by Jack Massa
Some evenings, Mehen or one of Harnouphis’ servants would appear at Korax’s cell and conduct him to the high priest’s apartments. At first, Harnouphis treated him with severity, admonishing Seshsetem that he must be obedient and never repeat his foolish and blasphemous error. Korax hung his head and accepted the rebukes in silence, then did his best to follow his master’s commands.
He would gaze into the scrying bowl and enter a state of trance. In visions, he met all manner of strange beings: creatures with bodies of mist or flame, animals that spoke with human voices, occasionally a god or goddess of Egypt. Prompted by Harnouphis, Korax would converse with these personages, repeating the high priest’s questions and the answers given.
As Korax mastered the everyday Egyptian speech, he soon realized that the words he relayed were often of a different language, one completely unknown to him. He suspected it to be an ancient, magical tongue. He asked Harnouphis about it more than once, but the priest ignored his questions, pressing him instead to repeat every syllable precisely.
Sometimes, instead of the scrying bowl the high priest would direct Korax to stare at a candle flame. Harnouphis would utter a chant, and the flame would flicker and dance in response. Then Mehen would set down papyrus and pen and tell Korax to write whatever words came into his mind.
After a time, Harnouphis changed Korax’s daily exercises, making the regimen more complex and demanding. Now Korax caused the inner sunlight to circulate, flowing to different centers within and around his body. With each envisioned sphere of light, he intoned a word or phrase over and over in a deep, reverberating voice. Korax recognized none of these words of power, but again suspected they must belong to the magical tongue. When he questioned Mehen about it, the chief scribe told him curtly not to ask, only obey. Clearly, Mehen resented teaching Korax these practices and only did so at their master’s command.
The expanded exercises left Korax inflamed, his nerves vibrating. Some nights he found it impossible to sleep. Then he would rise and wander the temple grounds.
One night he returned to the high terrace that overlooked the northern wall. Leaning with his back to a pillar, he gazed out over the city and the desert beyond. Cruel longing pricked his heart as he thought of Rhodes.
More than four months had passed since his arrival at the Temple of Ptah. His life here was comfortable enough, the tedious labor in the Hall of Records leavened by the fascinating glimpses of magic in his scrying for Harnouphis. But it was still the life of a slave. No matter how resolutely Korax tried to follow the path of duty and patience, he yearned for his home, his family. He wondered if his parents were well. How much did they know of what had become of him? Were they even still alive?
That question raised ominous doubts in his mind. Did the home and family he remembered even exist? Or might they all be delusions born of his madness?
He must find out, must learn the truth of his past. He must get away from this cursed captivity.
As he had done many times, he tried to concoct a workable plan of escape. He now had considerable freedom to come and go within the temple enclosure, and he could speak Egyptian well enough to get by. But even if he slipped outside the temple walls, he would need money to buy passage downriver. He could think of no way to acquire any coin. Besides, the temple had its own police force, known for their efficiency in tracking fugitive slaves. They would quickly follow the trail of a runaway scribe—especially one with unusual talents that a certain high priest valued so highly.
Korax hung his head in frustration. Tears welled up from deep in his soul. For the first time he could remember, he wept without restraint, pouring out his loneliness and grief until all the tears were shed.
* * * * *
A few nights later, weary from roaming, Korax sat down under a sycamore tree. Nearby a desert spring fed a clear, round pool with a soothing trickle of water. Beyond the pool lay a long, low-roofed building faintly visible in the moonlight. Someone had told Korax that this was the House of Life. Of plain brick and white plaster, it looked more like a stable than the hall of sacred wisdom …
Korax opened his eyes with a start. He didn’t know how long he had been dozing. Across the garden, a door had opened in the wall. A figure emerged, an old man with a scrawny body and bare head. As Korax watched, the man closed the door behind him, and it seemed to disappear. The wall was cunningly designed indeed, Korax thought. He had never spotted the hidden door, even though he had passed this way in daylight.
