The Egyptian

BOOK 3
Thebes Fever
1

A great concourse of people from every walk of life had gathered by the walls of the golden house, and even the forbidden foreshore was thronged with boats-the wooden rowing boats of the rich and the pitched-reed boats of the poor. At the sight of us a whisper ran through the crowd like the rushing of distant waters, and the news that the royal skull surgeon was on his way sped from mouth to mouth. Then the people held up their hands in grief, while cries and lamentations followed us up to the palace; for everyone knew that no Pharaoh had ever lived until the third sunrise after his skull had been opened.

Through the gate of lilies we were taken to the royal apartments; court chamberlains were our servants and prostrated themselves before us, for we carried death in our hands. A temporary cleansing room had been prepared, but after exchanging a few words with Pharaoh’s own physician, Ptahor raised his hands in sorrow and performed the cleansing ceremonial in but a perfunctory manner. The sacred fire was borne after us, and having passed through a series of splendid rooms, we entered the royal bedchamber.

Great Pharaoh lay beneath a golden canopy; the bedposts were protecting gods, and the bedstead was supported by lions. His swollen body was naked, stripped of all the symbols of sovereignty. He was unconscious, his aged head hung sideways, and he breathed stertori- ously, saliva running from the corner of his mouth. So shadowy and ephemeral is mortal glory that he could not have been distinguished from any of the old men who lay dying in the reception hall of the House of Life. But on the walls of the room he was depicted as speeding in a chariot drawn by swift, plumed horses; his powerful arm drew back the bowstring, and lions, pierced by his arrows, fell dead about his feet.

We prostrated ourselves before him, knowing-as all who had seen death must know-that Ptahor’s arts were useless here. But since throughout the ages the skull of Pharaoh has been opened as a last resort, if natural death has not already supervened, it must be opened now, and we set about our task. I lifted the lid of the ebony box and in the flame purified once more the’scalpels, bores, and forceps. The court physician had already shaved and washed the head of the dying man, and Ptahor ordered the stauncher of blood to sit upon the bed and take Pharaoh’s head in his hands.

Then the royal consort Taia stepped to the bed and forbade him. Hitherto she had stood by the wall with her arms raised in the gesture of grief, motionless as an image. Behind her stood the young heir to the throne, Amenhotep, and his sister Baketamon, but I had not yet dared to raise my eyes to them. Now that a stir ran through the room I looked, and recognized them from the statues in the temples. The prince was of my own age but taller. Princess Baketamon had noble and very lovely features and large, oval eyes. But more majestic than either was the royal consort Taia, though she was short and plump. Her complexion was very dark and her cheekbones broad and prominent. It was said that by birth she was a woman of the people and had Negro blood in her veins; I do not know if this is so, for it is but hearsay. Even if it be true that her parents bore no honorable titles in the records, yet her eyes were intelligent, bold, and piercing, and her whole bearing radiated power. When she moved her hand and looked upon the stauncher of blood, he seemed dust beneath her broad, brown feet. I understood her feelings, for the fellow was an ox driver of low birth and could neither read nor write. He stood with bent head and hanging arms, with his mouth open and a vacant expression on his face. Unskilled, untalented though he was, he yet had the power to stop the flow of blood by his mere presence. Therefore he had been called from his plow and his oxen to be paid his fee in the temple, and despite all cleansing ceremonial the smell of cattle dung clung about him. He himself could not account for his powers. He possessed them, as a jewel may be found in a clod of earth, and they were such as cannot be acquired through study or spiritual exercises.

“I do not permit him to touch the god,” said the Queen. “I will hold the god’s head if it be needful.”

Ptahor protested that the task was an unpleasant and bloody one; nevertheless, she took her place on the edge of the bed and most carefully raised the head of her dying husband into her lap, heedless of the saliva that dripped onto her hands.

“He is mine,” she said, “and no one else shall touch him. It is from my arms that he shall enter the realms of death.”

