by Jack Massa
After a time, they reached a third gate. It sparkled with silver encrusted with garnets and lapis. Its guardian had the head of a handsome young man and the body of a parrot.
“None may pass this gate who cannot tell my name.”
“Son of the Wise Ones is your name,” Amasis replied. “Proud Sphinx of the Desert is your name. I honor you, but we will pass on.”
The guardian cawed, spread his wings and flew away.
Amasis led Korax through the gate. “That can be the trickiest test of all, grandson. Mystery, knowledge, power, wisdom—all can tempt you from the path. Only by placing your devotion to Maat foremost can you be sure that your steps are righteous. Now follow, the rest of the passage is easy.”
A short walk brought them to a luminous hall. Hieroglyphs engraved in gold covered the pillars, walls, and ceiling. At the center of the hall stood a goddess with flaming wings, so beautiful that the sight of her squeezed Korax’s heart.
Isis.
“Go on,” Amasis said. “I need guide you no farther.”
Korax walked a few steps, his legs trembling.
“Come forward without fear, Korax of Rhodes.” The Lady’s voice was sweet as music. “For you have been justified.”
Meekly, Korax approached her, awe and thankfulness shivering through his spirit.
“You stand in the Hall of Coming to Wisdom,” she said. “It is the first hall of many. In time, you may advance to other halls beyond this one, which are presided over by other gods. But first you must learn the lessons of this hall, which are written on the walls and pillars all around you.”
Korax surveyed the glittering hieroglyphs that covered all the surfaces of the hall. How long must it take to learn so much wisdom?
The goddess held out her hand to him, beaming. “I welcome you to the Mazes of Magic, my brilliant child.”
Korax stepped forward and touched her hand. At once, he fell to his knees in adoration, then prostrated himself and set his forehead on the floor close to her feet. Perfect harmony and bliss suffused his whole being.
The world changed. Noise groaned over his head. Cool air rushed in. Hands moved around him, lifted him up. Dazed, he realized they were unwrapping the bandages.
Many voices chanted, their words now in the common tongue:
Awake! Awake!
Your trials have ended.
You rise like Ra in the morning.
Night flees before your flashing eye.
They lifted him out of the coffin and set his feet on the floor. Hands steadied him as the last of the wrappings were unwound.
Isis covers you with her wings.
Osiris walks beside you.
Horus now is your brother.
The Word of Ptah is on your lips.
The blindfold was pulled from his head. Amasis and Harnouphis flanked him, wearing broad smiles. They faced a bright hall full of initiates, now decked in white robes with white sashes.
“Scribes of the House of Life,” Amasis called. “Let us welcome our new brother, Seshsetem, to the Mazes of Magic, the paths of the sacred knowledge!”
The hall erupted in shouts and cheers. Looking down, Korax saw that his black tunic and sash had somehow changed to white.
Chapter Fifteen
Three days after his initiation, Korax was conducted back to the House of Life by Harnouphis. Over his white tunic, Korax wore a green sash he had been given at the end of his initiation rite—his badge of admission to the sacred scriptorium.
The high priest led him through the library rooms with their towering shelves of papyrus scrolls. Tall porticos admitted ample daylight. The warm, fresh air held the fragrance of garden blooms and traces of incense.
One library was set aside for medical texts, another for treatises on the construction and consecration of amulets. Several chambers stored invocations to the gods and various liturgies. Two rooms near the rear of the hallway held historical records—reaching back thousands of years according to Harnouphis.
“There are more libraries underground,” he said. “But this is as much as may be shown to a neophyte.”
He led Korax back to the first chamber and indicated some shelves close to the floor.
“These are your introductory lessons.” Harnouphis removed a sheet and showed it to Korax. “The papyrus presents the same text in three different forms. One is the common language that you already know. Above it is the older cursive form that we call the sacred script. Above that, the message is transcribed in hieroglyphic.”
