by Jack Massa
He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Two
He walked along a colonnade on a bright afternoon. He was leaving the library of the academy, the School of Bellerophon, in his last year as a student. As he walked, he gazed beyond the slope of the school property and down the long hill of the city—a sweeping view of green treetops, white walls, and red-tiled roofs—all the way down to the sea. There, sunlight glittered on the blue water and gleamed on the giant gold statue of the sun god, standing above the three harbors of the city.
Helios, Patron of Rhodes.
But today, Korax’s mind was on a different god.
A warm breeze blew along the portico, a faint perfume of flowers mingled with the salt air. Spring had come at last. After months of dreary, landlocked days, the sailing season would soon begin. But first, the Festival of Dionysus: five days of processions, revels, poetry, and plays. The entire town would be decked in wreathes of spring flowers and filled with laughter, flute playing, and song. A young man of eighteen such as Korax could take full part in the revels, and he fully intended to enjoy himself.
Turning a corner, he saw throngs of students exiting through the front gates of the school. But instead of hurrying away as usual, most of them gathered in a crowd across the street. From his vantage point on the colonnade, Korax could see why.
In an open space before a grove of olive trees, lads and girls in bright-colored costumes danced to the music of flutes and drums. A line of young women clapped cymbals and sang in a chorus. Korax hurried down the steps to hear them better.
At first he thought they might be an acting troupe, newly-arrived in Rhodos for the festival and touring the streets to raise interest in their plays. But as he squeezed through the crowd he realized they were something even better—courtesans from the Guild of Aphrodite.
The girls and slender boys wore light chitons, scarlet or orange, cut high on the leg and fitted tight to show their figures. Dancers and musicians alike wore garlands of violets in their hair, their eyes lined and eyelids painted. Even from the edge of the crowd, he could smell a dizzying mixture of perfumes.
He searched the performers in the rear of the group and then grinned. The one he was looking for was there—a flute girl, sweet and slender, with creamy skin and gorgeous, wild red hair. Berenicea was her name, a girl of Celtic blood. He had glimpsed her twice before, once in a procession outside the guild hall that served as the temporary temple of Aphrodite, and on another occasion like this one, when her mentor, the courtesan Emerine, had paraded some of her young talent in the street to stimulate business.
He had heard his schoolmates speak of Berenicea as well. There was even talk of a wager among some young blades as to who would be the first to bed her. Though she had been raised in the house of Emerine, she had just this season come of age. Korax wondered with a yearning heart what a night in her arms might cost.
Now the music stopped. Two of the painted boys pranced forward and set down an ebony stool. They assisted an obese, florid-faced man in a great purple tunic to step up. He unrolled a proclamation, cleared his throat, and began to read.
“Young men of the School of Bellerophon: I address those who are of military age and fully vested in the rights of citizenship. From the Guild of Aphrodite and in the name of the most desirable hetaira Emerine, mistress of the guild, Cleonides, steward to Emerine, brings you greetings! Hear this announcement and invitation: the Goddess of Love pays homage to her brother, the God of Wine, Plays, and Revels! On the first night of the Dionysia, all cadets in training with the Navy of Rhodes are invited to a night of revels in the Guild Hall of Aphrodite. There will be wine and music, delicacies from the finest kitchens in Rhodos to tempt the palette, and of course”—the steward waved his hand to indicate the troupe—“delicacies of the fleshy kind to tempt a young man’s other appetites.”
The crowd hooted and cheered as the courtesans waved and blew kisses. Korax, like all students his age, had already spent one summer training with the Navy of Rhodes, and was considered a cadet.
“And here is more,” Cleonides continued. “Young poets, bring your lyres! A competition of song will be held. No less than two grand prizes will be awarded: one for the best hymn in praise of Dionysus, the other for the best to honor Aphrodite. And, listen well, young gentlemen, for you will not believe the generosity of Lady Emerine in donating these prizes. Both winners will receive—Are you listening, young captains of Rhodes? For I tell you, you must listen well if you are to believe me. Both winners will receive, as reward for their excellence in song, an entire night, absolutely free, in the arms of the girl or boy of his choice from the house of Emerine!”