The old man ambled toward the edge of the pool. He pulled his garment over his head and dropped it on the bank. Sighing contentedly, he lowered himself into the water.
Silently, Korax shifted into a crouch. He wondered if he could slip away without being seen. But then the old man called out to him.
“Don’t worry about me, young sir. I’ll not tell anyone I’ve seen you. To be frank, I’m not supposed to be here myself this time of night.”
Chagrinned, Korax rose and stepped from his hiding place. Approaching the water’s edge, he smelled a whiff of salty natron, which the old fellow was using to wash himself.
“I like to bathe here when no one is around.” The man splashed happily. “Did you know this pool is fed by the same spring as the sacred lake where the high priests bathe? Except this pool gets the water first.”
“No,” Korax admitted. “I did not know that.”
The old man squinted at him in the moonlight. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. May I ask your name?”
“It is Ses—It is Korax,” he answered—and wondered why he felt compelled to give his true name.
“Korax. How unusual. Sounds foreign.”
“It is Greek.”
“A Greek in service to an Egyptian temple? Now that is unusual.” The old man pushed off with his feet and glided on his back.
“I don’t believe I caught your name, grandfather.”
“I don’t believe I tossed it. Ha ha! I love that old joke. But you can call me grandfather. I like that. I don’t have any grandsons of my own, you see?”
Korax squatted beside the pool. “Are you a scribe in the House of Life?”
“Not exactly. You might say I’m a doorkeeper there.”
Korax considered this remark, which intuition told him not to take at face value. “That sounds interesting. You must observe much of what happens then.”
“Oh, yes. Many scribes laboriously copying old manuscripts, placing them in their proper niches. Not very interesting, really.”
“But the writings are magical, are they not? And sometimes new spells are written.”
“Ah, magic! What is your interest in magic, grandson?”
Korax smiled ruefully. “I sometimes imagine it is my calling.”
“Really? That must be intriguing for you. Perhaps a little frightening too?”
“Not frightening, but frustrating,” Korax replied. “I know one must be an initiate to gain admission to the House of Life. But I’ve read of Greek travelers who claimed to have learned the Mysteries in the temples of Egypt. So foreigners must be admitted sometimes—unless those writers lied, which is certainly possible. Tell me, grandfather, how can I become an initiate?”
“You are in earnest then?”
“I am.”
“Well, it’s not difficult. First you must ask. Then you must be deemed worthy. Are you a free man?”
“No, a slave,” Korax said. “Harnouphis is my master. He is a powerful magician, so I believe.”
“Harnouphis, the second servant? Oh, yes, a noteworthy man, admired for his profundity and his generous spirit. I suggest you ask him to sponsor you.”
“I have tried that,” Korax said, shoulders sagging.
“And…?”
“He promised to consider it, but that was months ago. I think … Well, Harnouphis uses me to scry for him. I fear he would prevent my learning magic, so he can keep my talents all for himself.”
Surprised, the old man ceased his splashing. Growing very still
, he stared hard, as if reading Korax’s soul.
“That is an interesting idea,” he said at last. “But I doubt it could be true. Such actions by a servant of Ptah would violate rightful principles.”
Korax heaved a sigh, but said no more.
The old man floated on his back. “If you are in earnest, I suggest you speak to your master again. If Harnouphis sees true talent in you, he would be honor-bound to sponsor your initiation.”
“I told you, I have tried.”
“Ha-ha! Then try harder. As a doorkeeper, I can tell you this: the portals of the sacred knowledge don’t always open the first time one knocks.
Chapter Twelve
“Be seated, Seshsetem.” Harnouphis regarded Korax with a fatherly smile. A mild breeze flowed into the study from the night-cloaked terrace at his back.
“Thank you, your Excellency.” Korax sat in his usual chair at the ebony table. Taking hold of his nerve, he said, “Before we begin tonight, I would like to speak with you—to discuss the terms of my continued service.”
