The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1)

by Jack Massa

  “Ah ha!” Harnouphis laughed. “I just thought of something else ... Let us discuss some subtleties of our theology, Seshsetem. The priests of Amun, in the great city of Waset, believe that their god created the Universe by an act of divine masturbation. As you know, we clerics of Mem-Nephir maintain on the contrary that our god Ptah created the Universe by speaking the Great Word. Now I ask you, which story is more dignified?”

  Korax held his tongue, baffled as to where this was leading.

  “In any case, unlike our colleagues to the south, we of the Mansion of Ptah do not place any particular value on masturbation. Nor do we consider celibacy a prerequisite to holiness, except of course on days when we actually do ritual in the temple. On the contrary, we regard a moderate amount of contact with women to be healthy and useful in balancing ourselves. Now, in light of all this, are there any of these young entertainers that you find especially appealing?”

  Korax took a gulp of beer. “I find all of them especially appealing, Excellency.”

  Harnouphis snickered. “How about that little dancer over there? The one with the turquoise veil.”

  “Very limber,” Korax declared, studying the curve of her spine as she moved.

  “Ha-ha.” Harnouphis clapped him on the back and rose unsteadily. “I’m glad to see you have a healthy interest! Enjoy your evening now.”

  Harnouphis and Mehen walked off to continue their rounds. Korax leaned back on the cushion, smiling and shaking his head. He sipped his beer and watched the dancers sway and cavort amid the colored lights.

  After a while, despite the pleasant stimulation, his head grew heavy with fatigue. Regretfully, Korax decided he had best go home to bed. He left the courtyard of the pools and made his way across the gardens toward his quarters. A swelling moon hung bright and fair in the clear desert sky. Reaching the barracks, he shuffled down the dark hallway to his room.

  He had just taken off his sandals and stretched out on the bed when a knock sounded. He opened the door to find the pretty dancing girl. Her turquoise veil was draped over her thick hair and fell down past her waist. It half-concealed, half-accentuated her delightful figure.

  She tilted her head and smiled beguilingly. “You are the scribe Seshsetem?”

  “Yes,” Korax replied, rather stupidly he thought.

  “My name is Itaji. May I come in?”

  Korax opened the door wider. She stepped lightly into the room, a rustling of beads and fabric, a whirl of perfume. She lifted a green faience bottle in her delicate hand.

  “His Excellency Harnouphis instructed me to deliver this flask of wine. He said you are a Greek and wine is the favored drink among your people.”

  “Thank you,” Korax said. “His Excellency is extremely generous. Perhaps you will stay and share a drink with me?”

  Her smile widened. “All right.”

  Korax found his only cup, filled it for her and took the bottle for himself.

  Itaji sipped the wine, staring avidly into his eyes. She stood only as tall as his chest, her eyelids painted turquoise, her cheeks brushed with rouge. She had removed her veil and Korax gazed at her breasts under the gold mesh, the dark nipples rising with her breathing.

  “Delicious,” she said. “I seldom have the opportunity to taste wine. I don’t really care for beer, you know. Besides, as a dancer, I must watch my figure.”

  She pivoted and stepped across the room, walking on the balls of her feet like a cat. Standing beside the bed, she set down the cup and twirled to face him.

  “His Excellency also instructed me to provide you with private entertainment ... of whatever sort you desire. That is, if you find the idea appealing.”

  Korax moved close, stared down into her lovely face. “I do not know enough Egyptian to express just how appealing I find that idea.”

  Itaji giggled and pressed herself into his arms. Their mouths met in an ardent kiss. Boldly, she untied his sash and pulled the tunic over his head.

  “Ah!” she cried. “So it is true! I’ve been told that Greeks have an extra skin, but I never believed it.”

  Korax grinned at her amazement. To his Greek mind the Egyptian custom of circumcision seemed as bizarre and barbaric as his unclipped manhood must seem to her.

  Itaji touched his rigid member hesitantly, a look of fascination on her face.

  “The extra skin is harmless,” Korax laughed. “I promise you, I function exactly the same as an Egyptian man.”

