by Jack Massa
Korax proceeded around the corner and saw the god ahead of him. Steadying his nerve, he followed. This corridor had no mirrors. Instead, the walls were covered with painted scenes and hieroglyphs in vivid, glossy colors. Anubis reached a crossing in the passage and turned. Korax increased his pace, Harnouphis on his heels.
They followed the god through a maze of passageways, all of them lit by torches and covered in shiny murals. Korax sensed that he must keep the jackal-headed god in sight or that he and Harnouphis would become hopelessly lost.
Finally, the god stopped at the end of a long corridor. Standing before a pair of gold doors, Anubis turned and, as he did so, changed. The jackal-features transformed, flowing into a mass of white feathers. The face of a bird peered down through tiny yellow eyes. Korax knew him as Thoth, the god of scribes and magicians.
Korax halted, daunted by the god’s glistening stare. But Harnouphis strode forward. He gesticulated with open hands, gave a half-bow of obeisance, and uttered a chant. For a moment, Thoth regarded the high priest with an unfathomable expression. Then the god pointed at the gold doors, which immediately swung inward.
Harnouphis raised a hand to Korax, commanding him to stay. Then the high priest straightened his habiliment and marched resolutely through the portal.
Korax put a hand to his lips, gazing up at the god. A wild impulse prodded him to disobey Harnouphis and follow him into the chamber. Korax brushed the thought aside, but it welled up, stronger than before. After all, his talent had led the high priest to this secret place. Why should Korax be denied the opportunity to pierce the mystery within? If Harnouphis would not teach him the ways of magic, he must take the risks to learn for himself.
Propelled by this reckless urge, Korax strode forward. He bowed his head hastily to Thoth and thrust himself across the threshold. Inside he found a vast chamber of gleaming white stone. At the far wall stood a huge statue cast from the brightest gold. The face was human and serene, surmounted by a skullcap and adorned by the narrow, ceremonial beard of a Pharaoh.
The statue was Ptah, the Great God. The Greeks equated him with Hephaestus, but Korax had learned that to the people of Memphis he was much more than the patron of craftsmen. Ptah was the Sun. Ptah was the Primal Artisan who had fashioned the world. Ptah was the demiurge who brought the universe into being by uttering the Great Word at the moment of the creation.
Harnouphis stood in the center of the floor, palms raised in supplication as he vocalized an invocation. The air hummed with mystic forces.
As Korax watched awestruck from the rear of the chamber, Ptah came to life. The god raised his scepter high overhead. The ankh at the tip glittered, flashing with the brilliance of the Egyptian sun. Ptah’s mouth dropped open. In a mighty voice he uttered four syllables.
“Aaaa-tuuum faaaahh graaaal.”
The stone chamber shook with the sound. The ankh burst into a blinding light. The world shattered and Korax fell into blackness.
Chapter Ten
Berenicea held Korax's hand in her soft fingers and led him along the narrow passageway. Her perfumed oil lamp cast a halo over them both.
Korax followed her as though in a dream. He had released his will to hers, as earlier he had released it to the god. Perfectly appropriate, he told himself, for Berenicea was his goddess of love. On that point, his inspired hymn had revealed a deep and mysterious truth. He smiled, reflecting on the flow of muscle in her sleek calves, the sway of fabric about her thighs. Berenicea glanced at him over her shoulder and giggled.
The judges had conferred for only a few moments. Korax—despite his insulting attacks on his fellow contestants—was the overwhelming choice among the singers to Aphrodite. Staphylus, a young man Korax knew from school, won for his hymn to Dionysus. Lady Emerine crowned both young men with laurel wreaths and formally invited them to choose their companions for the night. Korax of course chose Berenicea, while Staphylus chose a handsome boy. In the role of priestess of Aphrodite, Emerine pronounced a ritual blessing on the four young lovers. Then, in her role as businesswoman, she reminded her other guests of the many desirable companions available to them for a modest fee—all proceeds to benefit the goddess.
Berenicea unlatched a door and pushed it open. “I believe this chamber will please you, my lord.”
