by Jack Massa
“No, no. Not necessary.”
The hierogrammat walked with an unaccustomed heaviness, shoulders slumped. He set down his lantern and discarded his kilt.
“You seem tired, Excellency,” Korax remarked. “If you will forgive the observation.”
Stepping gingerly down the ramp, Amasis chuckled. “That’s what I like about you, grandson. No other young scribe would dare make such a comment to me, for fear of being impertinent. But you Greeks seem to lack such qualms.”
“I beg your pardon if I spoke improperly.”
“Not at all. I appreciate your concern. I am a bit tired, I admit.” He sighed as he settled into the water. “May I speak with you in confidence, grandson?”
“Of course, Excellency. You honor me to ask.”
“Well, there is a certain turmoil in the Inner Circle of late—concerns about Pharaoh’s new taxes, arguments over how we should respond. As you are a Greek, what do your people say about King Ptolemy? Is he a hard man?”
Korax searched his memory. “I know little of his character, I fear. They do say he is an intellectual, a lover of learning. It is also said that his sister and queen, Arsinoe, is the stronger ruler, that Ptolemy defers to her on all matters of state.”
Amasis rubbed a chunk of natron over his skin. “I have heard that as well but doubted whether to believe it. Well, our council must decide whether or not to oppose the king’s new edicts, and if so, by what means.” He shook his head. “From what I can discern, the portents seem unfavorable no matter which path we choose. I fear we are moving into a time of upheaval and danger.”
A fear prickled on Korax’s scalp. The Apis Bull had made a similar forecast, and Harnouphis had greeted the idea with excitement.
“But enough of my troubles, grandson. Tell me how your studies are progressing.”
Since his last session with Harnouphis, his mind had been fretful and distracted. But even as he thought of this, he felt an inner prohibition against revealing his unease. Instead, he lifted the papyrus in his hand. “My studies go well enough, I suppose. Presently I am copying the Book of Investing the Sacred Scarab with Fortitude for Crossing the Waters of Khemu.”
“Ah,” Amasis said. “I have prepared that amulet several times.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. As chief lector priest, it is my duty to officiate at the embalming rites whenever a member of the Inner Circle passes from this life.”
Korax reflected. “May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“The way most amulets are described, it seems they are meant to invest a living person with protection or power. And yet, I know that mostly they are used in the mummification rites, to provide for the souls of the deceased. Similarly, from what I have read of The Books of Passage in the Otherworld, they sound much like the initiation I received when entering the House of Life. It seems that every spell and ritual has a dual purpose.”
“That is exactly correct.”
“But then, how does one distinguish what magic is meant for the living and what for the dead?”
Amasis paused in his scrubbing and grinned. “One does not. Instead, you must seek to understand how each text applies to both conditions. Our sacred wisdom is meant to teach the soul how to advance through the spheres of creation. The soul seeks that advancement in the next life as well as in this one. In the end, grandson, there is no real distinction.”
“No distinction between living and dead?”
“Ha-ha! I suggest that you ponder this mystery.”
“I promise you, I shall,” Korax affirmed. But now that he had Amasis conversing on such matters, he was not one to waste the opportunity. “As an example, take the scene in the Judgment Hall, where the god Anubis weighs the heart of the deceased against the feather of Maat. If the heart balances, the person is justified and enters the Hall of the Gods. If not, the person is devoured by the Eater of Souls.”
“Yes. So what is your question?”
“How does that lesson apply to the living?”
Amasis tossed aside the natron cake and relaxed, floating on his back. “Well, you know from your studies that the feather of Maat symbolizes righteousness and truth. But laying that aside, simply consider what is pictured. If you would be one with the gods, whether in this life or the next, your heart must be light as a feather—that is, unencumbered, free of all attachment, all fear, all desire.”
Korax put a hand to his chin. “Can any mortal accomplish that, to make the heart so pure?”
“In certain moments, yes. For example, in meditation and ritual. Our rites of worship are designed for that purpose, to help us shed all thought and emotion except reverence for the Divine. In those moments, the heart is pure and light.”
