The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1)

by Jack Massa

  Osiris now sends me an ally

  Ptah endows me with one to command

  Over and over, Korax repeated these verses, until the fire had burned down to ashes. Then he lay down, flat on his back, arms flung wide, and turned his face to the burning sun.

  Eyes closed, he waited.

  Time passed. The sun seared the unprotected skin of his face and feet. According to the book, his ally should now appear at any moment.

  But Korax experienced no divine illumination, no voice or inner message, no sign.

  In the late afternoon, he finally admitted failure. Head throbbing, weak from hunger and fatigue, he cleaned up the remnants of the ceremony. He carried the implements down the ladder and stored them away. He spread ointment on his sunburned skin, then went and ate some supper.

  Returning to his quarters at twilight, he reread the book. Had he done something wrong? Or did he simply lack sufficient ability? He judged the latter more likely but could not tell for sure.

  Gloomy and forlorn, he extinguished the lamp and went to bed.

  * * * * *

  He had only just drifted off when a noise woke him—the cry of a bird close by. Startled, he bounded from his bed and gazed out at the small terrace. An ibis had landed there, a water bird strayed from its usual haunts. The bird stared directly at him and arched its wings in the glimmering moonlight.

  Korax whirled, sensing something behind him.

  In his room stood a being, pale and translucent as the moonglow. Korax blinked deliberately, but the spirit remained—tall and angular, ibis-headed.

  Korax seized hold of his courage. “What are you?”

  “Don’t you know? You called me.” The voice rolled deep and powerful as the river, yet carried a hint of mirth like froth on the surface.

  “I summoned a magical ally. But you appear to be Thoth, the god of scribes and magicians.”

  “So you do know me. I am relieved.”

  “I am not,” Korax replied. “I have been troubled with madness in my time, and now I do not trust what I see. Are you saying you are my ally?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “But—I am an untutored neophyte. How can I merit the Lord of All Magic as ally?”

  “I am surprised myself, yet here I am.” Thoth spread his long, long arms as if to demonstrate the fact.

  Korax stared, a dawning elation warring with awe and distrust. Thoth was the great god of magic, the founder of all the mental arts. The Greeks identified him with Hermes, but Korax knew him to be—like all Egyptian gods—more mysterious and elemental than the corresponding Greek deity.

  Thoth said: “An aspirant attracts an ally according to his ability and the tasks set before him by fate. I would conjecture that you have significant talent—and also a difficult path ahead.”

  Korax touched fingers to his sunburned cheek. “If you are really my ally, then you must assist me to manifest my will.”

  The ibis-head nodded. “That is my role. What is your will?”

  “To free myself,” Korax asserted. “My master Harnouphis uses me for evil purposes, then steals the memories. I must escape his control.”

  “I expect that can be done.”

  “And there is more,” Korax said with rising excitement. “I wish to leave this place, go home to Rhodes, regain my former life.”

  “Ah.” Thoth seemed amused. “But in the ceremony to call a magical ally, did you not sacrifice the edifice of your former life?”

  Korax was struck dumb. How could he have missed so obvious a pitfall? He had trapped himself by the very ritual he hoped would set him free.

  “I see your point,” he muttered. “Indeed, I have been a monstrous fool.”

  Thoth’s exhalation sounded like a laugh. “Oh, you are very young. Do not look so crestfallen. The sacrifice must have been successful, or else I would not be here. Now the way is open to you.”

  “I do not understand you. What way do you mean, if I cannot restore my former life?”

  “That depends on your will. The river has risen and fallen more than once since you left your island. Much may have changed there. More importantly, you have changed—by your study and practice of the sacred arts. The truth of it is, you cannot return to your past, but you can choose your future.”

  Hope rekindled in his heart. “So then, you can help me to escape from Memphis? To return to the Greek world?”

  “If that is your will.”

  “Excellent! I will need a plan for leaving the temple, sufficient coin to pay my expenses, spells to avoid recapture.”

  “You have thought the problem through. That is promising.”

  “Yes. How long? How long, do you suppose, before I can leave?”

