by Jack Massa
When Korax had reached school age, he had been moved to his present bedroom, at the opposite end of the house. It had felt like an exile, and he had trouble sleeping for many nights.
But within half a year, he had found his way back to the mysterious realm of the witches. The family sometimes slept on the roof in the heat of the summer. Korax discovered a loose slat where the flat roof that covered most of the house bordered on the sloping roof above his mother’s chamber. Thereafter, on nights of new and full moons, he would often sneak from his bed and climb the ladder to the roof. Removing the loose slat, he would watch unobserved from his high vantage point as Anticleia and her maids performed the rites of Hecate.
Korax remembered enough from those spying missions to know how to conjure a spirit or god—or so he believed. But first he needed to borrow a few of his mother’s instruments.
A small altar covered in black cloth stood against the far wall. There he found the serpent-handled knife, laid before the gold statue of Hecate and the smaller, wooden figures that represented Anticleia’s ancestors and household deities. Searching through casks and baskets nearby, Korax took scented candles and a cake of incense.
He left the black door ajar and hurried, quietly as he could, back down the passageway. The blood was thumping in his ears by the time he reached his own door.
His writing table, set before the open window, would serve as the altar. He had already laid it out with ivy, the vine sacred to Dionysus. Now he lit two candles from the flame of his oil lamp and set them on the table’s edge.
From a storeroom downstairs he had taken a brass brazier, the size of a large wine bowl. This he lined with a layer of charcoal, then lit it from one of the candles. Now three fires were burning.
On a chest nearby, a thrush fluttered in its tiny wicker cage, wakened by the shuddering light. Korax had purchased the bird from a stall outside the Temple of Dionysus and smuggled it into the house under his cloak.
Korax paused to calm his mind. What he was about to attempt was dangerous, some might even say blasphemous. He wondered, after all, if he should stop. But then he felt the sore place in his jaw, and remembered the cause of that injury. He thought of all the times he had been hurt and humiliated by Patrollos and others like him.
With a trembling hand, Korax reached for an incense cake. When he dropped it into the brazier, the flames shot up a brilliant orange and spat a gout of perfumed smoke.
“If fiery destruction be the fate of Korax, son of Leontes,” he whispered to himself, “then at least he will singe a few enemies before he burns.”
Not a bad conceit, he thought, as he picked up the dagger.
Outside the window, Rhodos lay quiet in the glimmering moonlight—the city asleep, all unaware of Korax and his magic. He traced in the air symbols of invocation he had watched his mother use. Then he spoke the words he had prepared, pitching his voice at a low murmur so as not to waken the household.
“I call upon you, Dionysus, lord of many voices, patron of players and poets, god of the wild places and the wild heart. I, Korax, son of Anticleia of the Thracian tribes, child of the witches of Hecate, summon you now in all your power and might to come before me. By flame and smoke, I conjure you to appear.”
His hand shook as he put down the dagger. The fire in the brazier sputtered and writhed, seeming to glow brighter, to blaze with the very presence of the god. Korax stared entranced, and for several moments forgot what he intended to do.
Then he remembered the singing contest at the Guild of Aphrodite. Patrollos and his friends would be there to try to win the prize.
And Korax would be waiting for them.
He steadied himself and reached for the birdcage. Opening the top, he grasped the thrush tightly and pulled it out. Gritting his teeth, he held the fluttering, struggling body close to the fire as he picked up the knife.
“I entreat you, Dionysus, to bend your power to my will. Inspire me with your brilliant music and fill my heart with poetry. But discomfit my enemies. Reduce their songs to foolish babble. Stitch their tongues inside their mouths and bind their wits like the hooves of fatted lambs. Rain laughter and derision on their efforts and bring them only shame. Thus I conjure you, Dionysus, god of poets and players, lord of many voices: Do thou as I will!”
Gripped by a fearful ecstasy, Korax lay the bird on the table and cut off its head with a stroke. Blood spurted, and he squeezed the quivering body in his fingers and poured the blood into the fire.
