White Lotus Page 7

  Doricha’s face fell. She sank down on the edge of her bed. “But here I am, early. Such a good investment as I am, the master will be certain to turn me all the quicker.”

  “Turn you?” Aesop’s already tilted head tipped further still. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Sell me on.” Doricha fought down the lump that rose in her throat. “You said as much yourself, didn’t you?”

  Aesop came as near to sputtering in shock as Doricha had ever seen him. “By all the gods, girl, what are you talking about?”

  Doricha breathed deeply for a few moments, calming herself, trying to order thoughts so that she could choose her words with care. A slave must always choose her words with the greatest care. “I remember when I first arrived. You made mention of Iadmon’s… habits, like. You hinted he’s as much bound to get rid of me as he is to hold onto his investment.”

  “Ah.”

  Aesop grew quite sober then. He shuffled over and sat beside Doricha, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his skin. She couldn’t decide whether she liked his close proximity, a reminder that she wasn’t alone in this world—or whether it only made her pain all the worse, for it was certain that whatever household Iadmon sold Doricha along to, there would be no Aesop in it.

  “I can tell you that Iadmon has no plans to sell you, Doricha. In fact, I can tell you with all honesty that he intends to keep you in his household for as long as he may. But you must understand something about our master. He is… well…”

  Aesop seemed to grope for whatever words would make his point clearly, without giving any appearance of infidelity. Finally, he seemed to find sufficient expression for his difficult thoughts. He cleared his throat and said, “Iadmon is a man, after all—just a man. And as you know—I’ve taught you, yes?—all men have their flaws.”

  Doricha swallowed the tears that trembled in the back of her throat. “What flaws? What do you mean, Aesop? Can’t you tell me plain, so as I don’t have to fret about it anymore?”

  “The gods have given us many pleasures, but they are best taken in moderation. When we fling moderation to the wind, we can lose our mastery over ourselves, and become a captive to those same pleasures. Then our joys may imprison us, you see. We fall under their power, and they control us, so that they are no longer joys at all, but torments.”

  The air in the chamber seemed to go very still. The silence in the garden outside was dense and stifling.

  “What pleasure has made a captive of Iadmon?” Doricha asked.

  Aesop seemed about to reply, but the chamber door opened. Both of them jumped guiltily; Doricha hadn’t noticed until that moment how tense the mood was between them, how dangerous was their conversation.

  But it was only Helena. She beamed at Doricha—never before had Doricha seen the Egyptian slave looking so excited—and pulled a wisp of floating silk out from behind her back. The silk was a lovely, blue-green shade, like the Nile below a clear morning sky.

  “Iadmon has sent me,” Helena said. “You’re to wear this to the party! And I’m to help you prepare.” She sounded as pleased as a Thracian farmer’s daughter, gloating over her first harvest festival.

  Doricha slipped off her bed, approaching the silk hesitantly. She lifted it and allowed it to slide through her fingers. It flowed just like water—it was as cool and soothing as the river. She turned back to stare at Aesop, wide-eyed, speechless with awe.

  Aesop rose and offered the two women a polite half-bow. “I will leave you to your preparations.”

  Doricha found her tongue at last. She dropped the silk like a hot coal; Helena tutted and caught it up before it could fall to the floor. “Aesop, whatever will I do? I’ve never served men yet—except for you, and that was only in practice. Will you be there, too? Will you show me how—”

  He chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need my help, dear girl. You know how it’s done. You need only imagine all the men at the feast are me—just the way we’ve practiced all those many times in the past, yes?”

  She nodded miserably, tears stinging her eyes. “But you won’t be there?”

  “No; I haven’t been asked to attend the master.” He noted her tears and came to her, holding her by both shoulders and giving her a tiny, bracing shake. “But I won’t be far away; that I can promise you. I’ll watch you from afar, and afterward I’ll tell you everything you did right.”

  “And everything I did wrong.”

  “I expect your list of wrongs will be very short. You are ready for this, Doricha. You’re an intelligent, capable girl. New experiences are only frightening the first time. After that, they aren’t new anymore, and so there’s no fear left in them. And once the heat of your fear bakes those new experiences solid, what are you left with?”