A whooping shout went up, the young men applauding and clapping each other on the back with raucous laughter.
“All this, all this,” the fat man shouted above the din, “Wine, song, food, and poetry, all yours for the paltry admission price of five obols per man. You heard me correctly, a mere five obols for a night of revelry and song such as no young sailor will want to miss. The companionship of our lovely ladies and boys will be available for the usual additional fees, of course. All profits of the evening will be donated to the Guild’s fund toward building the new Temple of Aphrodite in Rhodos. Thank you, young gentlemen, for your attention. Please stay and listen to our music, and feel free to approach and meet anyone of our troupe who takes your fancy.”
The steward rolled up his scroll and was assisted to step down from the stool. The music started up again, the young dancers capering before the crowd.
Korax smiled to himself as he watched Berenicea dip and sway.
Soon the older, more confident young men of the school walked over to mingle with the courtesans, exchanging pleasantries or grasping a hand to kiss. Korax was considering introducing himself to Berenicea. But then he saw a group of young cadets approach her and her fellow musicians.
“By all the gods,” he muttered. It was Patrollos and his gang!
Patrollos was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, a son of one of the ruling families of the city. Everyone at the school considered him a natural leader, a future admiral. A troupe of sycophants followed him everywhere, all of them decked out in naval cloaks and jeweled armbands. Korax considered them all dull-witted bullies.
Lacking the brawn of most young men his age, Korax prided himself on his wit. Just two days ago, he had bested Patrollos in a classroom debate, mocked him in fact, so that students and teachers both erupted in laughter. Pride wounded, Patrollos had retaliated later in the day, cornering Korax on the exercise field and pummeling him, nearly breaking his jaw.
Korax hung back a moment, hesitant, as he touched the still-swollen spot below his ear. But he was possessed of a reckless and defiant courage. No matter how often he was bested by bullies, he never allowed himself to back down, never let them see him afraid.
Steeling himself, he marched over to within earshot. The young gallants were simpering at the pretty musicians, trying to engage them in conversation.
Patrollos laid a hand over Berenicea’s hand, stopping her from playing. “And what is your name, my little beauty? It wouldn’t be Berenicea by any chance?”
She smiled with surprise. “It is indeed, my lord. But how did you know?”
“Oh, I’ve heard much talk of Berenicea,” Patrollos said. “Her flaming hair, her sea-blue eyes. It is said that Lady Emerine keeps her hidden indoors for fear that Aphrodite might espy her beauty and grow mad with jealousy.”
Korax rolled his eyes in disgust.
Patrollos let his hand drop to touch the girl’s bare thigh. “My pretty little red flower, I look forward to opening your petals with tender and appreciative fingers.”
Berenicea smiled as she pushed his arm away.
Korax could stand no more. Impetuously, he stalked forward and interposed himself between Patrollos and the girl.
“Dear Berenicea, you are wise to disdain the clumsy advances of our would-be admiral here. For though
he is tall and strong, his touch lacks all subtlety.” Grinning, Korax fingered his bruise. “I can assure you of this, from personal experience.”
Berenicea smiled mirthfully. “Indeed? And what is your name, young sir?”
“His name is ‘Stumbles-in-the-Mud,’” Patrollos growled.
He grabbed the shoulder of Korax’s garment, twisted him aside, and shoved hard. Korax staggered backward, slipped in a muddy patch, and fell on his backside. His spine struck a tree root, and he groaned in pain.
“Oh, do not worry about him,” he heard someone say amid the hoots of laughter. “We knock him down all the time. He’s rather like a target we practice on.”
“Now, now, no violence, gentlemen, please.” The fat steward in purple hurried over to quell the commotion. One of his boys helped Korax to stand. The steward and the slave boy together brushed him off.
“I hope you’re not hurt, young sir. No harm was meant, I am sure,” Cleonides said.
“I am not hurt.” Korax answered, choking back his humiliation.
