White Lotus Page 14
The hetaera was clearly joking, but when she saw fresh tears spring to Doricha’s eyes, the mocking smile slid from her face. She clucked in sympathy.
“Xanthes won her in a wager,” Archidike said airily, as if she’d had nothing to do with it.
“No doubt he did. After the way you danced, girl, I’m sure Xanthes would have done anything to get you.”
“It really was a marvelous dance,” one of the other girls said. “I don’t mind telling you so. You’ve got a real talent, especially considering you’re so young. But don’t ever let Bastet think you know how good you are. She fancies herself the only real dancer in the Stable; she’ll claw your eyes out if she thinks you aim to steal her praise.”
“Bastet,” Persephone agreed darkly. She hissed, curling her fingers like claws, giving a good impression of the Egyptian cat goddess from whom the jealous hetaera had evidently taken her name.
“Thank you for warning me,” Doricha muttered. It only intensified her pain, to think that dancing—her only joy in the world—had inspired Xanthes to take her away from Iadmon. Doricha had done her best to impress Xanthes’ guests, but now she felt as if the dance had betrayed her.
“Keep dancing like that,” one of the girls said, “and you’ll buy your freedom before you know it.”
Doricha glanced up at the hetaera. “What does it cost, anyway? To buy my freedom?”
“What, leaving so soon?” Persephone asked slyly. “You only just got here.”
“Is Iadmon’s white lotus too chaste for this kind of work?” said the one who had warned her about Bastet. “Mother Isis here will be a virgin until she dies!”
“Leave off, Callisto,” Archidike said wearily. But she raised one dark brow as she eyed Doricha skeptically. “Surely you’re not a virgin, Duckling. Iadmon had you plenty of times, I’d wager.”
Callisto snorted. “If you’re going to wager, best to do it with Iadmon. You’d be sure to win a nice, fat prize.” She mimed tipping a cup to her lips again and again, while the other girls laughed.
“Never mind if you are untouched,” Archidike said to Doricha. “Xanthes will soon cure you of that. Now come along; we need to find you some robes. That dress of yours is pretty, but it’s only suited to a feast, and anyway, it’ll go into the dresser’s closet now, for anybody to use. That’s the way we do it here. If you want something to be yours and yours alone, you’ve got to buy it with your own coin. But who’d waste hedj on pretty dresses when she could save all her silver for freedom?”
Archidike opened the big, green-painted door at the rear of the Stable. Lamp light spilled inside, revealing a room packed with cedar chests, standing wardrobes, and jewelry casks on countless shelves.
“The dresser’s closet,” Archidike said. “Don’t ever try to steal anything from it. Amenia is the official dresser, and she knows every damned stitch and thread in this collection. She’ll ruin your life if you cross her—absolutely ruin it.”
“Amenia’s got a wasp up her cleft,” Callisto said dismissively.
“You’re just dying to reach in and pull the wasp out,” Archidike retorted. She turned back to Doricha. “This wardrobe here holds all the everyday clothes. You can wear anything you like from this chest, without having to ask Amenia first. But be sure you keep on her good side; she’ll tell you which clothes you can wear from the other chests, and which you can’t—jewels, too. Once you’re working as a hetaera, your appearance will either make your career, or destroy it. Best to be sure Amenia is your closest friend.”
“What did you do to cross her, then?” Persephone muttered at Archidike. “You look like a cheap porna in that dress.”
“Better a cheap porna than a dockside slut who gives it away for nothing,” Archidike replied. She worked as she spoke, gathering supplies from Amenia’s wardrobe and dropping them in a small basket at her feet.
Doricha shrank from the venom in the two girls’ voices. A hard edge of mistrust, even of hatred, was plain to be felt within the Stable. Xanthes’ hetaerae might put on a good show of camaraderie when they were among their patrons, but now it was plain to see that their friendships were brittle and shallow.
But that makes sense, and all, Doricha thought. Don’t their futures depend on finding men to pamper and keep them? They’ve got to stand out in a crowd of beautiful women. And now, she realized with a shiver, so do I.
