Song of Isis

by Diana Kirk

  The word sacrificed brought her slamming into total awareness. "What--the--?"

  She snapped open her eyes. Seated beside her on the hard-packed earth was a grizzled, white-haired, little man chained to the wall.

  "Ah, it is the yearly festival of Hathor. When the people save their city from her wrath," the old man said. "They will mix your blood with beer and Hathor will drink, grow drunk, and leave the city to prosper once again.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." She rubbed her hand across her dry, cracked lips and struggled to sit. "Isn't there any water around here?"

  "You'll soon get used to it." He tilted his head. "Water comes twice a day. Once in the morning and..."

  His head bobbed to his chest, but he shook it and blinked several times. "...but soon, the festival of Hathor will give us much to drink." He smiled, revealing an abundance of broken and missing teeth. "You may find it difficult to drink since your blood will be mixed with the beer."

  A cackle of reedy laughter burst from his thin chest.

  "What? What did you say?" Alex propped herself up on her elbows and managed into a sitting position.

  "Each year at this time, they slit the throats of their captors and spill their tainted blood into the city's beer vats." His creaky voice assaulted her senses like fingers on a blackboard and she covered her ears to block out his words.

  "You should feel honored. Your life will bring good luck to Herakleopolis. It will protect the city from Hathor's wrath for another year."

  Trapped. Her heart staccatoed in panic against her ribs. No way out. Alone. This time, her captors weren't kindly or even willing to listen. She was utterly and completely alone. Afraid. She sucked air in great gulps and fought for control. "And you, old man? When do you die?"

  He collapsed in crackly laughter until coughing spasms took control of him. "It is a cruel joke my Lord Pharaoh has played on his lowly servant. I am condemned to live my life without honor in the bowels of doom. I have begged to be honored such as you."

  "I certainly don't find getting my throat cut very honorable."

  He wiped his drooling mouth. "You would prefer to live out your days such as I? Knowing that with Ra's rebirth, I will wallow in this vile place for eternity. You should have paid homage to Pharaoh. You should not anger the great one's son, Merikare. Now you will pay the price for your insolence."

  Alex hugged her legs and bent her head to her knees. What was the matter with her? She shouldn't have refused to care for the pharaoh. She didn't give a whip about the politics of Egypt. None of this was worth her death and she certainly didn't want to die four thousand years before she'd been born.

  At the far end of the chamber the door grated open. Cries for water echoed through the prison and she heard her own voice pleading hoarsely in chorus with the others. A hairless, burly man stopped before her and offered a dirty, water-filled bladder for her to drink.

  Alex swallowed hard and took a sip. Its brackish taste almost made her gag, but she knew the necessity of staying hydrated. Wiping her hand across her lips, she glared at the man and squared her shoulders. "Take me to Merikare. I will heal his father."

  TARIK SCALED the dune, peered down upon the city of Herakleopolis, and wondered if his beloved was still alive. Five days had passed since she'd left him and his heart ached to be near her. To take her suffering for his own. To spare her the tortures of these violent people. To hold her in his arms once more. He'd been wrong to think he could protect her from Tem's wrath when it had been he who had forced Alex to leave him. Now, his wife, a woman he had been most fortunate to find was most probably dead and it was all his fault.

  He reached down and grabbed a handful of sand, held it up, and sifted it through his fingers until the wind took it and blew it back into the eternity that was Egypt.

  "Stay alive, my love, my wife, my great healer. Draw breath until I can reach you. My beloved Isis, I beg you with all my being. Keep my beloved safe until I can reach her."

  "I CAN SEE our prisons have brought you to your senses." Merikare paced haughtily in front of her. The muscled jailer bent low and unlocked her chains. Alex rubbed her wrists and waited. "You will follow me to the harem. There you will cleanse the filth from your body and make preparation to attend to my father. His fever grows stronger as he grows weaker. My servants will assemble your needs."

  He gripped the rope around her neck and pulled her forward, his breath hot and sour in her face. "You must heal him or else it will be your blood that is mixed with our beer this night."

