“That is a start.” There are over seven hundred of them. “Any hieratic?” This is the cursive script that allows one to write quickly, without needing to etch out the time-consuming hieroglyphs.
“No.”
“If I may ask, Your Majesty, why do you wish to read and write? This will help me to direct your studies.”
“It is a useful skill,” she says. “Many royal women are well versed in mdju netjer, the words of the gods.”
“And?” I prompt, sensing more.
She shrugs and turns to one of the windows. “I have words inside me that I wish to record. So many that if I do not get them down, I fear they will be lost forever.”
“Your Highness is a poet?” I try not to smile.
“Something of the sort.”
“Then we will start with some basic hieratic scripts,” I say, picking up one of the reed brushes. “Now, if Your Majesty will take a seat?”
13
I RETURN TO THE HANDMAIDENS’ chambers, exhausted, but satisfied at how the lesson went. Merat is a quick learner with a good hand, and she dropped some of her cool reserve as the lesson went on. Despite my protests, she made me take one of the priceless scrolls with me, amplifying my guilt at suspecting her motivations. After a month of trusting no one but Ky, it is a difficult habit to shake, and one I’m not sure I should.
The room is dark, though a slice of moonlight shines in through the windows. I make my way to my bed, slipping the scroll into the box at the head of my mat, meant for each maiden’s personal possessions. It is the lone item. Bebi, like everyone else, is sleeping, soft snores escaping with each breath.
I go to wash, pouring water from one of the earthen jugs onto a piece of linen and scrubbing my face. On the way back to my mat a muffled noise comes from off to my left. I recognize the sound, having made it often this past month: the choking back of sobs, meant for no one’s ears.
I hesitate at the bed. “Are you you all right?” I say softly.
The girl sits up, baleful black eyes peering at me under messy hair and flushed cheeks. “Go away, Weasel.” It is Kewat, the older girl whose disdain for me yesterday was palpable. It is no less so this evening.
I stiffen. “My apologies, I only thought that you were ill.”
“Something I ate,” she mutters, brushing a piece of hair back from her face.
“Ask one of the cooks to prepare you an infusion of mint and ginger in warm water. It has a calming effect on indigestion.”
She snorts scornfully and I continue walking to my bed, momentarily regretting not giving her the recipe for loosening of the bowels instead.
“Don’t mind her, Sesha,” Bebi says sleepily, rolling over onto her side. “She has been most ill-humoured of late, since discovering she may be with child.”
Surprised, I look back at Kewat but she has rolled over on her side, her back facing me. “Who is the father?”
“I do not know. Nor even if she is, indeed, expecting. However, I do believe she is late in her courses.”
“If so, may Bes watch over her and the babe,” I murmur, naming a protective god of the family, especially women and children. Climbing under my blanket, I close my eyes, the day’s events replaying in my mind: attending temple, strategizing my search, Merat’s lesson, Ky’s condition … Aware of the building tension that has my teeth clenching and heart pounding, I let my breath come in and out, trying to relax my body piece by piece from toes to scalp.
“Your brother was looking for you,” Bebi yawns.
The tension comes creeping back. “Do you know what he wanted? Is he all right?” All seemed well when I saw him earlier.
“He was in great spirits,” she reassures me, but there is something in her face …
“And?” I press.
“He wished me to inform you that he has been invited to attend the royal hippo hunt tomorrow with young Prince Tutan.”
“What?” I sit upright, fully awake now. “Does he not realize how dangerous that is?”
“I believe that, in part, was the reason for his excitement.” She tries to keep the laughter from bubbling over. “It is a right of passage for the prince,” she chides gently. And a great honour for Ky to be invited along. The words go unspoken, but I know Ky should not refuse even if he wants to, which clearly he does not.
“Good night, Sesha.” Bebi rolls over and, unburdened of her message, promptly falls asleep.
