The new Apis eats twice what the old one did. A sign of great vigour, surely.
Ptah is pleased with you. So is the Apis, in his way: he snorted at you.
The Apis sends his regards. Well, he snorted in your direction.
When the Apis dies, all Memphis mourns him seventy days. Then we find the next one. Black, white triangle, scarab under the tongue. It takes a while.
Old Pashed, who keeps the dead bulls down in the Serapeum, sends word that men in red have been digging under the coffins. Red bulls up here, dead bulls down there. Somebody wants Ptah's bulls.
Head down, horns forward. Not you. The bull. Well, you too.