  What was the fixation with blood these people had? Was today the same festival of Hathor the old loon had babbled on about? She shivered at the thought of the gruesome concoction, yet prayed she'd still be alive to taste it.

  In the harem she was hastily scrubbed and dressed and, within minutes, stood before the sickbed of the pharaoh. For a moment she stared, stunned. This was Khety the Second, the last descendant of the tenth dynasty, the end of a divided Egypt, and he was dying.

  He lay atop his bed, weak, feverish, and still. Malaria. She was certain of it. If she could just hold out, keep him alive, Mentuhotep's armies might invade in time to save her. At least, that's what the history books promised. A shiver passed through her. No one knew this but her, yet the history books hadn't exactly told when the war would begin. Only that it had happened. It was creepy to know the outcome of history while living it and more than a little surreal.

  Alex forced herself to concentrate on the pale figure before her. She didn't have her medical bag. How on earth would she cure this man without antibiotics or sulfa drugs? She'd learned much from Tarik about the use of herbs, but curing Khety was almost too much. Her days with Tarik had been a time of sharing knowledge and learning about each other. She'd told him of the drugs and machines and inventions of her time and he'd told her of the herbs and prayers and surgical techniques of his. They'd been similar in their approaches to the healing arts. And yet, now, so far away from her husband, their ways seemed eons apart. About four-thousand eons.

  "You will do this?" Merikare's voice interrupted her thoughts and she jumped. A cold sweat broke out across her brow and she wracked her brain to remember how Tarik had treated malaria. She certainly couldn't think with Merikare watching everything she did.

  Alex took a deep breath and lifted her chin. "Yes, I will. I need to be alone to figure things out."

  "Is this how you heal?" He folded his massive arms across his chest. "Hidden behind doors? Perhaps you plan to kill my Lord Father?"

  "Please. I need to concentrate." She gestured toward the door. "You can stand right outside. I'll tell you what I need and you get it."

  His eyes softened for a moment. "Word of your deeds have traveled far into my land. It is said the nation that has you to care for Pharaoh will prosper. I find you speak with much authority." His menacing eyes grew darker. "For now, I will do as you ask. But do not fail. The feast of Hathor will begin with Ra's rebirth." He strode toward the door stopped, turned and fixed her with a cold stare. "I wait."

  Alex bent and examined the king more closely. She laid her hand against his skin--dry and clammy and hot. She reached up and pushed back his eyelid. The whites were a sickly yellow. A sign of liver involvement. She was almost sure the king was suffering from an attack of malaria, but if she was wrong, or if she failed....

  Words, phrases, lessons popped into her head. Deal with his symptoms. In medical school she'd been taught if she didn't know the diagnosis, then she needed to treat the symptoms. If he had malaria, then she needed quinine or a source of quinine. Naturally, her supply was in her lost medical bag. What was the derivative of quinine? She closed her eyes trying to remember her pharmacology days in medical school. Quinine was derived from the bark of the cinchona tree. She wracked her brain--what was the Egyptian word for cinchona?

  All right, now she had something to work with. She took a deep breath and glanced at her patient, running her hand along his forehead, cheeks, and the thready pulse o
f his carotid. She needed to get his fever down. But how? She had nothing with her. Along with the cinchona bark, she'd have to rely on what she'd learned from Tarik.

  Alex hurried to the doorway where Merikare stood with folded arms. "I need the bark of a willow and the bark of a cinchona--I mean--kesbet tree."

  He glared at her quizzically.

  "Oh yes, and some natrum and wine. Yes, that's it. Lots and lots of wine."

  He frowned at her. "We have willows in our courtyard. Our own physicians use these things. This is not strong magic." He hesitated. "I was promised."

  "What were you promised?" She stared up at him. "And by whom?"

  "The wife of Mentuhotep, pretender to the throne of Egypt and spoiler of Upper Egypt. She said you would bring much prosperity and her husband would cower in fear when he learned of your absence from his court." He narrowed his gaze. "Is this not so?"

