“And how are you feeling this morning, Sesha?” Queen Anat inquires with a glance over her shoulder.
“Very well, my lady.”
“I imagine the last month must have been quite … precarious,” she says. “However did you manage to survive?”
“By the grace of the gods, I suppose.” And by relying on instincts I did not know I possessed. Even now, it is something to shift back into my old manner of being, aligning the Sesha of the past with the new one.
“We had your parents entombed in one of the mastabas,” she says, without preamble. “I thought you might like to visit them soon.”
I suck in a jagged breath at the thought of them lying in one of the Houses for Eternity. “Thank you, My Queen.”
“He was a noble servant to our family,” she says. Then, with another glance over her shoulder, “Tell me, Sesha, how did you and Ky escape the fire?”
Abruptly, I stop walking. That night is still unclear in my mind. The smoke and heat from the flames. The confusion. The fear. Shouts from my mother and father. Swallowing, I become aware our small party has halted, waiting for me. “I am not entirely sure, Your Majesty,” I say. Ky and I slept on the roof. There was a small opening where the smoke from our hearth would escape.
“Perhaps the gods have clouded your mind to spare you the painful memories.” Queen Anat turns and clasps her hands, standing regally before me.
“I remember very little from that night,” I admit. Aside from the vivid detail of the men, men bearing a distinct emblem, running from the house as Ky and I sat perched in the thatch of the neighbour’s roof, coughing, our clothes smouldering, helpless to save our parents. Blinking, I come back to the hallway. The queen is staring at me. My newfound instincts kick in. “In fact, I remember nothing at all.”
“That is probably for the best, my child,” she says, not unkindly. And we continue our walk down to the great chambers.
I follow the queen into the main royal chambers, the room awash with morning chatter. Strong smells of perfumes and incense infuse the air, mingling with the voices. Ahmes stands beside Wujat and Pharaoh on the steps leading up to the royal dais. There is a sharp pain in my gut. My father used to stand there, hearing the physical complaints of the courtiers and servants milling below. The men look up as we enter and the queen goes to stand beside her husband. Taking her hand, he smiles and kisses her cheek.
“Thank you, my dear.”
I stand there, unsure at my summoning, and look to Ahmes, who is holding an intricately painted box. He gives me a slight bow of acknowledgement.
“Sesha,” Pharaoh says. “In honour of the task set before you, I would like to present you with a gift.”
Whatever I am expecting, it isn’t this. Ahmes presents the box to Pharaoh, who holds it aloft.
“Step forward, my child.”
I do as he says, spine straight, eyes locked with his.
“As you begin your studies, I would like to offer this token of our appreciation, in recognition of your quest to seek out the missing scroll. May the gods bless these instruments and may they serve you well.” A shaft of light shines in from the window and hits the rectangular box, illuminating the elaborate designs painted on the wood. I step forward to receive the gift, noting with a sort of detached clarity as my hands reach up that my nails are still ragged and torn and there is grime under the left thumb that I have been unable to scrub away. If Pharaoh notices, he gives no sign, and I bow low, taking the box from his outstretched hands.
“Thank you, My King. I am overwhelmed by the honour.” And I am. Looking down at the familiarly shaped palette in my hands, I know what it will contain. The tools of a scribe.
“Open it,” Pharaoh says.
I oblige, lifting the wooden lid off, breath catching at the beauty of the instruments within. The reeds, polished to a flawless finish, slim and smooth, beckon my fingers to free them from their beds; the brushes perfectly frayed at their tips, ready to swirl through the rich red and inky black minerals packed firm into two depressions in the palette. A delicate roll of blank papyrus lays nestled on the other side of the reeds; expensive and time-consuming to make, this will be saved for recording something special.
I have yet to speak, so engrossed am I in the details of the gift, and I become aware of Wujat clearing his throat in an attempt to hasten my response.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” I stammer. “Your generosity seems to have caused my words to flee.”
“Let us hope these tools help you recapture them permanently,” Pharaoh says in a hearty voice.
I bow low again and the queen gives a commanding clap. She puts her hand on Pharaoh’s offered arm and the pair turn and walk up to take their seats as the talking and music resume. Wujat and Ahmes come to my side.
“I will accompany you to the temple, Sesha,” Wujat says. “There are a few last-minute instructions Pharaoh wishes me to impart.” He turns and walks out the door, white robes swishing. I follow, box clutched tightly under my arm. It, more than anything, reminds me of who I used to be. Of who I still can be.
“May the gods be with you,” Ahmes calls behind me. Glancing over my shoulder at his face, I am taken aback by the expression in his eyes. I hope whatever is concerning Ahmes has naught to do with me. Yet, something tickling against the nape of my neck whispers this is not so.
10
“SESHA, HOW OFTEN DID you frequent the temple with your father?” Wujat asks, striding down the sandy path in front of me.
“Often, Your Holiness.” I had accompanied my father to temple since before my two feet touched the earth.
“You are aware of what classes will be like, yes?” We walk by the women grinding grain for the palace. Their chatter and laughter fills the air, mixing with the citrusy sweet smell of lemongrass tea being brewed in the neighbouring huts.