Harnouphis rolled up the sheet and handed it to Korax. “You begin by copying each of these documents. Copy all three scripts in wax, at least seven times or until your hand is perfect. Only then should you venture to copy in ink. By repeated copying, you merge the activities of eye, hand, and mind. This is our time-honored method of learning the sacred language.”
Korax examined the three scripts on the page. “I can see how this practice will teach me the meaning of the words and symbols. But how will I learn to speak the words?”
Harnouphis grunted with amusement. “You will not need to speak the sacred tongue until you actually practice ritual. That comes later, much later.”
Concealing his disappointment, Korax quickly rolled up the papyrus.
Harnouphis was grinning. “Remember my admonishment to patience, Seshsetem. One does not learn the wisdom of the ages in a year, or even a decade. Now, so long as you satisfy your other obligations, you are free to come here and study whenever you wish, day or night. The House of Life is never locked, and the sentries will recognize your green sash. As for the spiritual exercises that Amasis mentioned, these are the same that I instructed Mehen to teach you and which you are already practicing. There is no need to alter the regimen at present. You look a bit crestfallen. I hope you are not disappointed by the reality of what you now face?”
Korax set his shoulders. “Not at all, Excellency. I am eager to begin my studies.”
* * * * *
Despite his professed enthusiasm, Korax admitted to himself that the task before him seemed overwhelming. How long would the gods require him to stay here and study? Years? Decades?
Worse, he soon found he had little time to devote to the House of Life. As the harvest season approached, his work in the House of Records took nearly all of his time. The daily trickle of inventories, reports, and letters swelled to a flood that Korax and his fellow scribes waded through from dawn to dusk. Many nights, the lamps burned late in the scriptorium as they struggled to keep afloat in the rivers of papyrus. Korax often returned to his room hours after sundown, too exhausted to even practice his mental exercises.
Those evenings when he did dredge up the stamina to visit the House of Life, he found the studies arduous. After reading and writing all day, his back ached and his hand was cramped from holding the pen. Copying the arcane texts was challenging enough, understanding them even more formidable. Without word-sounds to associate with the writing, his mind found it nearly impossible to memorize the symbols.
Korax had always prided himself on his intellect, but this study seemed a vast, intricate puzzle beyond his ability to solve. Still he pursued it doggedly, sitting on his straw mat in the library late into the night, until sleepiness forced him to retire. Often he would dream of the hieroglyphs—stick figures of birds, snakes, hands, eyes—perpetually wandering about, seeking to find their place in some abstruse pattern, but never quite succeeding.
* * * * *
An imposing council chamber of pink sandstone stood in an upper story of the temple complex. Beyond its outer terrace, blooming gardens cascaded down toward the distant, muddy waters of the Nile. Occasionally, the chirping of birds fluttered in from the gardens, punctuating the relentless drone of speeches.
The purpose of today’s assembly was to prepare for the annual Synod in Alexandria, when high priests from all the temples of Egypt paid homage to Pharaoh and reported on the conditions of their estates and cities. The Synod took place every year in the
months following the harvest.
Harnouphis sat on a padded bench, in one of several rows of benches occupied by his fellow priests, administrators, and clerks. Awaiting the time to give his report, he half-listened to what was said, half-observed the men around him.
The nine first servants of Ptah occupied thrones on a curved dais facing the benches. Judging from their faces, some of the first servants appeared to have trouble maintaining interest in the proceedings. This seemed particularly true of Neksapthis, the ancient supreme cleric. Occasionally he nodded off, only to waken with a start when his head slipped heavily out of his cupped hand. Of all the first servants, only Amasis seemed both alert and content. The master of the House of Life observed each speaker with his customary bright-eyed serenity.
