Blood hemlock, p.1
Blood Hemlock, page 1
part #3 of White Lotus Series
Blood Hemlock
Part 3 of the White Lotus Trilogy
Libbie Hawker
Copyright © 2017 by Libbie Hawker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
I. Whisperer
1. Captivity
2. Escape
3. A Decision Made
4. In the Pharaoh’s Court
5. Brick and Embers
6. A Dangerous Refuge
7. The Pharaoh’s Fall
8. Rise of the Lion
9. Smoke and Twilight
10. By Will of the Gods
11. A Starless Sky
II. Assassin
12. An Adder in the Garden
13. Counting Bruises
14. A Desperate Gamble
15. The Priestess of Horus
16. Enemies and Friends
17. Out of the Darkness
18. A Bitter Kiss
19. Farewell
20. Reward
Epilogue
Historical Note
Also by Libbie Hawker
About the Author
I
Whisperer
1
Captivity
Rhodopis held herself rigid and silent in the litter, all the long ride from the northern quay back to Charaxus’ small riverside estate. She had refused to speak to the man who had once been her patron and lover, even as Charaxus had tormented her with barbed comments or slung outright insults at his fuming captive. Rhodopis refused to be moved by his deplorable efforts. She stared straight ahead as if she could see through the litter’s thick curtains—through night’s darkness itself—to the streets of Memphis beyond. Even when Charaxus lapsed into a half-hearted explanation of his actions, almost pleading for her understanding, she remained with arms crossed tightly over her middle, never so much as blinking in the man’s direction. She could still feel a line of cold fire where his sword’s edge had pressed through her shawl and the plain servant’s smock to the flesh beneath. It was a wonder and a mercy she wasn’t bleeding.
“I had to do it,” Charaxus whined in the darkness. “I had to take you that way—don’t you see? I can’t allow you to leave in that manner, Rhodopis. And with a man of Polycrates’ reputation!”
Oh, he was plaintive enough—all but whimpering like a spurned pup on his silk cushions, and loud enough for the litter-bearers to hear. But not one word could soften Rhodopis’ anger. It had sunk deep into her bones.
He hasn’t apologized yet. Nor will he, unless I miss my guess. But that’s just as well. I’m no fool; I’ll never forgive him, not even if he were to fall on his face and weep with regret.
Before the litter reached his estate, Charaxus had yielded to Rhodopis’ stubborn silence and ceased his useless talk. But when the litter lowered to the ground and one of the bearers pulled a curtain aside, he turned to Rhodopis with a brusque air.
“Get up. You’re going inside now, and you’ll stay there. I prefer not to make one of my men drag you in, but I’ll do it, if you won’t go of your own accord.”
Rhodopis turned to him at last. She could feel the fire flashing in her eyes, and indeed, when Charaxus saw her hard, hateful expression, he flinched in the pale-blue starlight.
“What a fool you are,” she spat.
“I—a fool? It wasn’t I who lied, Rhodopis. Nor was I the one who attempted to take up with a pirate. You could have had the best of everything with me—”
“The best? I would have been your slave, just as I was to Xanthes and Iadmon!”
He seized her wrist, twisting the tender skin. Rhodopis bit her lip to stop herself from crying out.
“A wife is not a slave,” Charaxus hissed.
Rhodopis jerked free of his grip. “In all but name! I never loved Polycrates, you simpleton. It was his ship I wanted—a way out of Memphis.”
“I’ll take you out of Memphis when I return to Lesvos.”
“And before I go with you, I’ll die by my own hand.”
Charaxus grunted in disgust. “Typical hetaera; you’ve such a flair for drama. You could have made a name for yourself by acting in the symposia. Unfortunately, you’ve shown a greater predilection for whoring than for the honest arts a hetaera may pursue. I’m afraid you’ve been better suited to a common porna’s life all along, my sweet.”
“I am not your sweet,” Rhodopis said icily. “I never was, Charaxus.”
He rose from the litter and stood silently for a moment, the starlight hanging a halo of silver around his deep-golden curls. At last, he said, “No, I suppose you never were. Get up now, and come inside, or I’ll order one of these men haul you in. You wouldn’t like that, I presume.”
“I wouldn’t like to go into that prison you call a home, either.”
“But one way or another, you shall.” He waited, hands on hips, face coldly neutral.
Rhodopis sighed and rose from the litter. To enter the house under her own power was the best of her few bleak options. If she ran, he would only send his men after her, and Rhodopis had no doubt that Charaxus’ guards could run faster than she. If she resisted, Charaxus would have her dragged in, just as he’d promised, and she could see little point in getting bruised.
Rhodopis followed Charaxus across his small courtyard. The paving stones below her feet were dappled by stars and the ink-black shadows of sycamore leaves. Behind her, she could hear the litter-bearers shuffle and murmur, relieved that none of them had been commanded to drag an unwilling woman to Charaxus’ lair.
As she passed beneath the pillared portico, her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. It seemed a thousand years had passed since she had stood there last, welcoming Charaxus’ guests as a good wife would have done. He had been a doting fool, then. There was no trace of affection in him now; every step he took was clipped with anger, and the very air around him seemed to crackle with a sharp disapproval bordering on hatred.