“I know they are very intensive,” I say, suddenly nervous. Students study the hieratic script for years, working toward mastering thousands of complex hieroglyphs and reproducing them precisely. Thanks to my father’s teachings, which began officially in my third year, I am familiar with most of the general symbols. It is the specific medical terminology I will need to become more familiar with. Not only to become a physician, but also to transcribe the missing surgical scroll as accurately as possible.
If I can find it, that is.
“Yes,” Wujat says, interrupting my thoughts. “Quite intensive. Though from what your father said, I understand you are an excellent student and quite proficient with the glyphs. You will be joining the advanced medical class at the temple.” He casts me a sidelong look. “And will be the only girl, of course.”
Advanced students were in their final year, divided into their respective concentrations. Temple scribes, those who would reside at the palace, census takers, collectors of taxes, recorders of business transactions, and, of course, the medical scribes, many of whom would go on to become doctors and then go out to the communities up and down the Nile and even farther beyond. It is known throughout the lands that the best doctors are trained right here in Thebes.
“The discipline is often harsh,” Wujat continues. Scribes are often struck if they are unable to exactly replicate the intricate hieroglyphs, or too slow in their work. Perhaps that is why our word for “teach,” seba, also means “to beat.” “Your teachers won’t be easy on you because you are female, or because of who your father was. The expectations will be higher, in fact.”
“By Amun’s grace, may I live up to them,” I say, not at all sure of my abilities, but not wanting to give Wujat cause to doubt my finding the scroll.
“From what your father told me, I am sure you will.” A smile relaxes his normally austere face as we round a curve in the path. “He was very proud of you, Sesha.”
I manage a small nod, throat tight.
Clearing it, I hazard a question to Wujat. “You mentioned the priest that shared the scroll with my father recently passed on. What happened to him?”
&
nbsp; “Qar?” Wujat furrows his brow. “Yes, he fell ill not long after your father’s … accident. Most sudden. It’s been a tumultuous month at the temple.”
The building in question looms into view, as big as the palace and equally resplendent. A thrill runs through me at the sight of it. The enormous structure seems to pulse with a life of its own, the heart of the city. And despite the critical task set before me, I cannot help but feel exhilarated to be back in this place, to finish the training that my father started.
But first.
The marketplace spreads out in all directions, like tributaries of the giant river it sits beside. Tents of all different colours — several tattered, many wind-beaten, most fraying around the edges — flutter side by side as merchants and vendors shout to ensnare the attention of anyone walking by. My shoulders automatically hunch and my eyes go to the sandy earth, hoping a good wash and Nebet’s work is enough to disguise me from the always-vigilant eyes of the hawkers.
I know every one of them — which ones to watch out for, ready with their sharp sticks to smack away errant hands, which ones will leave scraps from the day for those who do not have enough to eat. The fruit stand is just ahead, six rows up, three stalls off to the right. Close enough to the path, where I will be visible.
Feigning interest in the grain items at a table just up and over to the left, I step quickly behind Wujat; his lean frame is at least better than nothing, cover-wise. He stops, waiting patiently for me to complete my fake perusing of the stall’s goods. Lucky for me, its vendor, one of the kinder ones, is currently haggling with her neighbour about how many onions are equal to five loaves of bread.
As their negotiations come to a close, I steel myself and turn to follow Wujat up the path with a demure smile and apologetic nod at my stomach. Four rows to go.
Three.
Two.
One.
Already I’ve picked out the nasal tones of the vendor’s wife, high-pitched and as prickly as the desert plant that grows to the south. My shoulders hunch even higher, and I walk on Wujat’s left, trying to stay perfectly in line with his frame. People are aware of him as we pass, and they bow deferentially. The bolder ones vie for his attention, calling out specials reserved only for the esteemed vizier, the fat fruit vendor unfortunately being among them.
“Bring the gods fresh honourings, Your Holiness!” my foul-breathed, would-be assassin cries.
“Not today.” Wujat does not turn his head.
I follow suit, ducking my head lower, not daring to glance even the tiniest sliver to my right. The vendor mutters something under his breath and I hear him continue on in his assault of other customers, wielding his vicious halitosis at liberty.
At last we reach the opening of the temple and my shoulders relax a royal cubit. The air already feels cooler, whisping out of the shade from within the stone walls. Colossal statues guard the entrance and tall, wide pillars reach the sky, inscribed with beautiful artwork and intricate texts.
Wujat removes his fine leather shoes and steps into the small footbath provided at the entrance, washing his soles in purification. I step into another bath, grabbing the pumice beside it, and scrub away at the dirt. At last, feet cleaned, bodies purified by the smoking myrrh waved over us by junior priests, we bow to the golden bust of Osiris and enter the inner recesses of the temple. More towering columns line the hallways, circular and massive; several paths lead off in different directions.
My flesh prickles; the scroll is hidden here somewhere, I can feel it. Like last night in the palace, it takes all my restraint not to run through the temple, not in fear this time, but in a frenzied hunt for the document. We walk down the path to our left and end up in an enormous room, a circular maze with concentric waist-high walls, rings that decrease in circumference as they lead into the centre where a large flood of light streams in through the triangular opening at the top of the temple. It brightens the whole space, bouncing off strategically placed copper mirrors, illuminating all corners of the room.