  Doricha smiled, and was glad to find she didn’t need to force it. “A brick.”

  “That’s right. Another brick for your tower. Now—”

  As ever, Aesop didn’t need to follow that word with any further instruction. Doricha turned away from him, as steady as she would ever be, and faced Helena squarely. Uncertainty still warred within her, but after all, Aesop had spoken the truth. That what’s new can only scare me once.

  Helena said, “Off with your tunic and sash. And look, you still have some of that ash stuff on your arms. We must wash you, head to foot, before you put on such a fine and pretty silk.”

  Doricha removed her slave’s garb as Aesop left, shutting the chamber door behind him. She tossed the tunic and blue sash aside. Helena had more than just the silk; a small basket was slung by its straps over one shoulder. She deposited it on the bed and began sorting through its contents while Doricha washed away the last streaks of her sun cream.

  “Turn about so I can check you,” Helena said.

  Naked, Doricha did as she was told. Helena raised one dark brow. “Good enough. What you truly need for an occasion like this is a real Egyptian bath. Do you know how we do it here in Egypt? The baths are sunk right down into the floor, so you can submerge your whole body. And the water is warm and perfumed with oils. It lifts all your dirt and cares right away from your skin, so they flow away from you like the Nile’s current… ahh! But we must use what we have, I suppose. Here, now; let’s scent you before the silk goes on.”

  Helena picked up a small vial, enameled in red and blue. She pulled out its stopper and sniffed the contents, closing her eyes in a transport of luxury. “Roses and myrrh,” she said with a deep, heady sigh.

  She held the stopper out so that Doricha could smell it, too. The perfume oil was so decadent, so spicy-sweet, that it made her feel dizzy.

  Helena poured a few drops into her palms, then rubbed Doricha with the perfume, massaging her tense, tired muscles until they relaxed and the oil sank into her skin.

  “I feel just like an Egyptian princess,” Doricha said.

  Helena laughed. “You’d wear a wig if you were a princess. A big, heavy, beaded one that would look like a laden grain sack draped over the top of your head.” She returned to her basket and pulled out a few more pots, then unrolled a curious scroll of leather across the bed. The leather scroll, once opened, revealed a collection of tiny brushes. “But I will paint your face like to look like a princess,” Helena said. “Come.”

  Doricha stood before Helen, who sat cross-legged atop the bed, carefully dabbing her little brushes along Doricha’s eyelids, cheeks, and lips. The paints smelled strongly of thick oils, and the red color Helena painted on Doricha’s lips tasted bitter, but she held herself perfectly still while the woman did her work.

  When she was done, Doricha tried to go to her mirror, eager to see what she looked like, all painted and adorned like a true hetaera. But Helena wouldn’t hear of it. “Not until I’ve arranged your hair and dressed you. Then you can see how pretty you are.”

  The blue-green silk came next. Helena draped it over Doricha’s shoulder, stood back to squint critically at its fall and flow, then re-draped it several times before she was satisfied. S
he secured its shape with a few knots, then cinched it around Doricha’s waist with an embroidered sash. The sash was tied in the old Egyptian style, wrapped tightly around Doricha’s bottom, with a square, low-hanging knot in front, framing the tops of her thighs.

  Doricha’s hair was the final touch. Helena undid the old braids, then combed the dust and sweat from Doricha’s long, red-gold tresses. She worked more of the dizzy-smelling oil into her hair, combing through from roots to ends until her hair glittered in the narrow shaft of sunlight. Helena wove a new braid, fearfully intricate; Doricha could feel the woman’s fingers moving deftly against her scalp, pulling strands into several different weaves, then plaiting those smaller braids together.

  “It’s fortunate the gods blessed you with so much hair,” Helena said as she worked. “If you hadn’t enough, I would have been obliged to braid more right in, but there’s no one in all Egypt with hair of this color. I could never have matched it. You would have looked bi-colored, like those flop-eared goats at the marketplace.”

  She secured the braids with a thick bone needle and some twists of gossamer yarn, a ruddy orang color close enough to Doricha’s shade that the stitches would remain mostly unnoticed. Then Helena piled the thick braid into a tall coil at the crown of Doricha’s head and stitched that in place, too.