“He shall step aboard the ship of his father the sun,” said Ptahor, incising the scalp with his flint knife. “Of the sun was he born, to the sun shall he return, and all people shall praise his name from everlasting to everlasting-In the name of Set and all devils, what is the blood stauncher about?”

He had been talking to distract the Queen’s thoughts from the operation, as a skillful doctor will talk to a patient to whom he is causing pain, but the last phrase was hissed at the peasant, who was leaning against the door post with sleepy, half-shut eyes. Sluggish blood had begun to well from Pharaoh’s head and run down into his consort’s lap so that she flinched and her face turned a yellowish gray. The man roused himself from his thoughts-thoughts no doubt of his oxen and his irrigation ditches-remembered his duty, and approaching the bed, he looked at Pharaoh and raised his hands. The flow of blood ceased at once, and I washed and cleaned the head.

“Forgive me, my little lady,” said Ptahor, taking the bore from my hand. “To the sun-ay, indeed, straight to his father in the golden ship, the blessing of Ammon be upon him.”

While he was speaking, he spun the bore swiftly and deftly between his hands so that it grated its way into the bone. The prince opened his eyes, took a step forward, and his face quivered as he said, “Not Ammon but Ra-Herachte shall bless him, and he manifests himself in Aton.”

“Ay, indeed, Aton,” murmured Ptahor soothingly. “Aton, of course-a slip of the tongue.” He took his flint knife again and the ebony- handled hammer, and with light taps began to remove the piece of bone. “For I remember that in his divine wisdom he raised up a temple to Aton. That was surely soon after the prince’s birth, was it not, fair Taia? One moment.”

He glanced uneasily at the prince, who was standing by the bed with clenched fists and twitching face.

“A mouthful of wine would steady my hand and do the prince no harm. At such a time as this one might well break the seal of a royal jar. There!”

I handed him the forceps, and he jerked out the piece of bone with a gfating noise.

“A little light, Sinuhe!”

Ptahor heaved a sigh, for the worst was over, and so did I. The same feeling of relief seemed to be communicated to the unconscious Pharaoh, for his limbs stirred, his breathing grew slower, and he sank into a yet deeper coma. Ptahor contemplated Pharaoh’s brain thoughtfully in the bright light, where it lay exposed: it was grayish blue, and it quivered.

“Hm,” he said musingly. “What is done is done. May his Aton do the rest for him, for this is a matter for gods, not men,”

Lightly and carefully he fitted the piece of bone back into place, smearing size into the crack, drew together the edges of the wound, and bandaged it. The royal consort laid his head over a neck rest of rare wood and looked at Ptahor. Blood had dried upon her, but she did not heed it. Ptahor met her fearless gaze without making obeisance, and said in a low voice, “He will live until dawn, his god permitting.”

Then he raised his hands in a gesture of sorrow, and so did I. But when he raised them to show sympathy, I dared not follow his example, for who was I to pity royalty? I purified the instruments in fire and put them back in the ebony box.

“Your reward shall be great,” said the Queen, and she signed to us that we might go. A meal had been prepared for us in another room, and Ptahor looked with delight at the many wine jars that stood along the wall. Having closely examined the seal of one of these, he caused it to be opened, and a slave poured water over our hands.

When we’re alone again, Ptahor explained to me that Ra- Herachte was the god of the Amenhoteps and that Aton was his manifestation: a god of great antiquity, older indeed than Ammon.

“It is said that the present heir to the throne is the divine son of this Aton,” went on Ptahor. He took a draught of wine. “It was in the temple of Ra-Herachte that the royal consort saw her vision, after which she bore a son. She took with her a very ambitious priest whom she favored; his name was Eie, and he saw to it that his wife was engaged as wet nurse to the heir. His daughter Nefertiti drank milk from the same breasts as the prince and played with him in the palace like a sister, so you may fancy what will come of that.”

