The Lost Scroll of the Physician

by Alisha Sevigny

  “It is said your father offended the gods …”

  So there has been talk among the scribes, which means someone at the temple knows something about my parents’ accident.

  “No, Your Highness, of course not,” I say.

  “My father has declared this year’s holiday to last for sixteen nights.”

  Probably to distract everyone from the possibility of an upcoming war. Yet even as I think this uncharitable thought, I know the festival is the highlight of most people’s year. There has been much talk of it this past moon in the markets, at the docks, and around the temples. After seeing the difficulty of some of the kingdom’s subjects’ lives, I can easily see why this is so. With their fields submerged, farmers and their families are freed from their daily labours. This is their time to celebrate, offer tribute, and pay respect to their gods and Pharaoh. A time also to beseech the higher powers if the harvest is looking less than promising, something that — based on Wujat’s statements — may be necessary this year. The temples, priests, and scribes are always very busy in preparation for and during the festival.

  Abruptly, I stop walking. The festival. The perfect opportunity to search Nebifu’s chambers and the rest of the temple for the elusive papyrus. With everyone occupied, any unsanctioned exploring will hopefully go unnoticed.

  “… something for you.”

  I realize I have no idea what Merat just said. “My apologies, my lady. I did not quite catch that last part,” I say, hoping she will not take offence.

  Merat sighs and says, “Were you listening to me at all?”

  The “no” slips out before I can stop myself from answering honestly. “But just the last few words. Or rather, the ones just before them.”

  Instead of becoming angry, Merat looks at me and nods. “This is what I like about you, Sesha. You are not afraid to speak the truth.” She continues walking and I follow quickly behind her. If she only knew that I suspect her father, the pharaoh, of possibly having something to do with my parents’ death. We reach the entrance to the quarters.

  Merat turns and looks at me. “Go wash, then come to the feast. My father wishes to have a word with you.”

  Speak of the lion, and he shall appear. I swallow.

  She startles me by pressing something into my hands. “And I was saying that I thought you might want this.”

  I look down at the amulet in my hands, encased in an ornate setting. It is an exquisite scarab beetle, carved from the deep blue of the lapis lazuli stone, flecked with gold, a protective talisman.

  It was my father’s.

  “It was found in the ruins of the fire that took your parents,” she says, voice uncharacteristically soft, much like the look now in her black-brown eyes. “I thought perhaps you would like to wear it tonight.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” I bow low, not wishing her to see the tears threatening to spill over.

  She gives another of her imperceptible nods and walks away, braids swishing, leaving me alone at the entrance to my chamber.

  I let out a hollow laugh and the sound echoes, as empty as the passageway. “What good is a protective amulet if it cannot shield its wearer?”

  My father’s voice whispers to me from the otherworld. “The power lies not only in the enchantment itself, Sesha, but in the person’s belief in it.”

  “Maybe that was your problem, Father,” I whisper back. “Maybe you did not believe enough for some people.”

  17

  I AM CHANGING INTO DRY CLOTHES when there is a commotion at the entrance of the room. Most of the other handmaidens are either off preparing for, or enjoying, the feast.

  It is Kewat and Bebi. They are arguing.

  “Ask her,” I hear Bebi say.

  “No,” Kewat replies.

  Bebi sighs. “You are as stubborn as a mule.” She looks over at me and catches my eye, then, grabbing Kewat’s arm, drags her over.

  “Sesha, Kewat wishes to inquire about something.”

  “I do not,” Kewat repeats stubbornly.

  Bebi shakes her head. “It is better to know for sure.”

  “Know what?” I ask, having a fair idea of her question.

  “Go on,” Bebi makes an impatient noise.

  Kewat seems to gather herself before the words rush out in a defiant burst. “Whether I am with child.”

  “You wish to know this?” I say, cautious.

  “Would I be asking otherwise?” she snaps.

  “There is a test one can do in the early days.” I am surprised one of the other handmaidens has not told her of it yet. The matter must be private indeed if she is coming to me, not quite a stranger, but not quite someone who belongs.