Harnouphis’ cordial expression declined into a frown. “Your what?”
“Seshsetem!” Mehen hissed. “You forget yourself!”
“No, no. Let him speak.” Harnouphis waved a calming hand. “Continue, my young friend.”
Korax cleared his throat. Knock harder, the old man at the pool suggested. Tonight, he meant to force the door open if he could. “As your Excellency knows, I have been in your service for over four months. I believe I have met all my obligations as a scribe in the House of Records, and I know that the services I’ve rendered to you in this chamber have also been of value.”
“Go on,” Harnouphis said.
“I feel I have the talent to offer greater service, if given the opportunity. I have asked once before and now I ask again: I wish to be initiated into the House of Life.”
“Insufferable effrontery!” Mehen exclaimed.
Harnouphis ignored the chief scribe’s outburst and spoke with quiet authority: “You have asked before, and I have answered. Such a privilege will not even be considered until you have proven your worthiness through long and patient duty. Your bringing the matter up again so soon does you no credit.”
Korax kept his voice level. “I do not consider four months to be very soon.”
“Slave, you forget yourself!” Mehen cried.
Harnouphis glared at Korax. His tone was deathly calm. “That is not for you to decide.”
Korax set his shoulders into a posture of defiance and stared without flinching.
Harnouphis stared back, frowning. Abruptly, he gave a subtle smile. “I laud your determination and courage. But you must realize, our secret traditions are an ancient treasure of Egypt. They are almost never disclosed to foreigners.”
“I understand that.” Korax was ready for this objection. “But I am a servant in the Mansion of Ptah. And if your Excellency were to sponsor the request, I believe one of the rare exceptions could be made.”
Harnouphis appraised him, frowning once more. “Do you realize, Seshsetem, that before you can truly practice the sacred arts, you must master the old language? This typically takes many years of study. Your mind is quick, but I doubt you have the necessary patience.”
“Perhaps not, your Excellency. But as you say, I do have determination. If it takes me many years, then the sooner I can begin, the better.”
Harnouphis pondered for a moment more, then rose from his chair. He stirred a mixture of water and oil in the scrying bowl. “I understand your request is important to you, and I will think it over. To be frank, I may decide that it is not in the temple’s best interest or your own.” He set the bowl down in front of Korax. “I hope you will understand if that is my decision.”
Korax stared pointedly at the high priest. “As your servant, I will accept your decision, of course. Only, I worry that my disappointment might make it difficult for me to see accurate visions for you in the future.”
Korax heard a grunt of rage from Mehen, but his eyes stayed fixed on Harnouphis. The second servant glared at him for an instant, pure malice in his eyes. Quickly, Harnouphis concealed the emotion.
“You have made your point, young man.” His sudden smile was unnerving, reminding Korax of a serpent. “As I said, I shall consider your request again. Now, let us begin the scrying.”
* * * * *
Mehen returned to his quarters that night in a mood of black rancor. The audacity of this Greek jackal knew no bounds. For months, Mehen had watched the Greek’s star rise in the estimation of his master Harnouphis, had seen Harnouphis grow more and more dependent on the Greek’s ability as a seer. Mehen had despised Seshsetem from the start. This latest episode only proved his instincts correct.
Unlike most officials of his age and rank, Mehen still resided within the temple enclosure. As he had never married, he had seen no need to acquire a house in the city. Instead, he occupied several rooms in a residential precinct near the western wall. The simple apartment suited him well enough, and the proximity to the House of Records was an advantage. Mehen worked many hours in his capacity as chief scribe, not to mention long evenings of study in the House of Life. His diligence and dedication were impeccable, and esteemed by many.
Entering his foyer, Mehen removed his wig, sash, and collar and handed them to his manservant. He told the servant to extinguish the lamps in the outer chambers and then dismissed him for the night. Mehen took a candle and proceeded to the small room that served as his study.