Ptahor drank again, sighed, and went on. “Ah, for an old man there is nothing more delightful than drinking wine and gossiping about what does not concern him. If you but knew, Sinuhe, how many secrets lie buried behind this old forehead. Perhaps there are kingly secrets among them. Many wonder why it is that no son has ever been born alive in the women’s wing of the palace, for that is against all medical law-and the man lying there with the opened skull was no milksop, either, in the days of his joy and strength. He found his consort on a hunting trip; they say Taia was the daughter of some fowler and dwelt among the reeds of the Nile, but that the king made her his equal because of her wisdom and venerated her parents, too, and filled their tomb with the costliest of gifts. Taia had nothing against his pleasures so long as the women of the harem bore no man children. In this she had wonderfully good fortune, such as one could hardly believe possible if it had not happened.”

Ptahor looked sideways at me and glancing round said quickly, “But, Sinuhe, never believe any stories you may hear; they are only put about by ill-natured people-and everyone knows how gentle the queen is and how wise and what a gift she has for gathering useful men about her. Yes, yes… ”

I led Ptahor out into the fresh air; night had fallen, and in the east the lights of Thebes outshone the red glow in the sky. I was flushed with wine and felt again the city’s fever in my blood. Stars twinkled above my head, and the garden was filled with the scent of flowers.

“Ptahor,” I said, “when the lights of Thebes shine to the night sky, then-then I thirst after love!”

“There is no love,” said Ptahor emphatically. “A man is sad when he has no woman to lie with, and when he has lain with one, he is still sadder. So it has ever been and ever will be.”

“Why?”

“Not even the gods know that. And never talk to me of love unless you want me to open your skull for you. I will do that for nothing and without requiring the smallest present from you and so save you much sorrow.”

It now seemed best for me to take upon myself the duties of a slave; I lifted him in my arms and carried him to the room that had been put at our disposal. He was so little and old that I was not even breathless. When I had lain him down upon the bed, he fell asleep at once, after some little groping for a wine cup. I covered him with soft skins, as the night was cold, and went out again to the terrace of flowers-for I was young, and youth desires no sleep on the night of a king’s death.

The murmuring voices of those who were passing the night by the palace walls reached the terrace like the distant sough of wind through rushes.

I awoke amid the scent of flowers as the lights of Thebes glowed a garish red against the eastern sky; I remembered a pair of eyes green as Nile waters in the heat of summer-and found I was no longer alone.

The light from the stars and from the thin sickle of the moon was so faint that I could not see whether a man or a woman was approaching, but someone drew near and peered into my face. I stirred, and the newcomer, in a voice of authority that was yet shrill-almost childish-demanded, “Is it the Lonely One?”

I recognized the prince’s voice and his lanky figure and prostrated myself before him not daring to speak. But he nudged me impatiently with his foot.

“Stand up, you fool. No one can see us, so you need not bow to me. Keep that for the god whose son I am-for there is but one, and all others are his manifestations. Did you know that?” Without waiting for an answer he added reflectively, “All others but Ammon, who is a false god.”

I made a gesture of protest and said, “Oh!” to show I feared such talk.

“Let be!” he said. “I saw you standing by my father, handing knife and hammer to that crazy old Ptahor. So I called you the Lonely One. To Ptahor my mother gave the name of Old Monkey. You must bear these names if you have to die before leaving the palace. But I thought of yours.”

I thought he must be mad to talk thus wildly, though Ptahor had said that we must die if Pharaoh did, and the stauncher of blood believed it. My hair prickled on my scalp, for I did not wish to die.

The prince was panting; his hands twitched, and he mumbled to himself: “Restless… I would be-I would be in some other place. It is my god revealing himself. I know it-I fear it. Stay with me, Lonely One. He crushes my body with his strength, and my tongue is afflicted…

I trembled, thinking him delirious. But he said to me in a commanding voice, “Come!” and I followed him. He led me down from the terrace and past Pharaoh’s lake, while from behind the walls came the murmuring voices of the mourners. I was in great dread, for Ptahor had stated that we might not leave the palace before the death of the king, but I could not gainsay the prince.

