The Lost Scroll of the Physician

by Alisha Sevigny

  “You are very brave, just like him.” I blink back tears, unsure if they are from the straining of my eyes or from emotion. Putting down the reed brush, I walk over to Ky and hug him tight. “Do not worry. All will be well, Brother. I feel the spirit of our parents close; they will be with us, guiding Ahmes’s hand.”

  He gives a small nod, lower lip only slightly quivering.

  “I am sorry I did not trust you,” I add. “You were right. I thought of you only as a child, but now I see you are becoming a young man. If they were here, I know they would tell you how proud they are.”

  “Well,” Ky clears his throat and throws back his small shoulders, striving for casualness, “if things do not go as planned, perhaps they can tell me themselves.” He leaves with a wave and a promise to meet back here at nightfall and I sit, light-headed, back down on the stool.

  After Ky’s reed-splitting decision and disconcerting attempt at humour, my hand shakes too much to finish transcribing the other sections of the document without error, so I roll the scrolls back up, taking a few deep breaths.

  He is not wrong. The surgery is dangerous. Ahmes will have to drill a small hole in Ky’s head to drain the fluid and release the pressure around the skull. I will administer the poppy milk but he will still feel pain, indeed, may even wake up during the surgery. His arms and legs will have to be strapped down so he does not move involuntarily if this happens.

  Am I doing the right thing in encouraging him to go through with it?

  I shudder to think of my brother lying there — restrained, cut open, most likely in intense pain — and walk to the small window. It is almost midafternoon. The festivities will begin picking up again soon. Pharaoh needs the scroll. There is the threat of famine. We may be on the brink of war. If it is to happen at all, it has to be now. I breathe in deeply. The winds are light this morning but carry in the smells of food being prepared for the masses.

  Courage.

  The word floats to me on the soft breeze, caressing my face. It is the third time I’ve felt my parents’ Ba speaking to me. Three is a number with great significance — perhaps their spirits are not lost after all. I think of my conversation with Ky, about speaking of them often, and feel comforted. As long as we remember them, they are here with us.

  Resolutely, I go back to the scroll. Pharaoh will want the higher priests to officially transcribe the document, maybe even Wujat himself. They need not know about my copy.

  “So we are about to declare war and everyone is celebrating?” Reb asks in disbelief.

  “Might as well give them one last party,” Paser says with his usual infallible grin. He’s not aware of the potential food shortages, but even if he were, nothing ever seems to suppress his spirit for long. Though I wonder if learning of Merat’s failed engagement has anything to do with his joviality.

  She is here now. “My father will not want to worry his people until he is ready to announce his campaign,” she says, and I wonder if she knows of the vulnerable harvest. I plan to tell them after the surgery, not wanting to distract them at this critical moment. We are all gathered in the physician’s quarters in preparation. Everything is ready. Everyone is here.

  Everyone except Ky.

  I eye the sinister-looking device that will be used to burrow into his skull and cannot say I blame him for his hesitancy. Ahmes is going over his tools, memorizing their exact placement, testing a blade here, touching an instrument there, quietly murmuring spells and charms to help him in his surgery. I often saw Father do the same thing to ready himself and focus his mind.

  I prepare the sleeping draft for Ky, stirring the gummy brown concoction over a low flame. The smell is strong and I am careful not to inhale the fumes. Where is he? All our preparations will be for naught if he doesn’t show soon.

  There is a large clatter down the hallway and some raised voices. Prince Tutan bursts into the room, half carrying Ky, whose left arm is draped around his shoulders. He sags heavily against the young royal, who staggers under Ky’s weight. Anubis circles around them, whining.

  “He had another attack,” Tutan gasps out. I race over to the pair and help Ky to stand, but he is already regaining some of his strength and manages to stand on his own.

  “I am all right,” Ky says, voice small, glancing around the room with a dazed expression.

  “Ky.” Ahmes walks over and rests his hands gently on my brother’s shoulders. His manner is calm and authoritative. “Are you well enough, my child? I am confident, after examining the scroll, that the operation has an excellent chance of success. But you must be sure.”

