by Jack Massa
Korax stayed in his place. At the prompting of the god, he waited until the last of the competitors was drawing. Then he jumped to his feet and strode briskly to the front table.
“Forgive my tardiness, esteemed Moerocles,” he announced. “But here is one more to compete. I am inspired by Dionysus that I should sing for Aphrodite.”
“Well-spoken,” said the poet. “And what is your name?”
“I am Korax, son of Leontes.” He bowed deeply to Lady Emerine, who answered the gesture with an amused nod.
“Well, Korax son of Leontes,” Moerocles said, “since only seven came forward, I placed only seven lots in the jar. Certainly, it would be unfair to ask the others to draw again. So what am I to do?”
“I will sing in whatever place you deem fair.” Korax’s shrug expressed his complete indifference to the issue.
Moerocles conferred in whispers with his fellow judges. After a moment, they nodded.
“Then you shall sing last,” the actor declared. “And though some may deem the last place advantageous, it will not be so in this case. The judges agree that you will need to outshine all others in great measure to win from that position.”
“I am content,” Korax answered. “Since I expect to outshine all others immeasurably.”
A few jeers and catcalls erupted at this display of audacity. Korax bowed to the judges and allowed himself a quick glance at Berenicea. She met his eyes, and a faint smile passed over her lips.
Korax returned to his couch, heart pounding with excitement.
He leaned his back against a cushion and placed the lyre on his thigh. He grew very still, feeling the presence of Dionysus within him. He watched impassively as the first contestant sang. At one point, he glanced over at Patrollos and the others. They muttered to one another, eyeing Korax with hooded, distrustful expressions.
The feasting continued as one performer followed another. Korax touched neither food nor drink. The aura of stillness about him only deepened.
The fifth man to perform was Cimon. As he walked to the front of the hall Korax’s fingers suddenly moved, gliding noiselessly over his lyre strings. His lips whispered something, but if asked, he could not have told what words he spoke, or even what language.
As Cimon made ready to play he abruptly jerked his head in Korax’s direction, and their eyes locked. Korax felt a surge of power tighten every muscle of his body.
Cimon blinked, collected himself, and began his song. But his fingers twitched, missing some notes, striking others harshly. The effect was a dreary cacophony that contrasted starkly with the words of the hymn, which celebrated the sweet pleasures of wine. The effort received awkward, shallow applause. Cimon slunk back to his place with his head hung.
Korax relaxed and watched the next two performers. Then it was Lyceas’ turn.
Lyceas marched to his place with a belligerent air and deliberately avoided looking at Korax. He strummed forcefully, but as soon as he started singing it was plain his throat was tight. His voice screeched at the high notes, and he had to stop and cough halfway through the song.
Korax returned to his normal frame of mind as several more poets sang. But then Amynias’ name was called and Korax stiffened, his hands clutching the lyre like claws. He stared balefully at Amynias, who strolled to the singer’s place with his usual frosty self-possession.
Amynias plucked two sweet notes. But as he opened his mouth to sing, he struck a third note and the string snapped, the end whipping up and striking him below the eye. He let out a gasp, his hand flying up to cover his cheek.
A few snickers of cruel laugher sounded in the otherwise quiet chamber. Grimacing, Amynias examined a smear of blood on his fingers. He looked helplessly at the judges.
“Pardon me. I ... I cannot continue.”
Korax emerged from his trance. He reached for his cup and found that his hand trembled. He steadied it with an effort of will and took a small, calm sip.
Two more contestants sang hymns to Dionysus. Then an intermission was held while the judges conferred. More dishes were served. Dancers performed to the music of cymbals and flutes. Berenicea stood playing with the other flute girls. Korax was lost in watching her when a dark shape loomed at the corner of his eye.
Patrollos stood over him. Korax sat upright, but Patrollos’ close position prevented him from standing.
“I don’t know what you are doing,” Patrollos said, “or how you are doing it. But I vow to you: it will not stop me from performing and performing well.”
His voice was quiet and meant to sound menacing, but he was clearly strained by frustration and fear. Korax almost pitied him. For a moment, he thought about putting an end to his plan. But as soon as the thought occurred, he knew it was too late. He had set a god in motion, and that motion must run its course.
So he merely stared at Patrollos and said not a word.
Presently, the contest for the hymn to Aphrodite was announced. Korax resumed his pose of deep stillness. As the first four poets took their turns, Korax breathed slowly and deeply, trying to keep himself relaxed. The god’s energy curled within him, a panther ready to strike.
The fifth man to sing was Patrollos. When his name was announced, Korax abruptly stood and backed into the alcove behind his couch. The motion caught Patrollos’ eye, and he paused. When he proceeded, his steps were slower, less certain than before.
Korax crouched in the shadows, knees bent, hands squeezing the curved frame of his lyre. No one in the hall could see him. His lips moved, silently uttering angry, baleful syllables—a curse in an ancient language he did not know. His hand made jerky tearing movements close to, but not touching the lyre strings.