He held his body tense and walked with such rapid, jerky steps that I had hard work to keep up with him. He was wearing only a loincloth, and the moon shone on his fair skin, his slender legs, and feminine thighs. It shone on his prominent ears and the tormented, agitated face that seemed to tell of some vision he alone could see.

When we reached the shore, he said, “We will take a boat. I am going eastward to meet my father.”

Without hesitating to choose his craft, he stepped into the nearest; I followed him, and we began to row across. No one sought to hinder us, though we had stolen the boat. The night was uneasily astir; other craft were out on the river, and the red glow of Thebes showed ever brighter in the sky ahead. When we reached the farther shore, he set the boat adrift and started to walk forward as if he had been this way many times before. Others were abroad also, and we went unchallenged by the watch. Thebes knew that the king would die that night.

The pace was wearing him out. Yet I wondered at the toughness of that young body, for though the night was cold, the sweat ran down my back as I followed him. The stars moved across the heavens, and the moon went down, and still he walked until we came up out of the valley into the desert, leaving Thebes behind us. The three hills in the east-the city’s guardians-loomed before us black against the sky.

At last he sank down panting in the sand and said in a frightened voice, “Hold my hands, Sinuhe, for they tremble, and my heart thuds against my ribs. The hour draws near-it draws near for the world is desolate-you and I are alone. Where I go, you cannot follow-and I do not want to be alone.”

I gripped his wrists and felt that his whole twitching frame was bathed in cold sweat. The world about us was indeed desolate; far off some jackal howled for a death; slowly the stars paled and space about us turned a wan gray. Suddenly he shook off my hands and rising lifted his face to the east, to the mountains.

“The god is coming!” he said softly, with awe in his distracted, blazing face. “The god is coming.” Then again in a loud voice he shouted into the desert, “The god is coming!”

The air grew brighter, the hills before us flamed gold, and the sun rose-and with a shrill cry he sank swooning to the ground, his mouth moving, his limbs twitching convulsively and churning up the sand. But I was no longer afraid, for I had heard such cries in the forecourt of the House of Life and knew what to do. Lacking a peg to wedge between his teeth, I tore a strip from my loincloth, rolled it up, and stuffed it into his mouth. Then I began to massage his limbs. He would be sick and dazed when he awoke. I looked about me for help, but Thebes lay behind us, and not the meanest hovel was in sight.

At that instant a falcon flew past me with a screech, swooping out of the rays of the rising sun into an arc above us, then sank again, and made as if to alight upon the prince’s forehead. Startled, I instinctively made the holy sign of Ammon; had the prince had Horus in his mind when he greeted his god, and was Horus here manifest? The boy moaned, and I bent to tend him. When I raised my head again, it seemed that the bird had taken human shape. Before me stood a young man, godlike, beautiful in the sun’s rays. He carried a spear and wore the coarse shoulder cloth of a poor man. Though I did not believe in the gods, for safety’s sake I prostrated myself before him.

“What’s this?” he asked in the dialect of the Lower Kingdom. “Is the lad sick?”

Feeling very foolish, I rose to my knees and greeted him in the ordinary way.

“If you are a robber,” I said, “you’ll get little from us, but I have here a sick boy, and the gods may bless you for your help.”

He screeched like a hawk, and the bird fell from the air to alight upon his shoulder.

“I am Horemheb, son of the falcon,” he said proudly. “My parents are but cheese makers, but it was foretold at my birth that I should win command over many. The falcon flew before me, and I followed, having found no shelter for the night in the city. Thebes is shy of spears after dark. But I mean to enter Pharaoh’s service as a warrior. They say he is sick, therefore he may need strong arms to protect his sovereignty.”

The prince moaned, passed his hands gropingly over his face, and contorted his limbs. I removed the rag from his mouth, wishing I had water with which to revive him. Horemheb surveyed him and asked coolly, “Is he dying?”

“He is not,” I replied impatiently. “He has the holy sickness.”

Horemheb gripped his spear as he looked at me.

“You need not despise me though I come barefoot and am poor. I can write passably and read what is written, and I shall have command over many. Which god has taken possession of him?”