The room was furnished with only a rack of scrolls, a straw mat, and a low table. On the table stood statuettes of Ptah and his consort, the Goddess Sekhet. Between them stood a wax figure, crudely carved—a man with the head of some indeterminate animal.
Mehen sat cross-legged on the mat. He lit a cake of charcoal from his candle and placed it in a clay censer. He added a lump of gummed incense, which fizzled and spawned a column of gray smoke. Mehen shut his eyes, took deep breaths, stilled his thoughts.
Presently, he started chanting in a quiet voice. “Aukert-khetet-ast. Aukert-khetet-ast. I call you now before me, creature of the desert pool. I, Mehen, know your true name. I command you to appear.”
Mehen had prepared and studied many years to attain the ability to call a magical ally. Even so, there were nights when the creature did not answer the summons, or when it seemed that the responses he gave were illusory, merely the voice of Mehen’s own thoughts.
Tonight, however, Aukert-khetet-ast spoke to him clearly, his utterance like the croaking of a frog.
“You are troubled tonight, O servant of Ptah.”
“Anger burns in me. My master Harnouphis is ready to allow the Greek slave to be initiated into our Mysteries.”
“That is peculiar. But it would seem to be Harnouphis’ decision. Why does it enrage you?”
“Because the slave is a contemptible foreigner. And because ... he has usurped my place of prominence in my master’s eyes. Harnouphis says he may turn down the request, but I know how much he depends on the unpurified one. He will lower himself, degrade our Mysteries even, because he sees advantage in using the Greek.”
“Then your anger is justified.”
“Yes. But Harnouphis is my master and mentor. And there seems to be no swaying him. That is why I called you. I want to know how you see the future of this matter. How high will this foreigner rise?”
Aukert-khetet-ast held silence for a time, then: “I see you are correct. The foreigner seeks to conceal his motives. He has no loyalty to Harnouphis or your god. He longs to return to his homeland, and will use any means to escape.”
“I knew as much. It is plain to see.”
“Still, I counsel you to patience, Mehen. A day will come when the foreigner overreaches.”
Chapter Thirteen
Stomach fluttering with anticipation, Korax approached the House of Life.
A portico of gray columns shaded the main doors, while hieroglyphs ran along an entablature beneath the til
e roof. He had never seen the east façade of the building. It stood in a precinct he never visited by day, and the area lay behind guarded gates, so his wanderings at night had also never brought him here.
Harnouphis walked beside him. Having agreed to request Korax’s initiation, the second servant now acted the part of benevolent sponsor.
“Remember to be open and honest in all your answers, Seshsetem. His Excellency Amasis will immediately perceive any attempted deception. I have spoken to him on your behalf, but of course the final decision must be his.”
They climbed five steps, crossed the portico and passed through the tall portal. Inside, they proceeded along a narrow, vaulted hallway. Doorways on either side led to broad chambers filled with daylight and lined with shelves. Korax glimpsed a few men reading scrolls or writing with reed pens on papyrus. Otherwise the libraries stood empty. Korax knew that most of the priests and acolytes who studied in the House of Life performed other duties during the day. In the evening these chambers would be more crowded.
At the end of the corridor they turned into a dark, cramped passageway. Harnouphis knocked on a door, and a voice called out permission to enter. Harnouphis ushered Korax into a pleasant office lit from an adjacent terrace. Beyond the terrace lay a lovely garden of ferns and oleander.
An old man, seated on a mat, rose as they entered the chamber. Korax’s stomach, already tense, twisted into a knot. He recognized the scrawny old man from the bathing pool. Harnouphis tapped his staff on the floor and gave a formal introduction.
“I present his Excellency Amasis, Hierogrammat, Supreme Scribe of the House of Life in the Mansion of Ptah. Your Excellency, this is Seshsetem, the young man I mentioned.”
“Ah, yes.” Amasis nodded pleasantly. “You seem somehow familiar, young man. Have we met before?”
Korax opened his mouth, hopelessly uncertain how to reply.