  “Well, that depends on you—how hard you are willing to work, how quickly you can learn. I can see you are adept at learning. If you are willing to apply yourself, I think a month should be sufficient. Yes, the next full moon, when the tides of energy once more run high.”

  How wonderful! A month and he could be free. But even as the prize seemed in reach, another doubt dragged him back. “I have one other concern. I believe the Goddess Isis guides me, and that she has some service she will require of me. Perhaps finding you as my ally is part of her plan—No doubt it is. Yet I feel there must be more to it.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Thoth answered. “If Isis has a task for you, you can be sure she will let you know.”

  * * * * *

  “I warned you this day would come. I’ve voiced the warning for many years.”

  Imouthes’ pronouncement somehow conveyed both smug satisfaction and fearful dismay. Harnouphis’ scorn for the man had crystallized into a perfect loathing.

  All morning the first servants had listened with mounting alarm to the reports of assessors from their widespread estates. With the harvest due to begin in less than a month, the forecast was even worse than expected. Now, they had convened in the sanctuary to discuss the dire ramifications. The only one missing was Amasis, whose duties at the mummification rites of both Neksapthis and Paramses still required him constantly in the underground.

  Harnouphis’ glance darted from one solemn face to another. His countenance remained neutral, masking the contempt he felt for every one of these men.

  “I see no cause for panic,” Peherenptah the Sem-priest maintained. “Granted the harvest looks weak, but not so weak as to indicate wide-spread starvation.”

  “You underestimate the problem,” Shepseskaf answered with unmitigated gloom. “If we pay Pharaoh his full grain quota, it will result in such shortages as will cause food riots across the region. If we convince him to accept a lesser portion, so enough remains to feed the peasants, Pharaoh will demand increased taxes on our pressed oil and manufactured goods—which in turn will drive us deeper into debt.”

  Frowning, Peherenptah scratched the skin beneath his wig. “Do you agree Harnouphis?”

  Harnouphis sat expressionless on his throne. “Brother Shepseskaf’s assessment matches my own.”

  “You see?” the volatile Imouthes cried. “After years of being rescued by bountiful harvests, we’ve arrived at the place I’ve predicted all along: bankruptcy.”

  “You predicted it all along,” Shepseskaf chided, “but never offered a practical solution, only illusory fantasies of rebellion.”

  Imouthes bolted to his feet. “Your implications are insufferable! At least I had the courage to warn where we were headed, where we were being led by do-nothings of your ilk!”

  “Brothers!” Peherenptah shouted. “This bickering gains us nothing. Please sit down, Imouthes.” He waited for the First Warrior of Ptah to comply. “It appears we are at a point of crisis. We can either pay the full grain tax and risk an uprising, or withhold a portion for the peasants and risk Pharaoh’s wrath. Harnouphis, you have dealt with Ptolemy’s ministers more than any of us. What is your recommendation?”

  “Perhaps we should prepare for both eventualities.”

  “H
ow do you mean?” the Sem-priest asked.

  “I suggest we withhold a percentage of the tax quota in our granaries—enough to stave off famine. By the time the auditors’ reports reach Alexandria, the Synod will have convened. There we can explain our reasons and leave the next step to Ptolemy. If he wants his full share of the grain, he can send troops to seize it. Then, if there are riots, at least his soldiers will be here to bear the brunt of putting them down.”

  In the silence, Peherenptah scanned the faces of the others, then nodded thoughtfully.

  “Of course,” Harnouphis added, “this will also allow time for our chief steward’s men to transfer the temple’s grain allotment to our own cellars.”

  “So even if the peasants starve,” Shepseskaf observed, “our own bread will be assured. A rather cold-blooded plan, I must say.”

  “I disagree,” Harnouphis answered quietly. “Merely realistic.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The temple treasury stood in a central courtyard not far from the House of Records. Unlike the surrounding offices of brick and plaster, the treasury was built of granite blocks—sure to prevent thieves from digging through the walls. In his time at the temple, Korax had passed the building often, but had never gone inside. Now, called from his work in the scriptorium at midday, he approached the entrance in the company of a treasury clerk.