Currently addressing the assembly was Paramses, the commander of the temple watch. Harnouphis viewed Paramses as a potential rival, so he attended keenly to what he said and how the council reacted. Paramses reported on the number of peasants who had fled from the fields during the growing season and sought sanctuary in the Mansion of Ptah. By ancient tradition, commoners who found their workloads too heavy or conditions too desperate sometimes went on strike and “ran away” to the temples. The Ptolemies had never been so brash as to revoke the Law of Sanctuary, but everyone worried that if conditions worsened past a certain point, the labor unrest could easily spread out of control.
When Paramses finished his report, Imouthes rose from his throne among the first servants. He was short, broad-shouldered and belligerent, Paramses’ immediate superior and in charge of all temple police, sentries, and doorkeepers. His title was First Warrior of the God.
“Brothers, Paramses’ report underscores my continuing concerns about the level of taxation. I have seen letters indicating the number of sanctuary seekers in other temples is even higher. I believe the time has come when we must take a firm stand. At this year’s Synod, we must not only insist that Pharaoh not increase quotas, but that he reduce our taxes.”
A grumbling of voices spread through the hall. Harnouphis scanned the first and second servants to note their reactions. He knew which high priests sympathized with Imouthes’ views, so he only checked for any changes in the usual factions.
Imouthes was a firebrand who favored militant tactics against the Greek rulers. Similar cadres of priests existed in the great temples of other cities, but their numbers usually stayed in the minority. At times they even advocated armed rebellion, though Imouthes’ bluster had never gone so far. Harnouphis considered Imouthes like the lion of the male sex—more prone to roaring than to actual violence.
Shepseskaf, chief treasurer and Harnouphis’ superior, raised two hands to quiet the assembly. “Brothers, brothers. All of us would wish our taxes reduced. But the number of sanctuary seekers is not really high when compared to historical standards. And preliminary reports on this year’s harvest are most encouraging. There should be plenty of grain for Pharaoh, the Mansion of Ptah, and the peasants themselves.”
A slight frown tugged at Harnouphis’ mouth. Typical of Shepseskaf to upstage his delivery of the favorable inventory reports.
“The Synod will set the quotas for next year’s harvest,” Imouthes reminded everyone. “We cannot always count on years of bounty!”
Another round of muttering ensued.
Surprisingly, the Sem-priest Neksapthis spoke up in his cackling voice. “Brother Imouthes raises a valid concern. Every year’s inundation is not the same. And we have also heard rumors that the sacred Bull Apis is refusing his feed. This might portend an unfavorable harvest.”
Harnouphis’ eyebrows perked up. This was the first he had heard of the sacred bull’s lackluster appetite.
All heads turned to first servant Peherenptah, whose role as chief steward placed him in charge of the Apis Bull. The gregarious Peherenptah stood with a reassuring gesture.
“The god in his incarnation of Apis is well and content, I promise you. It is true he acted listless for a few days, but after his feed was changed to different stocks of emmer and barley, his ka returned to its usual robust vigor.”
His easy chuckle found echoes across the council. But Harnouphis scrutinized the chief steward, trying to decide if the man concealed a deeper concern. Sickness of the Apis Bull would cause anxiety among the populace, and might signal trouble for Peherenptah and his circle. As Harnouphis was called to give his report, he made a mental note to go himself and visit the sacred bull.
* * * * *
The work at the House of Records had finally leveled off. Still, much remained to accomplish before Harnouphis and the other priests departed for Alexandria. So Korax was surprised when, in the middle of the afternoon, Mehen informed him that they must accompany his Excellency on an errand outside the temple walls. The surprise increased when Korax learned that the errand was simply to visit and observe the Apis Bull.
The sacred bull occupied his own small temple opposite the main gates of the Mansion of Ptah. The temple enclosed a shrine for offerings, luxurious stables for the bull and his consorts, and a fenced yard where Apis took his daily exercise.
A chattering throng of spectators filled the tiered benches overlooking the yard. Most of them were Egyptians, but Korax also noticed groups of men, women, and children in Greek dress—tourists from the new Greek cities of Egypt. He had seen almost no Greeks for many months, and he gazed at the tourists with an uncomfortable surge of feelings. Their apparel and postures seemed alien, yet painfully familiar. He pondered how much he had changed in less than a year. How much of Korax was still Greek, how much now Egyptian?
