White Lotus Page 2

  “Tell the little ones I love them,” Doricha said, startled at the steadiness of her own voice.

  Iadmon’s hand landed gently on Doricha’s back, between her thin shoulder blades. He pressed her toward the door.

  “No,” Melaina cried again. “I’ve changed my mind, sir!”

  “I’ll send my man with your money in less than two hours,” he said. He didn’t look back at Melaina as he ushered Doricha out of the hovel. Doricha didn’t look back, either. “I am as good as my word.”

  Melaina’s pitiful weeping filled the single, small room. It spilled out after them as Doricha and Iadmon stepped over the threshold. Doricha heard the clatter of wooden rings as the yellow curtain was knocked aside. “Doricha!” Aella cried, and her feet pounded against the earthen floor as she ran.

  Iadmon’s hand tightened on the back of Doricha’s neck. “Don’t turn around, child.” His voice was not unkind. “Not now. At times like these, there’s nothing one can do except keep going.”

  2

  To Memphis

  Doricha’s breaths came short and harsh as she walked along beside the whore-trader. Iadmon’s hand remained on the back of her neck, guiding her firmly toward an inescapable fate. But his grip wasn’t necessary. Doricha’s bare feet slapped on the earthen lanes and mudbrick courts of Tanis, brisk and unhesitating despite her fear. If this Iadmon truly was as good as his word, then her sale would see the family back to Thrace, where they might find cousins to offer them charity, might cobble together some means of scratching out a new life. Doricha told herself that her family’s safety was the only that mattered now. She told herself she would do whatever she must to protect her little sister, the twins, and even her sad, broken mother. She would not run from Iadmon, nor resist the fate toward which he propelled her.

  When they emerged from the shadowed alleys of the back district, the air was not as close, and the hot Egyptian sun raised odors of dry dust and donkeys’ dung from the roads—much more pleasant smells than those that pervaded the slums. Iadmon seemed to relax a little as they left the poor district behind. He drew a deep breath and let it out with a sigh of contentment, of finality, as if cleansing his lungs and his conscience of unpleasant things. His grip on Doricha’s neck softened.

  “We are going to the docks,” he told her as they paused at the edge of a marketplace, allow a wagon to roll past.

  The wagon’s bed was laden with a heap of honey-gold wheat as high as a Thracian mountain. Grain dust drifted in its wake, glittering in the mid-day sun. The market rang with the high, sharp shouts of hawkers and fairly quaked with the rumble of carts’ and hand-barrows’ wheels. At any other time, Doricha would have delighted at the bustle, the variety of sights and sounds. But now she only watched the wagon with dull, stinging eyes as it rolled away. When Iadmon pressed lightly on the back of her neck, she stepped forward again, responsive and mindless like an animal trained to the harness.

  “What is your name?” Iadmon asked.

  “Doricha, Master. I must call you Master now, I suppose.”

  “That would be well. For now.”

  They walked on in silence for a moment. As soon as she’d told him her name, a tightness had seized Doricha’s chest. She wondered at it, examining the thick pressure, the insistent squeeze in her gut, trying to understand its source—and all at once, she knew it. “Will you take my name away? Give me another one instead?” That would be far worse than losing her grimy, ragged tunic. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

  Iadmon glanced down at her, his dark brows lifting in surprise. “Do you want me to give you another name?”

  “No.” Her throat closed, and she had to breathe deeply several times before she could speak again. “No, Master, but I think now it doesn’t matter one bit, what I want.”

  “You’re an intelligent girl, Doricha.” There was approval in his voice—pride, even. Self-congratulation on a purchase well made.

  “I don’t know much of slaves,” Doricha said. “But I reckon I am one now, and that’s all there is to it.”

  She paused. Iadmon waited in silence for her to speak, leading her out of the sun and into a shaded alley. At the end of the alley she could see the gray-brown smoothness of the Nile’s waters, dazzling in the sun, reflecting its strong glare into the alley’s cool shadows. Squinting, she said, “I reckon from now on you’ll tell me what to think, what to do… even what my name must be, if you take a fancy to change it.”