  Eight days had passed since his calling of Thoth. The presence of a magical ally had opened whole new channels of power in him. Inspired by the god, he had begun new exercises to summon and direct the power, and to write the spells and chants he would use in his grand undertaking, his journey out of Egypt. Now, for the first time since acquiring his ally, he would face Harnouphis. He knew he must hide his awakened capacity. At the same time, he was determined to shield his mind, protect his soul from further defilement. Inwardly, he spoke a charm:

  The strength of Sekhet is in my heart

  My vision is clear in the Eye of Horus

  My secrets are hidden from my enemy

  Two sentries guarded the broad, iron-ribbed door, burly men in kilts with short-swords hanging from their hips. They crossed their spears to bar the way, staring belligerently at Korax.

  “He is Seshsetem,” the clerk explained, “the scribe the chief treasurer sent for.”

  The guards looked him over, committing his face and name to memory, Korax realized. They uncrossed their spears without a word. One of them turned and unlocked the door with an iron key from his belt.

  When the heavy door clattered shut behind them, darkness engulfed the long hallway, penetrated only by dim gray light at the opposite end. Along the corridor, they passed closed doors, which Korax imagined must lead to treasure vaults. At the far end of the hall, they stepped into a counting room. Daylight filtered in through narrow windows set near the ceiling and protected with iron bars. Clerks sat on mats at low tables, tallying piles of coins and recording the amounts.

  Here was the money he needed—the thought flashed in Korax’s brain. His summons here was no accident. It was his magic working, the gods revealing his way.

  “Come along,” the clerk prodded, as Korax had paused unwittingly to scrutinize the money tables.

  Harnouphis awaited them in his office, a spacious chamber full of fine furniture and cluttered with gold and silver vessels. Broad windows admitted ample daylight, though they also were sealed by iron bars set in the masonry. Murals adorned the walls, depicting pharaohs, high priests, and gods presenting each other with boxes of treasure. Korax suspected the chamber must contain a secret entrance for convenience sake. But if so, the portal was well disguised by the wall paintings. Or perhaps a trap door was concealed under one of the opulent carpets.

  “We have much work today.” Harnouphis was already mixing drops of oil into an alabaster bowl. “I wish to know what you foresee regarding the harvest yields at each of the temple’s estates.”

  Warily, Korax sat down in the place indicated. Avoiding the high priest’s eyes, he continued to repeat the inner charm. His mind was his own, his powers hidden.

  The high priest set the scrying bowl on the table. The clerk sat nearby with palette and papyrus, ready to record the prognostications. Korax took a deep breath. He dutifully stared at Harnouphis’ eyes. But he kept his mind in focus, ignored the priest’s chanting, and brought himself into the receptive state for scrying.

  Throughout the afternoon, Korax gazed into the bowl and described his visions. Harnouphis questioned him exhaustively regarding each crop at each farm and plantation. The yield of emmer from the temple’s fields at Narm-atep would come in one tenth below the assessors’ forecasts. The yield of barley would be one third lower.

  When the harvest forecasts were finally complete, Harnouphis asked for more general predictions. What events could be seen surrounding the granaries in the months following the harvest? What about the Synod in Alexandria?

  Dark and violent visions stirred themselves in response to the first question. Korax saw riots unfolding, mobs rampaging through the streets of towns and villages, troops of cavalry riding them down. But in Alexandria, the outlook was sunnier. Harnouphis, bedecked in ceremonial regalia, spoke convincingly with priests from other temples and made winning appeals to Pharaoh’s officials. Always, at his shoulder, hovered a shadowy figure, a tall, lean god with the black head of a nameless beast.

  At last, the surface of the scrying bowl lay still. Harnouphis stared at it contemplatively. Korax watched him, and for a moment the two locked eyes.

  Then Harnouphis blinked and rose from his chair. He waved a hand, muttered a spell, and commanded Korax to forget all that he had seen.

