The Eye of Horus

by Carol Thurston

  He fell silent for a moment, leaving me to wonder how he can say so much with so few words. “That Merit never had more babes I believe to be the will of the goddess, who intended us for another purpose. So Merit returns willingly to the High Priest, to mingle with the women who serve his tahut.” He drained the last of his beer and heaved himself up, disturbing Tuli’s dreams of chasing a rabbit. “My wife would never admit it, but having Aset taken from her has allowed her time to become friends with other servants in the neighborhood.” He twirled the dirty rag around one forefinger. “A young widow named Amenet, for one.”

  “If you wonder why I do not go there anymore,” I said to save him the trouble of asking, “it is nothing to do with her. Amenet is pleasing enough to look at, and talented in the ways to satisfy a man. But it is not maat that I continue with her when I have no intention of making her my wife. Already I have too many women in my life. Nofret and Tamin. Ipwet. Surely that is enough for any man to put up with.”

  “Wait much longer, sunu, and you will leave no children to say your name after you pass between the mountains to the west.”

  “If what I do in this world is not reason enough to be remembered, then my name does not deserve to live. Like you, Pagosh, I believe it is the will of the gods that I care for the children of others rather than my own.” He nodded, and I breathed a sigh of relief, too soon as it turned out, for he had one more arrow in his quiver.

  “I notice you did not mention Aset among the women you must put up with. Why is that, I wonder?” He did not wait for an answer, but started off across my garden, leaving me to ponder what he left unsaid.

  DAY 29, THIRD MONTH OF HARVEST

  A man Khary knew as a boy came to him in the night seeking help for his wife. Lulled by the darkness, and because Aset has not been outside my walls for two months, I allowed her to come along, a thoughtless act that put her within a breath of disaster.

  On the way Khary told us that Pepi had been sentenced to ten years’ hard labor in the mines of the Sinai for stealing bread, and on returning to the city of his birth found work cutting stones for the pylon Horemheb erects before the temple of Amen. The mud hovel Khary led us to looked clean enough, except for the smoke issuing from a single oil lamp. But that a workman has no salt for his lamp, to keep it from fouling the air he breathes, is a sign of unjust wages and more a measure of the one who pays him.

  “I believed my god would heal all sickness if we but followed his example to be clean and treat all living things with love,” Pepi confessed, “but I could not stand and do nothing but pray.” Some of his teeth were missing, and his breath was noisy, a sign of the lung sickness that afflicts so many men who work cutting stones, but his only concern was his wife.

  “That she bleeds is not a good sign,” I agreed. I could feel no movement in his wife’s belly, so I gave her a potion to help expel the babe—whether breathing or not—while Aset tried to soothe the woman with words of encouragement. Khary had stepped back outside, I thought to preserve the woman’s dignity though I know now that it was to stand guard.

  When the contractions came harder she began to cry out, curling her body over the agony in her belly. When Pepi tried to comfort her, Aset came to where I knelt on the floor between her legs. “Is it time yet?”

  I shook my head. “But not much longer.”

  “Did you notice the face of Aten on the wall above the lamp?” she whispered. “The orange disk glows as if the sun still lives. And her name is Thuya, like the mother of old Queen Tiye.” I nodded but made no reply, for we already knew that Pepi had lived for a time among the nomads of the Sinai, as does the Heretic even now, and had married the daughter of a Shasu shepherd. But in worshiping his god here they went against the law of the Two Lands.

  “Take me, my god, I beg you,” Thuya cried at the height of one long tightening, in a voice that brought tears to my heart. “Let Mose be my shepherd to show me the way, for I can bear no more.” So did she call Akhenaten what his followers name him among themselves now.

  “Aten’s face shines upon you, Thuya,” Aset assured her, moving to take her hand, “even now, though you walk in the shadow of the valley of death. Be not afraid, for he is with you.” Her words seemed to comfort Pepi’s wife, or perhaps that was when the babe’s head finally pushed through the barrier that had held him back.