Fretting under my blanket, I cast dark looks at Bebi’s slumbering form. Easy for her to remain untroubled — Ky is not her brother. Hunting hippos is fraught with peril. I have seen its effects up close, helping Father stitch gaping wounds or amputate limbs crushed by the stampeding animals. It is not uncommon for several men from each hunt to suffer such horrible injuries, or worse. My one hope is that Pharaoh will not let the young boys get too close until that last moment when Tutan delivers the mortal wound to the beast, taking one step closer to becoming a man.
I need to be on that hunt. If something happens to Ky then I can be close at hand. Ahmes must be going. I wonder if there is any way I can convince him to let me join. The hunt will most likely take place at dusk tomorrow when the hippo is most active, thus adding to the sport. Tossing, I turn over, facing in the direction of Kewat. The sounds coming from her cot have subsided.
On top of everything else I still have not worked out a way to get into Nebifu’s chambers. Sighing, I resign myself to very little sleep this night.
I am distracted all that morning in my studies, unable to focus on the lesser-known hieroglyphs needed to understand complicated medical procedures nor on my plan to sneak into my father’s old study. No matter, I think grimly, Ky will not need the surgery if he is trampled by a hippo first. Paser mentions that Ahmes is teaching us after our midday meal.
“Would it not be nice to eat as the pharaoh does?” Reb lifts a stale piece of bread off his plate in disgust and throws it on the ground. Decent food is provided for the scribes, but the junior ones are often left the scraps of their seniors. Still not quite accustomed to knowing where my next meal is coming from, I barely resist the urge to pounce on the dry roll.
“But then you would have to sit around all day, listening to people drone on about nothing but trivial matters such as the latest trends at court and who wore the same wig twice in a row.” Paser rolls his eyes.
“I would not mind,” Reb mutters. “It would be a welcome change. Not to mention all that power they have.” His voice is filled with longing. “And to be remembered, when I have passed into the afterlife.” There is a large fresh bruise high on his cheekbone and surrounding one eye. Perhaps his uncle heard about the beer-vat incident after all.
“And who do you think has the power to choose what is remembered among those who come after us?” Paser says, picking the seeds out of his melon. “We do.”
“I think the pyramids will also do a decent job of that,” I add.
He turns to me, gaze intense. “But who inscribes the stories on their walls? Who writes of the great queens and kings on their tombs and monuments? Who keeps records, receipts of the entire kingdom and decides what information is passed on and what is not?” Paser gestures at us. “Scribes. Our words have power.”
I can see why Merat is intrigued by Paser. He has a most compelling manner, not to mention the added bonus of not spitting when he talks. I can also see why she did not want me to bring him a message. His disdain for palace life, and presumably its occupants, is apparent.
A loud gong interrupts Paser’s impassioned speech. We turn our heads at Ahmes’s approach. He is followed by two other scribes carrying supplies. He seems different here in the temple, taller, his authority even stronger somehow. I smile at him but he takes no special note of me.
“Today we will be discussing the preparation and use of sutures on open wounds,” he says by way of opening, putting the instruments down. One of the scribes places a large bowl of sheep intestines on the ground. Fresh ones. A few bloated flies drift lazily up from
the lumpy mess they’ve been sampling.
“I will demonstrate how to properly cut the intestines and then you will take over. A few of you will assist in cutting up linen bandages.” The other scribe places a heap of clean cloths on the mat in front of Ahmes.
Knowing what I do of the hunt today, this seems a timely subject.
“Do I have volunteers for the sutures?” Most of the hands shoot up, including mine. I have my own reasons for wanting to make sure that they are of the highest quality.
An hour later I am happily up to my elbows in still-warm sheep guts, a pile of sinewy thread on my right.
“Though we mostly use linen and other plant fibres for stitching, the benefit of using the animal sinew is there is no need to remove the sutures, as they dissolve on their own,” Ahmes is saying. He describes the different types of stitches — continuous, interrupted — and the virtue of each. There is a pile of hides that we can take our turn practising on. “It is important to make sure the wound is free from foreign objects and that the bleeding is not excessive.” He picks up a needle and demonstrates the proper way of threading it, licking one end of the fresh intestinal string.
