“Sunu,” the High Priest intoned, putting me in my place. Tiny red worms crawled beneath the skin of his fleshy nose and his yellow fingernails curled over the ends of his fingers, both signs that his time in this world grows short.
As we moved on, Mena mentioned the tomb Paranefer builds in the Place of Truth. “A pyramid, no less, though a puny one compared to those of the ancients. He claims only to want a view of Amen’s northern temple, but I say he wants to remind those who would usurp the power of Amen that he is the one who turns men into gods.”
“He could pass as brother to the Pharaoh who strides across the walls of more than one temple, so perhaps he has reason to ape the old ones.”
“You have as much taste for intrigue as the rest of us, Tenre, despite your protest to the contrary.” We both saw Sheri motioning him to come to her. “Which means you are capable of fending for yourself while I see what my wife wants. I see Senmut has become bored with politics and watches the dancers. Go talk with him.”
A grassy area beyond the tile-lined pond had been roped off for the dancers and musicians. The torch flames danced to the music, as well, while the palms fronds waved like lazy fans in the evening breeze. Even the serving girls weaving in and out among Mena’s guests moved to the music, offering dates dipped in cinnamon, grapes and sliced melon, or fried balls made of bean paste.
Senmut seemed engrossed in one dancer in particular, who followed the rising beat with ever more erotic moves. “See that leg?” he asked when he saw me.
The girl he pointed to wore a likeness of the god Bes tattooed on her thigh, but otherwise looked like all the others, with the same string of hollow beads around her hips. “A good-luck charm,” I said, stating the obvious.
“She will need it. Look at her spine, just to the left of the dimple. The leg with the tattoo is shorter than the other, though she makes up for it with the pliant muscles of youth. But give her a few more years and she will be crooked as an old crone.” I saw that he was right. “What would you do to stop that from happening?” he asked.
When he turned to me, I was struck again by the handsomeness of his face. “To attach something to one foot would only bring attention to her affliction and put an end to her dancing,” I replied. “No house of pleasure would take her in, nor would any man want her for his wife, knowing she might visit her affliction upon his children. How would she eat?”
“Soon she will barely be able to hobble,” he snapped. “How will she eat then?”
“Given the choice, I would prefer to find pleasure while I can, rather than have my legs match and starve now. What about you?” I held his eyes, challenging him to admit what he did not want to, that neither solution satisfied.
“Perhaps,” he muttered. “But I do not like your choice. It is not maat.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, throwing caution to the winds because I understood for the first time that it was Senmut’s restless curiosity and impatience with ignorance that endeared him to Mena. “And the only way we are likely to find a better answer is to somehow learn to ask the right questions.”
He gave me a sheepish grin. “I only wanted to hear you reason with my own ears. Your name is too much like honey on Mena’s tongue, especially when he talks of your experiments.” That Mena entrusted such secrets to him surprised me. “I came here tonight to tell you I would consider it an honor if you would let me help. Only say what you want me to do.”
“I hear the Hittites cleanse their hands with plant ash dissolved in water, while the Babylonians boil olive oil, ashes, and natron together to make a washing paste. Perhaps you will encounter someone who knows which is better, and why.”
He nodded and waited. “You can trust me, Senakhtenre. Truly.”
I almost capitulated then, but he was a stranger, and the habit of caution is an old friend. “Which teacher in the House of Life did you find most enlightening?” I asked, to see if he played politics with me.
“Khay-Min, Chief Physician of the South, who is as gifted in examining with the hand as he is fortunate in his daughter.” He pointed to Sheri. “But I have learned even more from Mena.”
“Who taught you what you consider to be most useless?” It was a trick question, intended to reveal his true color no matter how he answered. Again he turned, seeking someone. “That one standing with Neterhotep and Aperia, watching the baboons. The one who dresses like a peacock is Neterhotep, mayor of Waset. It is the other one I mean, Bekenkhons, who oversees the cutting of boys who are to become priests.”
“Then he is a ka priest, not a physician in the House of Life,” I pointed out, “and would have no part in your training.”
