by Jack Massa
She spoke to him: “Are you willing to serve the gods?”
His heart drummed in his chest. To regain what was lost he must serve the gods. As he pondered this, the world around him shifted. He found himself floating in the sky, gazing down from a tremendous height. The Nile wound like a silvery ribbon far below, bordered by fertile bands on either shore, then desert to the horizons. Villages and cities, palaces and temples glinted in the moonlight. In his heart he sensed myriads of paths, endless possibilities.
Abruptly he sat up, wide-awake. The stout form of an Egyptian watched him from across the deck. The man wore a loose tunic with shoulder straps and a gold collar. Korax clearly perceived his eyes, glittering, penetrating. Then Korax knew him: the high priest, the one called Harnouphis.
They stared at each other for several moments, neither moving. Harnouphis seemed to be studying him, pondering some mystery. Then the priest turned and slipped away, quiet as a feather.
* * * * *
The temple ships journeyed on against the sluggish current of the Delta. More frequently now, mounds of dry land rose along the marshy shores, marked by villages and stands of palms and acacia trees. Trading vessels and cattle barges sailed past on the river, heading north.
Korax concentrated on his work, diligently copying Egyptian documents. Under Mehen’s instructions, temple scribes took turns giving him lessons. They taught him the sounds of letters and made him say them aloud. They wrote words on the tablet, then pointed to teach him what things the words named: sky, river, boat, hand, eye, heart. Korax pronounced each name, straining to commit it to memory. The continual effort stimulated the disused channels of his mind. More and more, he felt alert and present, his fear tempered and under control.
But by afternoon his brain felt saturated. He took a rest from copying and wandered across the deck. Leaning on the rail behind the oarsmen’s benches, he watched the river. The sun burned overhead in a cloudless sky, and the water sparkled. As he listened to the steady splash of the oars, his mind drifted off.
He began to hear voices, hissing, moaning. He could not understand the words, but he sensed the beings who uttered them—spirits of the land and the river. They were old, so old it taxed the mind to think about. In their whisperings, Korax sensed immense knowledge, for the spirits remembered all the ages that had passed. He also perceived a boundless, untiring strength. The spirits lived eternally, reborn each year with the flood.
A flock of water birds waded along a reedy stretch of shore, pecking in the mud with curved bills. Closer to the barge, a dark shape drifted in the current. At first Korax took it for a log, but then he spied pointy teeth and small, baleful eyes that watched him as the creature floated past, inciting in him a primordial terror.
“Seshsetem, what are you doing?” Mehen grabbed Korax’s shoulder and spun him around. “Why are you wasting time?”
“I’m sorry.” Korax didn’t know how long he had been staring at the river. “I just needed a rest.”
“Come with me,” Mehen replied curtly.
Korax followed him across the deck. Mehen shouted to scribes who sat beneath the awnings. They stirred themselves and assembled before Mehen, smirking.
“I warned you about applying yourself to your work,” Mehen told Korax.
Two of the scribes seized Korax’s ankles and two others grasped his arms. They stretched him belly-down over a bench, holding him immobile. Twisting his head around, Korax saw that Mehen had been handed a stick, long and thick as a spear shaft.
“For shirking your studies,” Mehen told him, “you will be punished with ten strokes of the rod. Learn from your error, Seshsetem, and do better.”
He lifted the rod over his head with both hands and brought it down with force. It cut through the air with a whooshing sound and landed with a thud on Korax’s back.
Korax’s gasped, his body thrashing. But the four scribes held him firmly. The next blow struck his buttocks, the crowd of men laughing and grunting with satisfaction. Korax gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.
He would not bear this. As soon as they released him, he would run to the rail and throw himself in the river ... No! The pain and humiliation hardened into cold rage. He would endure it. And he would find a way to revenge himself on the cruel and vicious Mehen.
After the fifth stroke, a commanding voice interrupted the punishment. Korax turned and squinted through teary eyes. The high priest Harnouphis was speaking in a low mutter to Mehen. Red-faced, Mehen scowled with angry disappointment, but nodded obediently.