  “Pharaoh’s wolves are coming!” Khary hissed as he burst into the room. “Pepi, snuff that flame.” The stonecutter leaped to his feet while Khary grabbed Aset and shoved her into a dark corner, unwrapped his kilt and threw it over her, head and all. That was when I first noticed two small children asleep on the floor.

  “Not a sound,” Khary warned, and to Pepi, “do what you can to keep her quiet.”

  In the silence that followed we marked the approach of Pharaoh’s Aten police by the dogs they roused, and I thanked the gods we had not brought Tuli. Only a tattered rag draped the doorway to shield us from prying eyes, nor was there another way out. We were trapped like rats in a cage, in the dark. But I could feel with my fingers, and knew the babe’s head was about to emerge from his mother’s body. A minute later I cupped the babe’s head in one hand, and felt for a tiny shoulder with the other. Coated with the slippery paste that greased his way, I almost dropped him when he kicked his feet and let out a pitiful mewling, a sound more catlike than human.

  I breathed a sigh of relief though my hands shook at the thought that his cries might bring Pharaoh’s police down on our heads. But a babe hungering in the night for his mother’s breast, or a cat on the prowl, are common enough to pass without notice by men with an eye only for the telltale light of Aten. I cradled the babe in one arm to ward off the night air, stroking his cheek with my finger while we waited for them to pass, hardly daring to breathe.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the sound of barking dogs faded away. “Stay where you are while I make sure they left no one behind,” Khary whispered, and slipped through the ragged doorway. I did not hear him return until he spoke again. “It is safe to light the lamp again.” No one stirred. “Pepi?” he whispered.

  A heart-wrenching cry rent the dark room. “My god has forsaken me—” the stonecutter sobbed. I felt the air stir as Khary moved past me, fumbled with the lamp, whispered a curse, and finally got a flame going.

  Aset saw the babe in my arms, and hurried to take him from me. “Oh, Thuya, what a beautiful babe you have! Look, Pepi, a boy.” She glanced at Pepi and fell silent, sensing that something was wrong.

  He still held his wife, but tears were running down his cheeks. “Beloved of my body, mate of my ka, without you I am an empty husk,” he wept into her hair. “Oh, Aten, mightiest of the mighty, from whom all life flows. Let your light shine upon her face that she may breathe again. Come back to me. Thuya, come back.” He went on pleading with his god to restore her to life or take him instead, calling her name, begging Thuya to forgive him—for what, no one could bear to ask. Whether Pepi smothered his wife while trying to keep her from crying out, or Thuya chose that way herself rather than bring us all to grief, I cannot say.

  The followers of Aten believe it is only in the wickedness they embrace in this life that one man differs from another. But is it wickedness simply to believe in the wrong god, whether it be Amen-Re or Aten, two faces of the same sun? That is the crux of my disaffection with all the priests.

  DAY 30, FOURTH MONTH OF HARVEST

  Flocks of white ibis have begun to appear in the shorn brown fields, for like Thoth they know the secret of the flood that renews our soil and so do not have to depend on the dog star to tell them when to fly north. Surely the rising waters of Mother River cannot be far behind, but waiting to learn if there will be enough or too much, sweeping away our homes and animals along with the canals that feed the higher fields, is an uneasy time for all. In the meantime, Aset makes cornhusk dolls for the shrine of Hapi, to celebrate the New Year and placate the capricious river god.

  Most days she assists Khary in the d
ispensary, but the routine of our lives changes in other ways as well. In the evenings now she puts on one of the gauze gowns she wore as Uzahor’s wife before joining me for our meal, and tonight I noticed she is letting her hair grow. But when I mentioned it she just shrugged and smiled, a little guiltily, I thought. Afterward I sought her advice about a sick child, only to have her recall the man whose leg drew up until he could not put his foot flat on the ground.

  “Yet everyone beset by fever does not end with a useless leg.” I waited, for she has the habit of fitting one thought to another the way a master bricklayer constructs a wall. “A woman’s womb tightens when she labors to expel her babe, and that causes pain, as well, but the tightening comes and goes like waves washing ashore after a passing boat. What of the pain in Uzahor’s arm? Could that have been a tightening, too?”