“He demonstrated how he cuts the labia and clitoris on the women of his harem, saying it makes them more tractable. But he takes pleasure in the maiming as well since he spilled his seed even as he wielded the knife. On some women he cuts everything away and seals the vagina, leaving only an opening the size of a slender reed for urine and blood to pass. The woman has to be forced open by her husband, not a pleasurable task for any man except one bent like him.”
“Surely you jest. Mena would never invite such a man into his house.”
“He came in the retinue of the High Priest, not by personal invitation.”
A burst of feminine laughter drew our attention to a group of women. Only Nefertiti among them veiled her body with a robe that outlined her breasts, abdomen, and thighs when she moved. The woman beside her with one breast uncovered had to be the General’s wife, since Mutnodjme is known to keep two female dwarfs constantly by her side. It is because of them that she is rumored to be the prostitute depicted on the wall of a recently deceased noble’s tomb. But she was not alone in cheering the two red-eared baboons who fought each other off while one and then the other tried to copulate with the third, a female whose hindquarters glowed bright red.
“Neterhotep and Bekenkhons are not the only ones who enjoy Horemheb’s baboons,” Senmut observed. “The General sent them over for tonight’s entertainment because the female is in heat.” While we watched, Nefertiti turned, seeking Ramose with her eyes. “That one breathes fire when she so much as looks at the priest, so you can be sure she is intact. She only appears calm and serene on the surface,” Senmut added, “while underneath she seethes like a banked fire, needing only a little stirring to burst into flames. I hear she is so demanding the priest has no seed left for his other women.”
“Never doubt that Ramose is a willing accomplice in whatever scheme the priests are plotting,” Mena put in from behind my shoulder. His words sent a chill down my spine, reminding me of what the mayor’s son told Aset—that the Sacred Council planned to put “one of their own” on the throne. “But if either of you had a woman of your own, you would not have to speculate about what other men do with theirs. Come, the roast goose awaits us inside.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Sheri asks you to look in on one of the servants first, Tenre, who has gone into labor.”
I invited Senmut to come with Mena to my house in town, and went in search of Tetisheri. A delicious odor pervaded the house, especially when a serving girl hurried past me with a roasted goose. Another followed her carrying honey cakes speckled with nuts and seeds, and small loaves filled with coddled eggs. But Sheri was nowhere about, so I went to Nebet’s rooms instead. Before I reached the door I could hear the two girls talking and giggling. I found them on the floor with chips of limestone scattered all about, so I knew that Aset had been entertaining Mena’s daughter with her picture stories, as she does more and more lately when accompanying me to visit a sick child.
Aset saw me first and jumped to her feet. “Is it time to go already?”
Before I could answer, Sheri arrived with Pagosh close behind her. “It is the Queen, Tenre. No one else is to be called until after you examine her, to learn whether her babe still lives. Then the priests and others must be summoned. So Mena must remain here lest someone suspect. Pagosh will show you the way.”
My thoughts raced in antic
ipation of what the next few hours might bring, not only for me but all the people of the Two Lands. But first I went down on my knee to Aset. “You must stay with Nebet until Pagosh returns to take you home.”
“Is it time for my sister’s babe to come?” she asked, her big eyes solemn. I nodded. “Then you must ask Mena to lend you his bag of medicines, just for tonight.” Until that moment it had not occurred to me that I had come away empty-handed. “Don’t forget the itasin ointment,” she added.
I nodded, drawing courage from her confidence in my skills. “What would I do without you?” I whispered, and waited for a smile to light her eyes. Instead she threw her arms around my neck and gave me a fierce hug. Then, just as quickly, she stepped back to let me rise to my feet.
And so, because one small girl had such unwavering faith in me, I made my way to the palace with my back straight and chin held high—as befits the physician to Ankhesen-men, Queen of the Two Lands and Great Royal Wife to Ne-khepru-re Tutankhamen, Lord of Upper and Lower Kemet, Son of Horus on Earth.