At the front of the hall, Patrollos plucked three notes and began to sing. His hymn was an elegant poem in the classic style, restrained and balanced. His voice was strong, if a bit deep. He sang the first two lines perfectly. Then on the third line he missed a note, and on the fourth his tongue stuttered over the words.
Patrollos glanced anxiously at the black alcove where Korax worked his magic. The fact that he could not see Korax seemed to drain his poise. His playing grew strident and faltering. On the second verse he missed several words, and on the third he forgot an entire line. Unnerved, he finished in disastrous fashion, striking notes in the wrong places and slurring the poetry. He slumped back to his place amid feeble applause, an image of utter defeat.
Korax staggered from the alcove, drenched in sweat. He collapsed on the cushions, arms flung wide.
A serving girl approached. “Are you all right, young sir?”
He answered with an exhausted laugh. “I have never felt better.”
The next contestant began to sing. Korax slowly recovered his strength. When the hymn ended and the applause faded, Moerocles the judge called his name:
“Korax, son of Leontes. Our last contestant of the evening.”
Korax rose and brushed back his hair. “Time for the climax of the play,” he muttered.
Coolly, he walked to the spot before the judges’ table. “Esteemed judges,” he announced in his best oratorical tones, “elders of the guild, fellow guests: it has been a memorable and inspiring evening. I am inspired, in fact, to offer the following review of some of the performances we have heard.”
He plucked a strong note and began, singing words whispered to him by the god:
The panther-clad god wishes to thank
All who offered him their poems
But he views with scorn a few of their rank
And wishes to bid them now go home
As he played, Korax strolled over to where Patrollos and his group were seated. He wanted to leave no doubt as to whom he was singing about.
One called Cimon, with his clumsy thumbs
He sang of wine and languors sweet
But his playing sounded woefully sour
He might play better with his feet
Cackles of laughter rippled through the hall. The revelers were by now quite drunk and no
t averse to hearing some mean invective.
Now Lyceas is a handsome youth
Whose downy beard the god finds pleasing
But his lyric was crass and tedious
And his voice like an old sow wheezing
The laughter swelled. In front of Korax, his victims looked about in shame and consternation. In the street or on the athletic field, they would have jumped him by now and used force to still his mockery. But here in polite company, they had no choice but to take it.
“Sing on, good satirist,” someone shouted. “Tell us more!”
Korax turned to his beloved cousin.
Now Amynias is a glib young man
The love of rich friends he craves to win
He’s willing to follow them like a slave
And more than willing to betray his kin
But the god disdains men who are false
And does not care to hear them sing
So when Amynias started to play
His finger slipped and he broke a string
Now the feasters were roaring and stamping their feet to urge him on. Korax sidled up close to Patrollos, who stared back at him with helpless rage.
But the most embarrassing hymn tonight
Came from Patrollos, the noble and strong
He thought to buy his way to the prize
By paying a teacher to write his song
Patrollos sang for the Goddess of Love
His purchased lines shone like glass
But his tongue stumbled like a three-legged goat
And his lyre would have pained the ears of an ass
A crescendo of raucous laughter followed these verses. Patrollos balled his hands into fists and stood. With a curt bow to Lady Emerine, he turned and marched stoically toward the door. Amynias and the others rose and hastened after him.
Exhilarated, Korax watched his enemies retreat from the hall amid clamorous jeering. Because of his family, Patrollos was known to everyone present. Tomorrow, the story of his disgrace would spread all over the city.
“I fear you have driven away some of my guests,” Lady Emerine remarked as the laughter and applause died away. “I must admit it was done with cunning rhymes. But this is not the night of the Comedies, master Korax. You were supposed to present a hymn of love.”
“And so I shall, gracious hostess,” Korax answered gallantly as he strode back toward her throne. “Forgive me, but I was compelled by the god to rid the hall of some ignoble ruffians.”
Emerine returned his glib smile with a placid look that managed to communicate both amusement and disapproval. “It is usually folly, young man, to credit the gods for our own base deeds. However, we will hear your hymn now.”
Korax inwardly called to the god. Instantly, his mood swooped down from the heights of triumph to a sober place of contemplation. As he sang, his entire soul seemed to flow into each plaintive word.
They are wrong who claim the Goddess of Joy
Looks down on mortals from above
For I know she lives within me
And in the one I love
Korax paused between verses, letting his lyre sing. He stared at Berenicea, making sure he caught her eye.
When I gaze on her I love
Small fires burn beneath my skin
Pleasant yearning wrings my bones
Aphrodite breathes within
Fair Goddess born of ocean foam
Lift my song with your sweet grace
Let it win for me my love
I see your light in her bright face
Korax ended his song gazing at the red-haired girl. Berenicea stared back, her chest rising with each breath, her eyes wide and shining.
A long moment passed before Korax realized that the chamber was filled with deafening applause.
Chapter Nine
Korax wandered the temple grounds under the stars. The latest memories, bubbling up in his dreams, had left him too restless to sleep or even lie still. Enflamed with guilt, dread, wonder, he had risen from his bed and ventured into the night.
