The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1)

by Jack Massa

  Always there was more to study, whole rooms of scrolls, whole subjects scarcely touched: the five components of the human soul; astrology and the casting of horoscopes; the magic of herbs and the mixing of medicines, drugs, and potions; geometry and the sacred architecture; the construction of talismans and amulets and the spells to bind them with power. The priests of Egypt maintained that it took years to learn the beginnings of their sacred wisdom, many lifetimes to master it all.

  Despondent, Korax had to admit that estimate seemed more and more accurate. He viewed himself as a man climbing an endless spiral stair, its summit forever hidden in cloud.

  Or simply a fool lost in a labyrinth.

  His steps had brought him to the river. The Nile was in flood stage, the people of Memphis watching anxiously to see how high it would rise—if the inundation would be sufficient to ensure an adequate harvest next year. Korax recalled that concern being raised in his examination of the Apis Bull.

  Now, as he watched the dark, rushing waters, another memory came to him—the story told by Hetepher, Katep’s wife. Her brother, an initiate in the House of Life, had drowned in the Nile. Perhaps, Korax thought, the man’s death was not due to an accident or to evil magic. Perhaps the poor scribe had simply been driven mad by confusion and frustration, wandering the Mazes of Magic.

  Contemplating that gloomy idea, Korax the slave, Seshsetem the scribe, stood beside the river as the last daylight disappeared.

  Chapter Eighteen

  From the center of the council chamber, Harnouphis gravely scanned the faces of the first servants on their thrones. The council knew already that the Synod had not gone well. Chief Treasurer Shepseskaf, with his usual oily shrewdness, had left Harnouphis the unhappy task of delivering the details.

  “The negotiations proved unfortunate for all the servants of our gods this year,” Harnouphis began tentatively. “Pharaoh’s government plans major new expenditures ...”

  “We don’t need to hear about his library and pleasure fleet,” First Warrior Imouthes interrupted from the dais. “Just tell us how much more we’ll have to pay.”

  Mutterings spread through the ranks of the second and third servants. As ever, the militant Imouthes sought to exploit the taxation issue to stir up resentment against the Greeks. On this occasion, his task would not be difficult.

  “Very well.” Harnouphis read from the summary in his hand. “The quota of barley is increased by one twentieth, the quota of wheat is increased by one tenth. The temple’s obligation to plant oil-bearing crops increases as follows: linseed, two thousand hectares; sesame, fifteen hundred hectares ...”

  The grumbling swelled as Harnouphis continued down the list. It burst into an uproar when he announced the new taxes imposed on woven linen and papyrus sheet.

  “Insufferable!” Imouthes shouted above the din. “We barely met our quotas last time, and all the signs forecast a lower flood this year. This Greek king will drive our god to destitution!”

  Neksapthis, the old Sem-priest, raised a trembling hand to quiet the chamber. “This is ill news indeed, Brother Harnouphis. Is there nothing we can do to alleviate these terrible burdens?”

  Harnouphis closed his lips over clenched teeth. As in previous years, his superior Shepseskaf had avoided the Synod, leaving the burden of negotiations to Harnouphis. The meetings had gone sour, through no fault of his own. Now the blame clung to him like a stench.

  “As I started to say, Pharaoh’s ministers were adamant that they must have more production. The king’s military campaigns are costly. There is talk of building huge new war galleys. Believe me, the other temples suffer as much as we, or worse.”

  “Small comfort!” Imouthes yelled, leaping to his feet. “I say this weak-kneed pandering to Pharaoh must end.”

  Harnouphis repressed a shiver of rage, stung by the remark but lacking any useful response.

  “And what do you suggest?” Shepseskaf demanded.

  Imouthes paced along the dais. “I suggest we take a more forceful stand. I am reminded of a story from the 13th Dynasty. In a year of particularly onerous taxes, it is said that fire destroyed a third of the granaries of Mem-Nephir. But it was straw, not grain that burned. The clever priests of that day had hidden the grain in the temple cellars. That year, the servants of Ptah feasted well while Pharaoh’s minions had to make do with less.”