7
“Even if the Jews did pick up the practice of circumcision in Egypt,” Kate told Cleo, who stood watching her fit narrow strips of clay between the tissue-depth blocks already in place on the replica of Tashat’s skull, in a pattern similar to the supporting structure of a geodesic dome, “there’s no evidence that the Egyptians ever performed clitoridectomies on their women, partial or otherwise. Despite the pharaonic label attached to one style of genital mutilation today.”
“Herodotus says they did,” Cleo countered. “And modern Sudanese and Somali women, even those who have had their clitoris cut away completely, claim they feel something.” Kate didn’t even look up. “Anyway, I only threw it in to rev up Phil’s motor.” Cleo watched her press a strip of clay into place and blend the joint. “What comes next, after you get all those strips in place?”
“I’ll fill in the empty spaces, except around her mouth and eyes, where I plan to sculpt in the musculature, since certain muscles determine the angle at which the eyes appear to slant. Also the inner and outer corners of the eyes. That’s where the really iffy part is, around the eyes and mouth.”
“Okay, say she is twenty-three or twenty-four. That’s still young enough to want more sex than she’s getting. It is unnatural not to need it, you know.”
“Leave it alone, Clee,” Kate warned, not wanting to hear any more lectures about how a monastic lifestyle goes against the nature of innately social animals.
Cleo waited for her to scrape and measure and scrape again to get the thickness exactly right over one browridge. “It’s just that I hate to see you get involved with an older man. He may be in halfway decent shape now, but give him ten years and his batting average will be in the basement, just when you’re hitting your prime.”
Kate shook her head. “The only reason I brought up that it’s been three weeks since we’ve heard anything is because I’m anxious to see the workup he promised.”
“I can call him if you want, ask if he’s found anything to do with that necklace among his grandmother’s papers, then kind of offhandedly mention the workup.”
“I’m sure he’ll get to it soon as he has time,” Kate assured her, “and I have plenty to do.” She could tell Cleo was keyed up by the scatterbrained way she jumped from one subject to another, probably excited about spending the weekend with Phil.
“Listen, Clee, I’ve gone over both the coffin and cartonnage with a magnifying glass,” Kate told her, “comparing them every way I can think of. I’m sure they were painted by the same hand. A switched coffin just won’t wash. There has to be another explanation for the discrepancy between that inscription and her true physical age.”
“The same artist probably painted hundreds of masks and coffins, Katie!”
“I also think they were painted by a woman.”
Cleo pursed her lips and blew out a puff of air. “Okay, let’s hear why.”
Kate couldn’t explain why any more than she could explain the fragmented images that came to her in the night—black flies crawling over the torn belly of a little dog, white-robed men bent under the burden of pulling a loaded sledge across the barren desert.
“I just think we should look at all the possibilities before we jump to some knee-jerk conclusion, like those boobs did with the mummy in Tomb Fifty-five. First it’s Queen Tiye because the left arm is folded and they found grave goods bearing her name—until a professor of anatomy happens along and points out that it’s a male. Right away everybody jumps to the conclusion that it’s Akhenaten. Except it turns out he would’ve been too old, which leaves the elusive Smenkhkare. With half the ancient sites in Egypt untouched, why does it always have to be one of the above instead of we just don’t know?”
“Point taken,” Cleo agreed, knocking the wind out of Kate’s self-righteous sails. “Anything else?”
“I didn’t mean to preach, but, well, I don’t want to see you slip in Dave’s dirty water. Scientific technology has brought archaeology out of the dark ages, yet dinosaurs like Dave are the first to attack any scientist who dares suggest that his precious theory leaks like a sieve.” She straightened and dropped her voice. “I’m afraid you’re too much the rational scientist, Dr. Cavanaugh, to understand the ancient Egyptian mind. That’s the defense of a desperate Egyptologist—accuse the messenger of garbling the message.”
“I already asked Larry to search the literature for any mention of females with an arm folded across the chest, beginning with Amenhotep Three,” Cleo responded, pulling the plug on Kate’s ballooning indignation.
Kate laughed and give her friend a hug. “Have fun.”