  A mischievous grin flashed across her mouth. “I will judge that! I will let you know my decision later.”

  * * * * *

  Korax sat on a broad balustrade outside one of the libraries of the House of Life. By the light of a rising moon and a lamp flickering near his feet, he read the text of his lesson.

  The vizier Ptahhotpe says to Pharaoh, sovereign, my lord, decrepitude has come; old age has descended; feebleness has arrived; dotage has appeared. I lie in a second childhood; my eyes are feeble; my ears are deaf; my heart is tired; my tongue cannot speak; my lips drool ...

  Korax lowered the papyrus with a sigh. Sometimes the only thing more tedious than copying these texts was the texts themselves.

  More than a month had passed since Harnouphis departed for the Synod. At first, Korax had wondered if, being a native Greek speaker, he might be assigned to accompany the delegation to Alexandria. But if Harnouphis had even considered this idea, he had obviously rejected it. Perhaps he feared that the sometimes willful Seshsetem might seize the opportunity to escape captivity by slipping away into the crowded Greek capital. Korax had to admit, the notion had occurred to him.

  Mehen had not made the trip this year. Instead, Harnouphis had left the chief scribe in charge of the House of Records. Among his duties, Mehen was supposed to continue mentoring Korax. But the ungenerous Mehen had proven even less helpful than Harnouphis. All he did was check Korax’s copies occasionally, then order him to keep working.

  Dolefully, Korax gazed across the moonlit garden. On the other hand, Mehen had kept the promise about finding Korax better housing. The Greek now occupied two well-appointed rooms. The apartment even had a small terrace with potted palms and a woven chair. A manservant came every few days to sweep the floors, change sheets, and oil the lamps. Of more importance to Korax, the delightful Itaji continued to visit him every few nights. Well-rested, well-fed, well-caressed by the beguiling dancer, Korax fretted that he might succumb to the ease of his life here, lose his ambition to escape.

  “Grandson, I thought that must be you. No Egyptian would sit with his legs draped so casually over the rail.”

  Korax jumped from his perch and bowed to Amasis, the master of the House of Life. “Good evening, your Excellency.”

  “And how are your studies progressing?”

  Korax glanced unhappily at the papyrus in his hand. “Truthfully, not so well as I would wish. I consider myself highly intelligent, but I’m beginning to fear these studies might be beyond my capacity.”

  “Ha! Perhaps your Greek intelligence does not mesh well with our Egyptian knowledge?”

  “Perhaps.”

  His downcast aspect brought a look of sympathy from Amasis. “Let me see what you are reading.”

  Korax handed him the sheet.

  “Ah, yes. The sorry laments of Vizier Ptahhotpe. I promise you, grandson, the more advanced lessons are not so uninteresting.”

  “I only hope I may someday read them.”

  “Hmm. Is it the cursive or the hieroglyphic that cause you such perplexity?”

  “It is both,” Korax answered hopelessly. “I learned your common Egyptian quickly enough. But each day the scribes worked with me and taught me the sounds of the speech. Without sounds to match with the writing, memorizing the words is very difficult.”

  “The phonetic tablets are not helpful?”

  Korax looked at him blankly. “What are those?”

  Amasis brow flicked upward, and he stared for moment. “You mean Harnouphis only gave you the lessons and not
the phonetic tablets? I see. Follow me, Korax. Bring your lamp.”

  Amasis strode down the portico, Korax hastening behind. They passed the portals of other libraries, then stepped into the hierogrammat’s office. The room was cluttered with documents of every size and description. While Korax held the lamp, the old man shuffled through pages on one of the many floor-to-ceiling shelf cases.

  “I’m sure I have them somewhere,” Amasis muttered. “Yes, here.”

  He handed Korax a set of papyruses. Each page had three columns: hieroglyphs, the corresponding letters in the sacred cursive, and a syllable or two written in the common script.

  “You see how it works,” Amasis commented. “These sounds are the same for the sacred script and the corresponding glyph. You study these tables repeatedly and refer to them when you read the lessons. Pretty soon, you will be able to speak the words of the old language. Then I suspect the learning will come easier.”