  Slouching on his throne, Shepseskaf replied with acid irony: “So your solution is to hide Pharaoh’s grain and burn our barns? And when word of this petty deception reaches Ptolemy’s ear, I am sure you will negotiate forcefully with his Macedonian phalanxes.”

  “The tale is meant as an illustration,” Imouthes shouted over the spurts of bitter laughter. “But I do contend that we must look for bold and creative solutions to our dilemma.”

  “My brothers, if I may be permitted to speak.”

  Harnouphis pivoted to see Paramses rise from a seat among the second servants.

  “My family has a long history of dealing with greedy Pharaohs. I believe there are subtleties and tactics that we have forgotten in our present day.” The agile Paramses strolled gracefully across the floor till he stood in front of Harnouphis. “We’ve spoken in the past about the issue of asylum seekers. But I believe this is a problem we can turn to our advantage. Instead of discouraging peasants who seek sanctuary, we should welcome them, and quietly encourage others in the fields to join them. Soon, few farmers will be left to harvest Pharaoh’s crops. Then we will have some leverage for negotiating. We can offer to send the peasants back to the fields as soon as Pharaoh lowers the quotas.”

  A babble of voices followed this speech, with many of the first servants reacting and trying to be heard. Finally, Neksapthis, waving both his hands, succeeded in quieting the assembly.

  The Sem-priest turned to Amasis, who till now had said nothing. “My brother hierogrammat, what is your view of this idea from Paramses?”

  Amasis answered mildly: “I am certainly in favor of creative solutions—provided they are realistically thought through. I suggest we encourage Brother Paramses to develop his plan, and ask all other council members who are so inclined to do likewise. Let proposals be written in detail, with foreseeable contingencies and ramifications. Then let the Inner Circle discuss these proposals and decide on a course of action.”

  * * * * *

  As soon as the council ended, Harnouphis left the temple enclosure. Resentment smoldering in his heart, he marched through the city gates and along the quays that lined the river.

  In the cooling of late afternoon, dockworkers unloaded cargo; women carried bundles from the market stalls; children played on the pavement. All noticed the angry, storming walk of the high priest of Ptah and hurried out of his way.

  Jackals and worms, Harnouphis thought. To have served the temple so long and well as he had done, and now to be so carelessly humiliated. Were it in his power at that moment, he would have every member of the council put to the torture.

  He wandered beyond the warehouses and stone piers, into an impoverished warren built along the riverbank. Mud-brick hovels clustered at the base of the city walls, the homes of poor laborers and fisherman. Harnouphis had risen from just such contemptible conditions, risen to the rank of second servant of one of the greatest temples of Egypt. Now, all he had achieved seemed threatened, all his further ambitions a heap of ashes.

  Wincing, Harnouphis forced himself to reason, to consider his plight with detachment. In the game of pharaohs and wizards, Harnouphis considered himself a serpent. Appropriately, his magical ally was Nebt-het, a cobra spirit. Yes, Harnouphis decided, he must consult Nebt-het.

  The high priest stopped in his tracks and stood perfectly still. An adept of his attainment could summon an ally simply by willing it. With slow breathing he quelled his mind, then called the spirit to him.

  “O Hooded One,” he uttered softly, “I, Harnouphis, know your true name and call you now.”

  A voice whispered inside his skull: “I am here
at your bidding, O priest.”

  Harnouphis opened his eyes and walked again, treading carefully on the slippery mud. “As you can see, Nebt-het, I am filled with vexation and despair.”

  “You have been attacked. When attacked there are only two choices: slither away, or strike and kill.”

  True, Harnouphis thought. Perhaps he had bided his time for too long. Perhaps he needed to attack his rivals. But where and how were they vulnerable?

  “I have studied and worked many years to gain power. When the Greek scribe came into my possession, I sensed him to be a key. I have used him to foresee events. I have used his openness to travel the mazes of the gods, to enter their sanctuaries and absorb a portion of their power. I believed myself to be gaining potency and stature. But now this disaster has struck, and all my hopes seem threatened.”