  Iadmon’s soft chuckle surprised her. His hand lifted from the back of her neck, then returned, patting her gently, as a man might do to a favorite horse or hound. “I see no point in changing your name, Doricha. Have no fear on that account.”

  There was no one in the alley but the two of them. The narrow walls funneled toward them the compelling, faintly salty smell of the sluggish Delta waters. The moisture in the air was soothing against her sun-struck skin.

  “I didn’t tell them goodbye,” Doricha said suddenly, not understanding why she said it. She could expect no sympathy from Iadmon, her new master. Her owner.

  But he watched her as they walked along. She could feel his gaze upon her, quietly observant, curious—and not without compassion. “Do you regret that?” he finally asked.

  “I didn’t think I could do it without crying and frightening the little ones out of their wits. Only, before I came out to see you, I told my sister Aella I would say goodbye.”

  “You knew you were to be sold?”

  “Of course. I heard you talking to my mother.” She added belatedly, with a little anxious jump of her shoulders, “Master.”

  “Do you understand why your mother did it?”

  “She didn’t do it,” Doricha replied. “I did. She wanted to call it off. You remember, Master.”

  He nodded, sighed. “Yes. You’re quite right, of course. It never gets any easier, persuading parents to give up their children.”

  Doricha was silent for a moment. When she was certain of keeping the bitterness from her voice, she said, “Then why do you do it, Master?”

  “Someone must trade in spices, if the people of the world are to have flavor for their meat. Someone must trade in cloth, if the people of the world are to have garments to wear. Someone must trade in slaves—and I am that someone. Do not resent your mother, Doricha. She is a good woman who found herself in a dark and desperate place.”

  “I won’t, Master—I don’t. Even if she hadn’t tried to call the sale off, I wouldn’t resent her then, neither.”

  “Either,” Iadmon corrected.

  Doricha blinked up at him, confused.

  “You will learn to speak properly, with time. It will be a necessary part of your training, to speak with culture and refinement.”

  She swallowed hard. She knew what pornae did—any child from the slums had seen the transactions that took place in alleys and alcoves, up against the dry mudbrick walls with skirts pushed up around hips. She didn’t see that fine-and-fancy speech had anything to do with that sort of business.

  They emerged from the alley’s far end, stepping out into the bright light once more. Doricha squinted all the harder as the glare throbbed in her eyes. The sudden urge to sneeze tickled inside her nose. The docks were crowded with men carrying wares to and from the many long boats with their high, curving prows and brightly painted hulls. The men weren’t the only ones who worked the docks, of course. Pornae leaned against crates and warehouse walls, dressed in garish colors, their faces painted in parodies of fine ladies’ more elegant and subdued styles. They called out now and again to the deck-hands and fishermen: “Just ten hedj for one up against the wall, boys!” “I’m half price if you’re quick and hard!”

  Iadmon led Doricha across the flat limestone pavers of the quay. A grand boat was moored a little apart from the others, its hull painted vibrant red with a great, blue-and-white eye staring out from its prow. Doricha was not skilled at reading, but as she and Iadmon made for the red ship, she had time enough to puzzle out the Gr
eek letters etched on its hull and highlighted in glimmering gold leaf: Samian Wind.

  As they neared the Samian Wind, a man came swiftly down the ramp to greet Iadmon. Though he wore a tunic nearly as fine as Iadmon’s own, he bowed with an obsequious air that marked him at once as a slave—or a servant, at best. The man was short of stature, barely reaching Iadmon’s shoulder. He had a stocky body, a shuffling gait, and a curious way of holding his head and neck—thrust forward and tipped slightly to the side—that suggested either great curiosity or a defect of the spine. Perhaps both. His tight black curls and deep-brown complexion suggested African blood, and Doricha noted that his face still looked rather youthful. He couldn’t have been more than a dozen years older than she.

  “Aesop,” Iadmon said to his servant, “get into my cask and weigh out two hundred hedj. I shall draw a map for you. Follow it, and you’ll find a red-haired Thracian woman with three small children, two of them twin boys. You must give her the money within two hours’ time.”

