Persian Rose (White Lotus Book 2) Read online

  “Your goods are being delivered to your apartments as we speak,” Phanes said. He conducted Rhodopis and Amtes toward yet another bull-pillared portico. “I believe you will find the accommodations here every bit as pleasant as in Egypt. We lack for nothing in Babylon.”

  “I can see that,” Rhodopis said, still rather shaky from the twin shocks of the glorious garden and the rather precipitate marriage. “And I thank you. But may I bathe? I am still covered in dust from the journey.”

  “Indeed; you will find a bathing pool here on the women’s terrace. It is well screened for privacy, but if you prefer to bathe inside, the harem servants will bring you water and a copper tub. There is no better way to—ah!” Phanes interrupted himself as they entered the portico. “Speaking of the harem servants, here is Naramsin, chief of the eunuchs and overseer of the women’s quarters. All who serve the king’s women answer to him. Naramsin, this is Lady Nitetis of Egypt, the king’s newest bride.”

  Screened by the rich blue shadows of the women’s palace, the chief eunuch leaned at ease, one shoulder resting against a stone pillar. He was an exceptionally tall man—perhaps even taller than the king—with curling black hair, a reed-slender body, and a beardless face. He wore a robe of pale yellow with a leaf-green shawl; the flowers and vines embroidered on his garments were so delicate they appeared out-of-place on a man’s clothing. Such adornments seemed better suited to a woman.

  Naramsin nodded a sober greeting to Rhodopis, but spoke to Phanes. “I was heading out to find you, Chief Physician, but I saw you coming across the terrace.”

  “All is well, I hope,” Phanes said.

  Naramsin shrugged. “Lady Freni is complaining of unbearable pain with her women’s flux again.”

  “She is not vomiting again, I hope.”

  “No, but she is out of the herbal tea that eases her pain.” One of Naramsin’s precise black brows raised. “Again.”

  Phanes sighed. “I warned her that she must only drink it when her time is upon her. She had grown to enjoy the effect too much. I shall have to give her a less effective treatment this time—no more tea for her, until she learns to control her appetite for it.” He turned to Rhodopis with an apologetic smile. “I will leave you in Naramsin’s capable hands, my lady, while I see to Freni. In the meantime, I believe you will be pleased with the arrangements I’ve made for you. I shall join you again this evening, after you’ve had time to bathe and settle in. You will tell me then if anything is amiss, will you not?”

  “Yes, Master Phanes. I thank you again for your hospitality.”

  Phanes bowed to Rhodopis, nodded briskly to the eunuch, and departed.

  “I see you speak Haxamani, my lady,” Naramsin said.

  “Only a very little,” Rhodopis said slowly. “I don’t suppose you know Egyptian.”

  “Some,” Naramsin admitted, “though I wouldn’t embarrass myself by attempting it. I would make a butchery of your tongue. Come along.”

  He led Rhodopis into the depths of the women’s palace. It was every bit as grand and colorful as the rest of Cambyses’ massive estate, but here the air was perfumed with the spicy tang of incense, with cinnamon and roses and the lingering sweetness of honey. The low, soothing notes of a harp drifted from someplace Rhodopis could not see—a hidden passage, perhaps, or behind a closed door. The music meandered without aim, coloring the air with its gentle, contented placidity. From another quarter, a baby cried faintly, and was quieted by the cooing and shushing of a kind female voice. In that soft and beautiful place, some small measure of fear ebbed away from Rhodopis’ spirit, leaving renewed hope and quiet fortification in its place.

  “Here is your new home,” Naramsin said, gesturing toward an open door at the end of the corridor.

