Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Page 12

  Then she understood. My accent. I don’t sound like a native Egyptian, do I? Inwardly, Rhodopis cursed Khedeb-Netjer-Bona—how could the chief wife have overlooked such a crucial detail? Then she cursed herself just as roundly; she ought to have known her accent would give her away. She should have prepared for this possibility.

  “You must forgive my speech,” she said, thinking quickly. “My father loves me so well that he sent me to be reared in a country estate, where I could remain far from the city and its evil air. He did not want me to catch a sickness, you see, for when I was a small child I was frail. I believe he also worried that I might fall under the influence of unsavory people within Memphis, for it is a wicked city in many respects. But my mother died when I was very small, and the nurse who reared me was a Greek. She taught me to speak—indeed, she was often my only company—and I fear I sound more like my nurse than a proper King’s Daughter. I loved my nurse dearly, but still it is a source of great embarrassment to me. Many times I have prayed that my father would relent and allow me to live with him in Memphis, even if it is a wicked place, for there are many more entertainments in the city. Country life is very dull, especially when one has only a Greek nurse for companionship.”

  “It is no matter, my lady,” the man said. “You will soon learn to speak Haxamani as readily as if you’d been born to it. And you will find that Babylon brings you more excitement than Memphis ever could, I am sure. My name is Phanes. I am chief physician, and a steward of sorts to the king—honored to be one of his most trusted advisors. He has asked that I take special pains with you, and see to it that you have everything you need to feel welcome and comfortable here in Babylon. If there is ever anything I can do for you, no matter how insignificant you may think the task to be, you have only to ask, and I shall see it done.”

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Phanes.”

  Rhodopis could say nothing more. She felt a curious heat and pressure building inside her chest; she fought down a shriek of hysterical laughter. She had dodged the sword-swing of fate with that improbable tale about her childhood; it was all she could do now to maintain a straight face. She sounded so refined, so dignified—I thank you, Lord Phanes! Listen to yourself!—but now more than ever before, she knew she must quell her instinct to natter like a mud-soaked peasant. The Persian court might accept a King’s Daughter with a distinctly Greek accent, but they would certainly suspect her authenticity if she let slip a single, undignified “reckon.” I never could control my tongue and speak like a proper lady in the harem. I’d best learn to do it, and right quick too, here in Babylon. Else I’ll find my head rolling off across the ground without my body attached.

  Rhodopis and Phanes rode on in silence, even after they passed the last group of cheering Babylonians. They crossed a second bridge, spanning a pale turquoise-green canal that flowed straight and tame between its stone-lined banks. The king’s great palace was quite near, towering above the avenue like an Egyptian pyramid, tall and symmetrical against the lapis-blue sky. Rhodopis could see the gardens clearly on its great stone terraces. They were shockingly green and lush amid the dryness of the desert, flourishing from every wall and rooftop of the sprawling palace. Ninsina had told the truth about the gardens; even from below, they seemed so varied and profuse that Rhodopis could well imagine a person might explore them for weeks without coming to the end of them—or might get lost entirely in those forests of palms and rose bowers.

  A slant of violet shade fell across the avenue, the shadow cast by the soaring tiers of the palace. The moment the shadow engulfed Phanes, he urged his gray horse to a canter and returned to the head of the caravan. The palace gate was just ahead, dark with aged wood and black shadow, emblazoned with the lions of Babylon. Rhodopis could hear Phanes calling out in Persian—a greeting or a command to the guards who kept watch on the gate. A great, hollow groan thundered through the air as the gate’s two massive doors swung open.

  Rhodopis’ camel followed the others through the gate. Phanes re-appeared at her side, grinning with a deferent air. “If you will be so good as to join me, Lady Nitetis, to the side—there, beneath those palms. Their shade is most pleasant, and I have already sent for cool drinks and food to refresh you. I know your journey has been long and difficult.”

  “Am I to see King Cambyses now?” Rhodopis said.

  “Not yet, I am sorry to say. The king’s stewards must inspect your dowry and your servants first. You understand, of course.”

  Rhodopis nodded. Cambyses had threatened Egypt with war. Naturally, he would be suspicious of every person, every crate and basket the King’s Daughter had brought with her into Babylon. Indeed, he would cast a narrow eye at every bracelet and scrap of linen on her body until Rhodopis had earned his trust.