  “Perhaps the time has come to choose a new ally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have grown in power, Harnouphis. Your sojourns to the secret houses of the gods have not gone unnoticed. There is another, far greater than I, who would be your ally, if you desire it.”

  Harnouphis ceased walking and spoke aloud. “Really? Who is this one?”

  In the moment he awaited an answer, a commotion on the shoreline drew his attention. Young boys rushed from the water, shouting in alarm. A woman shrieked, dashed to the river’s edge to snatch up a baby, then carried it running to higher ground. Peering through the dusk, Harnouphis spied the cause of the disturbance. The dark form of a crocodile slithered through the current.

  Harnouphis jerked himself erect, thunderstruck. What better ally to strike down his enemies than the terrible Lord of the Abyss? Had such a lucky twist of the game truly come his way?

  And would he dare to grasp it?

  Chapter Nineteen

  White smoke drifted up from the incense burner, misty veils surrounding the statuette. The painted figure of Isis, with wings of gold, stood on the shelf in Korax’s room. He bowed his head and prayed the words Itaji had taught him.

  O Holy One of Heaven

  Rose of the Desert

  Moonlight on the Nile

  Savior from the Scorpion

  Mother and Queen:

  Accept my offering

  Hear my prayer.

  As he had for many nights, he implored her to speak to him, to guide him, to relieve his suffering, to help him find his way. Eyelids resting closed, he listened for a time, hoping to hear her voice.

  Only silence.

  Wearily, he extinguished his lamp and lay down to sleep.

  She came to him in a dream. He walked through the sacred hall, where he had last seen her, at the culmination of the initiation rite. All around him, hieroglyphs gleamed, pulsing and shifting on the walls and pillars. Isis gazed down at him—still, remote, gentle.

  “What would you ask of me, child?”

  His voice was a hoarse whisper. “O Goddess, I am so lost. I have tried to follow the path that you—that I believed you set before me. But there is so much to understand, and the learning takes so long.”

  “The path of magic requires both dedication and patience. You have studied for less than a year.”

  “I know. I am impatient and rash. But I long for my home, for the man I was—or believe I was.”

  She peered down at him for a long moment. “I am called Savior from the Scorpion because I draw out poison. When you invoked divine power for cruel and selfish ends, you poisoned yourself. Your suffering now is the drawing out of that venom. It must continue, if you are to be cured.”

  Korax lowered his head in remorse. He could not deny the truth of her words, however painful. But how long must the suffering continue? Did he dare to even ask?

  “There is more,” Isis said, eyes unfocused now like a seer. “The forces of chaos and law struggle eternally in all the worlds. We gods are mighty, but we can only act in your world through mortal vessels. I see a time of testing before you. You will be called to serve as vessel to powers both good and evil. Then, you must hold with all your strength to Maat. Fail, and you will be lost. But if you succeed, you may not only expiate your past errors, but gain the power to shape your life as you wish.”

  Her hand moved at her side, and Korax saw that she held a scroll. The dream shifted, and he was tilting forward, about to fall.

  His eyes popped open. He sat up, instantly alert.

  The power of her magic flowed through him—sweet, effortless, mighty, like the endless flow of the river.

  * * * * *

  A tiered game-board of painted cedarwood rested on the ebony table in Harnouphis’ study. Korax examined the board curiously. He had frequently observed his fellow scribes playing the game they called sennet, but the board for that game was simpler. This board comprised four levels of nine-by-nine squares, supported by pillars in the form of miniature lotus columns. Tiny statuettes stood on many of the squares. Wax figures on the lowest levels appeared to represent men, while figures of wood and ivory on the three upper tiers bore the forms of animals or gods.

  “We are going to play a little game this evening,” Harnouphis said with his benign smile. “Please be seated.”

  Korax sat on a stool before the game-board. Attempting to guess the purpose of the elaborate setup, he glanced at Mehen who occupied a nearby chair. But the chief scribe’s stolid expression betrayed no hint.

  Harnouphis pushed a candle in front of Korax. “Gaze at the flame and relax yourself.”

