The Mazes of Magic (Conjurer of Rhodes Book 1) Read online

  The Mazes of Magic

  A Conjurer of Rhodes, Book 1

  Jack Massa

  Published by

  Triskelion Books

  www.triskelionbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The Mazes of Magic

  Copyright © 2018 by Jack Massa

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any means now known or hereinafter invented, electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Ebook Edition published December 27, 2018

  Cover design by Mirna Gilman, BooksGoSocial.

  Dedication

  In Memoriam

  Kathryn Fernquist Hinds

  priestess, author, poet, scholar, friend

  “worthy vessel of the Goddess”

  #InHerName

  …It was only in these temple societies that the indigenous Egyptian upper class still survived; they remained the principal centres of the national civilization and script and craftsmanship, enabling the … traditions of Egypt to resist obliteration, and remain largely independent of the imported Greek culture. These survivals were encouraged by the Ptolemies …

  - Michael Grant

  From Alexander to Cleopatra,

  The Hellenistic World

  The gods take many shapes,

  And bring forth many fates.

  What men expected did not come,

  Instead the will of the god was done

  In a way no man expected.

  And that is the lesson of the play.

  - Euripides, The Bacchae

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Excerpt from The Lights of Alexandria A Conjurer of Rhodes, Book 2

  Afterword

  Prologue

  He had died once. He knew that much for certain.

  He had wandered the shore of the River Styx, but for some reason not crossed over. Instead, he had returned to the mortal world—he knew not how or why.

  Whole segments of his memory from that time were lost, or else scattered in fragments that made no sense, sharp fragments that cut at him like broken glass. His mind must have been damaged on that journey back from the Underworld.

  The heat was stifling. How long had he been trapped in this cell with its dusty brick and searing black iron? He drank the water they gave him, but seldom touched the food. Better to starve, he had decided, than live a moment longer than he must in this place, this slave yard.

  How had he become a slave?

  Each effort to force himself to remember brought dizziness and headache, his mind swirling down into whirlpools of bewilderment and fear. Madness. He flailed like a drowning man, desperate to remember who he was.

  Now he stood at the tiny window, staring through the black grate at the sun hovering on the horizon.

  Helios, Lord of the Sun. Patron deity of Rhodes.

  Yes, he was a Greek, from the island of Rhodes. Korax was his name, Korax son of Leontes. Those memories were clear enough. He had grown up in a prosperous merchant family, studied at the finest school in Rhodos, the island’s capital city. Like all male citizens of Rhodes, he had spent his seventeenth summer at the oars of a galley, training to serve in the navy. He had been brave, reckless, full of life, passionate about theater and music. He sang and played the lyre.

  Indeed, in one of his last memories he was practicing to play at a festival. But something about that night was different. As the dizziness welled in his brain, he fought to remember. He saw his fingers attacking the strings, evoking music that was wild, exquisite, but not his own.

  Divine music.

  Yes … Outlandish, fearful, yet he knew it to be true.

  That night, he was possessed by a god.

  Chapter One

  The disk of the sun blazed at the top of the sky. Merciless heat radiated down on white walls and dusty streets. It was late summer, the hottest time of year on the Delta.

  Nebrus the slave seller sat in the shade of an awning at the front of his warehouse. Cringing from the heat, he squinted along the thoroughfare—all but deserted this time of the day. Nebrus himself would have preferred to be taking his ease in the cool of his garden, sipping well water beside the lotus pool or dallying with one of his concubines.

  But today an important customer was calling.

  Why certain temple dignitaries insisted on conducting business in the heat of the afternoon was a mystery. Perhaps they wished to show their contempt for physical discomfort, to impress the populace with their mystical vigor. Nebrus snorted. Who was there to impress when the streets were empty because all sensible people had fled to the nearest shade?

  Whole cadres of priests and temple functionaries were passing through town these days—returning to their cities upriver after the annual Synod in Alexandria. Mostly they were grim and sour men, disaffected with their lot and the state of the country.

  Nebrus understood why. For many generations the priestly caste had controlled enormous wealth and power in Egypt. But all of that had changed with the coming of the Greeks. Alexander, called the Great, had won possession of the land from the Persian Empire. On Alexander’s death, the Macedonian general Ptolemy had made himself King of Egypt—and had promptly confiscated most of the arable land in the Nile Valley. His son, the present Ptolemy II, had gone even further, establishing a royal monopoly on almost all manufacture and trade. To be sure, the temples still administered vast holdings, but now they did so at the pleasure of the king—and paid him heavy taxes in grain, oil, and coin for the privilege. In just over a generation, the Greeks had overhauled the whole economy of Egypt. Nebrus’ own city, Zau, was just one example. The town had been a prosperous temple center when the Greeks still lived in huts. Now it was a backwater, like all the old cities of the Delta. All riches now flowed northwest to Ptolemy’s splendid capital at Alexandria.

