The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1)

by Jack Massa

  He woke in the morning, startled to find himself still in the chapel. Gray daylight slanted through narrow windows beneath the roof, illuminating the goddess and her altar.

  Korax noticed a scroll lying at his side. Bewildered, he unrolled it and read the hieroglyphs of the title:

  The Book of Calling the Magical Ally.

  * * * * *

  Below the House of Life, a secret stair of rough-cut stone descended many levels. It led deep underground to the mortuary vaults, where Amasis worked the magical funeral rites.

  Accompanied by torch-bearers ahead and behind, Peherenptah descended the steps with a perturbed and irritated air. For three days running, Amasis had dispatched messengers to beg that the Sem-priest meet him here—and come alone. Naturally, as chief lector priest, Amasis could not absent himself from the embalming rituals during certain periods. But over a three-day span he surely could have slipped away for a short time, if he chose. No, Amasis had some other motive. Peherenptah had finally relented, as much out of curiosity as deference to the old hierogrammat.

  Still, Peherenptah resented being dragged into the mortuary vaults. For all his schooling in the sacred arts, this place of death appalled him. A true Egyptian, he clung to his belief in the afterlife, but hoped to postpone it as long as possible.

  At the base of the steps, Peherenptah followed the attendants across a painted foyer and into a broad sanctuary. The air reeked of salty natron and putrefying body fluids. In an island of lamplight at the center, priests and embalmers stood clustered around a tilted stone table. Looking past them, Peherenptah shuddered and took an involuntary step back.

  On the table lay the deceased Paramses. The body had already been eviscerated, the organs placed in sealed jars, the cavity packed with natron. At present, two embalmers leaned over the head. They manipulated long bronze tweezers up the nostrils and carefully picked out the brains.

  A slender figure wearing the jackal-head of Anubis detached himself from the group. “Thank you for coming, my brother,” Amasis said, after pulling the dark mask over his head and handing it to a subaltern. “I apologize for the inconvenience of meeting in this place.”

  Peherenptah had regained a measure of composure. “On the contrary, esteemed Amasis, I regret that pressing duties prevented me from responding more promptly to your summons.”

  Amasis inclined his head toward the table. “Curious, don’t you think, how the predator left most of the body intact.”

  Only parts of the neck and shoulder had been eaten, the missing flesh now packed in bandages.

  Peherenptah winced and averted his gaze. “May I ask why you needed to speak with me, Amasis?”

  “Of course. Please.”

  The old man led the way to a dim corridor. Some distance along the relief-covered wall, they came to a candle-lit chapel. The shrine stood empty except for an enthroned statue of Osiris, green-skinned and robed in gold, the beloved god of the dead.

  Amasis pitched his voice just above a whisper. “I wanted you to see for yourself how little had been devoured. Does that not seem strange to you? As if the leopard’s purpose was purely to kill, not eat?”

  The Sem-priest scowled, perplexed and unhappy. “What are you meaning to imply?”

  “That perhaps Paramses was killed by magic.”

  A series of troubled emotions flicked over Peherenptah’s face. “But ... that would take potent machinations indeed.”

  “It would explain the bizarre circumstances.”

  “Yes, but so much influence brought to bear? Who? … You suspect Harnouphis?”

  The first servants stared at each other in the shuddering candlelight.

  Amasis said: “I’ve watched him curiously for some time. That Greek scribe of his has unusual gifts. Harnouphis uses him as a seer—Who knows what else? I thought little of it until recently. Then I encountered the Greek late at night in the Chapel of Isis. He was in a very bad way. My inner sense told me he had been possessed—by something very dark and powerful.”

  After pondering a few seconds, Peherenptah shook his head. “That is not much evidence to accuse Harnouphis—and of such an abominable crime.”

  “I do not accuse.” Amasis lifted his palms. “I merely read events and suggest an interpretation.”