Her lamp revealed a small, luxurious bedroom arranged in the Eastern fashion. A multicolored Persian rug made soft padding underfoot. In lieu of a bed, a pile of cushions lay spread against the wall, draped by gauzy hangings. Fresh air and moonlight drifted through an open casement.
“Why, yes,” Korax told her nonchalantly. “I am pleased.”
Berenicea set down her lamp and shut the door. Next moment, she pressed against him, twined her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently.
On the couch in public, she had kissed him shyly on the lips, allowed him to squeeze her waist and thigh, but had otherwise been reserved. Now, alone with her at last, Korax was overwhelmed by her passion. He hugged her tightly with one arm, his other still holding the lyre.
When she twirled away, his phallus stood up under his chiton like a pike. She gave him an amused glance, then gently took the lyre from his arm.
“Your hymn was very beautiful,” she murmured as she set the instrument aside. “I'm sorry. I know I told you that already.”
Korax clasped her two wrists. “I will never tire of hearing you say it. I will never tire of hearing you say anything.”
She caught her breath, eyes appraising him. “I must confess, as a courtesan I am taught it is necessary to keep a certain distance. And I am not very experienced. But you are not at all like my other clients.”
Korax grinned at her. “How am I different.”
She lowered her gaze, her smile shy. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was your hymn. It awakened something in me. Almost … well, I imagined it was the goddess herself.”
“Perhaps it was. I truly see her in you.”
She regarded him skeptically, appraising again. “You are certainly an unusual young man. So gifted. But those verses you sang about the other poets—so cruel. You must hate them very much.”
“They deserved it,” Korax answered.
Berenicea nodded pensively. “I remember the other day outside the school, when Patrollos pushed you into the mud, and the others laughed. And yet you came here tonight and confronted them all fearlessly.”
“To punish them,” Korax said. “And to win you.”
Did the black fury that seethed in him frighten her, he wondered, or arouse her? Perhaps a little of both?
Berenicea smiled her enigmatic smile and walked him gently to the cushions. Korax sat down awkwardly, and recollected that he was quite drunk.
The girl snuggled against his shins and started to pull off his slippers. “My, your knees are bony,” she laughed.
Korax stiffened, injured by the remark. “I know I lack the brawn of some young men,” he intoned with drunken dignity. “But I won the contest, and my ardor for you is unmatched.”
“Oh! I meant no offence.” Berenicea tilted back, horrified that she had hurt his feelings. “Forgive me, I am a stupid girl.”
Before Korax could reply, she scurried to her feet. “Wait.”
She fetched his lyre, pressed it into his hands and knelt before him. “Master Korax, you are a glorious singer, a brilliant poet, and I think a man of other talents of which I could scarcely guess. I am only a poor courtesan of the house of Emerine. My service is to my mistress and to the Goddess of Love. But if you will sing your lyric for me once more, I will love you not only with my body, which is my duty, but with my whole heart, which is my choice and my gift.”
Korax swallowed before he could answer. “Adorable girl, you are as beautiful in spirit as you are in outward form. My heart has swelled into my throat, which can make singing difficult. But I assure you, I will try.”
* * * * *
Korax left the guild hall at daybreak. Rain had fallen in the night, leaving the streets sl
ick and scattered with puddles. Threatening clouds still loomed overhead, shading the city in an eerie half-light.
But Korax’s mood was bright as silver.
The spirit of the god had stayed with him, expanding his ecstasy, deepening his blissful union with the lovely Berenicea. Only when Korax kissed her farewell did he sense Dionysus withdrawing at last, leaving him drained and satiated.
Now, the laurel wreath set on his head, the bagged lyre tucked under his arm, he wandered happily into the Square of the Colossus. The plaza lay still in the gray morning, empty but for a few exhausted revelers who slept beside empty wineskins on the broad steps of the stoas. Korax stopped in the middle of the square and gazed up at the Colossus. His cloak flapping in the wind, he offered a prayer of thanks.
“Helios, god of Rhodes and patron of my fathers; Dionysus, god of players and poets; Aphrodite, mistress of all lovers: I, Korax, son of Leontes, thank you for this morning, and for the night that came before.”
