White Lotus Page 10

  Iadmon’s ruling on the decision was not open for debate. Doricha could do nothing but pray fervently that her first blood would flow, so that she would finally have some hope of making her fortune—of building her bulwark against fate.

  Soon the flood season was poised to come again. Days before the rising of the Dog Star—herald of the new year in Egypt—Doricha worked beneath the garden portico with Iunet, rehearsing an exuberant new dance the sour-faced old mistress had taught her. The steps were difficult, even intricate, for the music followed a strange, asymmetrical rhythm that put Doricha in mind of a person limping along on a lame foot. She struggled to land each light, crisscrossing step in time with the faltering beat, and was rather afraid that she looked lame, herself. But the way Iunet leaned against a pillar with arms folded, watching her pupil in silence, told Doricha that she was dancing well enough after all. She had come to understand Iunet’s moods and subtle expressions. The woman’s tight, still mouth might look like she’d bitten an unripe plum; her dark eyes may narrow in a critical squint. But Iunet’s switch hung limply from one hand, so Doricha knew she hadn’t disappointed her teacher yet. Iunet seldom found a reason to use the switch anymore, enthusiastic and gifted as her pupil was.

  Iunet and Doricha were not alone beneath the portico. They seldom were; most days, several of Iadmon’s household staff—as many as could be spared from duty—gathered in the shade to see their little dancing-girl put through her paces. Doricha’s rehearsals always brought pleasure to Iadmon’s people. Her love of dance was so much a part of her that she couldn’t restrain her happiness; her simple joy in music and movement spilled over and spread to others until they, too, were smiling and tapping their toes. And Doricha, for her part, used those crowds of servants to further her skill, fluttering her lashes at them as if they were men in the andron, challenging herself to raise a genuine smile from every watcher before her dance was finished.

  She knew every face in Iadmon’s household well. But on this day, when she whirled close to the edge of the crowd, leaning and reaching as if she longed to touch the nearest man but couldn’t quite overcome her shyness—Doricha locked eyes with one youth whom she had never seen before. His light skin and sand-colored hair marked him out as Northern Greek. His blue eyes fixed on her, tracking her movements with an intensity that nearly made her stumble. She managed to save herself at the last moment, turning that momentary hesitation into another coy display of feigned shyness that fit in perfectly with the tone of her dance. But in her surprise, she failed to keep the smile on her face. It slid from her like melted oil. As Doricha spun away from the crowd again, she hoped neither Iunet nor Iadmon had noticed her discomfiture.

  The musicians brought their piece to its close with a high skirl of notes, and Doricha struck her final pose, holding the position like a marble statue while Iadmon’s people stamped their feet and shouted praise. Doricha’s chest heaved from the effort of her dance, but otherwise she remained serene, masking her surprise at the newcomer’s presence until the shouts had died away. Then she relaxed, waiting for Iadmon or Iunet to issue another command.

  In the momentary silence, the strange man stepped forward and bowed deferentially toward Iadmon.

  “Master, your peer Xanthes has sent me with a message.”

  Doricha’s stomach turned a sudden, queasy flip. She had never forgotten Xanthes’ hungry stares on the night of the Flood feast. Nor had she forgotten the threat he posed. True, he had made no attempt to touch her—nor even to speak to her—in all the long months since that party, even though Doricha had seen him at plenty of feasts and festivals since. Still, the sudden appearance of his messenger set Doricha’s nerves ringing with caution.

  Iadmon waved the man forward; the Greek approached the master of the estate and bowed again, this time with more extravagance.

  “Xanthes plans to host the greatest New Year party Memphis has ever seen,” the messenger said. “He begs your indulgence and hopes you will attend, for it would not be a true celebration without his dear friend Iadmon. Those are the words he instructed me to say, Good Man.”

  Iadmon’s smile was cool and amused. “Good old Xanthes. Of course, I cannot disappoint such a close friend. I will certainly attend his party.”

  “Xanthes makes one more request, Good Man.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “He asks that you bring your magnificent dancing girl with you. After seeing her myself, I can understand why my master was so insistent on this point. She is young, but I believe I have never seen a finer dancer in all of Memphis.”