  “Indeed, that is your proper role,” Peherenptah muttered. “But there certainly could be other interpretations. The leopard might have been frightened away before it could feed. The size and sudden appearance of the cat might have panicked the attendants. As for the Greek, well, who knows what mental diseases may plague a foreigner? Then there is the fact that we have already voted Harnouphis onto the Dais. His investiture is set for two days hence. Without strong evidence, we cannot rescind his appointment.”

  “Agreed,” Amasis said. “Still, I felt it my duty to apprise you of my suspicions.”

  Peherenptah nodded. “What is your counsel?”

  “That we be on our guard, observe Harnouphis for any sign of tainted practice or abnormal powers.”

  “Very well.”

  “One other thing: you might want to increase your own magical protections.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Well, if Harnouphis is a murderer, and his ambitions are not yet slaked, who else would be the next target?”

  “Thank you.” The Sem-priest sighed morosely. “On that unpleasant note, I will leave you.”

  The first servants exchanged bows. Peherenptah hastened away, anxious to return to the daylight.

  Climbing the steps, he pondered the implications. Having Harnouphis in the Inner Circle might actually prove an advantage, making him easier to watch. On the other hand, the whole idea seemed fantastic. Harnouphis, the boorish uncultured administrator, a master of nefarious magic? Perhaps Amasis was spending too much time in the mortuary vaults. Such morbid duty might bend a man’s imagination. And Amasis was old, nearly as old as the lamented Neksapthis. The time might be near to gently suggest that the hierogrammat consider retirement.

  By the time he topped the stairs, Peherenptah had concluded irritably that he really needed to keep an eye on both Harnouphis and Amasis.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  On the appointed day, the entire priesthood of Ptah gathered to honor Harnouphis and witness his investiture. The procession formed at noon in the vast outer courtyard of the temple. To the solemn beating of clappers and drums, the priests marched past the towering obelisks and through the pylon gate.

  Harnouphis trod along near the front, preceded only by the eight first servants. Each of those high priests wore ceremonial gowns of different colors, and each carried a lotus wand. Harnouphis himself was arrayed in a tunic of gold and a shawl of the finest white cambric. A towering gold headpiece crowned him, so heavy it forced him to bend his neck.

  An assembled multitude of temple staff and civic officials watched the parade cross the inner courtyard and ascend the steps. Next, the procession passed through the grand hypostyle hall. Here the majority of the priests would stop, forming ranks to wait in mute attention while the ceremony took place within.

  “Are you happy Harnouphis?”

  Exultant, my lord Set. And filled with gratitude toward you, of course.

  Giddy with triumph, Harnouphis proceeded into the next hall, with its rows of painted columns and larger-than-life statues. The measured drumming continued as the second and third servants of Ptah filed in behind him.

  At the front of the hall stood the embossed gold doors and the inner sanctuary, where only first servants might enter. Harnouphis stopped at the foot of the dais. The eight first servants mounted the steps and then turned to face the assembly. They intoned prayers in the old language, Peherenptah chanting and the other high priests answering in chorus. Harnouphis was censed, sprinkled with water, anointed with purifying unguents.

  Then, one-by-one, the first servants stepped down from the dais and laid a hand on Harnouphis’ shoulder. They spoke blessings and bestowed upon him a current of magical vigor. Harnouphis
thrilled as blissful sensations rushed through his being—this moment of triumph, so long aspired to, now his at last.

  “This is only one step of your journey,” the voice of Set whispered in his ear. “Greater things are yet in store.”

  Faintly, Harnouphis wished his divine ally would depart and allow him to relish these few moments of glory.

  Peherenptah, the last to confer his blessing, now gestured for Harnouphis to ascend the dais. Together, the two priests approached the gold doors of the holy of holies. Together, they broke the clay seal and pulled the great doors open.