Even in a city as grand as Memphis, there were only so many rich men to go around. She twisted her fingers together to keep her hands from shaking, doing her best to smile at the other women—to make herself as unthreatening as possible—while they laughed and joked and slung their casual barbs back and forth. Now Doricha saw clearly that every one of those girls—indeed, all the women in Xanthes’ Stable—was her enemy. Each was already a fierce competitor in a game Doricha had not yet begun to play… but must now somehow win. She hadn’t yet reached her fourteenth year, and already she was far beyond her depth. But there could be no going back—not now, not ever.
Only way through is forward, she thought. Right into the thick and the mess of it, gods have mercy.
Doricha figured she had best start playing the part now. If she could convince these hard, world-wise hetaerae that she belonged among them, then she could convince anybody. She turned to Persephone, bracing her hands on her hips, and said brusquely, “Tell me what it’ll cost to get myself free. Don’t try to put me off, now; I want to know.”
Persephone blinked at Doricha, startled by her sudden boldness. Archidike laughed. Doricha couldn’t decide whether the laugh sounded cruel or amused.
“It all depends on what Xanthes thinks you’re worth,” Archidike said. She threw an arm around Doricha’s shoulders. “And he already thinks you’re worth plenty, or he wouldn’t have risked Iadmon’s anger.”
Archidike picked up the basket and left the dresser’s closet, kicking the door closed behind her. She led Doricha back to the alcove. There, she plucked item after item from the basket, laying them out on the bed.
“Tunics,” Archidike said, pointing, “ten hedj each.”
“Ten! They’re never worth that much.”
“They are if you ask Xanthes. Belt and rags for your monthly flow, whenever that finally comes—another ten hedj. Sandals, twenty. Hair oil—ten for now, but Xanthes and Amenia will want you in better stuff, something that smells much sweeter. Fifty? Sixty? Possibly more. Paints for your face, and the brushes to apply them: at least a hundred.”
Doricha gasped.
“Believe it,” Archidike said. “The paints are of such high quality that they might actually be worth that much, too—the only honest cost Xanthes charges. And there will be more expenses.” Archidike ticked them off on her fingers. “Food to keep you alive, oils for your baths, the hairdresser’s fees, the fees for the musicians who will accompany your dances. I could go on; there are more costs I haven’t named yet—costs I’ve entirely forgotten. And all that’s on top of the value Xanthes sees in you—what he must get back if he ever hopes to replace you with a girl who’s just as talented and pretty.”
“Oh,” Callisto called languidly as she undressed in her own alcove, “and don’t forget the three-quarters. You’ll give three-quarters of everything you earn to the master.”
Doricha swallowed hard, fighting back the burn of fresh tears.
“That’s how he makes his fortune,” Archidike said. “By skimming off nearly everything we earn.”
Doricha looked down at the folded tunics and the basket of cosmetics lying on her bed. She struggled against a rising tide of despair; its dragging current threatened to suck her under and rip the breath from her lungs. She knew—Aesop had told her—that the younger a hetaera freed herself and struck out on her own, the more successful she would be, and the longer her career would last. But how will I ever get out of this place while I’m still young? How can I hope to make my way in the world, with such a debt already hanging over me?
“I’m for bed now,” Callisto announced. “Don
’t keep me awake with your chatter, any of you, or I’ll scratch your eyes out faster than Bastet could.”
“We should all go to sleep,” Archidike said quietly. “It’s always wise to get some rest when you’ve got the opportunity. In this line of work, only the gods know when the chance will come again. Oh, I know it seems grim now, Duckling. But you’re a very fine dancer—one of the best I’ve ever seen. Certainly, you’re better than Persephone over there, and if you want to know the truth, Bastet dances like a cow wallowing in a marsh; she’s nothing to worry about. Don’t tell her I said so, but it’s true. Good as you are, you’ll earn your way out from under Xanthes’ heel before you know it. Just wait and see if you don’t.”