He glanced over at the line of musicians. Patrollos and his companions had turned their backs on him. For an instant he thought he caught Berenicea’s eye, but he quickly looked away. Angrily, he waved off the solicitous attentions of the steward and turned to depart.
Stalking down the streets toward home, Korax nursed his rage. He would make them pay for this, Patrollos and all of his followers. Somehow, he would turn the tables and make them the objects of jeering and scorn. Korax swore he would do this before the moon waned and the ships in Rhodos harbor took sail.
He always believed he could do anything he put his mind to, and now he had put his mind to this.
Chapter Three
Korax woke in the night, panting with rage. He stared at the unfamiliar room, a barrack full of men sleeping on mats, lit by dim starlight slanting through narrow windows. The dream of Rhodes possessed him as if a daimon had seized his mind.
Not just a dream, a memory. The school, Berenicea the lovely girl, Patrollos the arrogant bully. All of it was true, he was certain.
Somehow, that incident had led to the loss of his life in Rhodes, his enslavement here in Egypt. Somehow he had died, returned from death, ended up here. He fought to slow his breathing, to stamp down the panic he feared would lead to another spell of madness.
He stared at the ceiling, pulled his thoughts into order. The Fates had brought him out of the slave yard, given him a new opportunity. Somehow, he would cure himself, regain his full memory. Somehow he would find his way back to freedom, back home to Rhodes.
He always believed he could do anything he put his mind to, and now he had put his mind to this.
* * * * *
He was still awake at daybreak when the slaves were roused. Overseers marched him and the others outside the temple enclosure to a landing on the river. Three barges were moored there, swaying gently in the current. As a son of Rhodes, Korax clearly recalled sailing on both Greek freighters and naval galleys. He scrutinized the Egyptian boats, noting the differences. These were broad-beamed craft, with benches for a hundred oarsmen and roomy cargo holds. Stout masts supported impressive yards, with sails nearly as wide as the barges were long.
Korax waited with the other slaves while porters loaded cargo and crewmen made ready to sail. After a time the servants of Ptah arrived, filing down the narrow street in their white gowns and white sandals. The parade consisted of many more priests, attendants, and functionaries than Korax had seen yesterday. It ended at the quay, the temple entourage gathering in groups. Chattering in a babble of voices, they boarded the barges using broad, railed gangplanks. Korax and the other slaves were herded toward the rearmost craft, but then a messenger came and issued crisp orders to the overseer. Korax was directed to follow the messenger. They stepped through the crowd to the first barge, where Korax recognized the scribe who yesterday had handed him the papyrus through the grate of his cell.
The man displayed a tight-lipped smile. “You are the Greek. I scarcely recognize you clean and shaven.”
Guardedly, Korax nodded his head.
“I am Mehen, chief scribe in service to his Excellency Harnouphis. For now, you will take your orders from me. Come.”
Korax followed him up the plank and onto the wide deck. The lead barge was larger and more ornate than the others, with capacious deck houses built along the center line. The highest-ranking priests were making themselves comfortable there, while porters collapsed and stowed their litters. Mehen led Korax toward the stern, past tents and awnings where a crowd of subordinates and scribes were storing their gear. He found a place for Korax against the rail, not far from the steps of the rear gallery.
Mehen called out orders to a slave, who brought two straw mats. The scribe sat cross-legged on one of the mats and gestured for Korax to do the same. From his satchel, Mehen took a wax tablet and stylus.
“We have your Greek name from the slave seller’s records. However, a barbaric name is not suitable for a servant of Ptah. Therefore, his Excellency Harnouphis has decreed for you a new name, Seshsetem. It is written thus.” He scratched the name in the wax, first in Greek letters, then in the Egyptian script. “This name means ‘obedient scribe.’ Live up to this name, and your days will be peaceful and fruitful in service to our god.”
He handed the tablet to Korax. “Write the name in both scripts as I have done.”