The men released Korax and backed away as Harnouphis himself came and raised him to his feet. The high priest smiled benevolently and touched Korax on the head as though conferring a blessing. Then Harnouphis turned, still smiling, and walked quietly away. The scribes muttered and dispersed.
Mehen faced Korax, brandishing the rod. “By the merciful intercession of our master Harnouphis, you have been spared the last five strokes. But I urge you to learn from your punishment, Seshsetem. Do not expect such leniency to rescue you in the future.”
Chapter Four
Next day the barges sailed past the fringes of the Delta and into the broad main channel of the Nile. The marshlands receded behind them. Now the shores stretched in an unending panorama of flooded and irrigated fields. Behind the fertile swaths, settlements rose along the base of dusty hills and crumbling, sandy plateaus, the beginnings of the desert.
Bruised and sore, Korax kept to himself. His rage had cooled in the night. He would neither forget nor forgive his beating by Mehen, but he would use the pain to fuel his purpose. The vision of the Goddess Isis lingered, filling him with a sense of power and promise. He would regain his memory, discover whatever crimes he might have committed, and make fit retribution to the gods. He would find his way home.
He fixed his attention on his work, studying the rolls of Egyptian script and speaking the words aloud as the scribes instructed him. He copied lines of text again and again, seeking to mimic perfectly the curious curl of each letter. Mehen stopped by in the morning and mentioned Korax’s diligence with stern approval. Korax did not look up from the tablet.
Toward noon, a murmur of excitement spread across the deck, and some men gathered at the starboard rail. Korax stood and gazed at the shore. His body stiffened with wonder at the view.
A desert plateau loomed above the river, stretching away to the south as far as one could see. Tombs beyond number reared up on the plateau, arranged among temples, monumental statues, and causeways of stone. Towering in the northern district of this vast necropolis stood three huge manmade mountains, perfectly angular and sparkling white against the blue sky. Korax recalled reading about the pyramids of Giza in the Histories of Herodotus. But no written description could have prepared him for the giant majesty of the sight.
Memphis lay south of the great necropolis. The appearance of the tombs signaled the temple staff to pack their belongings and prepare to disembark. Crewmen ambled along the deck, stripping down awnings and unlashing bales. Korax was given a satchel to store his tablet and scrolls. He rolled up the straw mat and tied it with papyrus cord.
In another hour, Memphis came into view. Warehouses and boatyards stretched along the riverbank behind landings crowded with vessels. Massive white walls ran for miles, concealing the city except for the highest roofs and obelisks. Called Mem-Nephir by the Egyptians, Memphis was the ancient capital and still one of the most populous cities in the land. Korax remembered seeing Athens and Ephesus, two of the grandest cities of the Greek world. But Memphis was larger and far older. He gazed at the city with a blend of trepidation and awe.
The barges anchored at a broad quay of gray stone. A runner was dispatched to the temple to announce their arrival. Priests with their servants and subalterns disembarked. A crowd of spectators gathered to watch as the procession formed. First went musicians, beating tambourines and drums and chanting a sacred song. Behind them floated the gold litter chair of Harnouphis, his attendants a
nd subordinates marching dutifully behind. Last went the servants, guardsmen, and slaves.
Walking along with the other scribes, Korax peered in all directions, drinking in the sights. The procession moved through gates forty-feet high and onto an avenue lined with sphinxes. Ahead in the distance stood massive pylon gates painted with hieroglyphs and flanked by statues of seated Egyptians in royal crowns. By the time they reached those gates, Korax could see that the statues must each be fifty feet high.
Inside, the parade crossed an enormous courtyard bordered on three sides by colonnades. Twin obelisks towered near the center of the courtyard. Ahead stood another set of pylon gates as large as the first and carved with figures in bas-relief. These gigantic figures depicted not men, but the strange Egyptian gods—human of form, but with heads of birds and animals. Korax craned his neck, still examining the images as he passed through the gates.