Behind the Temple of Helios, Korax crossed a wide boulevard and entered a tradesman’s warren—a maze of narrow streets, close-packed houses, and apartment blocks. This way would take him straight across the lower city and up the hill, his most direct route home.
In the damp morning, shops and storerooms stood shuttered along the deserted streets. An old man dozed under a ragged cloak at the mouth of an alley. A gray cat lay curled on a doorstep and watched him pass with wary, golden eyes. Once Korax thought he heard footsteps moving faintly behind him. But when he turned there was nothing.
The cramped street slanted upward. Ahead, a long public stairway climbed a steep stretch of hill. As Korax approached the base of the steps, two cloaked figures emerged from behind a building.
Patrollos and Cimon.
Korax whirled his head to look behind him. The others had appeared from a side street: Amynias and Lyceas.
Korax groaned with weary resignation. In those brief moments when he had allowed himself to think beyond his night of triumph, he had known there must come a reckoning—and, little doubt, another drubbing. He just hadn’t expected it so soon.
Too tired to even try talking his way out of it, Korax just stood his ground as they paced toward him. Their hair hung wet and tangled, their cloaks wrinkled and stained. Lyceas and Cimon carried collapsed wineskins over their shoulders. Apparently they had stayed out all night drinking, licking their wounds, plotting to corner him on his way home.
“We know you used witchcraft.” Patrollos’ voice was a hoarse whisper. “Amynias confirmed that your Thracian mother is a witch.”
He grabbed Korax by the front of his garment, lifted and slammed his back against a wall. Dropping the lyre, Korax tried to wedge his fists up between Patrollos’ arms, to break his hold. Instead, Cimon and Amynias each seized one of his arms and twisted them back. At the same time, Patrollos yanked and then shoved him backward, his head cracking against the brick.
Korax grunted, straining helplessly.
“We want you to admit it,” Patrollos growled. “Did your mother cast the charm for you? Or did you learn it yourself, like a puppy learning tricks from his mother bitch?”
Korax spat into his face.
Patrollos gasped and his bloodshot eyes glazed over. He pulled Korax away from the wall with such strength that Cimon and Amynias were also thrown back. He lifted Korax’s body in the air and flung him down hard. Korax landed on his back and Patrollos leaped on top of him, knees pinning his arms. Patrollos grabbed a handful of hair and smashed Korax’s head on the cobblestones.
Korax yowled in pain, and tried to kick his way free. But he could gain no leverage. Roaring, Patrollos slammed his head down again, and again.
* * * * *
He could not tell if he was dreaming or awake. He seemed to be walking along a beach at night, through soft sand that slipped under his sandals. The faint murmur of running water sounded somewhere to his right. But then the same sound could be heard on his left and again, it seemed, behind him. Ahead in the distance he spied faint lights—lamps or torches burning atop a far citadel. He kept walking toward the lights, but never seemed to draw nearer.
He could not recall how he had come here. The last he could remember were voluptuous scenes of lovemaking with Berenicea, his red-haired Celtic girl. Thinking past that only made his head hurt.
He turned around and was confused to see the distant lighted hilltop behind him now. Wearily, he sat down, then stretched out on his back. Overhead the stars wheeled in a black, shimmering sky.
From far away a voice called his name. “Korax.”
The stars turned faster, until they were spinning blurs of light around a central core of blackness. A roaring wind filled his ears, and it seemed the sky was falling around him—or he falling into the sky.
“Korax!”
The roar grew deafening, the light blinding. He gasped, and the rush of wind became the sound of air sucked into his throat. His body heaved and shuddered. His eyes flew open wide.
Trembling, he stared up at a bleak gray sky and an ashen face hovering over him: a woman. He wondered dimly who she was.
“My son,” the woman uttered.
Yes, he knew her now. His mother.
A thought swam through his wounded brain: His mother’s witchcraft had called him back from the dead.
Chapter Eleven
Korax awoke in his bed. A broad, solemn face stared down at him, a middle-aged woman. Puzzled, he remembered his mother’s grave face against the sky of Rhodes. But this woman was Egyptian.