  Doricha flushed; her legs trembled as relief swept powerfully through her. Two hundred hedj would certainly be enough to see Mother and the children back to Thrace, and to set them up comfortably once they reached home. Iadmon had kept to his word, after all.

  Aesop nodded, but turned a wide-eyed, disbelieving stare on Doricha. “Two hundred for this little one, Master?”

  “And worth every bit. Trust me on that count.”

  Aesop straightened—as much as the kink in his back would allow—and smiled openly at Doricha. She liked his smile. It was honest and warm; it put her at ease, as much as anything could just then. “I always do trust you, good Master. I’ll do as you instructed, straight away.” He returned to the boat’s ramp, but paused at its foot, giving Doricha one more lingering, assessing look. Then he climbed up to the boat’s deck and disappeared into its heavily curtained cabin.

  Iadmon took Doricha by the shoulders, turning her gently to face him. “Child, do you understand what has happened today?”

  “Yes, Master.” She struggled to look at Iadmon, fought not to drop her gaze in shame. “I’m to be a whore now. Like them.” Doricha nodded toward the garish, laughing pornae who strolled along the quay.

  Smiling, his eyes alight with sly speculation, Iadmon shook his head. “Before I’d seen you for myself, I admit that I had intended to make of you a common porna. But once I met you, Doricha, I thought better of it. You have more potential than that.”

  She swallowed, watching his face intently, sensing that her master had more to say.

  “You have such thoughtful eyes, and your bearing is so very confident, so naturally poised. There is great intelligence in you, and the capacity for yet more learning. You are as bright as you are beautiful. It’s a rare combination.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from lowering her face then, staring down at the dirt that caked her feet and ankles. “Reckon I must be very dull indeed then, Master, for I’m not much to look at. I know as much.”

  Iadmon’s deep laughter rumbled in the close space between them. “That’s where you’re wrong. You are like a tarnished bit of silver now: dirty, but you’ll shine again with a bit of polishing. In fact, I intend to make you shine brighter than you ever thought possible. Do you know what a hetaera is, Doricha?”

  She looked up at him again, shaking her head mutely. She had never heard the word before.

  “A hetaera is a woman who entertains men. Not only with her body, but intellectually, aesthetically. Hetaerae enjoy a very rare status. They alone, among all Greek women, may converse openly with men in public forums. Only the hetaerae may move about freely without male chaperones. They may even own property and participate in government. Such status is more than even the luckiest well-born girls can dream of. Intelligent as you are, surely I don’t need to tell you that for a girl like you—found in the back alleys of Tanis, sold by your starving mother—such a great opportunity will never come again.”

  Doricha’s heart pounded at Iadmon’s words. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “No, Master. You needn’t tell me.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Doricha. I’ve no need to deceive you. This will not be an easy path. If we are to root rustic Thrace out of you and replace it with something more cultured and refined, then you must have rigorous training. The hours of your learning will be long and difficult. But that will not be your only challenge. You must face competition, too. There are many hetaerae in Egypt these days—and elsewhere in the world, too. Many of them have advantages you lack: good blood and well-placed families; money to pay for the best tutors, the best clothes, the brightest jewels. You must learn to shine brighter than they if you hope to reach your full potential. And you should strive to reach it, Doricha, for a hetaera who does well may earn enough coin to buy her freedom from her master. In a few short years, you could be a free girl again.”

  Doricha’s eyes widened. The breath stopped in her throat.

  “If any hetaera wishes to do that well,” Iadmon said, “she must distinguish herself. I have been in this business a long time; believe me when I tell you that it’s not easy to stand out, to win the affection and trust of rich men who can help you, who can give you the coin you will need. And all the other hetaerae in the world, Doricha—all those other women will be trying just as hard as you, competing for the same men, the same gold. Women can be hard-willed… cut-throat.”

  She bit her lip.

  “I am taking a gamble on you, child. If you become the entertainer I believe you can be—if you live up to the potential I see in you—then you will make me very wealthy and will win your freedom, too.”

  “Are you not very wealthy already, Master?”