Inside the next courtyard, the procession halted in front a gallery supported by red pillars topped with white lotus forms. Priests lined the monumental stairway, arrayed in white pleated robes with hats, pectorals, and sashes of gold. An army of subordinates and attendants stood behind them, holding wands, scrolls, and ceremonial vessels. The arriving priests mounted the steps and formally greeted their brethren. Conversing together, they entered the sanctuary through massive doors of polished bronze.
The rest of the procession now dispersed in a dozen directions. Korax followed Mehen and his scribes to a side colonnade. They marched through a series of pillared halls and open courtyards arranged with gardens and pools. They entered a wide structure with plain, white-plastered walls. Within, they traversed a long passageway where lamplight flickered on ancient, peeling murals.
Finally, the party arrived in a broad hall where daylight flowed in through clerestory windows set below the ceiling. Shelves three times as tall as a man lined the walls of the chamber, stuffed with papyrus rolls. More than a hundred scribes sat on straw mats in neat rows, writing with ink pens on papyrus. Korax noted with surprise that a few of the scribes were women.
“This is our scriptorium,” Mehen explained, “where you will spend most of your time.”
A number of scribes approached Mehen and exchanged words in Egyptian. Korax gathered they were the chief scribe’s subordinates, foremen in charge of various groups or sections. Mehen tilted his head in Korax’s direction as he spoke with one of the foremen, a round-faced fellow with cheerful eyes and a comfortable layer of fat on him.
“This is Katep,” Mehen said to Korax. “He will be your supervisor and will explain your duties.”
“Welcome to the House of Records, Seshsetem.” Katep spoke to Korax in Greek.
“Obey him as you would obey me,” Mehen admonished Korax. “Remember the lesson of the rod.”
Mehen issued a few crisp commands to Katep, then turned to other matters.
Katep smiled at Korax and gestured him to follow. “I am so happy to have another scribe who understands Greek,” he said. “Chief Scribe Mehen informs me you are making good progress in learning our language.”
“I am happy he says so,” Korax replied. He was gratified by the compliment, and relieved to find Katep such an agreeable man. “There is a great deal I have to learn.”
“We have much work before us,” Katep affirmed. “Between the two of us, we must either translate all of our government reports and letters, or teach other scribes enough Greek to accomplish this.”
“You speak my language very well,” Korax commented.
Katep beamed. “Thank you! I studied for three years at a temple school in Alexandria—a majestic city to be sure. Have you been there?”
Korax tightened his mouth. His time in Alexandria had been spent in a slave pen and filthy cell. “Not long enough to appreciate the sights.”
The foreman gave Korax a place beside his own to unroll his mat. Katep reviewed the lessons Korax had learned so far and spent an hour teaching him to read and pronounce new words in Egyptian. He introduced Korax to the other scribes in his section and scheduled each of them to spend time working with him in the days ahead.
Seated cross-legged, the wax tablet balanced on his thigh, Korax resumed the task of copying and memorizing the Egyptian letters. But after some time his concentration faltered, his mind and body exhausted from all he had experienced the past few days. A thrumming sounded in his ears, and his vision blurred. Squinting and dizzy, he gazed around the scriptorium, then back down at the papyrus. The black letters quivered and crawled on the page like swarming beetles.
With a cry of terror, Korax stumbled to his feet and fled.
* * * * *
“Seshsetem, are you feeling better now?”
Katep’s round face stared at him with concern. They sat on a stone bench in a garden. Korax blinked, fingertips clutching his forehead.
“I am sorry. I seem to have lost my wits for a moment. I … have been troubled lately by spells of madness.”
Katep nodded solemnly. “I thought as much. Such sicknesses are known here. My honored wife, Hetepher, would say you are touched by the gods.”
“Yes. Some in my country would say the same.” Korax gazed around the sunny garden, the air fragrant with strange blossoms of purple and yellow. “When it happened to me on the barge, Mehen beat me with a stick.”
Katep winced, then shook his head. “The chief scribe is a harsh man. But do not worry. If this happens again in the scriptorium, I or one of my scribes will stay with you till it passes.”