Seeing him awake, she touched his forehead with her palm. With a grunt, she reached over to a basin, wrung water from a cloth, and wiped his brow. When he tried to rise she pressed his shoulder down and spoke a single word he recognized from his scant Egyptian vocabulary.
“Stay.”
Flat on his back, Korax watched her rise and leave his room. Memories from the dreams returned, floating uneasily through his mind, inciting awe, then horror. Patrollos had beaten him to death—or near to death. But somehow Anticleia’s enchantments had called him back to life.
He sat up, then bowed his head and shut his eyes to let the waves of dizziness pass. Now he was Seshsetem, a scribe in the Temple of Ptah, a slave. He still had no idea how he had come to Egypt. Whatever happened after he woke on that street in Rhodos was still a void, a long and empty oblivion.
The door opened and the Egyptian woman reappeared, carrying a pitcher and a wood platter of bread and dates. She set them down beside the bed, brought a drinking cup from the shelf, filled it with water.
“Eat now.” She turned and left again.
Korax picked up the cup and drank. He had a powerful thirst, and hunger as well. How long had he been unconscious? As he nibbled the bread, he remembered his last visit to the apartment of Harnouphis, the vision of the maze, the hall of Ptah. He had impetuously entered the god’s chamber, ignoring his master’s command. No doubt Harnouphis and Mehen both would be displeased with him.
After finishing his breakfast, he stood and stretched. He felt whole and hearty enough. He seemed to have suffered no ill effects. He placed his feet together and stood erect. Closing his eyes, he began the exercise he was ordered to perform each morning and night, visualizing the sun above his head.
The cell door opened again, snapping him to alertness. Mehen appeared, carrying a walking stick, his face taut and angry.
“So, you are awake at last. Do you realize you slept an entire day and night?”
“No,” Korax answered, taken aback. “I was not aware.”
“Foolish, despicable scribe.” Mehen brandished the stick. “Were it not that Harnouphis forbids it, I would beat you till you bled.”
Korax clenched his jaw, suppressing a wild urge to wrestle the stick away and beat Mehen instead. But that would bring him no help, only worse trouble.
“Our master Harnouphis is severely displeased with you. He said you had the effrontery to disobey him in the mystic maze, to enter the holy sanctuary o
f the god. And you, a foreign slave. Should he wish it, he could have you beheaded for such blasphemy.”
Korax lowered his eyes. “I am sorry.”
“You wish to initiate in the House of Life,” Mehen sneered. “After this disobedience, it will be a long time indeed before Harnouphis even considers such a thing. And I promise you: I intend to use whatever influence I have with our master to ensure that it never happens!” He waved the stick in the air. “Now dress yourself and return to your duties. You have lost one whole day. I shall see that your work is doubled to make up the time.”
The chief scribe whirled and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Korax stood with fists clenched at his sides, gripped by impotent fury.
Seeking to calm himself, he took several long breaths. He did not dress immediately as ordered. Instead, he returned to the mental exercise. Mehen had commanded him to perform this practice each morning and night, and so he would comply.
As the envisioned spheres of sunlight descended his spine, his anger faded. A sense of divine power grew inside him, and with it came knowledge: This exercise was itself a step toward the magic he craved to discover. That thought consoled his heart. To attain the freedom he longed for, he must follow this path with humbleness and patience. It would not be easy for him. He was rash and reckless by nature. But that wildness had led to all his troubles and must be tempered.
Such was the duty set before him by the gods.
* * * * *
Korax clung to the idea of this duty with grim resolve. In the following days, he worked diligently in the House of Records and repeated the mental exercises morning and night without fail. Gradually, this regimen balanced his nerves, stilled his raging passions. The spells of distraction and madness grew milder and less frequent. At the same time, his concentration improved, his mind growing steadily more focused and clear.
Under the tutelage of the jovial Katep, his learning of the Egyptian language accelerated. Before long, he conversed readily in the native tongue and understood nearly all of what he heard. He soon mastered the writing of the cursive script and was readily translating Egyptian documents into koine. Side-by-side with Katep, he devised a course of instruction and began training his fellow scribes in the Greek letters.