  Korax scanned the pages with amazement. This was exactly the key he had been lacking.

  “I don’t know why Harnouphis failed to give you these tablets,” Amasis remarked. “Each teacher has his own methods, and perhaps I am wrong to interfere. But your master has so many obligations, I am sure the matter simply slipped his mind. Still, it would be wrong to embarrass him by pointing out his omission. I think it best that we never mention to him that I gave you these. Instead, you can happily surprise your mentor with the accelerated pace of your learning.”

  He ended with a pointed, cheerful expression.

  Korax regarded him levelly. “I understand you perfectly. Your Excellency honors me with your generous interest.”

  “Not at all,” Amasis said. “A man must look after his grandchildren. Ha-ha!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  With the aid of the phonetic tablets, Korax soon learned the sounds associated with both the sacred cursive writing and the hieroglyphs. At last, the magical language had acquired a voice, a voice capable of teaching him.

  Within a month, Korax had finished copying all of the introductory lessons. But when Mehen came to check on his studies, Korax warily showed him only a portion of his finished work. Since his masters were obviously contriving to thwart his progress, Korax considered it prudent not to exceed their expectations.

  Instead, he worked through the assigned lessons rapidly, then used his extra time to range through the libraries, searching out additional texts. From subtle questioning of other neophytes, he pieced together a map of the established course of study. Generally, he followed this age-old curriculum. But he also leaped ahead at times, tracking a hint or reference in a basic text to a concept’s culmination in a more advanced book.

  Gradually, the flower of the secret knowledge unfolded to his mind. He learned of the Great Word of Ptah that had rushed forth at the moment of creation to establish the framework of the Universe; how the Great Word had divided into the distinct syllables of the sacred language—sounds that abided through eternity and formed the vibrational underpinnings of existence. At the same time, the Great Word was comprehended as light, the pure, dazzling radiance of the sun. Fractured by the will of the Supreme Artisan, the light formed all the myriad phenomena visible to man. It was this same divine light that Korax visualized each morning and evening in his mental exercises. Now he realized the true purpose of those practices. Gradually, they drew the light down into the initiate’s body, attuned the light to his mind. Eventually, an adept became capable of wielding the light, shaping it to his will. Thus a magician could shape events, could share in the work of the Supreme Artisan, the ongoing creation of the visible world.

  Immersed in these profound concepts, Korax hardly noticed the passage of time. He was surprised one day in the Hall of Records when Mehen announced that news had arrived from downriver. The Synod had ended, and their master Harnouphis would soon return. The disclosure sparked a realization in Korax and a mood of bleak despair.

  He had been a slave in the temple of Ptah an entire year.

  * * * * *

  “What troubles you, Seshsetem?” Itaji asked him that evening, as she lay curled in his arms after lovemaking.

  “My excruciating lack of progress,” he grumbled. “I’ve studied for over eight months in the House of Life, yet my goals appear farther away than ever.”

  “Oh? What are these goals that frustrate you so?”

  His mouth twitched. He could hardly disclose to her that he hoped to master enough magic to escape his enslavement. Besides, the notion had come to seem almost preposterous. “You would not understand.”

  Her finger caressed his cheek. “I would be very glad to try.”

  His head shook, mouth tight. Why was he even trying to learn?

  Because the Mysteries intrigued him. And because of that promise from the goddess, and the thrill of magical energy it had sparked in his soul. But all of that now seemed distant, baffling. He could see why they called these studies the Mazes of Magic. He was wandering, blind and confused.

  With a sigh Itaji rose, stretched her nude body. “Don’t I still please you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She was an exquisite mistress, to be sure. With her strong, supple body, she had introduced him to erotic practices he would never have imagined. Of course, as a professional, she bedded him for payment. A free scribe, drawing a salary, would probably have married by now, or at least found a concubine of his own. As a slave, Korax had to rely on the generosity of his master to finance his enjoyment of the dancer’s attentions. Fortunately, Harnouphis still prized Korax’s talents and wished to keep him satisfied. Sometimes Korax felt like a sacred beast—pampered with luxuries and used for other men’s rituals.