  Iadmon laughed softly. “Here is your first lesson about wealthy men—heed it well: rich men always desire more riches. That has ever been the way of the world, since the gods first made it. In that regard, I am no different from any other rich man. But you won’t only enrich me, Doricha. Nor will you merely buy back your freedom. You may also send money to Thrace—to see to the needs of your family.”

  Her heart pounded all the harder. “I… I reckon I’d like that very much, Master.”

  “Good,” he said. “It’s always best to have some motivation, some reason to work especially hard. If you succeed, you will make us all rich—even your mother and the rest of her children. But if you fail, Doricha—if you are not strong enough to face the other hetaerae, to fight for the wealth that could be yours—you may find yourself knocked down to the status of a common porna. Or worse, you may end up in the river, dead at the hands of some rival who is fiercer and cleverer than you. I think I’ve judged you well, and you are sharp enough to rise to the task. But are you brave enough to make a good attempt? Brave enough to learn the ways of a hetaera?”

  Doricha wrapped her thin arms around her body, holding back a shiver. “Do I have any choice, but to try?”

  Iadmon smiled again, that slow, silky curve of his lips. “You do not have a choice—not truly. But I will tell you something else, child: you are an investment. I am prepared to sink a considerable cost into you, to wager much on this gamble called Doricha. I speak not only the two hundred hedj I paid your mother, but of all the costs that are yet to come: good food, a safe home, fine clothes, the best tutors money can buy. I won’t push you harder than I think you can bear, for that would only snuff you out, like a lamp’s flame in a persistent wind. I didn’t become rich by wasting my money. All I expect in return for my investment is that you will not squander my time.”

  Doricha’s brow furrowed. She drew a ragged breath. “That seems… reasonable enough, I reckon. Master.”

  “Very good.” Iadmon turned, gesturing to the ramp—to the Samian Wind, ready at its moorings. “Then let’s be aboard, and off. A new life awaits you. A new venture awaits us both.”

  “We’re leaving Tanis, Master?”

  “Of course,” Iadmon said with a dismissive shrug. “A man like me doesn’t live in a backwater such as this.”

&nbs
p; “Then where do you live, Master, if I may ask?”

  Iadmon climbed the ramp with eager steps. Doricha trailed behind, holding her thin arms out stiffly to balance on the swaying plank of wood.

  “In Memphis, girl. Memphis—the greatest city in the world!”

  3

  Behind the Wall

  Iadmon gestured out over the rail of the Samian Wind, one grand sweep of his arm to take in the whole deep-green swath of the Nile Valley that spread before them. That carpet of emerald lushness was interrupted by a great, pale-golden mass of sun-reflected brightness, a sprawl of mudbrick and stone that demarcated the vast capital city of Egypt.

  “Memphis,” Iadmon said, as proudly as if he owned the whole city. “The most beautiful place the gods ever made. Your new home, Doricha.”

  She stood at her ease beside her master, shielded from the fierce sun by the shadow of the boat’s taut red sail. Doricha was quite comfortable now on the water, after several days of sailing south against the strong Nile current. She was comfortable with Iadmon, too. She hadn’t been able to forget that she was a slave—property, bought and sold—but at least Iadmon was a respectful master, and even, when his mood was good, a kind one.

  He had shown no interest in abusing or molesting Doricha as they’d left Tanis behind. In fact, Iadmon had cared for her quite well, providing her with plenty of nourishing food—bread and beer, smoked fish and tart citrus fruits that made her lips pucker and the corners of her mouth burn in a pleasant sort of way. He had watched her carefully to ensure she ate slowly, too, for (as Aesop, sitting beside her, had explained) a starved belly often revolted when too much food was crammed in, and a sickly little thing like herself might not recover from a bad bout of vomiting. He had seen to it that Doricha was washed and groomed by his own female servants, sweet-tempered ladies who had been patient with her wincing and hisses of pain as they combed out the tangles in her red-gold hair. And Iadmon had dressed Doricha in a tunic of soft white linen with a bright-blue belt—simple, yet still much finer than anything she could remember wearing before.