“Observe the sacred bull,” Harnouphis commanded. “His movements are supposed to forecast the future. Tell me what impressions you receive.”
Korax stared as the great black beast entered the yard. Sluggishly, the bull ambled a few steps then stopped, looked up at the crowd and lowed mournfully.
“He does not like so many watching him,” Korax muttered. “He feels his privacy invaded, especially by the Greeks.”
“That’s not likely to change,” Harnouphis remarked dryly. “The temple charges each citizen a silver drachma to pay homage to the god. Apis brings in valuable revenue.”
“What about the future?” Mehen asked. “Does he express an opinion regarding the inundation?”
The bull padded over to the trough and drank lazily.
“The floods will come,” Korax said, staring into the distance. “But not so high as last year.”
“Will they be sufficient to nourish the land?” Mehen demanded.
Korax shook his head. “Doubtful. The god senses a presence rising, new in this time, but ancient. It spells danger for the land.”
His link with the bull faded. Korax blinked, turned to glance at the two priests.
Mehen’s face was pale with worry but, to Korax’s surprise, Harnouphis wore a placid, thoughtful expression.
“Times of danger may bring opportunity,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
When the last reports of the harvest had been tallied and reviewed, the documents stored away, and copies packed in satchels for the trip to Alexandria, Harnouphis announced a celebration. All the scribes of the House of Records and their families were invited.
The banquet was served in a courtyard built around tiled pools. Colored lanterns illuminated the cool twilight and cast shimmering reflections in the water. Low tables brimmed with roasted meats, salads, fruits, breads, and cakes. Dark beer flowed freely. In a corner of the yard, a trio of musicians played quiet tunes on harp, pipes, and rectangular tambourine.
Korax dined with Katep and his family. They conversed with the easy conviviality of old friends, and reflected on how glad they all were that the season of intense labor had ended. Katep would be spending more time at home now, and his wife and children were obviously pleased. Beneath his fringed wig, Katep looked very tired.
The family left soon after dinner, claiming it was the children who needed to go to bed. Korax glanced
around to see that all of the families with children and many of the married couples were also departing.
But the banquet did not end. Instead the musicians relocated to the center of the courtyard. A group of singers joined them, pretty young women in diaphanous gowns and glittering, beaded girdles. They pounded tambourines, swayed their hips, and sang a lively song about drinking and pleasure. In the midst of the song, dancers ran out from the gallery, lithe girls with flowing black hair. They posed and twirled, nude beneath short tunics of gilded netting. The scribes who remained at the banquet laughed and cheered. Korax reclined on a cushion and picked up his tumbler of beer.
While he watched the dancers, Harnouphis and Mehen approached him. The high priest and chief scribe were making the rounds in their role as hosts of the banquet.
“We are glad to see you enjoying yourself, Seshsetem.” Harnouphis sat down rather heavily.
Korax nodded respectfully to Harnouphis and to Mehen, who knelt nearby. He noted with surprise that the high priest appeared a little drunk.
“You know, you have done excellent work for us this season,” Harnouphis said. “It has not gone unnoticed. And now here you are, an initiate of the House of Life. We are all very proud.”
“Thank you, your Excellency.”
“I’ve been thinking about you, Seshsetem. I realized the other day that you are still living in some tiny room in the slaves’ quarters. That is not appropriate for a scribe of the House of Life. Mehen, we must find more appropriate lodgings for him.”
Mehen showed a rare, cordial smile. “There are empty rooms in the apartment block I occupy. I will speak to the steward in charge.”
“Good. Good,” Harnouphis said. “It is important that we keep Seshsetem happy. Is there anything else you are lacking, my young friend?”
Korax shrugged, disarmed by the unexpected solicitude. A pretty dancer skipped past, and his head swung to follow her.