  Ky straightens and looks from Ahmes’s face to mine, one hand resting on top of Anubis’s head. “I am in good hands, Ahmes,” he says, with the bravery of a thousand bulls. “I am ready.”

  Scooping the potion out of the pot, I walk it over to Ky, who has sat on the table. He takes the large ladle from my hand and swallows a healthy mouthful, making a face at the taste as an involuntary shudder runs through his body.

  I take his hand, looking fiercely into his eyes. “I am with you, my brother, and so are Father and Mother; I can feel them here.” He nods, his pupils dilating slightly as the medicine begins its work. I give him another drink and rest him back so he is fully reclined on the table. Paser and Reb bind his arms and legs while I stroke his brow, murmuring soothing words and incantations to relax him further. His eyes flutter shut and I look up at Ahmes, who stands there, ready with his instruments. Nodding, I bend low and put my mouth to Ky’s ear. “I will not leave your side.” But his breathing is deep and even and my words go with him into the land of dreams. Anubis gives another low whine, pads around in a circle and lies under the table.

  I look up at Ahmes. “May the gods guide your hands.”

  31

  THE OPERATION IS A SUCCESS.

  At least for now. Only time will tell if the procedure will improve Ky’s long-term prognosis. I look at my brother, sleeping in Ahmes’s chambers, head swathed in white linen bandages. He moves restlessly; one side-effect of the poppy is the vivid dreams it gives. Grinding up the flowers of the blue lotus with the mortar and pestle, I prepare an infusion. There is a lot of it around the palace at the moment and its sedative effects are milder than the poppies’ — it will gently ease Ky off the latter.

  Evening is once again approaching and the celebrations are picking up anew. I broke the news about the desperately needed harvest, which Merat had suspected, and the others have gone to rest after the combined effects of the surgery and the troubling revelations.

  Ky makes a fitful noise in his sleep and immediately I am at his side. Anubis lifts his head, eyes attentive. I do not want to wake my brother to administer the blue lotus just yet. It is imperative that he not move so soon. Scanning the room, my eyes fall on the journal Merat gave me. I brought it with me earlier, thinking I might have another look at it while waiting at Ky’s bedside. Picking it up, I examine the writings within. Though much of it still does not make sense to me, the sections that I am able to decipher are full of humour and wisdom. It is easy to see how Qar and Father were friends; they must have been, for the scribe to first show him the scroll. Paser was unable to find out much information about the man’s death, only that he was quite old and his illness came on suddenly, which Wujat already mentioned. I try to picture the scribe, but everyone at temple looked similar and I had been shy with them.

  A short and ancient elder, with skin as wrinkled as a lizard’s, is taking shape in my mind when there is a noise in the hallway and the door bursts open. Nebifu stands there looking around the room. His eyes land on me.

  “Where is Ahmes?” he demands. “Pharaoh has need of him.”

  I stand, not shy now. “I do not know. I have not seen him these past notches on the sundial.”

  His gaze falls on Ky. “What ails him?”

  “A minor wound, Your Holiness,” I say with a feigned careless gesture, not wanting to arouse his curiosity. His eyes go to the document in my hands a
nd his face pales as if his lifeblood has been drained.

  “Where did you get that?” His voice is a whisper.

  “I, um, a friend gave it to me,” I say.

  “Who?” he insists.

  Exhausted from the day’s events, I do not have the energy to lie.

  “Princess Merat.” There is nothing he can do to her anyway.

  His face whitens even further and the prickly feeling at the back of my neck increases.

  “No,” he murmurs. “How …”

  Just then there is more noise outside the chamber. It sounds as if there is an entire regiment out there. I prove to be correct when Pharaoh bursts into the room, his personal guard behind him. I rush to Ky’s bedside, ready to defend him with only an old scroll if necessary. Anubis jumps to all fours and lets out a cautionary growl. Not only an old scroll, then.

  “Nebifu, have you found Ahmes? I must ask —” He notices Ky and me. “Sesha, what is happening here?”

  “Your Highness.” I bow. Worry for Ky has me offering up the only thing that I know will distract his attention. “I have found the scroll.”