Archidike gave Doricha an encouraging smile, then pulled her curtain shut. The lamp light was mostly blotted out, leaving only soft, greenish gloom in the alcove where a weak glow seeped past the edges of the curtain. Doricha transferred her things—the shackles that would keep her chained to Xanthes—on the lowest shelf, then spread her sheets over the bed and climbed numbly onto the mattress. Her breath was ragged and stunned in the small space of her alcove. She lay with her covers pulled up to her chin, willing herself not to cry. Her eyes remained dry until at last the gods took mercy on her, and she drifted away to sleep.
11
The Needle
A violent clatter ripped Doricha from sleep. She gasped loudly as she lurched up in her bed, half convinced she was still sleeping, and was caught in the grip of a nightmare—for a woman’s hard, angry face hung inches from her own, glowering and severe. Doricha jerked the covers up to her chin, her teeth chattering with fright. But even in her shock, Doricha’s careful training in observation—that crucial skill which Aesop had so patiently instilled—rose to the fore. She looked carefully around. The furious woman had knocked aside Doricha’s curtain—that accounted for the startling sound. The sleeping alcove was still cloaked in gloom, but the quality of its dimness had changed. There was a warmer cast to it now: the sun was entering the great chamber of the Stable, probably via the long stone shafts of the wind-catchers, and gently suffusing the whole room with its light. Morning had come.
Doricha decided that she was not dreaming after all; the angry woman was all too real. She scrambled from the bed, naked and shivering in the cool air of morning. The woman seized her by the arm and dragged her roughly from of the alcove. She heaved Doricha across the room. Doricha stumbled and flailed, crossing the whole of the chamber with a terrifying momentum. Archidike caught Doricha in her arms, just in time to prevent her from sprawling across the floor.
Archidike righted Doricha, then turned her about to stand beside her, facing the wrath of the pinch-faced older woman. Only then did Doricha notice that Archidike’s curtain was tucked neatly back, revealing her perfectly made-up bed and her orderly shelves. The older girl was already dressed in one of the white tunics from the dressing closet, which, though plain, was soft and well-woven. Archidike’s long, black hair had been brushed out, and was now pulled back with a wooden comb. The curls she had worn at the previous night’s party now hung in loose waves down her back.
The woman stalked toward Doricha and Archidike. “Sleeping the morning away like a cat in a patch of sunlight,” she boomed. Her voice filled the whole chamber—startling, from a woman as thin and wiry as she.
Doricha risked a quick glance down the length of the Stable. The other girls were up, too, dressed in white tunics with their hair combed out, like Archidike. Each of them stood beside an open alcove; their beds were neatly made.
“That won’t be tolerated a second time,” the woman said. She was not shouting, exactly—yet Doricha was sure that every word could be heard throughout the chamber and beyond—in the corridor outside, in the farthest reaches of Xanthes’ estate—across the whole city of Memphis. “You will be up with the sun each morning, dressed and presentable, unless you are nearly dead from illness. Or unless you would like the strap. Am I understood?”
Archidike dug her elbow into Doricha’s ribs. “Yes,” Doricha said at once. “Yes, er… Mistress.”
The woman narrowed her eyes at Doricha and leaned in closer. “Your skill as a dancer is laudable enough, I’ll grant you, and well known by now. But you have much more to learn, if you’re to do Xanthes’ name any credit.”
For a moment, Doricha wondered what else there could be for her to learn. But then Archidike gave a quiet snicker, and Doricha understood. She knew, of course, what hetaerae did with men—what their true function was, beyond the singing and dancing and artful conversation. Aesop had prepared her well for the path that had lain ahead, telling her in frank but gentle terms everything she would need to know to work successfully as a hetaera. But she was on a different path now. Xanthes was not Iadmon—and he was nothing like Aesop.
Her mouth went dry at the thought. She said meekly, “I’m not a woman yet, Mistress.”
The glowering woman—quite tall for her sex and angular as a spearhead—reached quickly for Doricha. She thought the woman might strike her for talking back, and flinched away. But instead of hitting her, she pinched one of Doricha’s small breasts—like a cook assessing the fatness of a calf, determining whether it was ripe for the slaughter.
“You’ll be a woman soon enough, if these are any indication. It’s best if you begin learning the trade now. Archidike has an engagement later this morning. Tell me who you’re to see, Archidike.”