Charaxus opened his door and stood back, making way for Rhodopis to pass. She hesitated only a moment, wondering whether she had any hope of outrunning Charaxus. If she turned now and sprinted for the gate, she might be fast enough to evade him. But what lay beyond his estate? The city—Memphis, with its thousand eyes, with its uncountable throats ready to whisper. Yes, she might hope to fight her way free of Charaxus, but once she lost him in the streets, where could she go? What safety could Memphis offer—especially once Amasis heard Rhodopis had returned? No one would oppose the Pharaoh if he came looking for her. No one. She had no real choice but to follow Charaxus inside.
His house-slave had left several lamps burning. The amber glow and scent of hot perfumed oil would have seemed cheerful, even welcoming, under any other circumstances. As soon as he’d shut the door behind Rhodopis, Charaxus reached for her. She flinched back, baring her teeth in an animalistic snarl.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Charaxus said. “I don’t want to lie with you.” He seized the knife sheathed at her waist, slipped it from its casing before she could stop him. “I’ll keep this safe, where you can’t find it. You won’t be allowed any weapons, Rhodopis, so don’t think to spill my blood. Despite what you seem to think, I am no fool.”
Charaxus stepped closer and pulled the scarf away from her hair. His expression changed suddenly, melting from cold anger to something soft and regretful. He lifted a black-dyed lock and ran his fingers down its length. “You’ve ruined your hair.” He sounded as if he recited a lamentation. “Your best feature. I don’t suppose this color will ever fade entirely, nor wash away. You must wait for it to grow out.”
Rhodopis was not one to miss an opportunity. She seized upon the change in Charaxus’ mood with all the swift professionalism of a hetaera. She had no love for Charaxus, but if she could convince him that she had thought better of her refusal, and would marry him with a willing heart, she might hope to lull him into carelessness. Then she could make her escape.
Banishing the rage from her face, Rhodopis smiled, twisting her hair around her fingers. “The color might fade. We don’t know yet. And in any case, it won’t take long for my hair to grow out. I hear Lesvian girls have the loveliest hair in the world. It must be Lesvos itself that makes them so beautiful—something special in the air or water. Why, once we’re in Lesvos, my hair will—”
Charaxus laughed bleakly. “Suddenly you’re willing to come along when I leave Memphis.”
“’Course I am, Rax. We had a row, but it’s over and finished. Don’t husbands and wives quarrel all the time? That’s what I hear.”
“You must be mad.”
“Mad? How can you say such a thing? I only want to be your good, obedient wife.”
Charaxus dropped the little knife in his belt pouch, then cinched the strings tightly. “The time for that is long past.”
“Time for what?”
“For you to deceive me with your charms. I’ve learned my lesson, Rhodopis. I won’t put my hand on a hot iron more than once. Now—I believe you know where the maid’s chamber is. You’ll sleep there.”
Rhodopis clenched her fists. She did not move from her place beside the door.
“You heard me,” Charaxus said.
“You’re going to shut me up in that tiny room? It’s no way to treat your future bride.”
Charaxus pointed toward the maid’s chamber, but st
“You will not be my bride,” he said quietly. “It’s clear to me now that I can never wed you. You’re… unsuitable for a man of my status, a man with my connections.”
Your status, yes, Rhodopis thought with bitter amusement. She knew how the great men of Memphis enjoyed mocking Charaxus when they thought he couldn’t hear—or when they were certain he could hear. She said only, “If you don’t intend to marry me, then what do you plan to do with me?”
“You will still accompany me to Lesvos. Your treacherous nature makes you unfit for the honorable role of wife, but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t keep you as a concubine.”
She gasped. “After having been a hetaera? Do you honestly think I’ll accept such a thing? Living like a mouse, scampering to avoid the mistress of the house—and with even less freedom than your wife! You really are a fool, Charaxus, and no mistake.”
“If you keep up that sort of talk, you’ll only make me angry again. I don’t advise it.”
“There must be a hundred girls back in Lesvos who would willingly live as your concubine. Why trouble yourself with me? If you don’t want to marry me, then why don’t you let me go?”
Charaxus lurched toward her, fists raised. For one frightened heartbeat, Rhodopis thought he would strike her. But he only shook his clenched hands in a gesture of helpless fury—and thwarted passion. “Because I love you!” he wailed. “Damn it, Rhodopis, can’t you understand that? I love you and I want you, even if you aren’t the sort of woman who will ever be a proper wife. Even though you crush my heart every chance you get. I was always good to you, always generous and loving. And how have you repaid my kindness? By deceiving me, and wounding me—by trying to run off with that black-souled beast Polycrates. You’ve made a mockery of my devotion. A mockery! How am I ever to forgive you? And yet I can’t help loving you still. I would walk over burning coals for you, Rhodopis—not that you would care if I did.”
Rhodopis shook her head helplessly. “Charaxus… I was only ever doing what needs must. What I had to do, in order to survive. Surely you understand that. I was a slave. I had no choice—not about you, nor anything else. I never intended to make you love me.”