  All but the first servants averted their gazes. For the first time, Harnouphis looked within. Side-by-side with Peherenptah, he entered the sanctuary, the other first servants walking behind. The chamber was round, of pink sandstone trimmed with alabaster. Beyond the offering tables and altar stood the figure of the god, stately Ptah with his Pharaonic beard and serene countenance, fashioned of solid gold.

  The first servants formed themselves into a circle with Harnouphis at the center. Led by Peherenptah and Amasis, they chanted incantations from the oldest books of the cult—verses that only first servants could utter. One by one, they pointed their lotus wands at Harnouphis and invested him with the supreme powers of Ptah.

  Harnouphis emerged from the inner sanctuary in a state of sparkling exaltation. As he stepped from the dais, the voice of Set came to him again.

  “Yes. Much greater things are possible for you, Harnouphis—if you have the will. But they are for later. For now, enjoy your victory. Only remember one thing: do not in your self-congratulations neglect my worship or forget the duties you owe me.”

  The last words sounded pointed, like spears.

  Never, Lord Set. I promise you!

  * * * * *

  Korax kissed Itaji on the lips, rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. Before he could rise, the dancer wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his earlobe.

  “Are you getting up so soon?”

  He patted her wrists. “Yes. I really must get back to my studies. Don’t be cross with me, Itaji.”

  She flopped out on the bed, stretching sinuously. “Oh, I am not cross, Seshsetem. Only a little disappointed.”

  He smiled down at her. “What? Don’t I please you anymore?”

  The dancer giggled. “Oh, to be sure! I did worry about you for a while. Last month you seemed so unhappy.” She jumped to her feet and hugged him. “But lately you have regained your fire. You are again my passionate Greek lover!”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I was lost for a while. I thought I had lost myself entirely. But now I have found my way back to Isis.”

  She raised her head, delighted. “Her voice has returned to you?”

  Turning away, Korax reached for his tunic. “Not her voice exactly, a more tangible gift.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A new path has opened in my magical work, thanks to her.”

  “Oh, your work again.” Itaji shrugged and looked around for her clothing.

  “Magical work.” Korax grinned. On an impulse, he embraced her tenderly. “Thanks to her and thanks to you, who taught me her worship. You have not only been a lovely mistress, but a true friend to me.”

  She stiffened in his arms, turned up her face, suspicious. “You talk as though you are finished with me.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” He pulled the tunic over his head, avoiding her gaze. “But in fact, I won’t be able to see you for a while. At this next phase of my studies, I must abstain from lovemaking.”

  “Abstain! I hate that word.” She gave him a petulant scowl. “And just when you’ve regained your energy.”

  He laughed fondly. “I am sorry. It cannot be helped.”

  “How long?” she asked. “For how long must you abstain?”

  Korax considered. “Ten days, I think. We need not mention it to anyone. So of course, you will still be paid.”

  She stepped close, brushed a fingertip over his earlobe. “Paid with coin, yes. But not with the pleasure of your kisses.”

  He laughed and gave her an extra payment.

  * * * * *

  A short time later, at the opposite end of the same apartment block, a slender figure walked lightly up to a door. A child-like hand reached out and knocked. In a few moments, a bald manservant pulled the door open. He looked down at the young woman, smiled appreciatively, then stepped back for her to enter.

  Itaji stepped into the foyer, nervously tapping her fingers together. Leaving her to wait, the servant shuffled off into the dark interior of the apartment. The dancer paced back and forth, rising on her toes as she pivoted.

  Presently, another man approached her from the inner chamber. “Yes. What is your report?”

  “Oh, the harvest looks weak, and the river runs low, so the prices of bread and beer will doubtless run higher.”

  “Stupid girl! Speak plainly.” Chief Scribe Mehen was not a man who appreciated clever repartee.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered, chastened. “Well, as I told you last time, he has not seemed so miserable of late. This continues. In fact, these past few times he’s been strangely elated, full of energy, and yet … preoccupied. Tonight he asked me to leave as soon as we finished, saying he needed to study. Oh, and he will not see me for the next ten days. ‘Abstaining’ is the word he used.”