  A movement of traffic around a nearby corner interrupted the slave seller’s musings. A train of men in white garments and white sandals appeared, marching in slow procession to the beat of tambourines and drums. Muscular porters in white kilts carried a gilded litter in the shape of a sacred boat.

  Nebrus climbed to his feet, leaning on a staff. He shouted to Nacht his clerk that the customer had arrived. He waited until the parade had stopped in front of his awning before venturing out into the sun.

  The priests and their subalterns nodded to him in formal greeting. The younger men carried va
rious parcels and satchels and wore plain black wigs to protect their shaven heads from the sun. The elders wore elaborate plaited wigs, along with amulets, sashes, and pectoral collars that indicated their office and rank.

  A herald tapped his painted wand three times on the hard-packed ground. “I present his Excellency Harnouphis, second servant of Ptah in his Mansion at Mem-Nephir, Superintendent of Inventories and Records, Minister of the God’s Accounts and Correspondences.”

  Nebrus bowed, eyes to the ground. Harnouphis’ office placed him near the summit of power at one of the greatest temples in Egypt. More importantly, he administered most of the temple’s wealth.

  Attendants parted the gauzy curtains of the litter, and Harnouphis stepped from his cushioned seat. He was a short, broadly-built man of perhaps forty, dressed in exquisite gowns of white linen trimmed in gold. He moved with the alacrity of a much younger man and smiled with the practiced friendliness of a politician.

  “Nebrus, my old friend. How have you been this past year?”

  “Well, by the will of the gods, your Excellency. You do me great honor to greet me thus. May I offer you and your entourage the poor comfort of my garden?”

  Harnouphis clasped the slave seller’s hand vigorously. “Your hospitality does you credit in the eyes of Ptah. Regrettably, our time is short, so I must beg your forgiveness and ask that we proceed immediately to business.”

  Nebrus kept his countenance neutral but inwardly smiled with relief. “Of course, my honored guest. In what ways can my humble establishment assist the servants of Ptah?”

  Harnouphis cast a sidewise glance at one of his subalterns, who took a step forward. “My chief scribe, Mehen.”

  Mehen, a long-faced and solemn man, drew a papyrus sheet from his beaded satchel. “The Mansion of the Spirit of Ptah has need of gardeners, two; porters and doorkeepers, five; kitchen slaves, one or two, especially if skilled in cooking or baking. In addition, we have pressing need for scribes or any man who can be trained in the reading and writing of Greek script.”

  “That last is a most urgent requirement,” Harnouphis commented. “Pharaoh—May he live a thousand years—has decreed that henceforth all our letters and reports be scribed in the Greek.”

  “An onerous burden indeed!” Nebrus responded with wide-eyed sympathy. “I am certain my shop can supply the temple’s needs in the first three categories. And now that I think of it, I also have one man that might be suitable as a scribe.”

  Nebrus led the high priest and his assistants through the gates of his warehouse. The clerk Nacht awaited them at the edge of a broad, dusty courtyard. Iron grates set along the brick walls enclosed scores of cells, most of them occupied by slaves awaiting purchase. A few stunted palms cast the only feeble shade.

  For the next half-hour, Nebrus displayed his wares to Harnouphis and his entourage. Slaves were summoned from their cells, examined, prodded, questioned about their origins and abilities. Offers were made, prices quietly haggled over. Nebrus closed the sale of six men and a kitchen maid. He began to regard the time spent in the brutal heat as a worthwhile investment.

  “You mentioned one who might serve as a scribe.” Mehen reminded him.

  “Oh, yes. This way if you please.”

  Nebrus conducted the party to an isolated cell in a far corner of the yard. Inside the cell, the slave lay on a bed of straw, his face to the back wall.

  “This one is a Greek. My colleagues in Alexandria had high hopes for him—educated and a musician, they said. But, for whatever reason, he did not sell there. They sent him on to me after only a short time.”

  “What is he called?” Harnouphis asked.

  “I don’t know, some Greek name. I’m sure we have it in our records. Nacht, get him to stand up.”

  The clerk called out to the slave in koine, the common Greek dialect: “You there! Stand.”

  The slave shifted his shoulders but did not rise.

  Nebrus sighed. “He’s given up, you see. Certain types simply cannot abide the life of a slave. They refuse all food and simply wait to die. Sorrows are many under the Eye of Ra.” He made a pious gesture. Then he poked his staff through the grate and prodded the slave roughly.

  The slave jumped up, put his back to the wall and glared. Dressed in a grimy loincloth, he stood bony as a beggar, ribcage rising with his breath. His unwashed black hair hung long and tangled. The patchiness of his beard showed that he had not yet reached full manhood.

  Mehen gazed at the slave with repugnance, but Harnouphis studied him with keen interest.

  “You say he can read and write?”