The people believe that a god speaks through those suffering from the holy sickness, hence his question.

“He has his own god,” I answered, “and I think he is a little queer in the head.”

“He is cold.” Horemheb drew off his cloak and spread it over the prince. “Morning in Thebes is chilly, but my own blood suffices to keep me warm. My god is Horus. This is surely a rich man’s son, for his skin is white and delicate, and he has never worked with his hands. And who are you?”

“A physician and initiate of the first grade of priesthood in Ammon’s temple in Thebes.”

The heir to the throne sat up, moaned, and looked dazedly about him. His teeth chattered as he spoke.

“I have seen! The instant was as a cycle of time-I was ageless-he stretched forth a thousand hands above my head in benediction, and in every hand the symbol of eternal life. Must I not then believe?”

At the sight of Horemheb his eyes cleared, and he was beautiful in his radiant wonder.

“Is it you whom Aton, the one god, has sent?”

“The falcon flew before me, and I followed; that is why I am here. I know no more than that.”

The prince looked with a frown at the others weapon.

“You carry a spear,” he said in rebuke.

Horemheb held it forth.

“The shaft is of choice wood,” he said. “Its copper head longs to drink the blood of Pharaoh’s enemies. My spear is thirsty, and its name is Throat Slitter.”

“Not blood!” cried the prince. “Blood is an abomination to Aton. There is nothing more terrible than flowing blood.”

“Blood purifies the people and makes them strong; it makes the gods fat and contented. As long as there is war, so long must blood flow.”

“There will never be war again,” declared the heir to the throne. Horemheb laughed.

“The lad’s daft! War there has always been and always will be, for the nations must test each other’s worth if they are to survive.”

“All peoples are his children-all languages-all complexions-the black land and the red.” The prince was gazing straight into the sun. “I shall raise temples to him in every land, and to the princes of those lands I shall send the symbol of life-for I have seen him! Of him was 1 born, and to him I shall return.”

“He is mad,” said Horemheb to me, shaking his head in compassion. “I can see he needs a doctor.”

The prince raised his hand in greeting to the sun, and his face was once more filled with a passionate beauty as if he were looking into another world. We let him finish his prayer and then began to lead him toward the city. He made no resistance. The fit had left him weak; he staggered and moaned as he went; so at last we carried him between us, and the falcon flew ahead.

When we came to the edge of cultivation, we saw a royal carrying chair awaiting us. The slaves had lain down upon the ground, and out of the chair stepped a fat priest whose head was shaven and whose dark face was grave and beautiful. I stretched forth my hands at knee level before him, for I took him to be Eie, of whom Ptahor had spoken. But he did not heed me. He threw himself prostrate before the prince and hailed him as king, so I knew that Amenhotep III was dead. The slaves then hastened to tend the new Pharaoh. His limbs were washed, massaged, and anointed, he was robed in royal linen, and upon his head was set the royal headdress.

Meanwhile Eie spoke to me. “Did he meet his god, Sinuhe?”

“He met his god, and I watched over him that no evil might befall. How do you know my name?”

He smiled. “It is for me to know all that goes on within the palace walls. I know your name and that you are a physician and that I might therefore entrust him to your care. You are also one of Amnion’s priests and have sworn him your oath.”

There was a hint of menace in his tone as he said this. Throwing out my hands, I exclaimed, “What signifies an oath to Ammon?”

“You are right and have nothing to repent of. And this spearman?”

He pointed to Horemheb, who was standing apart, testing the spear point on his hand, with the falcon perched upon his shoulder.

“It were better perhaps that he should die,” he added, “for Pharaoh’s secrets are shared by few.”

“He covered Pharaoh with his cloak when it was cold and is ready to wield his spear against Pharaoh’s enemies. I believe he will be more useful to you alive than dead, priest Eie.”

Eie threw a gold ring from his arm toward him, saying carelessly, “You may call upon me some time at the golden house, spearman.”

But Horemheb let the gold ring fall in the sand at his feet and looked defiantly at Eie.