“I see,” Korax said. “But to hold that ideal consistently … ?”
“Ah, that is the challenge, is it not?” Amasis stood waist deep in the pool. “Perhaps it can be done—over many lifetimes. If you ever meet such a person in this life, grandson, do them homage. For they are truly holy and not likely to pass through this world again.”
Chapter Twenty
Nine days after the incident with the game-board, Korax was commanded to accompany Harnouphis on a journey outside the temple. The high priest came to the House of Records dressed in a black robe and carrying a staff topped by an ivory serpent. He directed Korax to fetch a wig and to bring a cloak to go over his tunic.
“Of course, Excellency. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Harnouphis’ eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow—the results of a prolonged fast, Korax surmised, such as priests sometimes observed before important rituals.
They departed from the Mansion of Ptah in the late afternoon. They walked along a broad processional avenue until arriving at the western wall of the city. There, in front of towering gates, they met Mehen and two porters. Mehen wore a skullcap and plain tunic, with no sash or badge of office. The porters Korax did not recognize. They were sinewy, bearded, sunburned men—Bedouins of the desert. Clad in ankle-length robes, they bore curved daggers and short swords in their belts. Between them, on their shoulders, they held a carrier pole from which depended a number of bundles. The oddest of these was a woven basket, which snorted as it swung from the pole. Through the open mesh, Korax glimpsed the fat, bristly shape of a piglet.
“All has been arranged as you commanded,” Mehen told Harnouphis.
The high priest nodded once and gestured with his staff. The peculiar entourage followed him through the city gates and up the sandy road.
The orange sun hovered in the west, spreading an eerie glow over the monuments and obelisks of the great necropolis. Soon the party left behind the habitations of men and came to a dusty crossroads. To north and south, the road became a donkey trail winding away into distance. Ahead, the way crossed an ancient bridge over a dry streambed, then climbed a stone causeway up to the plateau. Without pausing, Harnouphis led them across the bridge.
The travelers picked their way carefully over broken stone pavement. The causeway had been repaired many times over the centuries. Before them, a huge crumbling step-pyramid loomed on the horizon. But instead of approaching it, they turned north, crossing an avenue of sphinxes and entering a labyrinthine complex of tombs and mortuary temples. In his bones, Korax sensed the presence of countless past ages, innumerable ghosts. A faint breeze whispered among the fabulous ruins. The skin on the back of his skull tingled.
At last, they arrived before a façade of thick-hewn black columns, partially buried in drifted sand. The edifice seemed neither temple nor tomb, simply a gallery built against the face of a rugged mound. Peering at the dark, half-buried portal, Korax shivered. It resembled a door to the Underworld.
The carriers set down their burden and untied the bundles. Harnouphis unwrapped ceremonial implements, including a bronze hand-axe, which he slid into his belt. Mehen lit two torches and handed one to Korax.
“Don’t be afraid, Seshs
etem,” Harnouphis said. “We are merely going to perform a ritual, like any other.”
Korax scarcely felt reassured. Still, he knew his place well enough to leave his skepticism unspoken. Besides, his fear now mingled with a powerful curiosity.
The high priest lit a chunk of incense in a long-handled censer. He waved the instrument in an intricate pattern before the doorway, praying silently. From a faience flask he sprinkled water over the threshold.
They left the two porters to guard the entrance. Mehen led the way inside, carrying a torch and the basket containing the sacrifice. Next went Harnouphis, quietly muttering incantations and swinging the censer. Korax brought up the rear, his torch blazing.
They crossed a low-roofed hall, crowded with squat black columns identical to the ones outside. In the torchlight, Korax could not tell how far the hall extended. He saw that many of the columns had once contained inscriptions, but that these had been deliberately and crudely chiseled away. At the front of the hall stood a ruined shrine. An imposing statue of a seated god had been toppled and smashed to pieces. Not enough remained for Korax to recognize the deity’s shape.