I make my way over, hoping to find a moment to ask whether I might accompany him on this evening’s festivities. He passes the threaded needle to Reb, who enthusiastically jams it in and out of a hide. I feel a brief spurt of pity for his potential patients.
Seizing my chance, I take a deep breath. Ahmes has been kind but that does not mean he will be open to my suggestion.
“I have heard you will be in attendance at this evening’s hunt,” I begin.
“No,” he says, frowning slightly, without looking up from Reb’s handiwork. “Less force, boy.”
“You are not going?” I look up at him.
He glances at me then, brown eyes stern, but there is a flash of amusement in them. “I am. You, however, are not.”
“But you may need my help.”
“I have help.” He nods at the two scribes who brought the items over, both looking smug at their duties.
“But if anything happens to my brother …”
“It will cause you to lose your medical detachment, thus rendering you useless,” he finishes. His tone softens. “I am most fond of Ky, Sesha. Trust that I will see him safe.”
“I do, but —”
“That is all.” He turns away from me and addresses the class. “Clean up your areas. We are finished for today.”
Everyone scrambles to clear away the mess. Grumbling to myself, I try to come up with another way to join the expedition, storing my precious tools under my reed mat, as the others do, ready for tomorrow’s work.
“What were you asking of Ahmes?” Paser asks, striding over, his hair catching the last few glints of the sun.
Sighing, I flick a piece of sheep offal from my robe. “I wished to accompany him on the hippo hunt this eve, but he denied my request.”
“You think you should be assisting him?” Reb overhears, incredulous. “It is your second day and you presume to accompany the pharaoh’s physician on a most holy and sacred duty? Your pride is something to behold, Sesha, as your father’s was before you.”
This is the second time he has mentioned my father and I will not let it go unaddressed.
“If you have something to say about my father, then out with it.” My fists curl up at my side. Reb is much bigger, but I am agile and strike quickly. Apep taught me that much.
He takes another step toward me as the other boys gather round, forming a tight circle around us.
14
“WHAT OF MY FATHER?” I repeat through gritted teeth. If there are words being said about him, I wish to know.
“It is said that he offended the gods,” he sneers. “That is why he was killed.”
I step back as if Reb has physically struck me.
“And how did he do this?” My father always offered proper tribute. But Reb’s words shake loose a memory, a few evenings just before his death.
Father’s instruments are laid out on the wooden table, gleaming in the sun while he inspects them, as he does most nights before a surgery. The last few weeks have been very busy with the Inundation now upon us. It is Akhet, the season when the Nile’s waters flood the riverbanks, leaving behind fertile black earth for the crops to be planted in, giving fresh food and new life to the kingdom. Since the farmers are free during this time they come in from the submerged fields, honoured to serve the pharaoh by providing the much-needed labour for the annual repairs to the pyramids and temples of the region.
This means Father and the physicians under him are besieged by accidental injuries: broken bones from falling slabs of rock, cuts, scrapes, and bruises from heaving equipment, and all of the general commotion that comes with an active site of construction. Father technically isn’t really supposed to tend to the workers, his duty being first and foremost to the royal family and members of the court, but he is fascinated by the unique injuries that accompany the Inundation, always seizing the opportunity to learn more. He managed to convince Wujat to let him tend to some of the more serious cases, though the lesser medical scribes were responsible for the bulk of the patients.
I watch his hand, fine-boned, yet strong and capable, as he checks each of his tools — forceps, clamps, tinuculum — making sure all are in working order. His fingers stop at his most prized blade, a black one composed of a rare volcanic glass called obsidian. My mother had found it at the market, brought in by a ship sailing from a distant land. She gave it to Father as a wedding gift. He runs his finger along the razor-sharp utensil and a thin line of blood wells.