  Korax blinked and pretended to come out of trance. As he crossed the counting room and passed down the dim corridor, he reflected on what he had seen—satisfying himself that he remembered every detail.

  His vision was clear in the Eye of Horus.

  * * * * *

  Deliberately, Harnouphis closed the doors of the shrine to Set and turned the key in the lock. Brow furrowed, he walked across his study to the curtained doorway. Mehen awaited him in the antechamber, seated on a stool, stiff and erect. Harnouphis gestured for him to enter.

  Harnouphis poured two tumblers of wine and set them on the ebony table. By the time Mehen sat down, the high priest had already drained his cup and was pouring again. Mehen said nothing, only waited with somber countenance.

  “Lord Set confirms the forecasts and predictions,” Harnouphis said, tracing a finger over the rim of his cup. “We stand on the verge of tumultuous days. There will be famine and violence in Egypt. To a degree, the current structures may be broken and swept away.” A ravenous light burned in his eyes. “Such times cast aside the weak and cowardly. But they can lift strong men to undreamt heights. You and I, Mehen, can rise on the crest of the flood—if we have the will and courage.”

  His fervor touched a spark in the dry tinder of Mehen’s soul. “What must we do?”

  “Lord Set has gifted me with a vision. What I am about to confide, you absolutely must not repeat.”

  Mehen replied with a wounded tone. “Does your Excellency doubt that I am trustworthy?”

  Harnouphis’ stare made the scribe shift uncomfortably. “I know you would never betray me, Mehen. You would not dare. I speak only to reiterate the need for utter secrecy, for the steps I mean us to take are both daring and dangerous.” Harnouphis took another swallow. “The Inner Circle has agreed to my suggestion that we withhold a portion of Pharaoh’s grain. I am to explain our reasons and plead our case at the Synod. Set has promised to bend the events in Alexandria to our advantage. But they will go to our advantage, not that of the Inner Circle.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Harnouphis shook his head. “Ptolemy and his sister will never stand for less than the full allotment. They will send soldiers to claim the rest. But I have friends among the king’s ministers and advisors, men I have cultivated for years. I will convince them that the Inner Circle is plot
ting against Pharaoh, working to stir up rebellion. I will offer to expose the traitors and show where they have hidden the stores of grain. In exchange, I will ask that Pharaoh, by his divine authority, abolish the Inner Circle and appoint me supreme cleric of the temple.”

  Harnouphis paused to gauge the scribe’s reaction. A faint, avid smile lifted the corners of Mehen’s mouth.

  “Think of it, Mehen. I shall return to Mem-Nephir with an army. At last, we will sweep away this corrupt, stagnant priesthood and establish a new temple—one capable of reasserting the honor of our land and our ancient gods, all of our gods. I shall lead this new order and you, as always, will be my lieutenant, my loyal and able right hand.”

  “What must I do to assist you?” Mehen cried. “Command me, and I will do it.”

  “I will need you here while I am in Alexandria, to keep me apprised of events and to prepare the ground for my return. There might be rumors I want you to plant, documents to prepare to incriminate certain men. We will plan the details carefully between now and the Synod.”

  Mehen nodded. For the first time, he sipped from his cup.

  Harnouphis drained his tumbler. “There is one other task. I would not dare any of this without the assurance of the god’s aid. But, as always, his power comes with a price. He is no longer content with the sacrifices we offer each moon. In exchange for his help, Set requires that his cult be reestablished in its original, archaic form.”

  Mehen responded with a note of worry: “What does that imply?”

  “He demands a human life.”

  Mehen’s long face turned pale.

  “Many will die in the violence ahead,” Harnouphis asserted. “What is the sacrifice of one life balanced against the good we will forge? With us in control of the temple, and Set’s strength behind us, Mem-Nephir will no longer have to grovel to Pharaoh. We will establish a new balance of power between Egyptian and Greek, to the benefit of our gods and our people. But to accomplish all this, we must act now with ruthless courage. Our duty requires it.” Harnouphis gazed resolutely. “I will not shirk my duty.”