His heart touched, Korax murmured, “You are very kind to a slave.”
Katep waved a hand. “Some here are slaves, many more are free. It doesn’t matter, so long as we do the work. And you are important to us. We need your help.”
Korax stared off beyond the green garden at the tall porticos and sandstone walls, gleaming under the deep blue sky.
“You are progressing very well for someone new to our language,” Katep said. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes, I have one. I am learning your cursive script, but I do not understand how it relates to your other writing, the glyphs I see painted on walls and carved on monuments.”
“Oh, that is the sacred writing,” the scribe answered. “Most of us cannot read it. It is reserved for religious texts and magic spells. Don’t worry,” he added with a chuckle. “You will not need to learn that.”
Korax contemplated a distant obelisk covered with the glyphs. The symbols fascinated him at some instinctive level. With their aura of power, they seemed to call to him.
“How does one learn the sacred writing?”
Katep laughed aloud. “It takes years. There are over 700 symbols, they say. It is taught only in the Houses of Life.”
“The Houses of Life. What are they?”
“The sacred scriptoriums. Each great temple has one. But only initiates may enter. It is for the priests and their acolytes, not for ordinary scribes like you and me.”
“I see.” Korax rose from the bench. “How does one become an initiate?”
As he stood, Katep laughed again. “You are too curious, Seshsetem.”
These words tugged at his memory. “No doubt you are right,” Korax answered glumly. “I suspect it has caused me trouble in the past.”
Chapter Five
Korax stood at the window of his bed chamber, staring down at the dark city.
A long line of torches pierced the blackness, winding up the streets in silence. Tonight was the eve of the Dionysia, the Bringing In of the god. By custom, the young men of Rhodos carried the god from his temple in the harbor district up the wide hill to the theater. There Dionysus would be installed in a shrine to watch the plays and performances and preside over the revels.
Korax watched in reverent quiet as the procession passed below his window. Young men in satyr masks carried torches to light the way. Priests clad in red and purple robes walked behind, swinging censers smoking with incense. Three other priests held the tethers of black goats, to be s
acrificed at the end of the procession. Next, amid a blaze of torchlight, youths in masks of horse and mule pulled the sacred cart, overflowing with grapevines and blossoms. Within the cart rode the statue of Dionysus, the graceful, long-haired god, dressed in a panther-skin and holding his vine-wrapped wand.
In past years Korax, lover of plays and aspiring poet, had walked in the torchlight procession. But tonight he waited until the last marchers had passed, then quietly closed his shutters. Tonight he had a private appointment with the god.
Korax left a lamp burning on his bedside table. He lay down but did not sleep. All of his plans and preparations were complete. He only had to wait and gather his courage.
In an hour midway between dusk and dawn, when he was certain all others in the house were asleep, Korax crept from his bed. He picked up the lamp and noiselessly opened the door of his chamber.
He stepped down the passageway, past his father’s room. There the hallway opened onto a gallery overlooking the courtyard. The waxing moon of Dionysus rode high in the west, silvery light glinting on roof and vine. But ahead the passage was walled again, and Korax crept with the utmost care past his mother’s door. He turned the corner into the women’s quarters, where the female servants slept and did their weaving and mending. At the end of this hall, he paused before a thick, black door. He pushed it open cautiously, wincing as it creaked on its hinges. He glanced anxiously behind him, then slipped inside.
The chamber was large, with high rafters opening to the eaves of a slanted roof. It was built to be a weaving room, but Korax’s mother had long ago claimed it as her private domain.
When Korax was a young child, his mother had slept in this chamber, and he in a small bed in the corner. His earliest memories were of playing here as a babe, of watching his mother at her loom. Until age six, he had also witnessed the magic rites she performed here, often in the company of handmaids who had accompanied her from Thrace. Korax had gazed with fascination as his mother wielded a crooked wand or a bronze dagger glittering in the firelight. He had listened, entranced, as the women invoked the Great Goddess with sonorous Thracian chants that he only half-understood.