  With the coiled braid rising high above her, Doricha’s head felt too big for her body. It seemed to wobble precariously on her neck; the weight and height of her hair felt utterly unnatural. She moved with ostentatious care, turning her head this way and that, testing the security of Helena’s stitches.

  “Harder,” Helena said.

  Doricha shook her head as roughly as she dared.

  Helena nodded. “It will hold.” Then, grinning, she pulled Doricha by the hand and positioned her proudly in front of the little round mirror.

  For a moment, Doricha thought she was looking at Helena’s reflection in the bronze. The face that stared back at her was far too grown-up, too womanly and refined, to be her own. Even through the golden discoloration of the metal, Doricha noted the bright green powder that accented her eyes, the pink blossoms of her cheeks, the bold lines of her half-smiling mouth. Her eyes seemed twice as wide as they had been before, and they had a mysterious, enchanting air, like the sun peering through drifts of temple smoke. And her hair…! Coiled and wound back upon itself, the braid-of-braids rose to a high mound, peaked at the top and fragrant with the oil of roses and myrrh.

  “Long ago,” Helena said, “great Egyptian ladies wore pointed crowns of wax to rich men’s parties. As the night wore on, the wax melted and dripped down into their hair. It left the scented oil behind.”

  Doricha saw at once what Helena had done. “Why, it’s like a cone of wax that will never melt. Helena, how clever!”

  Helena smiled shyly, gazing down at the floor. “I expect the master will be pleased. He told me to make you look like an old-fashioned Egyptian lady, so his guests will be properly amused.”

  Doricha held out the skirt of her silken gown and twirled. There was no bothersome tickling, as with her fringed dancing-belt. “I feel as rich and beautiful as one of the Pharaoh’s wives.”

  Then she stopped spinning and let the skirt fall from her hands. Her misgivings had returned—each one with a vengeance. “Oh, but Helena! I’m ever so afraid. What if I forget something I oughtn’t to, or spill wine all over one of the men?”

  “You won’t,” Helena said with conviction. “You’re too smart for that, little Doricha.”

  Doricha wished she could feel so confident in her abilities. Aesop hadn’t had time to tell her about Iadmon’s fatal flaw, his mortal failing. Until she knew what it was, she knew she would never feel entirely comfortable in his presence.

  S’pose I must take special care with everything I do, even down to pouring the wine, and hope I don’t give Iadmon any reason to be rid of me.

  Helena eyed the slant of light at the garden window. “Now it’s time you were off to the andron,” she said. “The master’s guests will be arriving soon.”

  Doricha squeezed her hand gratefully. “Thank you, Helena. I’ll do my best tonight.”

  And pray to the gods that my best is good enough.

  7

  Iadmon’s Flower

  Doricha glanced down nervously into the pitcher. The purple-black circle of wine reflected her face almost as clearly as her mirror had done; the strain of fear was plain to read on her features.

  You must be charming and light. Doricha could hear Aesop’s words, his oft-repeated instructions, repeating in her mind. A happy, frivolous girl is no threat to a man, and so any man, even the greatest, will let down his guard if you smile and laugh and play the flirt. She didn’t feel like bringing down any man’s guard now; she didn’t see what good such a feat would do her. The only thing Doricha wanted in all the world was to retreat to her tiny chamber, close the door, and pull her linen blanket up over her head, and shut out Iadmon’s feast… the night… indeed, the whole world.

  The andron was still empty, awaiting the arrival of the first guests. Each long wicker couch had been dressed with fresh pillows of pure-white linen and draped with colorful cloths—festive in their brightness, and useful for cleaning hands and mouths throughout the feast. Flower petals had been strewn over the cushions, too, a salute to the riotous colors and sweet perfumes the flood season brought to Egypt. Beyond the heavy draperies that separated the andron from the halls of Iadmon’s house, Doricha could hear the distant murmurs of his household servants and slaves. But the voices were faint, far-off; the distant whispers only emphasized Doricha’s isolation and uncertainty.