  “Did he indeed? Did you ask him to explain?”

  “Of course I did. He answered that it was a phase of his studies.”

  Mehen stroked his pointy chin. “Visit him in three nights, as usual. Ask if he’s changed his mind. Ask him to show you what magic he is working. I must know what he is up to.”

  He counted out three copper coins and dropped them into her palm.

  Itaji scowled. “My usual fee is seven, sir.”

  “Seven is for sleeping with him and bringing me news of his intentions. You’ve only done the former.”

  Sullenly, Itaji slipped the coins into her girdle. “If you’re going to cheat me of my fee, I’m not sure I’ll come back here at all. I told you before, I have no taste for spying on him.”

  Mehen showed her the back of his hand. “Your tastes do not interest me, harlot. Only the information you bring. My master Harnouphis is now the chief treasurer of the temple. Do you really wish to invite his displeasure?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then do as you are told. Bring me useful information next time, and your fee will be restored. Now leave.”

  Mehen opened the door with a thin-lipped sneer of contempt. Itaji wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and marched indignantly from the apartment.

  When the door had shut she paused, looking in both directions. She spat emphatically on the doorstep before hurrying away.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Korax studied the lines of text, anxious that he had neglected none of the intricate preparations. The noon hour approached on this day of the full moon.

  The timing of the ceremony was crucial.

  That the papyrus was written in the most archaic hieroglyphs compounded his problem. Many of the symbols could assume multiple meanings, and Korax was far from expert.

  Some of the instructions read plainly enough: for three days the magician must fast, taking only water; for eight days he must abstain from sexual contact; on the morning of the ceremony, he must bathe three times in clean water, then put on a white garment never worn before.

  But other directions were abstruse and perplexing. To successfully call an ally, the magician must “sacrifice the edifice of his former life” and “offer up a torn and penitent heart.” Well, Korax felt ready enough to sacrifice his present existence. And if the text meant a heart broken by the trials of life, then surely he qualified as well as most.

  A glance at the terrace showed that the shadows had dwindled to their minimum length. Ready or not, he had run out of time. He rolled up the papyrus and slipped it inside his new tunic. He took his reading lamp from its stand and ca
rried it up the ladder, emerging in the brilliant sunlight.

  The roof of the apartment block was furnished with screens of woven matting, affording privacy so tenants could sleep outside in hot weather. Korax had set up screens on all four sides to hide the artifacts of his spell. Within the enclosure he had placed a straw met, a walking stick, a small brazier with charcoal, a reed pen with ink and papyrus.

  He knelt on the mat and stilled his mind, breathing quietly. Presently, he lifted the walking stick—his makeshift wand—and traced sigils in the air: the Eye of Horus for power and protection, the Ankh for eternal life. He used the lamp to fire the charcoal in the brazier. As it began to burn, he picked up the pen and wrote carefully on a clean sheet of papyrus:

  Korax, son of Leontes

  Seshsetem, scribe of Ptah

  All of his past self must be sacrificed, consecrated to the gods in flame. Only then would his soul be purified, his spirit renewed. Only then would he be worthy of the power bestowed by a magical ally.

  Only when your heart is light as a feather can you enter the sphere of the gods.

  Deliberately, he folded the sheet in three places. He lifted it up toward the sun, then carefully placed it on the fire.

  Next, he unrolled the Book of Calling the Magical Ally and began to recite the incantation.

  I place myself on the altar of Ra

  I arise triumphant in the light

  I create myself in the image of the gods

  I am formed of the atoms of all the gods

  In the radiance of Ptah I come forth into being

  I am the hawk that flies in the circle of Nut

  I am the great fish that swims in the Khemu

  I am the ibis that treads the edges of the Land

  I am the bull whose loins are mighty

  I am established in the wisdom of Thoth

  Isis has taught me her secrets

  I am arrayed in the robes of Maat