Korax took the stylus. He easily etched the name in Greek, then laboriously in the Egyptian characters. Mehen watched him critically. He pointed out several places where the characters were improperly shaped. Reaching into the beaded satchel, he produced a papyrus sheet.
“Continue writing your name in our script until you can do so perfectly. Then begin to practice from this sheet. It shows common words in both Greek and Egyptian. Later, a scribe will come and begin to teach you the sounds of our letters. You must become fluent in our language—reading, writing, and speaking—if you are to properly serve our god.”
The chief scribe rose to his feet. “Apply yourself diligently, Seshsetem. In our tradition, a scribe who does not learn quickly enough is beaten with the rod.”
Mehen marched off to attend to other business. Korax returned his attention to the tablet. Frowning with concentration, he copied the name ‘Seshsetem’ in Egyptian several times. Then he wrote it once in Greek and spoke it quietly.
“Sesh-se-tem.”
His new name. His slave name. Perhaps his name for the rest of his life.
He scowled with a flash of anger. He glanced about to see that no one was watching then deliberately etched a different name on the tablet.
Korax.
* * * * *
The barges of the Temple of Ptah departed, crewmen straining with poles to push off from the landing. Other men took the oars and rowed against the current. Once the barges were away from shore, the huge sails were unfurled and filled by the steady north wind.
Korax sat in his place by the rail and practiced the Egyptian writing. From time to time he stood to stretch his legs and observe the passing shoreline. South of the town, the Delta spread away from the swollen Nile in an endless sweep of marshlands, interspersed with islands of fertile fields and palm groves. Occasionally the river widened as the branch they sailed on met another channel.
Korax took his dinner on deck: brown bread, peas, a few figs, a tumbler of dark beer. Servants and scribes eating nearby glanced at him with curiosity or indifference. They spoke among themselves and laughed at jokes he did not understand. As soon as he finished the meal, Korax returned to his mat and resumed the writing practice.
At sunset, the priests came on deck. They poured libations from gold vessels, gestured with long-handled incense burners, and chanted prayers. Korax stood with the rest of the ship’s company in quiet attention. The ritual concluded as the huge orange sun sank below the horizon.
In the twilight, the helmsmen steered for the shallows. As the barges drifted close to shore, the crewmen reefed the s
ail and dropped anchors. Korax surmised that, even with the rising full moon, sailing the river at night was deemed too dangerous.
The north wind blew unrelenting, and the temperature dropped. Lying on the mat in only his thin tunic, Korax huddled against the chill. He would have welcomed a blanket but none was offered. He was too proud to ask, even if he had known the word in Egyptian.
When the moon rode at the pinnacle of the sky, he woke to a vision. A woman stepped across the deck toward him, passing through shadows. She was small, but strongly built, dressed in a black robe and silver headpiece. Her appearance nudged his memory, and as she drew close he recognized her: his mother. Kneeling beside him, she looked younger than he recalled, lovely in a vivid and unearthly way.
“You are pained, my son,” she murmured.
He felt on the verge of weeping. “Mother, I am lost. I don’t know how I came to be here.”
“You were reckless,” she answered. “Partly, it was my fault. I did not conceal my arts from you. I allowed you to learn too much, without teaching you proper piety.”
Her arts. The memories came flooding back. Anticleia was his mother’s name. She hailed from Thrace, a wild, mountainous land famous as an abode of witches. As a child, Korax had witnessed the magic rites she performed, often with two handmaids who had accompanied her from her homeland. Later, when he was older, he had snuck from his bed at night and spied on her rituals.
“I have paid for my mistake,” Anticleia said. “And for you, my son, there may be a way back, a way to regain what you have lost—if you will make reparation.”
Korax set his jaw. “What must I do?”
His mother stood. The image of her flowed and rearranged itself before his eyes. The figure became unbearably bright, incomparably beautiful. Her skin shone like gold, her hair glossy black beneath a curved crown. From her shoulders sprouted wings of yellow flame. Suddenly Korax recognized her, from a sailor’s shrine he had seen once in Rhodos—the Lady Isis, queen of the Egyptian pantheon.
