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  Rhodopis had no idea how she ought to respond to such an extraordinary speech. Clearly, Charaxus must have thought about plenty of other subjects since Diokles’ party. She was not vain enough to think she could occupy a man’s thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. She gaped at him, at a loss for words. Archidike would know just what to say—make some smart remark and set him to laughing. I’m no good at this business, no good at all.

  “Erm…” she shrugged helplessly. “Tell me what you do, Good Man. What is your business? This is such a lovely house, and right on the river, too. You must stay busy with your work.”

  The slave re-appeared, bearing two folding leather stools. He set them out on the balcony, then vanished again. Charaxus gestured to one; Rhodopis sat, facing the river, and listened as her host told his story.

  “What do I do? Not much, if truth be told. Nominally, I trade in dyes. But I’ve turned over most of the business to the men who work under me. They excel at it; I never did. I’m afraid most of my wealth has come from society… that is to say, from being who I am. You do know who I am, don’t you?”

  “I’ve heard you have a well-known sister. Is that what you mean?”

  “Yes.” Charaxus smiled, but in the darkness, Rhodopis couldn’t tell whether it was an expression of fondness or chagrin. Perhaps, she thought, it contained a little of both. “I am the brother of the great Sappho, the beloved poetess of Lesvos. Her star will forever shine brighter than my own, I’m afraid. But Sappho has always been dutiful to her family. She doesn’t let me go hungry, as you can see.”

  “You’re from Lesvos, too, then.”

  “Yes—but Memphis is my true home. The gods never made another city like it, not in all the world.”

  The slave bore a tray out onto the balcony. He set it on a small table between Charaxus and Rhodopis.

  Charaxus picked up a cup of wine and sipped thoughtfully, watching the boats glide past. A watchman stood at the bow of each boat, holding up a golden torch. Now and then, one of their distant shouts traveled across the water. It was a lonely sound, but somehow the loneliness felt comfortable and pleasant, there on Charaxus’ small balcony.

  He turned to Rhodopis after a moment of pensive silence. “And what of you? That’s Thrace I hear in your voice, isn’t it?”

  Rhodopis smiled rather sadly. The boatmen called again. Ho, to the left. Ho, on the water!

  “Yes, Good Man. Yes, I came from Thrace… but that was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked. It was boorish of me. There’s not a woman in the world who comes to this work by her own choosing, is there?”

  “Oh, there must be some,” Rhodopis said lightly. “But I don’t know any, that’s certain and sure.”

  She sipped her wine to hide her discomfiture. It was the finest she had ever tasted, rich as butter. She looked up at Charaxus, smiling in real delight. “Gods of the water and air, but that wine’s good! Reckon I could drink it down by the skin-full, if I was some thirsty shepherd-girl out in the hills.”

  The next moment she covered her mouth with her hand, face burning hot. She was grateful for the cover of darkness, so Charaxus couldn’t see how she blushed. “I mean to say,” she amended, “what very fine wine you have, Good Man Charaxus.”

  He laughed heartily. “I take it your master doesn’t like it when you speak like a Thracian country girl.”

  Rhodopis shook her head, giggling. “Not Master Xanthes—it’s his mistress of women who can’t stand for me to talk this way. Vélona is her name… or leastways, that’s what we all call her. She can’t beat the rough speech out of me, though gods know she tries.”

  “I hope she never succeeds.” Charaxus set his cup down. He leaned across the table and kissed her—a long, lingering kiss, quite unlike the hungry, insistent kisses she was used to receiving from men.

  Now I have him, she thought triumphantly. She was well on her way to securing her first patron, and what a patron he would be!

  Rhodopis rose gracefully from her stool. She came around the table and took Charaxus’ hand in her own. He gazed up at her, waiting for her to speak.

  “Why don’t we go inside?” she said. She lifted a finger to her lips and sucked it briefly. She had seen Archidike do it many a time; it always seemed to encourage her men.

  Charaxus sighed; he tugged his hand out of Rhodopis’ grip and turned his attention back to the wine.