  Had any other man paid Doricha such a compliment, she would have been pleased, would have felt surer than ever in her future as a hetaera. But this stranger spoke for Xanthes. Doesn’t that make it same ’s if Xanthes said the words himself? Doricha couldn’t forget Xanthes’ assessing stare, the possessive feel of his hand as it had stroked her shoulder. Her heart beat loud in her ears; she lowered her eyes as the messenger smiled at her. So Xanthes hasn’t forgotten me, even if he’s taken to avoiding me like I’m plague-struck.

  Doricha glanced up just in time to see Iadmon’s smile broaden. She knew her master well enough to understand that he was susceptible to flattery, as all men were—and that his greatest source of pride was his wealth and his taste. Doricha’s popularity flattered Iadmon, reinforced his own high opinion of himself as a man of exquisite taste, of unmatched refinement.

  “Of course I shall bring my dancer.” He turned to Doricha. “What do you think of that, my girl?”

  What could Doricha say? She was no freed hetaera yet. She was only a slave.

  Doricha stood as tall as she could manage, lifting her chin with a confident air. “Reckon I’ll be very glad to dance for Good Man Xanthes, Master. So long ’s it pleases you.”

  9

  In the Crocodile’s Pool

  Iadmon’s litter moved through the streets of Memphis as smoothly as a boat gliding downstream. Doricha, seated on a soft cushion at her master’s left hand, peeked through the loose-woven veil of the litter’s curtains, watching city life bustle all around her. It was the longest day of the year, and although the supper hour had passed, Memphis still hummed with activity. A market square rang with the shouts of merchants, enticing passers-by to taste their honey wine, their smoked fish, their winter melons, still firm and sweet six months after the harvest. Odors of cinnamon and coriander mingled with the dusty smell of dissipating heat. A boy stood on the corner of two broad avenues, holding up his painted duck-feather fans for passing ladies to see. In a narrow alley, a pack of children shrieked with laughter as they played with a straw-stuffed leather ball, while on the roof-top high above, their mothers beat rugs and sleeping mats to rid them of dust and fleas. From a railed balcony, a painted porna leaned, pulling down the neck of her gown to show her full, round breasts. And somewhere in the distance, mingling with the low, plaintive calls of animals being led out for their nightly drink, a woman’s voice sang soft and sweet, My slipper, my shoe; who has a stitch to fix me? I cannot cross the desert sand alone. Night’s hour had arrived, but not night’s darkness. The whole of the city still glowed, golden-red, with the long, lingering sunset of the New Year, while low in the sky, with a flash of fire like an African opal, the Dog Star had returned to coax the Nile to its fullness.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Iadmon said quietly.

  Doricha turned away from the curtain with a guilty blush, but the master seemed disinclined toward scolding her for the unseemly gawking. Iadmon was watching the city, too, with a wistful warmth in his eyes. “I have always loved the New Year. Not only the long day, which is enjoyable enough by itself—but the reminder that everything starts anew, that we always have the chance to try again, to do better, to right our wrongs.”

  Doricha didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t confident that Iadmon expected a response; she couldn’t even be sure he was aware of having spoken his thoughts aloud. She smiled at him rather timidly, and laced her fingers t
ogether, the better to resist pawing at her hair. It mounded atop her head in a pile of red-gold curls, sewn firmly in place—another of Helena’s intricate constructions of braids, back-combing, ringlets and ribbons. Helena always stitched Doricha’s hairstyles firmly enough that they held through her most exuberant dances, but although Helena’s creations had never given way, still Doricha had never grown used to the feel of a tower of hair on her crown.

  “I like the light, Master,” Doricha said. “The sunset is so pretty, this time of year.”

  “Golden light.” Iadmon spoke slowly, with a drawn-out sigh. “Gold, gold… what a color, what a substance. The things men do for gold.”

  Doricha’s cheeks still burned with the embarrassment of confusion. What ought she to say? How could a slave respond to her master’s bleak musings? She stared straight ahead, over the heads of the litter-carriers, and did not look at Iadmon. He seemed captive to his own thoughts; Doricha feared that later, if Iadmon realized he had betrayed some subtle weakness to his slave, he might grow angry with her. The elegant man was not one to beat his slaves, but Doricha’s secret fear that Iadmon might get rid of her still curdled in her stomach as sourly as ever before.