  “His pain was a sign that the heart begins to falter.”

  “So the tightening is in the cardia, not the muscles of the arm.” I stopped eating, curious as to where she would go next. “In both kinds of vessels, or only the ones I painted red on your map?” It seemed to me an echo of my own voice, telling Senmut that somehow we must learn to ask the right questions.

  Always before I asked what path the blood takes through the body, not how it gets there. But that, I believe, may finally be the right question.

  17

  The sun made Kate squint when she came out of the hospital, and a summerlike blast of heat hit her when she opened the door of Max’s Mercedes. That’s when she decided to go shopping. By three o’clock, when she breezed into the Imaging Center, she was feeling happy in a way she hadn’t for a long time. And comfortable, thanks to the cotton outfit she’d just bought.

  Marilou spotted her right away and beckoned her to the reception desk. “Boy, am I glad to see you. He’s been driving us—” She broke off as the devil himself appeared.

  “Hi,” Max said, eyes moving all over her, then back to her face. “I was beginning to worry, thought you might’ve gotten lost or something.”

  “I went shopping.” She turned to make her skirt flare out, showing off the embroidered camisole top and overshirt to match. All three pieces were the same color, a dusty cinnamon that made her eyes look almost green.

  “I noticed. Does that mean Tinsley came through with a fat check?”

  “Mostly it means the clothes I brought with me are too warm for this weather,” she said as she followed him down the hall.

  “So tell me about it,” Max invited, once they were in his office.

  Kate spread the sketches she’d done at the hospital across his desk, showing the steps in Mike Tinsley’s new procedure for repairing a fractured kneecap. Max gave them a cursory glance, then picked up the one of Tinsley with his binocular magnifying goggles pushed up on his forehead.

  “I thought he’d use a photograph to show the setup with all the equipment in place,” Kate explained, “so I was just trying to get down the way it felt to me there—the aura of excitement at the beginning and how the tension builds, then the letdown after the procedure climaxes and everyone begins to settle back into familiar territory, closing up. But that one seemed to turn the tide.” She paused. “Did you know he plays Mahler while he operates?” Max shook his head and waited.

  “I’m going to illustrate the entire book, use my own judgment about what needs illustrating, and how. Tinsley wants to frame each procedure with scene-setting sketches like that one, to bring in the psychology that colors everything a student or resident does or doesn’t do, no matter what level of skill they acquire—what we all share in common: the human factor. It’s one thing to draw an anatomically accurate picture and something else to present it in a way that keeps everyone reminded that they’re dealing with other human beings. I guess that’s what made me realize I was being handed the chance to do something really important, not just work for hire.”

  The instant she said it Kate realized that the need to portray the humanizing aspect of medicine had been the driving force behind her illustrations from the moment she dropped out of medical school, coloring not only her drafting style but how she chose to present her subjects. That was what Max had been trying to say about her drawings, from the very beginning.

  She tried to smile at him, but her lips began to wobble, so she just hugged him instead. He held her and rubbed his cheek against her hair.

  “I’m not a gambler,” she told him when she recovered her voice and could pull away without revealing how close she’d come to tears, “maybe because I’ve never been able to afford it, but, well, I agreed to do an unlimited number of illustrations—to be determined by me after I see Mike’s text, plus suggestions from him. He gets final approval, but my name appears on the title page.” She paused, watching Max’s face, but he seemed to know she wasn’t finished.

  “I’m also planning to learn all I can about the latest computer-graphics stuff so that I can use whatever works best in a given situation. That way I’ll also be in a position to enlarge on what I can offer other potential customers. Not that I told him that. What I’m gambling is that I’ll make enough to cover all the time this one project is going to take. I hope it isn’t just ego, but he thinks we’ve got the makings of a classic, so I asked for a percentage of the royalties plus a piece of whatever advance he gets from his publisher. He thinks that will go way up when they see my illustrations and know I’m going to do the whole book.”