  Rhodopis stepped inside. Many of her dowry goods had already arrived, borne up the palace’s maze of ramps by Cambyses’ quiet, efficient staff. The Egyptian women who had accompanied her from Memphis were busy unpacking the chests and baskets, sorting through her clothing and cosmetics, tucking them away in the great, free-standing closets and massive trunks that lined the walls. The chamber was huge—easily thirty paces across, even larger than the rooms that had been allotted to Shamiram and Ninsina in Memphis. Carpets woven in a hundred colors covered the stone floor, a patchwork of garishly clashing hues that nevertheless managed to feel cheerfully refined. In the two corners farthest from the door, Rhodopis could see arched entryways, each leading to an additional room. The size of the place made her feel markedly dizzy. What under the moon and stars will I do with two more rooms? Especially considering the size of this first one? How Shamiram and Ninsina must have cringed at the meanness and cramped space of their chambers in Amasis’ harem!

  “It’s all so beautiful,” she said rather breathlessly. “But please, Good Man—may I bathe?”

  Naramsin looked rather amused. “You do not need to ask me, my lady. You may tell me what you wish. I will see to it that your needs are fulfilled. Do you prefer to bathe inside, or out in the garden?”

  “Outside,” Rhodopis said at once. The chamber was too imposing in its size and bright colors for her to feel comfortable there. At least the garden, vivid though it may be, was roofed over by the open sky. The sky made sense to her; Babylon did not. Not just yet.

  “Very good,” Naramsin said. “Follow me, my lady.”

  Amtes, thinking quickly, snatched a fresh gown from a nearby basket of clothing. Then she and Rhodopis hurried after Naramsin, back toward the women’s terrace.

  The eunuch led Rhodopis toward a free-standing wall of dark vines with fat, glossy leaves. Sky-blue flowers, flared like the end of a musician’s horn, smiled among the foliage. Naramsin and Rhodopis stepped behind the wall of vines; a bathing pool revealed itself suddenly, sunk into the flat stone of the terrace. The pool was fed on one side by a fountain that splashed at regular intervals, like the beat of some strange, silver heart. On the other side, a shallow, brick-lined trench guided excess water off into the garden, where the green things could drink their fill. The wall of vines curved nearly all the way around the pool, blocking sight of the garden, the palace, the city below. Phanes had spoken truthfully: the outdoor bath was remarkably well screened from view. The bathing place a sanctuary of quiet, a welcome escape from the awe and fear that still clamored in Rhodopis’ spirit.

  “The water is warm,” Naramsin said, “heated by the sun, but you will not find it unpleasantly hot.”

  He moved as if to undress her; Rhodopis shrank back from his touch, and turned to Amtes instead. Amtes made quick work of the knots and sashes that held the pleated linen dress together. It fell away, leaving the soft breeze to brush Rhodopis’ skin. She sighed in relief; already she could feel the sweat and grime and monotony of the long desert crossing drifting away from her.

  Amtes helped Rhodopis step down into the bathing pool. The water was indeed warm—just warm enough, a comforting embrace that Rhodopis sank into gratefully, until she was submerged up to her chin. Amtes sat on a nearby stone bench to wait, but the handmaid jumped to her feet again with a wordless squawk of protest.

  Rhodopis turned about in the water, searching for whatever had startled her handmaid. Naramsin stood on the edge of the pool, one foot lifted, frozen in the act of stepping down into the water—and he was naked. He had shed his robe and shawl with surprising speed; they lay neatly folded on the bench behind him, in the shadow of the blue-flowering vines. He held a curved copper skin-scraper in one hand, a bottle of cleansing oil in the other. He looked at Rhodopis, half amused, half wary, waiting for her to speak.

  Rhodopis’ eyes darted down to his groin. She gasped—the man was fully intact.

  Naramsin chuckled. “Phanes called me a eunuch—and so I am—but you were expecting something different, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. Her arms had tightened reflexively, defensively, around her body, naked and vulnerable below the water.

  “There are some eunuchs in Haxamanishiya who are cut
,” he said. “Those are made eunuchs, created by mankind. The best of us are born eunuchs, created thus by the gods.”