  What did I do wrong? Rhodopis stood silently beside him, utterly bewildered by his change of mood. No man had ever responded so strangely before, withdrawing his interest as suddenly as a lamp flame is snuffed.

  Never one to be put off so easily, she rallied and tried again, this time twining her arms around Charaxus’ neck and letting her breath tickle his ear. Charaxus shrugged irritably, as if she were a buzzing gnat.

  Rhodopis threw up her hands with an offended huff. She marched back to her stool and slumped upon it, glaring out at the river. “You’ve a funny way of making a girl feel welcome, and no mistake. Reckon I’d have a better time back at the Stable, getting my eyes scratched out by Bastet!” She kicked a pebble that had been lying on the balcony floor; it sailed over the railing and plummeted into the garden below.

  Charaxus lowered his wine cup, staring at Rhodopis with renewed hunger. She blinked back at him, as understanding dawned. It’s the poor little Thracian girl act that gets him going. He may be a creature of high society, but he only wants to bed a dirty little street urchin, jumped up to a hetaera’s status.

  If the urchin was what Charaxus wanted, then Rhodopis was determined to deliver. She turned to him with a petulant pout. “I’m not as pretty as the other girls back at the Stable. Reckon you’re fixing to trade me in for another, one’s as got more class than me. Guess there’s nothing for it but to go home now—”

  She stood, but Charaxus jumped to his feet just as swiftly. He caught Rhodopis in a tight embrace, kissing her again in the same slow, gentle style. She was so taken aback by his shift in mood that she didn’t need to pretend to be the flustered young girl, hopelessly out of her depth in the big city. Her stammering and shivery breaths were both unfeigned. She let him kiss her again.

  “There, now,” Rhodopis murmured when he released her. “Now perhaps you’ll—”

  “Dance for me.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “I want to see you dance.” Charaxus panted a little as he spoke. He was tense with urgency, staring down at her with a strained expression of longing.

  There were no musicians to be found in Charaxus’ home, but, quick as always, Rhodopis perceived that her companion would like a simple country dance best.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “I’ll teach you how to clap the rhythm, shall I? And you can be my accompanist. This is a dance from the Thracian hills—one real shepherd-girls do.”

  She soon had him clapping along as she circled and stamped in the little spill of lamp light that illuminated the balcony. With her hands up above her head, Rhodopis snapped her fingers, dipping her knees and twirling, twirling, so the skirt of her dress lifted gracefully around her. The dance was earthy, unsophisticated—and all the more so for being performed on a balcony in the dead of night, with only one man to keep the rhythm. But Charaxus was grinning by the time she had finished. She bowed to him, laughing, while he hailed her with his wine cup raised.

  “Another?” she asked.

  “By all means, yes!”

  This time she performed a country girl’s dance from his homeland of Lesvos. She hadn’t done it but once before, and that was many months ago. Once she’d begun, she found to her mortification that she had forgotten half the steps. She was forced to improvise, but if Charaxus noticed, he didn’t seem to care. In fact, her blushing face and slight hesitancy only seemed to delight him all the more.

  When she’d finished and stood panting before him, laughing as she struggled to catch her breath, Charaxus captured her in his arms once again. His kiss was more ins
istent this time, hotter and hungrier.

  He pulled back, gazing down at her with an expression of awe.

  Rhodopis gently touched his face. “Do you want to take me to bed now?”

  Charaxus smiled tightly. He released her, turning away. “I find I’m very tired,” he said. “I had best send you home.”

  Rhodopis gaped at his back. A cold weight settled in her chest; she searched for words—a plea for an explanation, or even a shout of outrage to hurl at him. But nothing came to her.

  Charaxus summoned his quiet, elegant slave; the man led Rhodopis to the door and slipped her pay into her hand. She closed her fist around the silver and stumbled through the darkness to her litter.

  Only when the litter-bearers had lifted her and borne her away from Charaxus’ home did she force her clenched fist open to count her hedj by the pale starlight.

  Ten.