  “I will bring my handmaid Amtes with me,” she said. “I am sure you are a trustworthy man, Lord Phanes, yet still I must be certain that no one has any cause to question my loyalty to my husband.” Again she fought down the threat of hysterical laughter. Here she was, riding a camel straight into Babylon’s lion-jaws—yet somehow, she managed to speak exactly like a true King’s Daughter of Egypt. Except for the Greekish sound of me. That thought only made the laughter harder to contain. She bit her lip hard when Phanes turned away. I believe he’s bought the whole bill of goods. P’raps the gods haven’t abandoned me after all.

  Amtes made the camels kneel, and gratefully Rhodopis slid from the litter. Her body ached with disuse; cramps flared suddenly in her legs, and her hips were so stiff she half expected them to creak like the timbers of a ship as she moved. She could still feel the swaying of the camel’s gait, even as she stood on solid ground. Never again, she promised herself grimly. I’ll either die here in Persia or live out my days in Babylon as the wife of this King Cambyses, but I will never ride a camel-litter through the desert ever again. No, not even to save my life!

  The cluster of palms at the courtyard’s edge did provide a sweet and soothing shade. Rhodopis shared one fleeting look with Amtes as servants hurried toward her, bearing cups of wine and a bowl of sliced fruits. “You’re in one piece so far,” Amtes’ wry glance seemed to say. And Rhodopis answered silently, “We will see what the future holds.”

  Both she and Amtes drained their cups of wine, rather faster than propriety allowed. It was cool, sweetened with honey and fortified with some tangy herb that at once made Rhodopis feel braced and refreshed. She hadn’t known she’d been so very thirsty. The moment the wine settled in her belly, she reached for the fruits, chewing the crisp, tart slices just for the sake of distraction. Phanes was content to remain quietly to hand, near enough to be called should the lady Nitetis need anything, but engrossed in the spectacle of the dowry. He and Rhodopis both watched as the king’s troop of brisk stewards unpacked, tallied, and repacked each box and basket with fascinating speed and efficiency.

  When the final containers were unpacked and approved, Phanes turned to Rhodopis with another of his mild, patient smiles. “That’s done, then. Now if you’ll follow me, my lady, I shall take you to your royal husband. He is most eager to meet you.”

  Rhodopis followed her host across the courtyard, into the shade of a pillared portico not unlike those she had seen so often in Memphis. The pillars were square-sided, though, rather than round; instead of crowns of lotus flowers or papyrus fronds, these were topped by images of crouching bulls, their great, thick necks bent to bear the weight of the palace between their pale stone horns. Beyond the portico, Rhodopis found the palace hall well-lit by tall, narrow windows, with long runners of flat-woven carpets brightening the floors. The walls were lively with color, but the vast mural was not painted on the walls, as was the custom in Egypt. Instead, the hall was covered floor-to-ceiling with the same intricate, brightly glazed tiles that had adorned the magnificent Ishtar Gate. Strange trees with golden trunks seemed to climb the full height, their odd, round leaves curling like ostrich plumes. Slender gazelles played about the forest floor, oblivious to the li
on that stalked them with gaping jaws and hungry eyes. A garden flourished near the peaked waves of a river—fantastical blooms nodding above the water, vivid fish darting below. The many hues of blue and green, of scarlet and crimson and deep blood-red, seemed too spectacular even for the gods to have made.

  Phanes drifted past the forest mural without so much as a glance. “I do believe, Lady Nitetis, that you will find Haxamani ways rather informal. I hope our customs are not a disappointment to you.”

  “No,” Rhodopis said. “No, I shall be most glad to take part.”

  They left the tiled forest behind. Phanes turned at another square-sided, bull-crowned pillar; Rhodopis stepped quickly to catch up. The floor sloped gradually upward; they began to climb a subtle ramp.

  “I have no doubt you will be a commendable wife to our king,” Phanes replied. “Yet Babylon—indeed, all of Haxamanishiya—shares little in common with Egypt.”

  “That is no more than I expect, of course. I am devoted to my father’s cause, and glad to be of service, even if I must live in a place that bears little resemblance to my home.”

  Phanes issued a tiny laugh—a mere gust of air through his nose, whispering against the hairs of his upper lip. “Of course,” he said quietly, “Egypt itself bears little resemblance to Egypt these days.”