She wasn’t asking out of any lack of knowing; Doricha understood that at once. She was testing Archidike’s responsiveness.
“Old Nikostratos,” Archidike answered. She leaned toward Doricha and added, “He’s a regular. Funny old creature: likes it in the morning instead of at night.”
The mistress gave a single sharp nod. “The very one. Our new girl here will accompany you. I know Nikostratos won’t mind. Doricha, you will wear the green girdle, and do not take it off, no matter what may happen or who may implore you—or who may command you. The green girdle marks you as untouchable—not a worker yet. You will attend this engagement so that you may observe and learn. But you will only observe. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Doricha said hastily.
The tall, thin woman moved back down the chamber toward its exit, inspecting each hetaera she passed, issuing orders and snapping out corrections along the way. Not once did she offer a kind word; not once did she praise any of Xanthes’ girls.
“Her name’s Zona,” Archidike whispered, “but we call her Vélona.” The name meant needle. Doricha thought it very apt. “But you should call her ‘Mistress,’” Archidike advised, “and do everything she says. If you’re obedient and don’t cause her any bother, she’ll leave you well enough alone.”
“But who is she? I thought we belonged to Xanthes. Why do we call her Mistress, if Xanthes is the one who owns us?”
“Ah, so he does. But you can’t expect Xanthes to run things himself, can you? With all the important business he has to conduct—all the big, dreadfully dull parties he has to throw? He leaves management of the Stable to the Needle, and I’ve no doubt he pays her very well. She used to be a hetaera herself, you know, but only the gods can say how she ever made a living at it. Probably, that’s why she works for Xanthes now—can you imagine any man wanting to tup that hard old piece of fish-leather?”
Vélona shouted out a few final orders and swept from the room. The moment the door closed, the Stable swarmed with activity. The dressing closet door swung open from the inside, revealing a plump woman with a pursed mouth and a critical eye, whom Doricha took to be Amenia, keeper of the wardrobes. A few of the girls gathered towels, combs, and jars of oil, then headed toward the bath—but the majority hurried toward the dressing closet, shoving and pulling at one another in an attempt to get there first.
“Come along,” Archidike said. She took Doricha by the hand and rushed her toward the closet. “Let’s get ready. We’ll need to leave soon after the first meal; Nikostratos will be waiting.”
“I’ve got a very particular client,” she said to Amenia. “I’ll need to look like a young, fashionable, high-society wife.”
“The old man again?” Amenia said, amused. “I’ve got just the thing. Easy to get in and out of, too; you’ll like it, Archidike.”
The plump dresser retrieved a sky-blue robe from one of her chests, then chose a beaded white sash to complete it.
“These are pearls on the sash,” Archidike said. “My thanks—good old Amenia! Nikos will like it, I’m sure.”
“All the newly married ladies in Memphis are covering themselves with pearls. If he wants you to look like a fresh bride, this is just the thing.” Amenia turned to Doricha, fondling her chin thoughtfully. “But you… Ah, yes; I know just the right look for you.”
Amenia went to another wardrobe and produced a flowing, silky dress in an innocent blossom-pink. She held it up beside Doricha’s face, squinting critically at the color. “It will go nicely with your hair. And here, I have a girdle in the right shade of green to complement that robe nicely. Archidike, you’ll have to show her how to put the girdle on. Be sure you tie it tightly.”
Archidike led Doricha back to her alcove and showed her the proper way to don the pink robe.
“Now the sash,” Archidike said. “Wrap it tightly. No, tighter. Tighter, you mouse! You’ve got to leave enough of a loose end, so you can shape the knot just so. And then the knot is stitched with matching thread, to be sure nobody breaks into the precious vault. Tie the knot this way; Vélona is very particular about the look.”
Archidike wasn’t satisfied with the green sash until it wrapped Doricha from just below her breasts to the tops of her hip-bones. Its snugness made it nigh impossible to bend or slouch, but once Archidike had stitched the knot in place, the sash did feel rather defensive and fortifying, like a soldier’s armor. Doricha supposed she would soon grow used to the thing.