  A meager ten coins. Cold horror suffused her veins. It was the smallest allowable payment for a hetaera, such a tiny sum that it was practically an insult.

  Vélona wouldn’t believe me when I tell her this is all he paid me. She’ll think I pinched some of the money for myself, to cut Xanthes out of his fee.

  She would get the strap for sure. Worse than that, she had somehow offended Charaxus, lost her chance to secure the patronage of a rich and influential man.

  How had it all gone wrong? She relived every moment of the night as she rode back to Xanthes’ estate, but Rhodopis could identify no grave mistake, no obvious error on her part. By the time she reached Xanthes’ courtyard, her face was slick with tears.

  2

  The Feather Mask

  Rhodopis was glad she arrived back at the Stable late into the night. She didn’t think she could face the other girls. They would see the tear-tracks staining her face, and would know straight away that her night with Charaxus had been a disaster. They might pretend sympathy, but even kind-hearted Callisto would secretly thrill to know that Rhodopis had made a mess of things. Charaxus was fair game; his wealth and prestige remained available for any clever girl to seize.

  She slipped into the great chamber, shutting the door softly behind her, and crept slowly toward her alcove. She placed each foot with exaggerated care, for she feared even to scuff the soles of her sandals against the floor tiles. Rhodopis would never live it down, if Bastet woke first and asked how the night had gone, then crowed over her miserable failure.

  Archidike’s dark head peeked out from her own alcove as Rhodopis approached. She was smiling eagerly, but when Rhodopis shook her head, Archidike’s smile faded. She glided across the room, gathered Rhodopis under her arm, and ducked with her behind the curtain.

  Rhodopis covered her face with her hands in the darkness of her alcove. She emitted the tiniest possible wail of mortification, but Archidike wasted no time comforting her.

  “Come along; out of this dress,” Archidike whispered.

  She helped Rhodopis undress, then carefully took down her hair while Rhodopis sniffled and wept, swaying on her feet. Archidike scrubbed the paint from Rhodopis’ face as best she could in the darkness, then climbed with her into bed. Only then did she allow Rhodopis to press her face against her shoulder, and only then did she circle her with her thin, wiry arms.

  “Are those tears I feel?” Archidike whispered. “Enough crying, Duckling. Tell me what happened. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No—nothing ’cept my pride. Oh, it was awful, Archi. I’ll never make my way at this rate!”

  Rhodopis told her everything—the tender kisses, the eagerness Charaxus had shown for her… and then his inexplicable coldness as soon as she’d tried to coax him into bed.

  “I admit I can’t make much sense of it,” Archidike said. “Maybe Charaxus likes men, but is trying to hide the fact for reasons of his own. Sometimes men from wealthy families, like the one he comes from, are expected to marry and have children. What’s a man to do, if he doesn’t respond to a woman’s charms? Maybe he was trying to get used to the idea of taking a wife. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Have a night with you, prove to himself he can stomach it. But then he couldn’t go through with it after all.”

  Rhodopis shook her head vaguely. “I’m sure I can’t begin to guess what he meant by it all. Vélona’s going to be sore, though. He only paid me ten hedj!”

  Archidike gave a quiet snort of disgust.

  “Won’t surprise me a bit if Vélona has me whipped for it,” Rhodopis said, fighting back another flood of tears.

  “She won’t. Charaxus has never had dealings with Xanthes’ girls before; Vélona doesn’t know what to expect from him. For all she can tell, he’s always just as tight with his purse-strings, whether he likes a girl or not. And anyway, there’s a chance to do better. Don’t you know what happens three nights from now?”

  “No… what?”

  “It’s Iason’s big feast! Iason breeds the best race horses in Egypt. He holds a big party at the same time every year, to commemorate his first stud horse, the one who started it all. It’s the wildest, most exciting party you’ll ever see. And you can be certain Vélona will send you to it. She’s eager to show you off, good as your dancing is.”

  “I never went to this party last year.”