  “Do you know,” Iadmon said conversationally, “they used to believe that Egypt was made of gold. Other people believed it, I mean… people who were not Egyptians. The Hittites, the Greeks, the Canaanites—everyone. They believed that in Egypt, gold was everywhere. Lying all around, sparkling in every crack in the floor, getting into your eyes like sand. They believed it blew about on the wind in great, shimmering clouds. Can you imagine such a thing?” He emitted a small, distracted chuckle.

  This was not the first time Doricha had dealt with a man in a dark mood. She turned to Iadmon with a bright smile and giggled like a bubbling Thracian stream. “What a silly thing to think! Some men haven’t the sense of a donkey. If Egypt ever had golden sand storms, then why did a great cloud of gold never blow off to Canaan or Mitanni? ’Less they think the gods can change gold into dust, while it’s blowing about on the wind. But if the gods could do such a thing, then they must be cruel indeed, to stop all that gold from piling up in drifts in every Hittite city. What’s a person to think about his gods, if they don’t let Egyptian gold blow in? Why, it would just about be enough to make me renounce the gods of my land entirely, and worship Isis and Osiris instead, for at least they appreciate a good storm of golden sand.”

  Iadmon’s laugh was neither dark nor distracted this time. He seemed genuinely amused by Doricha’s observation. “You’re right, of course. I’d never thought about it that way before. Imagine the gods working frantically to change gold to ordinary dust as it blew across Egypt’s borders. It is a silly notion… and of course, there’s not a bit of truth to it. But men will believe what they want to believe, not what common sense tells them. That’s especially true where gold is concerned. Gold and women.”

  “Reckon it’s not hard to see where the rumor started, Master,” Doricha said. “When you look out there at the city, with the sun still lingering, like, down low in the sky, everything looks like it’s covered in gold. Why, it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen; even prettier than a good necklace or a fine dress, because it’s all alive, isn’t it, Master? Look at those oxen there. Going down to the river to have a drink. They’re just ordinary oxen in the daytime, and at night, too. But now, just for this hour, when the sun’s at just the right angle… see how they shine! And the little drover boy. He’s ordinary, too, but in this light, with his skin all a-glowing, he could almost pass for one of the gods of old Egypt himself.”

  Iadmon turned to her with a smile as lingering and warm as the sunset. He gazed at her for so long that Doricha lowered her eyes to her lap, suddenly nervous under the master’s scrutiny.

  “You clever thing,” Iadmon said. “I was right about you. You’ve made a herd of cattle and a dusty drover boy seem like magic, conjured up out of a sorcerer’s fire. And you’ve lifted my spirits, no doubt. Oh, my Doricha… there’s nothing ordinary about you, is there, in daylight or in darkness? When you become a hetaera, you’ll set Memphis reeling.”

  “But why should the great Iadmon’s spirits be low?” Doricha said playfully. “Doesn’t he have the finest riverfront estate in the city? Isn’t he the very best at his trade? And—” she made a little flourish where she sat, twisting her arms and hands dramatically, raising a cheerful jingle from the bracelets on her wrists— “doesn’t the great Iadmon have the best dancer in all of Memphis?”

  “The best dancer in all of Egypt, I dare say.”

  “No, Master. All of Egypt? Not I.”

  “You are still young, but… one day. One day your name will be known up and down the length of the Nile. And as for why my spirits are low… well. I couldn’t refuse and invitation to Xanthes’ party, now could I? Everyone would think me uncouth. But I don’t like the man; I never have. I don’t believe he’s ever forgiven me for buying Aesop. But Xanthes hardly has good cause to blame me for his own blindness. He wasn’t quick enough to see what a treasure he had in Aesop, and by the time he realized he’d made a grave mistake in selling him, it was too late. I wasn’t about to give Aesop up again—I won’t still, not for any price. Oh, I know Xanthes makes a good show of being a jolly, trustworthy friend, but he has always been the type of man to carry a grudge for an eternity. He’s waiting for his chance, Doricha: mark my words. He will ruin me if he can. I know a crocodile when I see one.”