* * * * *
Korax moaned and flung out his arms with a cry of distress.
Where was he? What had he done?
He clasped his shaven skull with both hands. He lay on a pallet bed, in the small room he’d been given in the temple barracks.
The dream, the calling of the god ... The memories came flooding back, squeezing his vitals with an icy, superstitious dread.
What a fool he had been! To tempt the gods for his own petty revenge …
No wonder there was terrible retribution to pay.
Chapter Six
The awful dread stayed with him the next day. Grim and subdued, he strained to concentrate on his work in the scriptorium. The intense labor of writing and reading mostly kept his thoughts away from the memory of what he had done in Rhodes. Still, he was grateful when the long day ended.
As he had the previous night, Korax took supper on a terrace outside the main kitchens, seated with a host of servants, porters, gardeners, and clerks. Along with the standard brown bread and beer, the meal included figs, melons, and chopped pieces of roasted goose and duck—leftovers from the priests’ tables. It was the best fare Korax could remember since his life in Rhodes, but tonight he had small appetite.
He returned to his tiny room, in a barracks of brown brick and crumbling plaster. The platform bed, a lamp, and a small palm-wood chest were the only furnishings. The bed had one of the curious wooden headrests that the Egyptians favored instead of pillows. Korax had found it impossible to lie on comfortably and thrown it on the floor.
He had stretched out on the bed and was trying to find a comfortable position when his door swung open. Mehen came in, attended by a servant with a lantern.
“Seshsetem, our master Harnouphis summons you.”
Korax strapped on his sandals and followed the two men, his unease mingling with curiosity. Why should the high priest want to see him? The sullen Mehen offered no explanation, and Korax judged it prudent not to ask.
They crossed a succession of gardens and courts, the grounds growing more splendid as they went. They approached a gate lit by torches and guarded by watchmen with spears. The guards seemed to recognize Mehen and let the party pass without challenge.
After crossing another garden, Mehen led the way up a long flight of steps with a stone balustrade. They strode along a high gallery, past tall doors with chiseled carvings. Finally, Mehen stopped and pulled open one such door by its bronze ring.
Inside, the servant bowed to Mehen and departed. The chief scribe conducted Korax down a corridor with polished floors and walls paneled with costly cedarwood. They crossed a perfumed antechamber furnished with sumptuous rugs and wall hangings. A slender young woman in a gauzy gown sat on a cushion, idly plucking a lute. She wore a doleful, languid expression and lowered her gaze when Korax’s eyes met hers.
“This way,” Mehen said.
They entered the next room, a study crowded with scrolls and elegant furniture, illuminated by numerous lamps. Clad in a sleeveless black tunic, Harnouphis waited at the edge of a tiled terrace. Behind him, Korax glimpsed a view of roofs and courts, stepping down to the dark waters of the Nile.
The high priest smiled amiably and gestured Korax to a chair set before an ebony table. Harnouphis took a shallow white bowl, carved of alabaster, and filled it with water nearly to the brim. He poured in droplets of dark oil from a green faience flask. He stirred the bowl with a delicate stick of chased silver, then placed it on the table in front of Korax.
“S
tare into the bowl,” Mehen said in koine. “Tell us if you see anything.”
Korax eyed them both for a moment, then obeyed. At first, he perceived nothing except the swirl of oil spinning off in faint, iridescent colors. But as he watched, the swimming colors began to form an image. Heat pulsed in Korax’s skull, and he heard a faint keening, like the call of a bird or animal somewhere in the night. Then he saw a face, a huge feline face with bristling muzzle and tawny fur. Staring, he realized that the lion had the body of a woman, bedecked in robes of red and gold and holding a staff.
“I see a woman with a lion’s head,” he muttered. “It is one of your goddesses, is it not?”
“The Goddess Sekhet,” Mehen affirmed.
He interpreted Korax’s words for Harnouphis. The high priest faced the terrace, his back to Korax. He spoke and Mehen directed Korax to look at the bowl again.