  Though uneasy, Korax obeyed. Harnouphis sang a muted chant, and soon his rhythmic voice sounded far away. Korax drifted into a vision.

  His mind fluttered like a moth among towering statues, granite images of men and of strange, misshapen beings. His vision darted upward, looping to another level, then another. Here the light shone brighter, like the sheen of sunlight on high gray clouds. Korax flew among statues of gods and goddesses, some of whom he recognized, others not. There stood Anubis with his jackal face and gleaming eyes, there Sekhet the tawny lioness, there ibis-headed Thoth.

  The flight of his vision looped again. He approached a being he did not know. This one had the tall, broad-shouldered body of a god, but its black head was a bizarre amalgam of beasts—a long pointed snout, tall square-cropped ears, the slitted eyes of a serpent. In aspect, this god felt archaic, mysterious, dreadful. The moth-Korax swooped in and settled on this dark god’s shoulder.

  A pain burst in the palm of his hand. His brain writhed in a welter for several moments. Then Korax awoke, staring down at a tiny puncture wound in his palm. Startled, he looked at the game-board. On the top-level stood a figure like the god of his vision, a droplet of blood staining its black head.

  “You’ve played our little game very well.” Harnouphis chuckled with approval.

  The high priest handed him a tumbler of wine. Korax didn’t bother asking the meaning of the vision. He knew Harnouphis would not disclose any pertinent answers. Feeling slightly sick, Korax put down the wine and asked permission to retire.

  * * * * *

  When the Greek scribe had departed, Harnouphis reverently picked up the bloodied game-piece.

  “There can be no doubt,” he murmured.

  “It might have been a trick,” Mehen ventured. “The Greek is deceitful. Perhaps he was not in trance at all and knew which piece he selected.”

  Harnouphis shook his head with flat certainty. “No, Mehen. I realize our young scribe is crafty. He pushes his studies far beyond what he wishes me to know. But I assure you, he was truly in trance. Besides, what I did not tell you earlier is that this,” he lifted the tiny god, “only confirms my own vision.”

  Mehen’s lips quivered. “You mean, your Excellency has—”

  “Yes. Set the Destroyer, the slayer of Osiris, has revealed himself to me. He has offered to become my ally.”

  Mehen slumped in his chair as though his spine had turned flaccid.

  Harnouphis delicately laid the game piece back on the board. “An awful thing to contemp
late, is it not? A god so reviled, detested as the Father of All Evil. Yet, it was not always so. Once he was worshipped just like other gods—the principle of darkness that complements the light. Sometimes destruction is necessary, so that new structures can arise.”

  Mehen stared mutely, his narrow face aghast.

  “What an extraordinary opportunity I am offered!” Harnouphis spread his arms in an expansive gesture. “To have a god as an ally, and such a god! I am sensible to the dangers, of course. But what man of ambition could reject such an offer?”

  Mehen struggled to speak. “Then you have decided?”

  Harnouphis gazed at him with fevered eyes. “I do not ask you to follow me down this path, Mehen. I cannot guarantee your safety any more than my own. I will gladly request a new mentor for you, if you wish.”

  Mehen hesitated, like a man contemplating the edge of a precipice. With trembling arms he raised himself from the chair. He crossed the space between them, dropped to his knees and kissed the high priest’s hand.

  “I am your servant, my lord,” he cried fervently. “Now and always.”

  * * * * *

  Korax sat cross-legged on the grass, carefully drawing hieroglyphs on a papyrus. Beside him lay his pallet with its twin inkwells and stock of reed pens. In his left hand was the sheet that he copied, a spell for consecrating a certain amulet.

  Before him, the bathing pool rippled gently in the twilight. Soon, regrettably, it would be too dark to read, and he would have to go back to the House of Life. Korax preferred the solitude of this garden by the pool. The trickle of the sacred spring calmed his balky nerves and helped him concentrate.

  “I hope it won’t disturb your study if I have a quick bath.”

  Korax turned his head to see Amasis approaching, a lantern in hand. At once, Korax clambered to his feet and bowed.

  “Of course not, your Excellency. Would you prefer if I withdrew?”