“Let’s have lunch Monday. I’ll tell you all about it.” Cleo glanced at her watch. “Got to run. Phil is picking me up at four.” Kate waved her away but called, “Don’t break a leg!” as she left.
With no more distractions, Kate’s thoughts wandered to the painted floor of Tashat’s coffin. Ptah was the patron of craftsmen and artists, said to have created the world by thinking, which made him the god of imagination. The other figure was Khnum, the ram-headed form of Re, who had fashioned the body and soul of man out of clay. But if Tashat was an educated woman, why Ptah instead of Thoth, the god of learning and wisdom? Could there be some connection between Tashat’s broken fingers and how she used her hands? Surely the wife of an aristocrat would never be a potter, but what about an outline scribe, the closest thing to an artist the Egyptians had?
“Mind if I watch?” Startled, Kate’s hand jerked, gouging a hole in the clay strip she was smoothing. “Sorry,” Dave mumbled. “I figured you heard me come in.”
“That’s okay.” She pinched off a small piece of clay to patch the hole.
He watched her for a while, then, “How can you tell how big to make her nose with nothing to go by except a hole in the skull?”
“In a Caucasoid, the width of the bony aperture is about three-fifths of the total nasal width across the wings. And the projection of the nose is about three times the length of the nasal spine, measuring from the lower edge of the nasal opening to the tip of the spine. The exact shape of the nose is always something of a guess, though, even if the length and width are not.”
“What about the lips?”
Kate guessed where he was heading, but she wanted him to spit it out. “The width of the mouth depends on where her canine teeth were, also on the distance between borders of the iris. The mouth slit is about a third of the way up the upper incisors, but the lips themselves—the red part—is guesswork. Not that I won’t be keeping several other things in mind.”
“How would you know if she was fat or skinny?”
“Unless a person was so obese it affected the curvature of the spine or knee joints, we have to go with an average based on size of the skeleton plus age.”
“She could have been black, you know,” he murmured, finally getting to it.
“Then the nasal opening would be heart-shaped, and it isn’t.”
&
nbsp; He watched a curl of clay roll up in front of her looped-wire tool. “The extra skull is Caucasoid, too?” Kate nodded. “No room for doubt on the gender?”
“Men generally have thicker skulls,” she said with a straight face. “There’s an overlapping area where it could be either male or female, but this one is beyond that, where the chance of finding a female is extremely remote.”
“Even so, don’t you think it would be wise to get a second opinion before we stick our necks out?” He sounded edgy. Kate wondered if the rumor she’d heard was true—that the Oriental Institute at Chicago was about to make him an offer.
“Sure, if you want to that’s fine with me. But even Cleo couldn’t push Max to commit himself without at least one piece of corroborating evidence.”
“I don’t suppose you know where she is. Secretary said she left early.”
Kate made a pretense of sighting along one of the strips. She didn’t like lying, even for Cleo, but when Dave interpreted the dip of her head as a negative answer she decided to let it be.
“Listen, there’s something I’d like to ask, if you have a minute.” She pointed to the lid standing next to the open coffin with the inside facing out, where the painted scene showed a flower-lined road, the traditional symbol of a spiritual journey. “What do you make of these cartouches? They look like two footprints, side by side, walking up the road. Didn’t cartouches always contain the names of pharaohs?”
“Plus three queens. Hatshepsut, Nefertiti, and Cleopatra,” Dave agreed as he moved closer. “But this mummy is not Nefertiti, if that’s where you’re headed. I hear you’ve been teaching yourself to read hieroglyphics, so how would you read them?”
“The little pot is n-w,” Kate ventured, naming the letters rather than trying to pronounce the word. The written language of the ancient Egyptians contained no vowels, so how the words sounded was a guess. “The arrow over the pot makes it s-n. Or s-w-n. With the seated man, that makes it s-w-n-w. Physician.” It was the determinative that made the difference in whether the other signs stood for medicine or the person who administered it. And since physicians had to know how to write, the seated man—a scribe—pointed to the person rather than a disease or treatment.
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