  Rhodopis said nothing, watching him tensely. She had not been in the presence of an undressed man since that terrible night in the garden, before she had left for Babylon, when Psamtik had… No, she would not think of it. Remembering did no good. Naramsin’s unexpected manhood hung limp and soft, but still he might try to…

  “My lady,” Naramsin said patiently, “you understand what I mean, do you not? I have no interest in your body, except to care for it, and that I will do in a most excellent fashion. I take great pride in my work and in my position. But lovely as you are—as all the king’s women are—I do not find any temptation in your nudity.” He smiled wryly. “I’m afraid you lack the requisite parts to set my blood stirring.”

  Amtes laughed, hoarse and low. She returned to her bench with an air of satisfaction.

  “Of course,” Rhodopis said, blushing. “In Memphis, the Greek men… they often… that is to say…” She burst out with laugh of her own. “Of course, Naramsin. You must forgive my reaction.”

  The eunuch stepped down into the pool. “No forgiveness is necessary. It’s not the first time I’ve surprised a woman in this way.”

  He approached her slowly through the water, as one might approach a skittish colt or a growling dog. Rhodopis turned her back to him, stood, and held her arms wide. Her skin still crept with fear—she could not trust a man who intended to touch her, even if he claimed no carnal interest—but she was determined to fit into Babylonian life, to do her secret work as well as Naramsin did his.

  His hands were both gentle and efficient. He worked with a business-like detachment that soon put Rhodopis at ease, massaging the rose-scented oil into her skin, working out the knots and kinks that had formed in her muscles over the course of the long and trying journey. By the time he scraped away the oil—and the dust and discomfort of the desert trek—with his copper blade, Rhodopis had begun to feel quite comfortable in the eunuch’s presence.

  Women’s voices came steadily toward the pool, murmuring and giggling on the other side of the vine wall. A moment later, three dark-haired beauties, barely older than Rhodopis, peeked around its edge.

  “May we join you?” one of them asked, smiling. Her plump cheeks flashed beguiling double-dimples.

  Naramsin waved them away curtly. “Bathe later,” he said, but Rhodopis stopped him.

  “Please let them come in,” she said. She liked their air of friendly curiosity. “I would be glad of more company.”

  Naramsin shrugged and rinsed his scraper in the pool. “As you wish, my lady.”

  The three girls bounded toward the pool, eager as pet cats pouncing on a string. They giggled and shrieked with glee as they disrobed, then splashed down into the pool with such vigor that the irrigation trench gushed and overflowed its little brick-work banks. Naramsin clicked his tongue in annoyance, gathered up his oil, and climbed out of the bath with ponderous dignity. He dried himself with a linen town and dressed while the newcomers introduced themselves.

  “I am Karânî,” said the dimpled one.

  “And I am Iobia.” She was tall and slender, with hair that retained its curl even when wet.

  “I don’t have a name,” the third said. Her eyes were mischievous, her grin conspiratorial. “The gods dropped me here from the middle of a great sand storm. I am probably the daughter of a goddess, but who can say? I’ve no memory of the time before the sandstorm. It is all a great and beautiful mystery.”

  Iobia rolled her eyes. “She does have a name: it’s Faidyme, and she makes up the most ridiculous stories about everything. Never believe a word she says.”

  Faidyme laughed and splashed her friend. “Never believe a word I say, except when I tell you the truth. Then you should most definitely believe me.”

  Rhodopis smiled timidly. “How will I know when you’re telling the truth?”

  “I’ll grow very serious,” Faidyme said, “like this.” Her trickster grin vanished in an instant, replaced by a mask of such perfect sobriety that Rhodopis couldn’t help but laugh.

  “You are the lady Nitetis,” Karânî said. “Princess of Egypt.”

  “I am.” Rhodopis prickled with shame at the lie, for she liked these girls already, and took no pleasure in deceiving them.

  Faidyme waded to one edge of the pool, where several glazed pottery jars stood in a row. She pulled the stopper off one and sniffed it. “Jasmine,” she said. “Who wants jasmine oil?”

  Karânî made a face. “I’m tired of jasmine. Find me something spicy.”

  Faidyme went on sampling the bath oils until she found one that would suit. She passed the jar over to her friend.

  “I’ll take the jasmine,” Iobia said. “If I can annoy Karânî with my smell, I’ll consider it a battle won.”