The colors whirled, as though stirred by an unseen hand. Korax scrutinized the bowl for a few moments.
“I see another figure, a man’s body, but the head of a bird. Another of your gods, I think.”
Mehen spoke a single word to Harnouphis, who nodded triumphantly. Korax sensed that the high priest had somehow cast the images into the bowl, but he kept that insight to himself. Harnouphis took the bowl away and brought out a decanter and goblets of painted pottery.
Mehen relayed his words. “His Excellency begs your indulgence for not acting as a better host. He asks you to join him in a cup of wine.”
“Thank you.” Korax shifted in his chair, unsure what tone to strike now, what role he was expected to play.
Harnouphis poured red wine into three cups. He handed one each to Korax and Mehen. Again the chief scribe translated: “He asks your opinion of this vintage. It comes from your Greek island of Sicilia.”
Korax sipped from the delicate cup; the first wine he had tasted since before he was enslaved.
“It is excellent. I am most honored. But may I inquire why his Excellency confers such honors on a lowly slave?”
Harnouphis gave no answer, changing tacks instead. Mehen continued to translate in the exchange that followed.
“We know that in foreign lands people follow certain Mystery cults, which derive, we believe, from our own ancient rituals. Are you an initiate of any such rites?”
Korax answered guardedly. “I know of the Mysteries. But so far as I know, I am not an initiate.”
“So far as you know? How can you not be sure?”
“My mind is … confused. Some of my memories have been lost.”
Harnouphis plainly found this interesting. “Well then, do you recall any experience with the divine arts—what you might call ‘magic?’”
Korax swallowed, his mind racing. Plainly the high priest was impressed with his talent as a seer. There might be many ways Korax could turn this to his advantage. He spoke from the memories that had recently surfaced.
“My mother practiced certain arts. I think I may have learned from her, a little.”
Harnouphis scrutinized Korax with his piercing eyes before speaking again.
“There is more. What happened to the back of your head?”
Korax instinctively put his hand there. The touch brought a flash of memory: Lying on the street, a snarling face above him, hands gripping his hair, smashing his head against the cobblestones.
“I must have been attacked, badly injured … I believe I may have died—if that is possible.”
“What do you remember of that experience?” Harnouphis wanted to know.
“Not much. Darkness, wandering. I think I have been mad ever since. My mind loses track of where I am sometimes.”
Hearing the translation of these words, Harnouphis stroked his chin and pondered. Abruptly, he smiled and spoke briskly to Mehen.
“You may go now,” Mehen told Korax. “I shall summon the servant to guide you back to your quarters.”
Korax lifted himself from the chair then paused. “Can you help me? Can his Excellency help me?”
Mehen translated his words and then the reply.
“What help do you seek?”
“To regain my memory, to make my mind whole again.”
Harnouphis stood at the edge of the terrace. Behind him, the moon had risen over the eastern desert. On hearing Korax’s words as interpreted by Mehen, the high priest smiled benignly, stepped around the table and laid a hand on Korax’s shoulder.
“My dear young friend,” Mehen repeated the priest’s speech in koine. “I believe we can help each other. What you call madness is both a curse and a gift of the gods. I shall help you master it, and you in turn will use it to help me serve our god. Will you agree?”
Korax trembled inwardly. The words of Isis returned to him: Are you willing to serve the gods? Exaltation surged in his heart. He bowed to Harnouphis with the deepest respect.
“I am your servant, my lord.”
* * * * *
The attendant came with his lantern and conducted the Greek from the study. When they had gone, Harnouphis dropped into his chair and leaned back, grinning. He pulled off his wig, tossed it on the table and massaged his shaven scalp with stubby fingers.
Mehen had lingered. He stood grimly awaiting further orders.
“What is it, Mehen?” the high priest asked, his eyes closed. “Why so sour?”
“Forgive me, your Excellency. You read my inner thoughts, which I would not presume to express.”
“Except that I encourage you to express them now. Please, be at ease, my friend.” Harnouphis waved at the chair across from him.