“I take my orders from Pharaoh, and if I am not mistaken, Pharaoh is he who bears the royal headdress. The falcon led me to him, and that is sign enough.”

Eie remained unruffled.

“Gold is costly and is always of use,” he remarked. He picked up the gold ring and put it back upon his arm. “Make your obeisance to Pharaoh, but you must lay aside your spear in his presence.”

The prince stepped forward. His face was pale and drawn but lighted still by a secret ecstasy that warmed my heart.

“Follow me,” he said, “follow me, all of you, upon the new way, for the truth has been revealed to me.”

We walked with him to the chair, though Horemheb mumbled to himself, “Truth lies in my spear.” The porters set off at a trot to where the boat awaited us alongside the landing stage. We returned as we had come, unobserved, though the people stood packed outside the palace walls.

We were allowed to enter the prince’s room, and he showed us big Cretan jars upon which were painted fish and other creatures. Word came that the Queen Mother was on her way to make her obeisance to him, so he gave us leave to go, promising to remember us both. When we had left him, Horemheb said to me in perplexity, “I am at a loss. I have nowhere to go.”

“Stay here with an easy mind,” I counseled him. “He promised to remember you, and it is as well to be at hand when he does. The gods are capricious and quickly forget.”

“Stay here and buzz around with these flies?” he demanded, pointing to the courtiers who were swarming at the prince’s door. “No, I have good reason to be uneasy,” he went on somberly. “What is to become of an Egypt whose ruler is afraid of blood and believes that all nations and languages and colors are of equal merit? I was born a warrior, and my warrior sense tells me that such notions bode ill for such a man as I.”

We parted, and I bade him ask for me at the House of Life if ever he needed a friend.

Ptahor was waiting for me in our room, red eyed and irritable.

“You were absent when Pharaoh drew his last breath at dawn,” he growled. “You were absent, and I slept; and neither of us was there to see Pharaoh’s soul fly from his nostrils straight into the sun, like a bird.”

I told him what had happened that night, and he raised his hands in great astonishment.

“Ammon keep us! Then the new Pharaoh is mad.”

“I think not,” said I doubtfully. “I think he has knowledge of a new god. When his head has cleared, we may see wonders in the land of Kem.”

“Ammon forbid! Pour me out some wine, for my throat is as dry as roadside dust.”

Shortly after this we were conveyed under guard to a pavilion in the House of Justice, where the Keeper of the Seal read the law to us from a leather scroll and told us that we must die since Pharaoh did not recover after his skull had been opened. I looked at Ptahor, but he only smiled when the executioner stepped forward with his sword.

“Let the stauncher of blood go first,” he said. “He is in a greater hurry than we are, for his mother is already preparing pease pottage for him in the Western Land.”

The stauncher of blood took a warm farewell of us, made the holy sign of Ammon, and knelt meekly on the floor before the leather scrolls. The executioner swung his sword in a great arc above the head of the condemned man, till it sang in the air, but stopped short as the edge just touched the back of his neck. But the blood stauncher fell to the floor, and we thought he had swooned from terror, for there was not the smallest scratch upon him. When my turn came, I knelt without fear; the executioner laughed and touched my neck with his blade without troubling to frighten me more. Ptahor considered he was too short to be required to kneel, and the executioner swung his sword over his neck, too. So we died, the law was accomplished, and we were given new names engraved in heavy gold rings. In Ptahor’s ring was written “He Who Is Like a Baboon” and in mine “He Who Is Alone.” Then Ptahor’s present was weighed out to him in gold and mine also, and we were clad in new robes. For the first time I wore a pleated robe of royal linen and a collar heavy with silver and precious stones. When the servants tried to lift the blood stauncher and revive him, they found him stone dead. I saw this with my own eyes and can vouch for its truth. But why he died I do not know, unless from the mere expectation. Simple though he may be, a man who can arrest the flow of blood is not like other men.

Henceforth, being officially dead, I could not sign my name as Sinuhe without adding He Who Is Alone, and at court I could be known by no other name.