  “You always annoy me with your smell,” Karânî said. “Feel free to parade around the terrace with a victory banner.”

  There was no spite in the girls’ banter. In fact, their teasing held a distinct current of warmth and affection that startled Rhodopis. She could sense already that the three Persian girls were far less competitive, less mistrustful than any group of women she had known before. She thought she could like them easily enough, but still she felt wary in their presence. The weight of her duty to the Egyptian throne never left her; danger seemed to drift all around her like an unseen mist, cold and oppressive.

  Iobia rubbed the jasmine oil into her shoulders and chest. “Is it true that Egypt has never sent a royal daughter to any other king?”

  “Yes,” Rhodopis said. “That’s so.”

  “Never? Not in a thousand years?”

  “Well… not that I know of.”

  “It must feel strange,” Faidyme said, “to be the first to leave Egypt in such a long, long history.”

  “It’s… very strange indeed,” Rhodopis said faintly. You’ve no idea how peculiar I feel.

  “Did our brides reach Egypt before you left?” Karânî asked eagerly.

  “Oh, yes,” Rhodopis said. “I met them—Shamiram and Ninsina. They were very beautiful and kind. I hope they will be happy in Egypt.”

  Faidyme said, “I hope the same. We were good friends with both, and we miss them terribly. All the women here in Cambyses’ house are good friends: we are determined to be, even though Iobia snores at night and you can hear it from the Ishtar Gate.”

  “Do you never quarrel with one another?” Rhodopis asked.

  “Oh, now and then,” Iobia said. “But we never let a quarrel last long. Living together as we do, and sharing one man among us… everything is easier if we are friends rather than enemies.”

  “Do the women in the Pharaoh’s harem fight terribly?” This from Faidyme, who seemed eager to hear a scandalous “yes.”

  “They didn’t—that is, we didn’t—fight, exactly,” Rhodopis said. “But the women seldom trusted one another, and they were not as kind and quick to laugh as you. They were… dignified, I suppose.”

  The three girls burst into laughter.

  Rhodopis blushed, realizing what she had said. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “It’s all right,” Karânî said. “Don’t apologize. We are not overburdened by dignity here in Cambyses’ household—not by an outsider’s estimation. But we do look out for one another, and we enjoy our days.”

  “And our nights,” Faidyme added. “Up until Iobia starts in with her snoring.”

  Rhodopis said shyly, “You seem to have an enviable life here, in the king’s household. I pray that I will fit in.”

  Karânî threw her arm around Rhodopis’ shoulder. “Nitetis, my sister—you fit in already. You are one of us. We accepted you down there in the practice yard, did we not? And the king took you for his wife. That means you’re one of us.”

  “But the poor thing feels out of place,” Iobia said. “We must remedy that.”

  Faidyme clapped her hands in anticipation. “Fea
st! Tonight!”

  The other girls clamored in eager agreement.

  “Oh—no, I couldn’t,” Rhodopis said. “Not tonight. I’m so tired from the journey. I can barely keep my eyes open now.”

  “If you fall asleep at your welcoming feast,” Iobia said, “we will understand. And we’ll make Naramsin carry you back to your chamber and tuck you into bed like a sweet little babe. But you must let us celebrate, Nitetis. We’re all so glad you’ve come.”

  Rhodopis shook her head in wonder. Even the party the girls of the Stable had thrown, when Rhodopis became a woman, had never felt as warm or genuine as this. And certainly, the Pharaoh’s women had found no cause to celebrate Rhodopis’ coming. That this offer of a welcoming feast came from three girls who were all but strangers to her struck Rhodopis mute. She nodded her assent, unable to speak a word, for she feared anything she tried to say would come out as a croak of tearful gratitude.

  She stood, took Naramsin’s hand, and climbed rather shakily from the bath. The eunuch toweled her dry and held her gown while Rhodopis arranged its drapes and knots.

  “Tonight, then,” Iobia said. “Naramsin, will you see to preparations?”