The chief scribe gripped the back of the chair, but remained standing. “I despise this Greek. I know you have discovered abilities in him. But I cannot believe that any good will come of employing an unpurified foreigner.”
Harnouphis cocked his head with sardonic amusement. “You are parochial, Mehen. Do you really think the gods care about a man’s nationality?”
The chief scribe’s face went rigid. “Forgive me, Excellency. I should not have spoken.”
“No, not at all. It is I who misspoke.” Harnouphis flowed from his chair. “I did not mean to insult you, my friend. And I understand your concerns.”
He lifted the cup that he had poured earlier for Mehen, but which the abstemious scribe had never tasted. He handed the cup to Mehen, who took it reluctantly.
“This Greek,” the high priest continued. “It does not matter where he comes from. His gift is what matters. Perhaps it is because he came so close to death, but whatever the reason, his vision easily pierces the net of appearances. Other men, schooled in our arts, must trace mazes to reach that place of clarity. For him, it is like walking an open corridor. What comes to us in a trickle is to him a stream that flows unbidden into his mind.”
Harnouphis resumed his chair and sat back languidly. “I will teach him to control that stream, and he will be a wondrous tool for our purposes. I am certain of it.” The high priest raised his goblet. “Be cheered, my loyal Mehen. Let us drink to the future!”
Chapter Seven
The sacred lake lay behind white walls near the great sanctuaries of the temple. Four ramps of bleached stone sloped down into clear, clean water. Priests taking part in the daily rites of the god were required to bathe in the lake twice each day and twice each evening.
Harnouphis arrived at the lake an hour before sunrise, a slave lighting his way. The shore of the lake shone brightly with lanterns. Dozens of priests could be seen bathing in the water. Others sat on stools along the bank while barbers shaved their heads or attendants rubbed their bodies with ointment.
Only a handful of priests were actually required to perform the daily rituals. These assignments rotated on a monthly basis. Except for priests with current duties, attendance at the rites was optional. But Harnouphis always walked in the processions when able. Naturally, it was important for a man of ambition to be seen as pious and dedicated, especially by the first servants of Ptah, the priests of the Inner Circle. But Harnouph
is also found attending the rites helpful in keeping track of his fellow second- and third-degree priests—prospective allies and rivals in the ever-shifting politics of the temple hierarchy.
He removed his linen dressing gown and waded naked into the lake, wincing at the cold. The temperature of the sacred water never felt comfortable. He had just started to scrub himself with a cake of natron when a man nearby noticed him, a tall priest with the trim musculature of an athlete.
“Harnouphis, is that you? My esteemed brother! Welcome back to the Mansion of Ptah.”
“Greetings, Paramses.” Harnouphis grinned companionably. Paramses was a second servant and a man of rising status. He frequented the libraries of the House of Life and was rumored to be a skillful magician. Certainly, he was clever and ambitious, like Harnouphis himself. Unlike Harnouphis, Paramses came from the nobility. For recreation, he drove a chariot and hunted in the desert. In his current post, he was commander of the temple watch.
“How went the Synod?” Paramses asked in hushed tones. “How heavily will Pharaoh’s foot press on our necks this year?”
So the game was pretended confidences, Harnouphis thought. He would play readily, without telling Paramses anything he could not easily learn elsewhere.
“May Pharaoh live a thousand years,” he pronounced with subtle sarcasm. “I do believe the priests of Egypt held our own this year. Quotas were not raised, except the one on wines produced in the Delta. And the mining tax was actually reduced by a tenth of a tenth.”
“That is holding our own.” Paramses seemed impressed. “Pharaoh’s coffers must be full.”
“They are continuously replenished, I am sure,” Harnouphis said dryly. “But tell me, dear brother, what transpired in the three months of my absence from Mem-Nephir?”
“Oh, you know. Nothing much changes here.” Paramses brushed droplets from his arms. “Wise Amasis still reads as Hierogrammat in the House of Life. And of course, the most esteemed Neksapthis still serves the god as Master of Artisans—despite his wondrously advanced age.”