“May the gods of good fortune be with you, Sesha,” Wujat murmurs as an officiant wearing a gleaming gold necklace strides over. I recognize him as the High Priest who succeeded my father, who had succeeded Wujat himself. “And remember, complete discretion is probably best with regards to your … inquiry.”
“Your Holiness.” The officiant bows as he approaches. His nose is large, perhaps in an attempt to remain in proportion with his giant head, which bears a large brown mark exposed by his lack of hair, all of it having been plucked from his body, as is the custom.
“Nebifu,” Wujat says, nodding. “How are things, here?”
“All is well. To what do we owe such an honour as to have the Great Wujat visit us himself so frequently this moon?” Nebifu lifts an invisible brow. There is something in the tilt of his chin, not quite impertinence, but something …
“I bring you a new student, final year.” Wujat nods at me.
“Classes are full.” Nebifu barely spares me a glance down his mammoth proboscis. Perhaps there is a tumour in there somewhere. “Besides, we are halfway through the session. He will be behind. Wait until the harvest season, when we begin anew.”
“She will start now,” Wujat says, voice firm. “I think you know Sesha, Daughter of Ay, Great Healer of the Land and former Chief Scribe and Priest.”
Nebifu bristles, recognition laced with disdain. “A girl?”
“Does that matter?” I finally find my voice. Though the feminine is typically embraced and celebrated in our culture, there are some who hold it in contempt. Father never liked Nebifu, and I suppose his distaste for the man has rubbed off on me, though he was never overt about his criticisms.
Nebifu glares at me and I lower my eyes; my outburst is severely out of turn. Whip worthy, in fact.
Wujat attempts to smooth the tension. “I am sure you will find Sesha quite a diligent student. From what I hear, the girl is already an exceptional healer.”
Nebifu harrumphs. “No special treatment will be given. If her knowledge is insufficient, her teachers will let me know. We do not have space for those who are unable to keep up.”
Clutching my writing instruments close to my chest prevents me from dropping them onto the ground, my hands from curling into small, but surprisingly accurate, fists. If I were a boy, you can be sure special treatment would indeed be given.
I open my mouth, which has been functioning more and more of late with a will of its own.
Wujat sends me a sharp look, effectively binding the words about to break free. “Perfectly understandable.” He turns to me, gesturing to a narrow lane leading through the concentric circles into the centre of the temple. Other junior scribes sit cross-legged around their teacher, who is etching out hieroglyphs on the dusty floor. “Go on then, Sesha. Join your classmates.”
Gulping down deep breaths of myrrh-saturated air, I walk toward the group basked in Ra’s light, blinking my eyes to adjust to the increasing brightness. As I near them, several faces turn to look at me, expressions ranging from open curiosity to deep suspicion, causing my stomach to curl in on itself.
And just like that, here I go.
11
“WHO HERE CAN TELL ME THE proper treatment for involuntary loosening of the bowels?” the scribe asks, voice commanding.
“The gum of the acacia tree,” I blurt automatically, then blush. Nobody likes an outsider with all the answers. But it is too late. The scribe turns to me and the remaining heads that have not swivelled at my approach do so now.
“Can you explain in what way?” the scribe says. With his bald head, he looks similar to Nebifu, though he lacks the birthmark and his nose is not quite as offensive. He is also much heavier. Evidently he likes to help the gods consume any leftover food offerings.
“It is, uh, often mixed with bubbling water to form a thick solution and acts as a soothing coating to the insides when swallowed.” I try my best not to stammer.
“What are its other uses?” he demands, r
ound cheeks puffing out.
“Treatment for bleeding gums and other oral disorders, maladies of the throat, open wounds, eye sores, and a salve for lesions in and around a person’s, um, anus, Sebau.” I use our formal address for teacher.
He turns at the snickers, eyes homing in on a tall student with hair a few shades darker than the wheat in the fields. “Is there anything you can add to this, Paser?”
The boy he addresses straightens, eyes going from his clay tablet to the scribe. “Yes. These lesions can be most uncomfortable, Sebau.” He scratches his backside for emphasis. The other students laugh and the scribe’s sigh is forceful enough to huff out a torch.
“Take your food now,” he says and the boys scatter. He turns to me. Briefly, I wish for the quiet authority of Wujat over my shoulder. “What is your name?”
“Sesha.” I leave out my formal title. He will find out who my father is soon enough.
He peers closely at me. “I recognize you. Ay’s daughter.”
I acknowledge this with a small nod. Sooner than I thought.
“Tell me, Daughter of Ay, are you also aware of the proper incantation to go with the administering of the acacia?”
“It depends on the reason for which it is being administered.”
“Let us assume it is an oral malady.”
“An ailment with which one shall contend?”
“Yes, yes.” He is impatient. Everyone knows the incantations for an ailment not to be treated: a blessing for the patient to go as quickly and painlessly as possible to the afterlife. Which, unfortunately, is a real possibility with oral cases, especially if one does not use their chewing stick at least twice a day.
The Lost Scroll of the Physician Page 5