  “See.” Bebi is smug. “I told you.”

  “What is it?” A look of hope flashes into Kewat’s eyes.

  “Why is it so imperative you know this very moment?” I ask, admitting to myself I am curious about her situation.

  Kewat makes a face as if she has eaten some sour grapes from the courtyard. Bebi nods at her.

  “I am promised to another.” Kewat’s tone matches her expression. “However … if there is a chance I am with child, then perhaps my father will allow me to be with the father, whom I truly desire.” She pleats her skirt, anxiously.

  “The test involves gathering the seed of wheat and barley,” I say. “Then you must collect the first water you make in the morning. If the seeds sprout after a few days, it is likely you will also bloom in time.”

  “See, that was not so difficult,” chirps Bebi. “All you have to do is urinate on some seeds.”

  Kewat flushes dark red, but offers a mumbled, “Thanks be to you,” before flouncing off.

  “Maybe she will stop being so miserable with her questions answered,” Bebi says.

  “That might also be the result of her condition,” I say. “Women can have unexpected changes in mood during this time.”

  “In actuality, she is like that most of the time,” Bebi says, thoughtful. “Well, perhaps slightly less,” she amends generously, then takes note of the pile of wet clothes at my feet. I was going to rinse them, then hang them to dry.

  “Have you been swimming?” she asks, cocking her head.

  “Yes. Well, no,” I say. “There was an incident …”

  “Where you and another scribe boy rolled into the river and had to be rescued by your brother?”

  “We did not need …” My cheeks redden. “Wait, how do you know of this?”

  Bebi casts her eyes to the gods. “Everyone knows, Sesha. Apparently, you decided to join the prince on his hippo hunt?”

  I gulp. “Does Pharaoh know?”

  “Most certainly. I believe he was the one relaying the story to the entire court after the hunt returned.”

  This is not good.

  “They seemed most entertained by the tale.” Bebi looks like she is trying not to laugh.

  “I am glad the thought of me being almost mauled by a wild beast is so amusing,” I say, sour expression matching Kewat’s from earlier, and the laughter Bebi’s suppressing trills out.

  “Sesha.” I turn to see Merat standing at the entrance.

  “Coming, my Princess,” I stammer, gathering my clothes and placing them on my mat, pulling the thin blanket overtop.

  “I shall take care of that,” Bebi whispers as I turn and walk toward the exit, where Merat waits. Forgiving her teasing, I send a grateful smile over my shoulder, then hurry down the corridor after the princess.

  We walk halls bustling with the frenzy that surrounds a feast. People scurry here and there, carrying objects and food and furniture. A troupe of dancing girls fly by, scantily clothed and giggling. Anxious servants and giddy court members mingle, everyone doing their best to make the celebration for the royal family, and thus the gods, a memorable occasion.

  “Did Pharaoh mention what it is he wants to discuss?” I ask.

  “No,” Merat says as we walk out into the gardens bursting with plants and palm trees. One of the serv
ants places a flower garland around my neck. It lies on top of my amulet.

  “Thank you for returning this to me, Your Highness,” I say, fingering the smooth stone beetle. We turn up another path, passing by a large pool filled with mossy clumps of greenery, orange and yellow fish darting beneath lily pads.

  “This way,” she says, climbing the steps to the entrance hall of another great chamber. We walk into the large room. Four large columns reach up to a ceiling painted with elaborate murals. The pillars themselves are brightly painted with blue and green patterns. Endless tables of food stretch out before us. Figs, roasted antelope, stewed ostrich, wine, beer, and sweet loaves sprinkled with cinnamon. Despite Wujat’s concern about possible food shortages, it appears Pharaoh is sparing no expense at his son’s big moment.