  One familiar voice did seem to draw closer, though, growing more distinct all the time. If Doricha had been a hound, she would have pricked up her ears eagerly as Aesop approached. One of the curtains at the other end of the room stirred; Aesop drew it aside and led in the first of Iadmon’s guests. They did not enter by the great turquoise double-doors—those that opened into the garden and gave access to the quay beyond; the ones by which Doricha had entered upon her arrival. Instead, the guests came in by the formal entry, a walled courtyard that connected Iadmon’s estate to the busy streets of Memphis.

  As the first two men stepped inside the andron, Doricha’s spine straightened all on its own. Her eyes fastened on Aesop, widening in an unspoken question, seeking his support, his approval. He gave Doricha the tiniest nod—barely an acknowledgment—but the mere fact that he acknowledged Doricha cheered her. He knew where she was, saw that she was dressed and ready. And now she didn’t feel quite so alone.

  Aesop led each man to his couch; they reclined on their left sides, adjusting their cushions to support their upper bodies. Doricha both men carefully as they settled in. One was a sandy-haired fellow, his skin deeply tanned from long exposure to the Egyptian sun. The other was darker, with an olive complexion like Iadmon’s. His hair was dark like Iadmon’s, too, but there the similarities ended. Where Iadmon was lean and elegant, the darker man was big and broad. His shoulders were as wide and imposing as the beam of a war ship. His face was fleshy, with dark eyes, narrowly set, that glittered with innate shrewdness. His hair was artificially curled, arranged in neat rows that spoke of perfectionism. Such fastidiousness was in startling contrast to his big, bullish frame. He gave Aesop a crooked smile as he settled on his couch—more of a mocking leer, Doricha thought with a prickle of dread.

  “My good man Xanthes, is there anything I may bring you before the meal begins?” Aesop asked politely.

  “Nothing, old fellow.” Xanthes made a dismissive gesture, a curt brushing-away.

  Accordingly, Aesop turned to his other duties. But Xanthes called out to him before he could leave the andron. “I say, Aesop. Is this all your doing?” He made a wide sweep with his hand, taking in the andron with its neat couches, the white hall beyond with its niches of gleaming gods, the turquoise doors—and the garden outside, too, no doubt; the whole estate, with its private quay where the Sami
an Wind bobbed at its moorings. The grand spectacle of Iadmon’s life.

  Aesop hesitated. From across the room, Doricha could read the barest hint of annoyance in her tutor’s posture and face. “My good man?”

  “Iadmon never contrived to build all this for himself. I’ve known the man for years. It must have been the work of some intelligent servant. And who is more intelligent than you?”

  Wisely, Aesop gave an evasive answer. “If you think to buy me back from Master Iadmon, then you’d best speak to him about it, good man. Though I doubt very much that he’ll part with me. He finds me quite… indispensable.”

  Aesop ducked his head in a perfect display of polite excuse, then turned on his heel and vanished from the room. Xanthes cast a peeved look at his sandy-haired companion and muttered something under his breath.

  Doricha bit her lip at the tension that filled the room, but she recalled the work Helena had done painting her face, and forced herself to open her jaw. She didn’t want to smear the red paint on her lips. So, this Xanthes fellow was the very one who had once owned Aesop! More startling still, Doricha had discerned the truth in Aesop’s evasive answer. He would have given Xanthes a straight reply—No, sir, I had nothing to do with Iadmon’s success; he is a self-made man and quite capable of building his own riches—if it had been the truth.

  Aesop had all but made Iadmon, then. The bent-backed slave was clever enough to push a man up into the highest ranks of society. How in the name of all the gods had Xanthes let a treasure like Aesop slip through his fingers? And now that he saw what Aesop was capable of, would he try to steal him back? Or buy him and reinstate Aesop in his own household?

  While Doricha wrestled with her surprise, Xanthes and the other man talked quietly together, laughing over Aesop’s elegant evasion. She lifted the wine pitcher carefully, testing its weight, practicing a properly elegant, fluid movement with the full pitcher in her hands. It wasn’t an easy task. The vessel itself was heavier than it looked; the wine added considerably to its weight. Doricha tried a few surreptitious steps with the pitcher in her hands; some of the wine splashed over its rim and ran in a purple line down her knuckles.