  “Is this true?” He advances toward me. Reaching far back into the shelf, where I placed it after the surgery, I extract the document and present it to the king, kneeling, scroll held aloft. With a sudden intake of breath, he takes it from my hands, eyes shining, and examines the writing.

  “Praise the gods, Sesha! Well done!” His excitement is palpable. “Where did you find it?”

  “At the temple,” I answer honestly. Ky emits a small moan from his bed, stirring.

  “The temple?” Pharaoh looks incredulous. “But Wujat searched there thoroughly.” It occurs to me to wonder where Wujat is. It is not often that he is not by his king’s side.

  “It was in a room of untold riches, hidden underneath in the catacombs,” I blurt out, with a defiant look at Nebifu. His eyes shoot daggers.

  “Hidden riches? How is it that I do not know of this room, Nebifu?” Pharaoh asks in a tone as hard as stone. “These items could be used to pay for the campaign, or supplies!”

  “Your Highness,” Nebifu says, waving an arrogant hand in that manner he has, “allow me to explain …”

  “What do you wish to explain? That you were concealing critical information? Information that we have been desperately seeking? That you lied to your king?” Pharaoh says, eyes cold. “What else have you deemed unworthy of mentioning?”

  My eyes widen at Pharoah’s implication that this is treasonous behaviour. I swallow. It is not so different from my own.

  “The High Priests are sworn to protect the ancient treasures of Egypt,” Nebifu protests. “There are worrisome times ahead. Any fool can see that. We were only trying to secure the most priceless artifacts of our past.”

  Pharaoh’s voice drops to a level as dangerously low as the Nile. “Are you calling me less than a fool? Suggesting that I am unfit, or that I cannot see what is best for my land and my people?”

  “Much has already been squandered,” Nebifu whines, one hand going to the collared necklace he wears. “Paying tribute to placate the foreign rulers in the North …”

  Pharaoh exhales strongly through his nostrils. “I will deal with you later. But for now” — he motions to the soldiers — “arrest him.”

  “No! You are making a mistake!” Nebifu shouts as the guards seize him.

  Pharaoh ignores him and turns to me. I remain frozen. “Thank you for this, Sesha.” He holds up the scroll. “You have done your nation and your king a great service.” Turning on his heel he leaves the room. Nebifu is still resisting, struggling futilely with the guards.

  “Daughter of Ay,” he calls as they drag him out of the room, “your father was sworn to protect the treasures of Egypt. You must finish his work and see them safe!”

  And then we are alone. My mouth hanging open in shock, I look over at Ky, who is sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

  “Sesha?” he croaks, as Anubis lets out a joyful yelp. “What is happening? I had the strangest dreams.”

  After giving Ky the infusion and reassuring him that all is well and that he must rest, I pace the room, at a loss as to what I should do. Nebifu’s words have made me feel like I’ve ingested the poppy myself, unsure of what is real and what is not.

  “Why do you not just go and speak with him?” Ky says, licking his lips, voice cracking. Rushing to his bedside, I hold a cup of water while he drinks.

  “Nebifu? And how would I do that?” I ask. “Go to the Place of Confinement?”

  “Why not?” his voice is sleepy as he starts to drift off again.

  “I will not get past the guards,” I say. “And you need me here, with you.”

  “I will stay with him.” I look up to see Merat enter the room. I wonder how much she has heard. Her cheeks are flushed, but never has she looked more beautiful. “But you must go now, while everyone is occupied with the celebrations,” she says, waving me off. Inhaling deeply, I feel dizzy from the residual fumes of all the medicines that I have prepared of late.

  “Go, Sesha,” Ky murmurs from the table. Making up my mind, I nod.

  “Thank you, Princess,” I say to Merat, bowing low.

  “What are friends for?” she says, with a slight smile.

  Bending, my hands come up to scratch behind Anubis’s ears. “Watch over him,” I whisper into his torn one, then stand. Quickly turning, I take my own copy of the scroll from its place. I gave only the original to Pharaoh, some instinct telling me to keep the nearly finished copy to myself, even with Ky’s surgery complete. I walk over to my brother, who has settled comfortably into a light sleep, and kiss his forehead.