Harnouphis swept incense smoke through the air and scattered droplets of the lustral water. Then he removed a silver plate and chalice from his bundle and set them before the pedestal of the fallen god. He placed honey cakes on the plate and poured red wine from a flask. Standing before the offerings, he lifted his hands and chanted a prayer in deep, hollow tones. Many of his words Korax did not recognize, but their aim seemed to be to summon a great being out of darkness. At last, the high priest finished the prayer and lowered his arms, much to Korax’s relief.
But the relief proved of short duration. Instead of heading back to the daylight, Harnouphis picked up his gear and led the two scribes along the front of the hall. He stopped before a lintel and posts of rough granite. At first glance, Korax thought it a false doorway, since a stone slab completely blocked the space. But Harnouphis slid his hand behind one post and pulled a series of levers. Then, bracing his feet, he pushed on one side of the slab. With a grating noise the stone swung inward, pivoting on a center axis.
Harnouphis took the torch from Mehen and led them inside. After a few steps, the path dropped into a steep, winding stair. Down and down it curled, past several landings that gave access to unlighted passageways. As they descended, Korax smelled only dust and dry decay. But when they reached the bottom at last, the air bristled with a taint of wet sand, a hint of water.
The party traversed a low corridor carved from the rock, with crumbled plaster littering the floor. In those few places where the plaster still adhered, Korax glimpsed fragments of murals and hieroglyphs, but had no time to decipher their import. The passage cornered repeatedly, each time slanting further down. Finally, they came to what seemed a dead end. But Harnouphis worked another set of hidden levers and pushed the slab door open.
They entered a broad chamber, their torchlight flickering dimly on a high, cavernous roof. The flagstone floor ended halfway across the chamber at the curling rim of a black pool. Whether the pool was fed by an underground desert spring or some wandering subterranean arm of the Nile, Korax could not guess. At the water’s edge stood a figure carved of gray basalt—a god with some nameless animal for its head.
Korax stared up at the grim, implacable visage. Was this the same fearsome god he had met in his vision of the game-board? His memory was too dim to be sure, but his fear was rising.
“What animal does he wear?” he asked aloud.
“Silence!” Harnouphis hissed. “Do not speak so heedlessly of him.” He touched his heart and lowered his head in a pious gesture. “His sacred animal was driven from Egypt long ago. In these times, the god may incarnate in many forms: serpent, wild ass, boar, crocodile.”
Harnouphis ordered Korax to place his torch in a bracket beside the pool. Mehen did likewise, so that the statue of the god was flanked by the two sputtering flames. Harnouphis added an incense cake to his censer and walked about, fumigating the area. Mehen set the basket containing the piglet on an altar stone in front of the statue, then backed away, bending low at the waist.
Harnouphis set a hand on Korax’s shoulder and ordered him to breathe deeply. Korax wanted to turn and flee. But staring into the high priest’s eyes drained his will. As Harnouphis droned an incantation, Korax slipped into a deep trance.
* * * * *
With Seshsetem’s awareness subdued, Harnouphis turned to face the statue of the god. He thrust up his arms in supplication.
“Homage to you, O great god of the Palaces of Night, I know you and know your names: Terrible Lord of the Abyss, Set, Bebht, Smy, Apep, Typhon, Suti, Nupti. I, Harnouphis, High Priest of Ptah in his Mansion of Mem-Nephir, call to you now.” His hand clapped down on Seshsetem’s collar-bone. “Come into this human vessel, O god, that I may speak with you and do you honor.”
The Greek’s body shuddered and convulsed. After a few moments, his jaws parted and a deep voice issued from his throat: “I wake.”
The basket shuddered on the altar, the piglet squealing in fear. Off in the corner, Mehen dropped to his knees and covered his face with a forearm.
Exultant, Harnouphis gazed at the god, his hands still lifted in the gesture of worship. “I, Harnouphis, bid you welcome, terrible lord. I have heard your call across the gulf of the years. In this age when your holy name is scorned and your rites neglected, I offer you due honors and worship.”