  Alex swallowed hard. "I use certain preparations--we call them drugs--to cure the sick. Some might think it's strong magic." She held up her hand. "But it's not. It's merely a learned skill. One all trained physicians have. And since I don't have my drugs with me--"

  Merikare strode to his father's bedside. "Where might these `drugs' be?"

  "Back in Abydos. I left without them." She tore her gaze away. "I'd planned only a short walk."

  He cocked his head to the side, tossed her a quizzical glance, and cupped her chin. "No one goes into the desert unless they run from something."

  Alex folded her arms. "Well, maybe I was...was...I wanted to find the tomb."

  He raised his voice. "Tomb? Whose?

  "I don't know."

  "This is very strange. Egyptian tombs are not built deep within the desert. Unless, of course, it is done to hide precious remains from robbers, no Egyptian tomb is constructed deep within the sands."

  She whirled and placed her hands on her hips. "Well this one is."

  A smile crossed his face. "Mentuhotep's?"

  "I don't know." She rubbed her tired eyes.

  "I wonder what his jealous Isis would think if I visited the great pharaoh's tomb before his final resting and left him a gift from our goddess Hathor?" He leaned close to her ear. "I saw the brightness in your eyes when I spoke of it. You wish to go there?"

  "No--I--Yes--" She backed up and stared at him. Could she strike a bargain? If she got back to the tomb, she might be able to find her way home. Somehow. No, it was too much to hope for. "What're you saying?"

  Merikare gestured toward his father. "Make him well again. We will talk more of this tomb, later."

  She steadied her voice. "Then bring me what I need for his cure."

  Without another word, he turned and left. First things first, then she'd figure out how to escape.

  She pulled off the veil that covered her head and dipped it into a nearby bowl of clear water. Until she could administer the willow bark, she'd sponge him down. That usually worked on babies. Or better yet...

  She turned to a waiting servant. "Do you have a bathing pool?"

  The woman nodded.

  "Good. Help me get him into the water."

  It wasn't much, but hopefully it would help keep him alive until morning.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IN THE DARKNESS of night, the hours stretched into an eternity. Alex struggled to control the pharaoh's fever, alternately bathing his heat-wracked body to dampen the raging fire within and covering him with linens when the chills shook his frail body. Yet, his temperature stayed constant, neither spiking, nor lowering.

  She glanced out the window. The sun hovered over the horizon as if it debated whether or not to give life to the coming day. As its rays illuminated the chamber where the king had fallen into an uneasy sleep, Alex knew she'd won. The worst was over. She'd just given him the willow and cinchona bark preparation and once the quinine entered his blood-stream, he'd come out of it. All that was left for her to do was to wait.

  Wait and see if holistic medicine could do the same as antibiotics and respirators and IV's. Wait and think about all the events of the past few months. Thoughts of that first moment when she'd slammed into Tarik, tall and bronzed and naked to the waist, comforted her. He'd taken her breath away and something else. Her heart. A single tear slid down her cheek.

  But he hadn't treated her anything like Merikare, who'd struck her and threatened to drink her blood. No. Tarik was an honorable man, one who'd convinced her he loved her until...those awful words. `...it pains me to be with one so inferior to you.' The stinging memory almost doubled her over and she wrapped her arms around her middle. If he loved her, why had he said them?

  Yet, even though he was antiquity itself, with ancient views and stubborn ways, he'd changed. He'd shown another side of himself, a tender one. He'd given her equality in his home, and had seemed genuinely appreciative when she healed the sick or performed surgery.

  And strangely enough, she'd felt the same about him. He'd taught her that ancient ways were sometimes better. And with all their differences they'd seemed truly meant for each other. Destined to be together. Abruptly the thought struck her. What if she was wrong? Didn't she know him better than that? Was it possible she'd misunderstood him?

  Tem was evil and vicious and dangerous. Could there have been a logical reason as to why he'd acted the way he did toward that woman? Seta had always feared Tem might do her harm. Could Tarik's behavior have been a ploy to protect her? Another tear followed the first. And, after all, she was his wife.