  The intoxicating smells mingle with the scents of the wax cones many of the guests wear on their heads. The woman in front of us puts a hand up to make sure hers is in place. As the cone melts, the wax will keep her tresses smooth and perfumed. Acrobats jump and twirl, flipping in the air as musicians play lively tunes. More servants surround the pharaoh and Queen Anat, fanning them with large plumes of feathers. Tutan is being clapped on the back and congratulated by Wujat and other high-ranking officials. I scan the crowd for Ky, but do not see him. Even little Tabira is perched by her mother, looking sombre but much improved, as her caretaker watches her charge with attentive eyes.

  Merat leads me through the crowd toward the raised platform where the royal family sits. We weave in and out of people shouting, waving at friends, and helping themselves to food and drink. Though the party is large and crowded, it is only a fraction of the size of the Festival of the Inundation. Then, people will come by the thousands to celebrate the gods and petition them for a good harvest.

  “Perhaps our conversation can wait for another time?” I say to Merat, anxious about what Pharaoh will have to say regarding my uninvited appearance at the hunt. “I do not want to bother His Highness in the midst of the festivities.”

  “All will be well,” she says, walking up the dais, going to stand beside her parents.

  “Sesha,” someone says. I look to see Ahmes, an inscrutable expression on this face. “There you are.”

  I am about to apologize for disobeying his orders when a commanding voice calls out our names. “Sesha. Ahmes.” Pharaoh has spotted us.

  A look passes between Ahmes and me as we turn in unison, carefully making our way up the steps of the platform.

  We bow low before the king of all the land, who addresses us both.

  “You have my thanks for your assistance in my son’s quest,” Pharaoh says. His gaze focuses on me. “You must be making quite an impression at temple, my child, to be assisting Ahmes after only a few days.” I look at Ahmes, unsure of what to say, but he stares straight ahead, answering for me.

  “Yes.” Ahmes clears his throat. “She has been proving herself a most adept student.”

  “I see you have your father’s skill, Sesha. I cannot wait to see what secrets you will reveal to us,” Pharaoh says with a significant look. I gulp. He cannot be expecting results so soon in my search, can he?

  “Yes, Your Highness,” I say. “I am learning much.” I almost add “while dealing with distractions like hippo-hunting brothers,” but something tells me he will not want excuses.

  Queen Anat says something and Pharaoh leans over to confer with her, waving his hand, dismissing us.

  Ahmes and I bow and walk down the steps of the platform.

  “Thank you for … your help,” I whisper, not quite sure why he covered for my disobedience.

  Ahmes’s voice is insistent. “Sesha, you must —” he begins. But just then Pharaoh stands and opens his arms to the audience, summoning Tutan to come stand by his side. The young prince is still in his hunting clothes, streaks of red smeared down his smooth thin chest and across his forehead. Ky would be impressed by the ceremony.

  Ky. Where is he?

  “Sesha, listen to me …” Ahmes urges again. We move off to the side of the room, past the throngs milling closer to the platform to hear Pharaoh’s words.

  “What is it?” I look at him. “Ky?”

  “Yes,” he responds tersely. “You must come at once.”

  18

  “I KNEW HE SHOULD NOT have gone on that hunt.” We hurry down one of the darkened hallways, the torches spaced out far here.

  “There is no telling if it was the hunt that aggravated his condition,” Ahmes says. “From what I gather, the two of you were living quite roughly until only a few days ago.”

  He is right. But I am still angry with myself and he senses it.

  “Besides, I forbade you to accompany him. If you want someone to be irate with, then look no further,” Ahmes says. He rounds a corner and after a few more moments we arrive at the infirmary, in a wing off the back of the palace.

  “Ky?” I whisper, not wishing to disturb any of the other patients.

  “This way.” Ahmes gestures to the end of a row, empty except for one small form. I assume no one else is sick enough to miss the grand celebration. This only increases my worry. Ky would not miss Tutan’s moment unless something was seriously wrong.

  “Sesha?” Ky looks up from his mat, bleary-eyed.

  “What happened?” I kneel beside him.