“But you knew I would fall in love—you must have known. What man could avoid loving you? Only a man with a heart of stone.” He took her by the shoulders. She felt pinioned in his grip, trapped between his arms. “You knew I would surrender my heart to you, and you took it—coldly—without any thought for me. Like a child plucking flowers in a meadow, idly taking whatever pretty thing piqued your fancy.”
“No, Charaxus, I—”
“You knew I couldn’t help but love you, and you never had any intention of loving me in return. You used me for my patronage—all the gifts I gave you, all the money.”
“But that’s the way it is between hetaerae and their patrons. Surely you knew that, long before you ever chose me.”
He clutched Rhodopis against his chest. She fought the urge to stiffen with disgust; it would do her no good now, to go rigid and tense in his grip.
“It was different between us,” he cried. “We weren’t like the others. I thought you knew it—I thought you could see it, too. But now I know the truth. You never loved me; you only encouraged me for your own amusement, so you could play your little games and feel gratified by the wealth I brought you.”
Rhodopis could stand his touch no longer. She pushed away, breaking his grip on her shoulders. “You’re talking madness, Charaxus, and I won’t hear it. I never made you love me—not on purpose, at any rate. And I never knew you felt that way until it was too late to change things. I’m not responsible for your broken heart—you are! You did this to yourself! What kind of simpleton falls in love with a hetaera and dreams of making her his wife?”
“A kind and good man… that’s what kind of simpleton.”
Disgust welled up in Rhodopis’ gut—disgust at his refusal to listen, his refusal to accept the gods’ honest truth. She stamped her foot as she rounded on Charaxus, aware the gesture made her look like a petulant child, but unable to stop herself. It was the only outlet she could find for her thwarted, boiling rage. “You were never a good man, Charaxus—never, never! You never loved me then, and you don’t love me now. You only want to own me! That’s been the way of it, right from the moment you first saw me. Admit it—you know it’s true! As a hetaera indebted to your favors, or as a wife—either way, you would have possessed me, if you’d had your way. And that’s all you care for: whether you can control me and keep me on a fine leash, ready to do your bidding. But I’m not a slave any longer. No man owns me, and none will again, so long as I live and breathe. I swear it by all the gods. May Strymon drown me if I lie. May Isis appear before me and tear out my tongue with her own hands if I don’t speak the truth!”
Coldly, Charaxus smiled. Her outburst seemed to have calmed him, as if he’d been waiting for her to reveal just how hotly her emotions could flare. “If you aren’t mine to do with as I please,” he said, “then how have I managed to bring you here? And you won’t go anywhere without my permission, Rhodopis—make no mistake about that. You wouldn’t want the Pharaoh to learn your secret, would you? You will do as I say.”
He advanced—one step, then another, slow and looming. Rhodopis’ heart lurched. He was too much like Psamtik when he moved that way, when his face went hard and emotionless. Would Charaxus do to her what Psamtik had done? Terror of that dreadful violence broke over her, eclipsing even her fear of Amasis. She spun on her heel, reaching for the door—but Charaxus moved with the same unexpected speed he had shown in his duel with Polycrates. He seized her arm before she could flee.
“Let me go! Don’t touch me, you beast!”
He shook her gently. “Calm yourself. I’m not going to hurt you. But you will do as I say—and that means you will go to the maid’s chamber and remain there until I permit you to leave.”
“I won’t!” Rhodopis shouted, even as he dragged her toward that very room.
Charaxus thrust her inside; she stumbled across the threshold and caught herself on the small, narrow bed, then whirled to face him, tears of fury and humiliation streaming down her cheeks.
“You’ll be comfortable here,” he said. “I’ll see to that. I’m not a brute, whatever you think of me. But I’ve told my door guards to keep you here, at all costs—so don’t try to escape, Rhodopis. You’ll only make yourself a nuisance to my staff, and then I shall be angry with you.”
“I don’t care if you’re angry, you worthless fool!”
“Don’t you?” Charaxus smiled, but it carried no hint of his former, lovestruck doting. “Perhaps you should care. You should care very much, my darling. When we reach Lesvos, you won’t have any company but me. A wise concubine keeps her master happy.”
Before Rhodopis could think of a reply, he shut the door and was gone.
As the days unfolded, Charaxus’ anger continued unabated. His household staff brought meals to the small chamber that had become Rhodopis’ prison and carried away the cloth-covered pot that was her only privy. They spoke to her little, though, and Rhodopis was left to stew alone in a broth of fear.
Through her chamber’s narrow window, hardly more than a slit, she watched the sun move across the small garden, watched birds dart in pursuit of flies by day and moths in the evening. The birds and her thoughts were her only company, her only solace. As she paced, restless as the penned antelopes in the Pharaoh’s menagerie, she asked herself again and again who this strange man was. Who now wore the guise of Charaxus? What could account for this change in his demeanor? Had her former patron been possessed by an evil spirit—or had he always been this man, vengeful and possessive, carefully hidden behind the mask of an adoring lover?
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