“This one never dulls,” he says, looking up at me, a wide grin on his handsome face. Father’s teeth are still very good for his age, due to his dutiful brushing and rinsing after eating. He always says it is all the sand in our food that eventually grinds our teeth away.
“Do you think you will save many lives tomorrow, Baba?” I ask, legs swinging from the rough bench I sit upon.
“If the gods are with me, Sesha,” my father says.
“But do not the gods want their flocks to come home? Do you think they are angry when you keep their servants from the Field of Reeds?” I was in a contemplative mood this evening.
“If the gods have gifted us with the ability to do something about our situation, we should not hesitate to use the tools they have made available to aid us in our works.”
I shift uncomfortably. “I heard one of the other priests saying the only tools we should rely on are the holy spells, incantations, and prayers, rather than ‘mere butchery.’” The quoted words roll strangely off my tongue.
“What may look like an act of butchery to some can in fact be a life-saving procedure to the person it is being performed on.”
“But is it not the will of the gods if a person becomes injured or sick?”
Straightening, he puts his tools away into his wooden chest and turns to me. “You recall the words of our occupation?”
“‘This is an ailment which I will treat,’ ‘this is an ailment with which I will contend,’ and ‘this is an ailment not to be treated,’” I recite.
“Precisely. The gods have left that judgment to us. I believe that we must do everything in our power to help the person in front of us. Incantations and spells have their uses, as they speak not only to the gods, but to the patient’s thoughts — another extremely powerful force.” He lowers his voice. “However, sometimes they are not enough and we must find other ways to accomplish our duty. Besides” — he winks — “it is better to space out the arrivals, don’t you think?” I giggle. “I, for one, do not wish to be kept waiting in line after that journey!”
Shaking my head to clear it, I step toward Reb, who doesn’t quite keep from flinching at my expression, but instead move past him, unwilling to sacrifice my place and purpose here for the satisfaction at seeing his face as I take him to the ground.
“Those are false words.” I keep my chin level. “My fathe
r had nothing but the utmost respect for the gods.”
“Then why did they let him and your mother burn?” he purrs softly in my ear, just as I go by.
My elbow jabs out sharp and deep in his ribs before I can stop it and a startled whoosh of breath erupts from his lungs. A few of the boys urge Reb to strike me as I turn sideways, not wanting to expose my back to the enemy. Paser slips between us but we have already caught the attention of sharp-eyed Ahmes.
“What is happening here?” he says, striding over, as the circle of boys magically dissipates. My heart, already racing at the confrontation, gallops faster at his approach.
“We were just debating the merits of pig dung versus donkey dung in ridding the body of unwanted parasites,” Paser says smoothly.
Ahmes looks from Reb to me, taking in my clenched fists and what must be a flushed face as well as Reb’s wheezing as he struggles to get his wind back. “I take it both Sesha and Reb have strong opposing opinions?” he says, tone dry. “I’ll leave the three of you to finish your discussion while sweeping the temple floors.”
My heart trips and tumbles down a sandbank, landing upside down in my stomach. There goes my chance of joining the hunt! I shoot Ahmes a pleading look, but he remains unmoved.
“You will find the equipment over there.” He points off into the eastern corner of the temple. “I expect the floor clean enough to operate on.” Turning, he motions to his scribes to pick up the baskets of transformed intestines and follow him out of the temple.
Fury at letting my emotions rob me of my chance to join the hunt clashes with fear at what could happen on the evening’s excursion. I consider ignoring Ahmes completely and sneaking out after him. Instead I take a breath, giving my head a shake to clear it. Ky will be fine. The instinct to watch over him has become deeply ingrained; I need to relinquish its grip some, for both his sake and mine.
I set to work, broom in hand, pushing the bristles against the floor like I’m wiping the smirk off Reb’s face. Though, he isn’t smirking now — it’s more of a steady glower, emanating from the other side of the room. Paser, the casualty of our brief encounter, whistles as he pushes the broom past.
The Lost Scroll of the Physician Page 7