  “Oh, don’t be fooled by his wretched appearance,” Nebrus answered. “I was assured that he is well-bred and educated.”

  “Mehen,” Harnouphis addressed the scribe. “Ask him if he can read.”

  Mehen cleared his throat and spoke to the slave in koine. “Young man, we are told you can read and write the Greek. Is this so?”

  * * * * *

  Korax stared through the iron grid at the Egyptians. He only wanted to be left alone, to return to the peaceful half-dream where he could almost ignore his misery.

  The Egyptian with the satchel spoke again: “Young man, did you understand my question?”

  But it was the other one, the elder in the splendid wig and gold-bordered gown who seized the Greek’s attention. That one’s eyes seemed to bore into him, to examine the very marrow of his bones.

  Korax glared back defiantly.

  After a few moments the elder shrugged, said something in Egyptian, and turned away. The others moved to follow.

  Korax sucked in a breath, seized by panic. Some inner spirit prodded his wits: an irreplaceable chance was about to be lost.

  “Yes,” he rasped from a dry throat. “I can read and write. Quite well, in fact.”

  The Egyptians paused. The lavishly-dressed elder said something to his assistant, who took a papyrus sheet from his satchel and handed it through the grate.

  “Tell me what is on this page.”

  Korax stepped forward and took the sheet from the man’s hand. The shapes of inked letters brought sharper clarity to his mind. How long since he had seen a page of writing? No matter. He read it with ease and spoke with calm assurance. “The upper half is a script I do not know … But I seem to think it is Egyptian? The lower half is Greek. It is an inventory: items received into the storehouses of the Temple of Hephaestus in Memphis on the Nile; in the month of Hekatombaion, in the ninth year of the Reign of Ptolemy II. Barley, 530 bushels. Wheat, 260 bushels. Flaxseed oil, 47 jars. Shall I continue?”

  “No. That is sufficient. And you can write as well?”

  He had to think a moment, but answered, “Of course.”

  The assistant took back the papyrus, rolled it deftly, and placed it in his satchel. He said something to his master, who again fixed the young Greek with a penetrating gaze. The Egyptians conversed among themselves. After a few moments they strolled away, still chatting.

  Korax collapsed against the grate. The sun-heated iron burned his forehead. He let it rest there until the pain grew unbearable. Then he slumped back to the straw bed and lay down.

  What did it mean? Would the wealthy Egyptian buy him, make him a scribe? At least that would remove him from this cursed cell that was like an oven. But to spend the rest of his days as a slave? Unthinkable!

  Sometime later the slave seller’s clerk came and unlocked the cell with an iron key. “Up with you, Greek. You’re a fortunate man. You’ve just been sold to the priests of Memphis.”

  * * * * *

  Korax followed the clerk through the courtyard and out into the street. Inside him, wariness and fear competed with a dull curiosity. What might the Fates have in store for him now?

  Priests and attendants, all dressed in white, stood before a gold litter chair. Nebrus the slave seller was bowing and bidding them farewell. An overseer with a brass-fitted baton motioned Korax to a place behind the litter, where the other newly-purchased slaves
stood. A drum started beating, and the litter chair was lifted up on the shoulders of porters. The priests departed in a measured walk. Herded by the overseer, Korax and his fellow slaves fell into step at the rear of the procession.

  They marched through the streets and arrived at a high-walled temple by the river. The priests and their subalterns proceeded through the pylon gates. The overseer directed the slaves along the muddy riverbank to a small gatehouse at the rear of the enclosure. They entered an area of courtyards, storehouses, and outbuildings, shaded in places by palms and sycamores. The new slaves were taken to a pool, stripped, and herded into the water.

  Korax had a few moments to enjoy the cool bath. Then an attendant came and roughly scrubbed him down. His nails were clipped and his mouth rinsed out with a solution of salty water. He was led to a bench beside the pool, where a barber shaved his head and anointed him with oil. Along with the other slaves he was given a loose, sleeveless tunic with shoulder straps and a pair of straw sandals.

  Next, the slaves were ushered to a barrack beside the donkey stables. Straw mats lined the plaster walls. The slaves were directed to sit and rest. A while later, they were fed—platters of barley bread with lettuce and tumblers of beer.

  Korax found himself a place in the corner, away from the other slaves. He watched them gobble their meals, but stared at his own plate with grim indecision. The urges of his belly warred with his lingering resolve, his determination to escape this life by starving.

  But the events of this day had opened a new path. Perhaps it would lead him back to full possession of his mind and memory—perhaps even to freedom. It seemed foolish not try that path, to at least see where it led. Hesitantly, he nibbled a piece of crust, then washed it down with a swig of the thick, bitter beer.

  His stomach churned, then settled. Soon he was eating and drinking eagerly. He finished everything then stretched out on his mat, enjoying the unfamiliar sensations of a full belly and clean, oiled skin.