  “Oh… I beg you not to think about it now, Master,” Doricha said. She was already anxious enough about being in Xanthes’ presence again. She could still feel the revolting sensation of his rough, greedy fingers sliding along the soft skin of her collarbone. She didn’t need the threat of Iadmon’s ruin hanging over her, too. “Not on the first day of the new year. It’s bad luck to have grim thoughts now. If you think such terrible things, then the whole year will go poorly for you. That’s what we always said in Thrace, any rate, when the new year came.”

  The litter turned off the road and passed beneath a tall, vine-wrapped gate. The gate was set into a white stone wall, its top spilling over with twining vines that opened fragrant pink blossoms, a sweet offering to the approaching night.

  “Here we are, at any rate,” Iadmon said. “Xanthes’ estate. We descend into the crocodile’s pool. I shall do my best to enjoy it. At least I will get to see you dance, and at one of the grandest parties of the season, too—so the night won’t be a total loss. This party is a good opportunity for you, Doricha. You’ll meet plenty of wealthy men, all of whom will be eager to make your closer acquaintance once we debut you as a fully-fledged hetaera.”

  The litter sank gently to the ground in a crescent-shaped courtyard. A servant in the dark blue of Xanthes’ household came forward to draw back the curtains and help Iadmon and his young dancer to their feet. Doricha gazed in wonder at the estate. The pale curve of the yard was set off by a heavy fringe of lush green foliage, dotted liberally with sweet-smelling blooms. A thriving flower garden was an extravagance now, at the tail end of the harvest season when the river was at its lowest. Xanthes’ house was tall and broad, its walls coated in pure-white plaster that picked up the rosy glow of the sunset. Three or four young girls, their heads crowned with circlets of woven emmer, moved about the courtyard with water skins slung across their bodies. The girls used twig whisks to scatter droplets of water on the bare earth, damping down the late-summer dust. Musicians had already begun to play inside the great house; a bright and optimistic tune drifted out through the windows, and from the red-painted door, which was held open in welcome by another male slave robed in deep, luxuriant blue.

  “This way, if you please, Good Man,” the slave said. He bowed with one arm extended, welcoming Iadmon to the party. Iadmon nodded with brisk resolve—a man making up his mind to go unflinching toward danger—and strode toward the door. Doricha hurried after them, careful to remain the proper two paces behind her master’s shoulder.

  X
anthes’ house was magnificent—even finer than Iadmon’s, for it was more spacious and more richly adorned. Doricha stared in frank awe at the polished ebony furniture, strewn with silk cushions; the intricate detail of the friezes carved on every limestone wall; the astonishingly vibrant hues of the rugs beneath her feet. The ceilings and arched doorways reached up so high, they may as well have been stone skies stretching overhead. The air was perfumed with roses, and everywhere—inlaid into tables, woven thread by thread into the carpets, leafing the delicate art of the friezes—the opulent glint of gold flashed and danced as blue-robed servants lit the evening lamps.

  Reckon Xanthes is one of those men Iadmon spoke of, Doricha mused, one of those who would do anything in the world for gold. It’s all very pretty, but I dare say his tastes aren’t as sophisticated as Iadmon’s. It’s all a show, like. It matters very much to him, that people see exactly how rich he is, and no mistake about it.

  Presently, they reached the andron. The room was almost twice as large as Iadmon’s, with a curving rear wall, its two doors open on a view of the warm, shadowy garden and the dark, sunken line of the depleted river beyond. Dozens of lamps glowed, illuminating the pillars and arches of the andron, shining brightly on the faces of Xanthes’ laughing guests, sending fingers of light to trace the gold adornments of the dining couches. The musicians were gathered beside the garden door. Two pipers bobbed and swayed beside a double-ribbed harp, which was so tall the harpist couldn’t hold it upright himself; a youth with lean, muscular arms braced the harp on its painted wooden stand while the player a tumbling melody from its strings. Three women wielded an assortment of tambours and bronze bells, while an old man strummed rich chords from a lyre made of the spiraling black horns of a white-striped antelope.