How shamefully he had behaved! How cruelly he had wounded Patrollos, Amynias, and the others. And yet, how wonderful the magic, the power of the god pulsing in his blood, inspiring such glorious music and cunning rhyme.
Struggling to find a place of balance amid these conflicting passions, he walked along the deserted paths and galleries. He avoided the places patrolled by watchmen—mainly the gates that led to the sanctuaries and priests’ quarters. This still left a sprawling labyrinth of buildings, gardens, and courts, all empty and quiet.
Fortified walls enclosed the temple compound, but the parapets mostly stood unguarded. Korax climbed steps at the northern edge of the complex, mounting to a high terrace. Sitting at the base of a pillar, he looked out over the suburbs of Memphis to the desert and the vast necropolis. A waning moon hung parched and yellow in the west. Monuments and mortuary temples stretched away to the northern horizon, where the great pyramids shone small and ghostly in the distance. Korax imagined what lay beyond them—the vast Delta, the sea, Rhodes.
Magic. How marvelous it had felt. He recalled his mother’s rituals, the power she wielded. His parents never spoke of it openly, but it was said among the servants that her witchcraft protected the fortunes of the house, safeguarded the family’s ships at sea, guided all of their business decisions.
That same talent lived in Korax—he knew it now—an inheritance from his mother, a gift of the gods.
But he had used the gift wrongly, impiously.
And yet, if he could learn to use magic for noble purposes, as his mother did, surely that would pay for his foolishness. Under the starry sky the words of Isis came to him again: Are you willing to serve the gods?
Korax bowed his head.
But he was merely a slave, trapped in this desert place so far from his home. How could he hone his talent, learn all he would need to know of the divine arts?
How?
* * * * *
The next time Korax was summoned to his master’s chambers, Harnouphis was clad in a black gown and a folded headdress. He wore a gold pectoral collar, a scarab amulet carved of garnet, and seven gemmed rings on his fingers. Chief Scribe Mehen stood nearby, eyeing Korax with his usual pinched expression.
Harnouphis smiled amiably and handed Korax a tumbler of wine. He spoke and Mehen translated.
“Our master Harnouphis bids you good evening. Tonight he has a new and important exercise he wants you to try. Be seated.”
He gestured to a chair before the wide writing table. But Korax set down the wine cup and remained standing.
“Before we begin, I have a request to make of his Excellency.”
Mehen frowned. “And what might that be?”
“His Excellency has shown that he values my talent as a seer. I would wish to develop that talent, in service to the gods. I wish to study the divine arts, to be initiated in the House of Life.”
“Impossible!” Mehen flared angrily.
But Harnouphis questioned him, and Mehen replied in Egyptian. Hearing Korax’s request, the high priest evinced surprise and a shade of anger. But he quickly masked his feelings and answered in a tone of mild caution. He and Mehen exchanged several remarks in low voices. Then both of them turned to Korax, and Mehen spoke with exasperation.
“Our noble master forgives your effrontery, Seshsetem. He instructs me to say that your ambition is laudable, but that you must remember that you are both a foreigner and a slave, making it extremely difficult to grant your wish.”
Harnouphis spoke again, and the chief scribe continued with obvious reluctance. “Still, due to his boundless generosity, his Excellency does not refuse your request. He says that, if you work diligently, and continue to perform these special tasks he occasionally asks of you, he may, in time, consider your worthiness for what you ask.”
A flimsy promise at best, Korax thought resentfully. But he could see no advantage in pressing further at this point. Harnouphis gestured
at the chair, and Korax sat.
On the table before him stood two rows of white candles. Each burned before a rectangular mirror of polished copper. Set upright on the table, the mirrors formed a miniature corridor, closed at one end but open at the front facing Korax. Harnouphis muttered something and pointed at the cup.
“Drink the wine,” Mehen said.
Korax picked up the tumbler and swallowed the draught. He noticed a tickle in his throat and a smear of powder lingering in the cup.
“The wine has a mild drug,” Mehen explained. “Do not be alarmed if you feel a slight drowsiness or hear a buzzing in your ears. Just relax and gaze at the candles.”
Korax suppressed his feeling of alarm and did as instructed. Harnouphis sat down across the table and began a chant, intoning words in a voice that rose and fell hypnotically. The candles sputtered and blazed brighter.
Korax slipped into a reverie. He imagined the corridor of mirrors to be a passageway where he walked. On each side he could see his reflection. Candles the size of torches blazed off into infinity. Then another figure appeared in the mirrors. Tall and angular, it had the body of a trim, broad-shouldered man and the black head of a dog or jackal. Korax knew him from paintings and carved reliefs—the God Anubis, the guide of the dead.
The god turned and trod silently down the passageway. Afraid, but unable to resist, Korax followed. Anubis turned a corner, his animal tail sweeping behind him. Korax paused, sensing another presence. He turned and saw Harnouphis. The high priest gestured urgently for Korax to go on.