  “I do not know,” Ky admits. “The last thing I remember is Tutan slaying the hippo. Then both of us were up in the air, being carried on the shoulders of the other hunters toward the palace.”

  “Ky suffered an episode where he lost consciousness and his limbs spasmed. Fortunately, one of the hunters was wise enough to lay him on the ground, away from any danger, until the convulsions passed. He is uninjured but was confused and disoriented, so I brought him here.”

  My hands go to his head. I feel his skull pulsating under my fingers.

  “It is getting worse?” I ask, more of a statement than a question. I’ve witnessed the uncontrollable jerking of his extremities during these episodes. It’s scary, but he’s generally all right after they pass. I wonder what the soldier thought? Most likely that a demon had possessed him.

  “My head feels as if it will burst,” Ky says, voice small.

  “The pressure must be increasing,” Ahmes says.

  “We must relieve it.” I look at Ahmes. “What can we do?”

  “Not much without surgery,” Ahmes admits. “The scroll is our best hope. Your father mentioned there were several cases on it that refer to the head and its contents. It may describe a treatment or incantation that has been lost to us since Imhotep’s time.”

  Ky attempts to sit up. “The pain is already subsiding. I must join Tutan.”

  “You are not going anywhere,” I say.

  Ky’s eyes flash. “I am.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh. “You need to rest.”

  “All lying here does is make me think about how awful I feel,” he retorts. “At least at the party with Tutan I will be distracted from my discomfort.”

  “Can you even walk?” I demand.

  He gets up to demonstrate, swaying, much as Paser did earlier on the riverbank. Then, righting himself, he staggers up and down the row of mats, wincing only slightly.

  “See?” he turns and puts his hands on his hips.

  “You are as stubborn as a goat,” I say, exasperated. “Fine, but you must tell me the moment you start feeling unwell again.”

  He looks up at me, expression bleak. “There is nothing you can do, Sesha. This is an ailment you cannot treat.”

  “I will treat it,” I say firmly. “And I swear by the gods I will find that scroll and see you cured.”

  The next morning, I check on Ky, who seems to be much improved. Ahmes had given me some juniper and marjoram oils, which I administer with a gentle scalp massage to reduce any lingering pain and in the hopes of encouraging some fluid to drain. As I walk into temple the smell of the juniper on my fingers merges with the burning incense.

  Walking p
ast the giant obelisks, I think upon my brother’s condition, which only started this past year. He contracted a dreadful illness, suffering from fever, a stiff neck, and terrible head pain. With Father’s constant care he survived the sickness, but it left fluid inside his skull, causing swelling, which has been steadily worsening. I know Father feared it might eventually kill Ky; that’s why he was so consumed with the scroll.

  If the document was indeed written by Imhotep, the greatest physician of all time, it might hold crucial information that will ensure a successful outcome. As Ahmes pointed out, it could describe an innovative procedure or special technique that has been lost or forgotten over the years, one that can save Ky’s life. I cannot wait for the festival. I must get into Nebifu’s chambers at once.

  I hurry past several priests into the inner chamber where some of the junior scribes have surrounded a gesticulating Paser. There is a dressing on his temple, covering his wound from the night before. They are inquiring how he came by his injury.

  I go to my spot and reach for my instruments.

  They are not there.

  Panic flutters in my chest. I lift my mat, thinking back to the night before. I am sure I placed them there, just before going with Paser and Reb to see the …

  Reb.

  Straightening, I look for him but he is nowhere to be found. I march over to Paser and the group.

  “Where is Reb?”

  “He is not here today?” Paser looks around.

  “It appears not.” My hands are on my hips. “And neither are my writing tools.”

  A loud clap has the group dissipating and everyone taking their seats, me reluctantly.

  “Today we will be learning more about the complex process of mummification,” Sebau says brusquely. “Have your writing instruments ready, as you will be taking detailed notes of this process. Everyone follow me.”

  Everyone grabs their things and starts down the hallway toward the room with the bodies I saw last night. Giving a last desperate look around for my tools, I follow the group, empty-handed.