  “No; you weren’t a working girl yet. Vélona would have thought you fragile back then; she wouldn’t have risked you on such a wild night. But you’re ready this year, for sure. And oh, Rhodopis, you’ll love it. We always have such a marvelous time. Sometime—years ago—Iason held an auction, with all the men bidding on their favorite hetaerae. It was so popular that he did it again the next year, and the next. And now it’s a tradition. The auction is the whole reason why most of these fellows still attend year after year—for after all, who cares about some old dead horse?”

  “An auction,” Rhodopis said uncertainly.

  “Mm-hmm. All the girls wear the most intricate costumes you’ve ever seen. We dress up like birds and goddesses and creatures from the old stories. It’s great fun. Highest bidder gets to enjoy his girl for the rest of the night. And Iason puts up a nice, fat bonus for whichever girl fetches the highest price of all.”

  “Oh, that sounds wonderful. If I can get a few bids, maybe I can make up the difference in what Charaxus might have paid me. Then Vélona won’t be so angry.”

  “Just don’t try to win the highest bid,” Archidike said playfully. “This is my year. I haven’t told anyone yet, Rho, but… I’m terribly close to buying my way free.”

  “Archi! You are? That’s wonderful.”

  “I’ve only got a little more to earn, and then I’m free and clear. I intend to get the last of my silver at Iason’s party.”

  Rhodopis frowned in the darkness. “And then you’ll go off and leave me.”

  “Never. You know I never could. I’ll stay right here in Memphis, and work on my own until you’re free, too. Remember—just like we planned? By the time you’re out, too, we’ll have a grand estate of our own. Think of it, Rho: our own house, our own staff of servants. One day you’ll see; it’ll be simply grand. For now, just you focus on the party to come. It will make you feel better, I promise.”

  “What would I do without you, Archi?”

  “Cry too much; that’s what you’d do.” She kissed Rhodopis on the nose. “Now forget all about that dolt Charaxus. He might not appreciate you in his bed, but I sure as Hades do.”

  Each of Xanthes’ girls attended the horse-breeder’s party, for it was among the most prestigious events of the year. Vélona had no intention of squandering her chance to make so many lucrative connections; she deployed her master’s hetaerae with all the strategy of a general, bedecking each one in a lavish costume. Hetaerae from every corner of Memphis would attend Iason’s feast, and from other cities, too. Vélona was determined that no woman, no matter how wealthy or free, would out-shine any of her charges.

  They had all arrived at the party together, in a caravan of litters. Xanthes’ twelve hetaerae raised appreciative mu
rmurs from Iason’s guests and staff as they made their way across the wide, well-groomed estate. The annual party was so popular that no andron could hold it; crowds of men, draped in their best and brightest chlamys, milled about the manicured garden while women in the most astonishing and intricate costumes flitted from one man’s arm to the next.

  Rhodopis looked anxiously around the garden as Xanthes’ girls dispersed into the crowd. “Do you think Iadmon will be here?” she asked Archidike.

  “Would you like him to be here?”

  “I don’t think I would. It’d be terribly awkward, wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t know what to say to him, or how to act.”

  “Like you would with any other man,” Archidike said. She pulled Rhodopis around to face her. “Here; let me straighten your feathers. They’ve gone all askew.”

  The costume Vélona had selected for Rhodopis was a marvel. The short tunic was sewn all over with overlapping feathers, cut from silk and gently frayed around the edges. The little scallops of white, black, and russet-red fluttered and swayed with her every movement. The skin of her bare legs had been stained black with kohl, leaving a suggestive band of pale, naked flesh at the top of each thigh, just below the hem of her tunic. Her arms were wrapped with beaded bracelets to match the colors of her feathers. A mask was pinned to her coiled braids, so that it partially obscured her face. The mask bore a jutting black beak, sewn all over with tiny onyx beads, and the real feathers of a sewen, the Egyptian goose whom Rhodopis was supposed to resemble. It was simple, as costumes went. But the constant motion of her feathers, stirred by each unconscious, graceful, dancer’s movement, drew every eye in the garden.