  “I will be back,” I say, then turn to leave the room. A thought strikes me and I pause at the doorway, turning to Merat.

  “Tell me … friend,” I say with a nod to the journal of Qar, still resting at the foot of my brother’s bed. “How did you come by that?”

  She looks surprised but answers my question.

  “My mother gave it to me.”

  Pondering Merat’s words, I steal down the corridors of the palace. The celebrations are set to be even more raucous than the night before.

  My mother gave it to me.

  I leave the warm glow of the palace and make my way through the dark to the Place of Confinement, where the occasional prisoner is kept. Punishment is typically dispensed swiftly, with offenders either being fined, losing an ear or limb, or being immediately put to death, depending on the severity of their crime. Will Nebifu answer my questions? That is, if he is still capable of doing so — the cutting out of tongues being another popular chastisement for wrongdoers.

  No. Pharaoh is a lenient man. He will at least wait until the festival is over before dispensing justice. Though he will not look kindly on what he assumes to be betrayal, Nebifu is still the High Priest. Whatever happens to him, it must be dealt with in a fair and just manner.

  I am getting close. As I leave the crowds of loud revellers far behind, it is quiet. And dark. Swallowing, I quicken my pace, wishing I had Anubis for company.

  “Got you!” a harsh voice growls in the night, and my arm is grabbed sharply. I gasp at the pain. “Look who it is. Our little Flea.” The fruit vendor sneers at me, his breath as rancid as ever.

  “We have been watching you,” his wife’s voice floats out of the darkness, and the malice in it makes me shiver. “And here you are, presenting yourself like a stuffed quail at a feast.”

  “Let me go,” I demand, trying to keep the fear from my voice. “I am on the pharaoh’s errand.”

  “I do not think so, Flea,” says the vendor with a spit to the ground. “We have bided our time long enough. Now, you will pay for your thieving treachery.”

  “What treachery?” I cry out, anger overtaking fear. “For taking some food to feed my starving brother? Have you no compassion?”

  The vendor pulls up short, looking at his wife. “What say you?” he asks running the knife in his hand slowly along her
arm. “Have we any compassion?”

  She shivers, eyeing me intently, a smile playing about her lips, like that of a cat who knows she has the mouse well trapped between her paws.

  “None at all, I’m afraid,” she purrs. Wrenching my arm hard, they drag me off the path. I scream then, not in fear, but in white-hot rage that I will not get to ask Nebifu my questions. I will not find out what happened to my parents. And I will not be back for Ky.

  There is a sudden, dull thud. The grip on my arm relaxes as the vendor’s eyes roll up in his head and he crashes to the ground like a tree being felled. His wife looks around frantically, but too late, as a twin brick catches her swiftly on the side of her temple. She slumps to the ground and I am left standing, panting, my heart pounding so hard I assume it must be visible beneath my robe.

  “That man really has the most offensive breath,” Reb says, face appearing in the dark. He casts a disdainful look down at the vendor he has just knocked unconscious. “His oral hygiene must be atrocious.”

  “You can show them the correct way to clean their teeth when they come to,” Paser says, coming out of the shadows. He looks down at the vendor’s wife, a small contusion forming at her temple. “But I’d imagine that Sesha will want to be on her way.”

  Throwing my arms around both of them, I give out a stifled sob. “Thank you.”

  “There will be time for thanks later,” Reb says. “For now, let us go and speak with my uncle.”

  32

  “WHERE DO YOU THINK he is being held?” Paser whispers. We are in the City of the Dead, back on the west bank of the Nile. We walk through the necropolis, not toward the ancient tombs where my parents lie, but straight ahead, toward the cliffs.

  “In one of the pits,” I say. After a moon of associating with all sorts of characters, I had heard of the place. It is where you are kept while your fate is being decided, and more often than not, left to rot, forgotten, especially if there is no one to petition for your freedom. We approach a large hole, at the base of the cliffs, and I peer over the edge. It is black and I can see nothing.