  But if her theory was right, he should've told her, trusted her with the truth. Yeah, and maybe she should've waited for an explanation instead of running away half out of her mind with jealousy. Into the desert. Alone. Unprotected.

  "Merikare," the old man groaned.

  Alex glanced at the son who'd been steadfast at his father's side for most of the night. He might be the enemy, but he seemed a loyal son. Something rare in the Egyptian aristocracy, according to her father's stories. Father. A sad longing invaded her memory. How long had it been since she'd heard her own father's voice, or seen his face? In a very real way it was eons.

  "Merikare?"

  "Yes, Father. I am here." Merikare knelt and bowed his head. "I brought the healer. See? She has worked her magic and you have lived."

  The king patted his son's head and squinted at Alex. "You are the healer my son speaks of?"

  "That's me."

  He smiled weakly and nodded. "You have done well in bringing her here, Merikare. Now, Mentuhotep's armies cannot survive without her."

  Anger burned in her cheeks. What happened to gratitude? What happened to kindness? Alex crossed the room and faced her captors.

  "Wait a minute. If you think they won't find me and bring me back, you're crazy. I'm the wife of Tarik, the pharaoh's chief physician." The words instantly reassured her. They were married after all. "And he won't be too happy I'm missing."

  "It is of no consequence," Merikare said smugly. "We are well prepared for Mentuhotep's coming. Our armies are positioned to the south of the city and we await our Lord Pharaoh's command."

  The older man struggled to sit up.

  "Hold it, King." Alex pushed him back onto his bed. "I didn't spend all night trying to keep you alive so you could relapse. You'll need at least twenty-four hours before you go back to business as usual."

  Khety glared at her suspiciously and turned to his son. "What is this language she uses?"

  Merikare pushed her out of the way. "I do not know, Father. It is said she comes from Isis."

  "Ah, a worthless goddess when compared to the wrath of our Hathor." He narrowed his gaze. "It would not serve us to anger our protectress with her presence."

  "Then, I shall kill her?" Merikare placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. An icy sweat broke out across the back of Alex's neck, but she held her ground. This old guy owed her his life. That must count for something.

  The older man threw up his hand. "Nay, my son. For, as you say, she healed me. And if this lesser goddess Isi
s has smiled upon our nation, then we must hide this healer's presence from the jealous wrath of our protectress. Is not the feast of Hathor upon us?"

  Merikare nodded and reached for Alex's arm. "I will take the woman back to prison."

  Alex shrank away. The thought of that rotting place curdled her blood. Doom shrouded her in a cloak of despair. If she was bound in chains again, it'd be impossible to escape.

  Khety shook his head. "I think not. Hathor would surely find her there. A safer hiding place is needed until after the feast. You must keep the healer hidden within our palace in a place separate from the harem. We will deal with her after Hathor has blessed our city once again."

  Their silly superstitions had given her a reprieve, if only for a day. As long as they didn't chain her up she'd find a way out.

  ALEX PACED the perimeter of her cubicle. It was smaller than she'd expected, almost like a closet. But there was an opening about the size of a small window just beneath the ceiling. If she could somehow reach it...

  The door opened and Merikare stood in the doorway. He waved his hand toward a servant carrying bread, fruit, and drink who immediately scurried around him and set the tray on a table. Alex glanced at the contents of the goblet. Red as blood. Was it the blood of some unsuspecting victim? She shuddered. It could've been her blood in that goblet.

  A smile quirked in the corner of Merikare's mouth and he folded his arms. "Drink."

  Alex picked up the goblet and sniffed. The familiar odor of hops and fermentation assaulted her senses. Her mouth watered for the rich, sweet taste of Egyptian beer. In just a short time, she'd grown to enjoy the national beverage and given the fact that she hadn't eaten or drunk anything in the last twenty-four hours, a beer right now would be especially satisfying.

  "What gives it the red color?" She took a sip and gazed up at Merikare who watched her with cautious interest.

  "For the ritual of Hathor, red ochre is mixed with grains and allowed to ferment until the feast. You would do well to drink this down and pray for her protection."