  Rhodopis stared straight ahead as they progressed up the ramp. She had no idea whether Phanes had intended her to hear what he’d said—and no idea how a King’s Daughter ought to respond to such a comment. It was safer to hold her tongue, to make believe she had heard nothing. She pressed her lips together tightly, resisting the urge to cast a conspiratorial glance at Amtes.

  The sloping passage found level ground at the mouth of another portico. Beyond the pillars, the bright sun beat upon the flat, utterly bare ground of another courtyard. The glaring light was so intense, the threat of a sneeze prickled Rhodopis’ nose. The courtyard was devoid of the touches she had seen at the palace’s entrance; no fountain splashed in a stone basin, no palms offered kindly shade against the heat of day. But there were people, arrayed in a ring about the open space. A handful of ladies, dressed in the same beautifully embroidered robes and shawls Shamiram and Ninsina had worn, clustered beneath cloth sunshades held up by servants or slaves. The women sipped from horn cups, chattering and laughing with one another, while men dressed as richly as Phanes grinned and shouted in the full force of the sun, unaffected by the heat.

  Phanes raised a hand, stalling Rhodopis well within the shelter of the portico. As he did, one great roar of gleeful anticipation went up from the courtyard crowd; a moment later, two men burst into view, bare-chested, arms locked around one another’s bodies, tussling and scrambling in the ferocious light. Each had the beard of a proper Babylonian, though the neat curls suffered for the fight. Neither man wore anything more than a short, brightly colored kilt of linen, not unlike those Egyptian men wore, and simple sandals tied to his feet. Rhodopis squinted against the glare, watching as they twisted and shoved, each striving to hurl the other into the dust while the crowd cheered them on. One man, the shorter of the two, hooked his ankle around the other’s calf; he nearly succeeded in sending his tall, broad-shouldered opponent sprawling. But the tall man righted himself, and with a roar he slung his challenger across his shoulders, turned him about, and tossed him to the courtyard floor as if he’d been no heavier than a sack of barley. The crowd laughed, stamping their feet in approval; the victor bent and clasped forearms with his foe, pulling him back to his feet, clapping him solidly on the shoulder.

  Phanes seemed poised on the balls of his feet, waiting for just the right moment to proceed. Rhodopis craned her neck, trying to see past the pillars, to take in more of the courtyard. Was the king there—seated on a shaded throne, enjoying the spectacle of the wrestling match? If only she could see him; if only she could make out what sort of a man he was before she must speak to him… or lie with him. She was gripped by sudden nausea and cold, surging dread.

  “Come,” Phanes said, satisfied that the time was right to proceed. He stepped out from the shelter of the portico, into the bright sun. Rhodopis had no choice but to follow.

  As soon as she revealed herself, the courtyard erupted in a startling sound—a piercing ululation from the tongue of every woman present. Wide-eyed, shuddering with the shock of it, Rhodopis stared around her at the Persian women, each of whom saluted her with a raised cup. Phanes led her toward the tall man, the victor of the wrestling match. Sweat beaded on the man’s thick arms and trickled down his broad, straight back; it sparkled like gold in the sun as he turned, reacting to the women’s cries. When he found Phanes, he grinned, showing straight, white teeth—and when he saw Rhodopis at the physician’s side, he lifted his bearded chin in an expression of satisfaction.

  Phanes bowed low before the man. The breath seized in Rhodopis’ throat—this was the king of Persia? This strange, sweating bull of a man who wrestled nearly naked before his subjects? But she reacted swiftly, bending in a bow of her own, presenting trembling palms to the king in the Egyptian fashion.

  The king moved toward her; she heard his sandals scuff against stone, then saw the sandals—frayed ties, well-aged leather—and the deep brownness of the king’s skin between the crossed straps. There was a pinkish-white scar above one toe, and a sprinkling of fine, dark hairs along the tops of his feet. Such ordinary feet—an ordinary man. And yet he was the king.

  No king is ever ordinary, is he? Not even soft old Amasis.

  “Rise, beautiful one,” the king said.

  Rhodopis straightened slowly. She kept her eyes downcast, fixed shyly on his feet. Conscious of her accent, flushing with embarrassment, she said in the Persian tongue, “My lord and ruler, Cambyses, king of Haxamanishiya. I am Nitetis, daughter of Pharaoh Amasis, king of Egypt.”