  The dancer dropped her arms to her side. Her voice was petulant. “Do you know what I think? If you keep on this way you will turn into a dried-up old mummy, like so many of the priests in this temple.” She picked up her gown from the foot of the bed. “You should enjoy the pleasures of life and leave the great problems to the gods. That is the teaching of the goddess I serve—Hathor, the beautiful Lady of Love.”

  Korax looked up with sudden interest. “Do you also worship Isis?”

  Halfway into her gown, Itaji shrugged. “Of course. Everyone worships Isis. She is the queen of heaven.”

  “I know,” Korax muttered. “I once believed that she had spoken to me, pointed me to the path of the Mysteries. But it’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice or felt her presence. She has a chapel in the House of Life, and I visit her there sometimes. But she never speaks to me.”

  Smoothing her dress, Itaji glanced around. “You need to pray and make offerings to her daily. Set up a shrine here in your apartment.”

  Korax considered the thought. “I would need a statue or wax figure.”

  “Oh, I will bring you one from the marketplace.” She reached for her girdle. “I will bring you a figure of Lady Hathor too. You would benefit from her presence in this dreary room.”

  Korax smiled as he watched her dress. She was a sweet mistress, to be sure. When she had strapped on her sandals, she pranced over and pecked him on the lips.

  “Now try to be cheerful, Seshsetem. I will see you again in three nights.”

  * * * * *

  When she had gone, Korax put his hands behind the headrest of his bed and glanced down at himself pensively. The sight made him wince. Long gone was the sleek-muscled body he had acquired on the exercise fields of Rhodos and at the oarsman’s bench that summer in the navy. Instead, his limbs were spindly, his belly round and fat from drinking beer.

  Korax the Greek was vanishing before his eyes.

  Morosely, he stood and found his clothes. He put on a tunic and sandals and tied on the green sash, intending to go to the House of Life.

  But after crossing the courtyard outside the apartment, his feet took him another way. The sun had set, the cloudless sky dimming from blue to gray, the first stars twinkling. He wandered past rows of granaries and store houses.

&nbs
p; Korax the Greek was fading away. Although he clung stubbornly to his memories of life in Rhodes, he still couldn’t recall how he had come to Egypt. Mostly, the time after his grievous injury was a blank. A few visions had come in his dreams, but they were fragmented and baffling. In one, he leaned on the rail of a sailing vessel, staring at the sea, hearing in his delirious mind the calls of dolphins or birds—or were they sirens? In another, he sat in a dim feast hall, surrounded by rough, bearded men and dark-eyed women .They wore the black garb of Cretans. It made sense that if Korax had been on a ship, it might have been taken by Cretan pirates, and he kept prisoner while they waited for ransom. But if that were the case, why had the ransom not been paid? Why had he been sold into slavery? In that dream, he had been playing an old tortoise shell lyre and reciting verses from the Odyssey. Homer’s great hero was forced to wander ten years before reaching his home. Would Korax’s exile last so long? Would he ever return to Rhodes?

  Lost in these gloomy thoughts, he approached an auxiliary gate in the western wall. Though still a slave, Korax had learned that the initiate’s green sash allowed him to pass most guard posts without challenge. Outside the gate, he wandered along the base of the white walls that enclosed the temple complex. He arrived at the grand avenue of sphinxes and turned toward the river.

  An entire year since he first walked this way. Eight months since entering the House of Life. His mind roamed back to the sacred knowledge, dizzying in its immensity.

  One book described Four Phases of Creation, each a distinct manifestation of the Great Word. Each constituted a world in its own right and was symbolized by one of four principles: Earth, Air, Water, Fire. Each of these worlds possessed its own vast array of rulers, spirits, forces, daemons. More: within the sphere of each world dwelled seven powers, akin to the seven planets of the night sky. Each of the powers had an associated metal, stone, plant, animal, color, fragrance, musical note, number, and hour of the day. In his art, the magician used those attributes to invoke a particular power. Powers could be raised by mental visioning, by chants and incantations, by intricate sigils written on papyrus or traced in the air.