never expected to find again. Her task was as dangerous as ever, but with the competent and composed as Amtes by her side, Rhodopis felt slightly less convinced that the work would lead inevitably to a violent death. Yet she could not think of Amtes as a friend. She had made that mistake with Archidike, but she would never stumble so badly again. She had only one friend in all the world…

  Aesop. She recalled him with a stab of pain so deep and cold that it stole her breath away. She tensed; Amtes took note, the comb pausing in her hair. The woman’s humming died away.

  Amtes did not move. She seemed to be waiting for Rhodopis to speak, but Rhodopis could never have done it. She pulled her knees up to her chest, huddling into her own body despite the pains what wracked her. Rhodopis listened to the sound of the oars as they splashed and pulled, splashed and pulled, carrying her far away.

  Amtes began to hum again, soft and low. The comb slid gently through her hair.

  8

  Babylon