The god’s life burned behind the Greek’s eyes. “You wish me as your ally, Harnouphis, priest of Ptah. It can be so. But have you searched your heart sufficiently? Can you say with certainty that is your desire?”
“I can.” Harnouphis lowered his hands. “I have labored many years in faithful service to the Temple of Ptah, only to see myself shamed, my efforts scorned by lesser men who possess higher rank and privilege by virtue of birth. I have had my fill of these vain, petty priests. Force is needed to sweep them away. Your power is needed.”
“Then we both will benefit. So be it.” The Greek’s head swiveled to scan the chamber. “You did well to bring me a sacrifice. But who are these others? That one cowering in the shadows?”
“He is Mehen, my loyal acolyte. He is bound to me as I now bind myself to you.”
“Stand up, Mehen,” the god said. “Have no fear. I am to be your master’s ally.”
Timidly, Mehen climbed to his feet and took a step forward.
The god regarded him piercingly for a long moment, then continued: “And this vessel that I inhabit. He is not of the Land.”
“No. He is a barbarian, of the sea peoples, a slave that I use as a conduit.”
The god stared down at the youth’s hands, fingers and arm muscles taut. “My power has been driven far away. It will take time for my strength to grow in you, Harnouphis. Till then, this one will serve. But he is not without abilities. His brain is supple and keen. Each time you invoke me to possess him, you must ensure that he remembers nothing of it later.”
“So it will be done, my lord Set,” Harnouphis vowed. “Now that we have spoken, what further steps must I take?”
“Observe my worship at every sundown, and call me to your mind. Be careful to always work in secret, for my presence must be hidden. As you continue to bind yourself to me, I will be able to influence your world. Once events are set in motion, they will run quickly in your favor.” The god turned his eyes hungrily on the altar. “And now, the sacrifice ...”
Harnouphis gestured Mehen to come forward and assist him. Together, the two men pulled the struggling piglet from the basket and held it flat against the altar stone. Mouthing ritual words, Harnouphis seized the axe from his belt. He lifted it high and brought it down on the animal’s neck.
The creature wheezed and struggled wildly in a fountain of blood. It took four heavy blows of the axe before the piglet lay still. Dazed and covered in gore, the high priest deliberately hacked the carcass to pieces.
* * * * *
The cake of natron spewed fizzing bubbles that rose to the water’s surface and hissed in the air. Standing chest-high in the bathing pool, Korax breathed in the salty aroma. He pressed the natron against his skin and rubbed vigorously, working it over his chest, arms, and lower body.
No matter how thoroughly he washed, he still felt unclean.
Something had happened that night outside the city, something that left him feeling defiled. He remembered nothing about it, from the time they had left the city gates until he woke the next morning in his bed. He had risen to find his tunic splashed with blood stains.
Shuddering at the recollection, Korax continued washing. By the time he climbed out of the bathing pool, the sun was already rising over the temple roofs. He had lain in bed late after yet another fitful night. But today would be a busy one in the House of Records. He shaved and dressed quickly, then hurried to the scriptorium.
Reporting to Katep’s station, Korax found the scribe talking to three young men dressed in white kilts and holding wax tablets.
“There you are, Seshsetem,” Katep said with a sly smile. “Here are three new scribes for us to train. Do any of them look familiar?”
Korax examined them closely, then laughed and laid his hand of the shoulder of young Baufre. He had not recognized Katep’s son without his sidelock. The boy had come of age and now his head was fully-shaved.
“What do you think?” Katep cried proudly. “Baufre has been accepted as an apprentice scribe.”
“Congratulations,” Korax said. “To all of you.”
The three young men bowed to him respectfully.
“Thank you, sir.” Baufre peered at him with earnest eyes. “I look forward to learning from you. I am especially eager to gain proficiency in the Greek writing.”
Katep laughed. “Baufre hopes one day to work in Alexandria.”
“Indeed?” Korax said.
Baufre modestly lowered his gaze. “Yes, sir. Perhaps even to travel to other lands.”
“I fear your tales have filled my son with wanderlust,” Katep remarked.