  “Tinsley actually told you all that?” Max asked, incredulous. “Not much of a businessman, is he?” Kate hoped that wasn’t just a variation on his habit of going silent when faced with something unexpected or unknowable.

  Without thinking, she reached out and tugged on his hand. “Come on, Max, say what you really think. Did I give away the store, make the deal of a lifetime, or what?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much money you make if it’s really important to you, but I call it an act of faith, not gambling.”

  Tuesday morning, after Max left for his office, Kate put Sam on his leash and jogged down to the office supply in Rice Village, the neighborhood shopping center just a few blocks from Max’s house. When they returned she spread everything out on the kitchen table, which sat in an alcove framed by floor-to-ceiling windows, and went to work. First she made several anatomical drawings of the human knee, in pencil. Then she selected the best one and refined the lines with India ink, slipped it into a folder, told Sam to behave, and hurried out to her car.

  Two hours later, when she emerged from the hair salon Marilou had recommended, a languid Gulf breeze had turned Houston into a humid hothouse. “Great!” she muttered, sure her hair would be up around her ears by the time she reached the car. Back at Max’s house she showered, taking care not to look at herself until she was out and dressed, then stood in front of the full-length mirror—and almost didn’t recognize the woman she saw! Anxious now, and in a hurry, she returned to the kitchen and pulled the cork on a bottle of wine to let it breathe, then went back to work.

  She was trying to decide which tendon to do next when she heard a car door slam. Suddenly nervous as a cat, she dipped her paintbrush into the jar of water and hurried to where she’d left the wine, filled the two stemmed glasses, and turned just as Max come through the door.

  “Hi. Sorry I’m so late,” he apologized, dropped his briefcase on the floor, and bent to fondle Sam’s ears. It wasn’t until he slipped off his suit coat and threw it over the back of a chair that he noticed the wine. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “Maybe.” She handed him a glass, not wanting to make a big thing of her hair. Cut just to the edge of her jaw, it was at least three inches shorter and for the first time in her life held a shape rather than curling up in a frizzy mess—not to mention the highlighting she thought made it look healthier and more alive.

  She knew the instant he noticed, mostly by the way his eyes changed. “Turn around,” he ordered. She did a quick spin and felt a smile begin inside her head. “Again, slower.” He slid his a
rms around her from behind and laid his lips to her ear. “I’m beginning to understand why a man might risk his head for a woman.”

  Kate turned and threw her arms around his neck, only to have him reach up and slowly pull them away. It took her a second to realize that the wineglass she held was empty. “Oh God, Max, I’m sorry.”

  “I need to shower, anyway, and change for supper. Then you can pour me another glass and tell me what you did today.” He ruffled her hair. “Besides this.”

  She made herself go back to the illustration and tried to concentrate on what she was doing instead of thinking about what Max had just said. Or rather, what he could possibly have meant. Surely it was nothing more than a halfway joking sort of compliment about her hair. Or was it?

  She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Sorry. Don’t stop.”

  “I’ll be done in a second. Plastic doesn’t absorb paint, so if I stop now, I’ll have to overpaint a dry edge and leave a raised line.”

  He refilled her glass as well as his, set it on the table out of her way, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “What kind of paint is that?”

  “Opaque watercolor.”

  He didn’t speak again until she tipped her brush into the murky water. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

  “What you see as you go into the knee, enhanced by color shadings to distinguish one tendon or piece of cartilage from another—instead of those.” She gestured at the stack of axial scans Mike Tinsley had given her. “It was my idea to—here, I’ll show you.” She reached for one of the inked outlines. “I had this copied onto transparent sheets so they’d all be identical. Now I’m putting in where and how the tendons attach to the bone, but on different sheets so you can peel them away one at a time to reveal the shape, color, and texture of everything you have to deal with surgically, one at a time.” She stacked the three painted transparencies she’d finished and handed them to Max. “Think it’s going to work?”