  “Of course you are!” Cambyses boomed out a happy laugh. “My new bride,” he called to the people gathered around him. “She has come at last. Egypt has given up a daughter—a thing never done before. Let history remember me as the only king so great and desirable that I won the heart and hand of an Egyptian princess.” There was something distinctly ironic in his words. A few of his subjects chuckled, and Rhodopis flushed still deeper. Did his people know that their king had only secured this daughter of Egypt with an open threat of war?

  She dared not raise her eyes to Cambyses’ face, yet she could feel his appraising stare as he surveyed her, taking in every feature of her body from the crown of her head to the soles of her slippers. Rhodopis was suddenly conscious of her clothing, wrinkled and dust-marred from the long journey. It would have been a kindness, if she had been allowed to wash and dress herself in a fresh gown before meeting the king—perhaps to comb and arrange her hair, too, for it was surely mussed and sandy after hours lying in the camel-litter.

  But Cambyses gave a grunt of approval; he seemed not to mind her disheveled appearance. “What do you think, my ladies?” he called to the gathered women.

  “She’s a pretty thing,” one of the ladies called back. There was no hint of envy in her words. “What a shame Egypt has been stingy with its daughters for so very long!”

  “Aye,” another said, laughing, “and she looks meek—not likely to cause trouble.”

  An older woman called out, “She’s got slender hips and small breasts—hasn’t had any babies yet, I’ll wager.”

  “The king will soon fix that,” a lady shouted, and the whole courtyard laughed.

  When the laughter died away, one of the women said, “Be kind to her—she is shy. Anyone can see that. The poor dear is far from home.”

  “I don’t know but the shy ones are easiest to get along with,” said the one who had criticized her hips and breasts. “She will do nicely, even if she’s not yet proven herself as a mother.”

  There was a general murmur of assent among the women; again they raised their cups toward Rhodopis.

  Cambyses lifted his hand. Silence settled over the courtyard. “I believe you wil
l do nicely,” he said to Rhodopis. “Very well; you are my wife, Nitetis of Egypt. Phanes, take her to the women’s quarters and give her whatever she desires. Nothing is too good for my women, eh?”

  The women in the courtyard cheered again; some repeated the strange, high-pitched, warbling cry.

  Phanes bowed again to the king, then gestured for Rhodopis to follow him. She hurried from the courtyard gratefully, stifling the urge to gasp in shock. I’m married to the king, then? Easy as that? Phanes wasn’t half wrong: Persia is a good deal less formal than Egypt.

  As she followed the physician through the sloping halls of the palace, an unsettling thought crept into Rhodopis’ mind… then sank lower to settle, cold and bleak, in the pit of her stomach. She had learned how to navigate the currents of Memphis—well enough, at least, to become a hetaera. But in a place so different, so utterly strange—a place where a woman could be married to a king with nothing more than a word and a nod of the head—how could she ever hope to steer her way to safety?

  9

  A Turn of Fate

  The harem house of King Cambyses stood well apart from the remainder of Babylon’s great palace. Separated from the warren-like halls and chambers of the palace proper by a long stretch of blooming garden, the women’s quarters were a haven of peace and beauty standing high above the vast, bustling spread of the city. Rhodopis gazed about in stunned fascination as she crossed the garden terrace toward the women’s wing. Every bed and alcove, every stone retaining wall overflowed with color—the tumbling emeralds and citrus-greens of vine, leaf, and stem, the cascades of flowers so vibrant and many-hued she could scarcely find names for the colors. Sunset pink, carnelian red, a rich fig-brown that looked soft as a kitten’s fur; an array of violet-blues like the sun refracting from the facets of a well-cut stone. There were a dozen shades of yellow, from pale cream to the deep, reddish intensity of the evening sun—and even the white flowers thrilled Rhodopis with their arrays, for their petals were crimped or smooth, star-like or all of one piece, and their throats were speckled or striped with bright pink or flecks of black, with streaks of purple as deep as good wine. Ninsina had told the truth, back in Memphis—and yet, she hadn’t told the half of it. The gardens of Babylon were like nothing Rhodopis had imagined. Certainly, the Pharaoh’s own gardens paled and wilted by comparison.