The Lost Scroll of the Physician

by Alisha Sevigny

  “Is anyone down there?” I call, as loudly as I dare.

  A strange tongue greets our ears, frantic and beseeching.

  “Who is that?” Reb asks.

  “It must be the Hyksos spy they captured,” Paser says. “I am surprised he is still alive.”

  “Pharaoh probably did not want to anger Merat’s betrothed,” Reb mutters.

  “More likely, they did not get all the information they wanted,” I say, wiping damp palms on my robe. Walking over to another pit, I try again. “Your Holiness?” I whisper.

  “Yes?” A voice cries out eagerly. “Who’s there?” Praise the gods.

  “It is I. Sesha.”

  “Sesha, you must free me.”

  I look around. There is a large rope coiled to our right. Grabbing an end, I dangle it enticingly, but well out of Nebifu’s reach.

  “First you must answer some of my questions,” I say, desperation making me ruthless. I push the feeling aside. It is time to learn the truth.

  “What is it you wish to know?” His voice is impatient.

  “Were you stealing from the pharaoh?”

  “No! It is as I said. The High Priests are sworn to protect our most valuable treasures. If there is an invasion or a revolt, who knows what their fate will be?”

  “How was my father involved?” I ask.

  “He wanted to tell Pharaoh of the room. He was torn about protecting the treasure and keeping secrets from the king. Your father felt that Pharaoh could be trusted with knowledge of the chamber.”

  “And you did not?”

  “It is not a matter of trusting Pharaoh, but of preserving the artifacts in the occasion that something happens to the royal family.”

  “And in that case, you would be left in command of all the priceless objects. That is most convenient.” Another thought strikes me. “What of Wujat? Does he know of the room?”

  “Of course, the knowledge is passed on to each High Priest.”

  “But Wujat is Pharaoh’s most trusted companion,” I counter. “Why did he not feel that Pharaoh should know of the treasure, but my father did?”

  Nebifu hesitates. “Wujat also believed that Pharaoh did not need to be burdened with the knowledge. He has enough to think of at the moment.”

  “Why did you react to the journal?” I demand, feeling that Nebifu did not fully answer the question but having too many more to dwell on it.

  “It was a long-time occupant of the chamber,” he answers. “Whoever gave it to Merat also knows of the room.”

  Queen Anat. I recall the way she fingered the shawl. As if she recognized it. But why would she not have also told Pharaoh about the room? And how did she find out about it? For that matter, how did Qar? I ask Nebifu.

  His scorn assaults me from the pit. “Qar was once High Priest.” We look at each other in amazement. “He took a new name upon his retirement to live out the rest of his days in humility and peace.” Nebifu emits a bitter laugh. “It appears you still have quite a lot of learning to do.”

  “Did you have my father killed to silence him?” I ask, picturing flames licking the rooftop of our house, feeling their heat.

  “No. The fire was nothing more than a tragic accident.”

  My voice hardens. “I do not believe you.”

  “I swear it. Now, get me out of here!” His voice is impatient.

  Paser and Reb, who have been silent during my questioning of Nebifu, come forward now.

  “It sounds like quite the conspiracy,” Reb says, one hand coming up to touch the brutal scar on his arm made by the stroke of a lash. “Perhaps we should give him some more time to think on his actions.”

  “Reb? Is that you, my son?”

  “I am not your son.” His tone is biting, like the wind that has picked up. Dark clouds roll across the sky and I shiver, sensing Set close at hand again, as I had that day on the way to the village. There is a flash of light in the far-off distance and an echoing rumble that resonates in my bones.

  “You are my blood,” Nebifu implores.

  “You are a traitor,” Reb rasps.

  Nebifu tries again. “Listen to me, both of you. You are scribes. It is your sacred duty to preserve the cultural treasures of Egypt.”

  “Our duty is also to our king,” Paser says, stepping forward.

  “Paser, talk some sense into these two,” Nebifu urges, desperate.

  “What you are saying has merit,” Paser begins. Reb and I look at him. “But who is also to say that it is not an elaborate ruse to pocket a nice little reward for yourself?”

  We look at each other. A drop of rain lands on my cheek.

  “I do not know what to think,” I say. My father wanted to tell Pharaoh of the treasure, which means he trusted him, but Queen Anat and Wujat had not. Then again, Nebifu is claiming it isn’t about trust, but about duty.

  “You cannot leave me in here!” Nebifu screams and Reb flinches. He walks to the edge of the pit.

  “You always told me that my actions have consequences,” Reb says, looking down into the darkness. “Yours have no less because of the authority of your position. Maybe more so.”

  “Reb!” Nebifu hisses. “When I get my hands on you, boy!”

  “But you won’t.” Reb walks over to the rope and throws it in the pit without tying the end to anything. “Not ever again.” He looks at us. “Come. Justice is not ours to dispense. That is for the pharaoh and the gods.”

  Silently, we follow him as he leads the way, away from the frustrated yells and threats of Nebifu.

  “Where are we going?” Paser asks. I look up at the angry sky — the storm is moving closer. Instead of relief at the coming rains, there is a growing sense of foreboding.

  “To my parents’ tomb,” I say, patting the scroll in my robes to assure myself it is still there, tucked away, along with the guard’s ring I found in the ashes. “I did not have time to finish my copy, but one thing Nebifu said was true. Troubled times are coming. I do not know what will happen to the original or any other copies that are made, but will do what I can to ensure this one survives.”

  I feel a pang at the unknown fate of the original medical papyrus. Though the priceless document was only in my possession a short time, I feel responsible for it somehow, my scribe’s heart yearning to complete the transcription, like my father’s did. At least this copy is safe. Thankful, I glance in the direction of the far-off pyramids — it will be our own, slightly smaller, legacy to the world.

  “What makes you think the scroll will be secure there?” Reb asks.

  “It feels right that it should rest with my father,” I say. “His spirit will see it safe. I can retrieve it when times are calmer.” Maybe even one day, finish my transcription. Feeling more raindrops, I hunch my shoulders and increase my pace.

  “What about all the other riches we found in the chamber?” Paser says as he and Reb hurry to keep up.

  “We must trust that Queen Anat and Wujat will keep them safe.”

  “I wonder why they did not speak of the room to Pharaoh,” Reb muses, echoing my thoughts.

  “Queen Anat’s lineage is long and noble and her father and grandfathers were pharaohs before our time,” I say. “These treasures have been in her family for generations. Perhaps she has a more proprietary feeling over them?”

  “Perhaps,” Paser says slowly, “she did not want them to become casualties of war, whether by ransacking and looting, or through sale to fund the campaign. Though I can’t imagine she means to let her people starve if the harvest is poor. How do you think she learned of the room if the secret was kept by the priests?”

  “Wujat must have told her,” I say. It is the only thing that makes sense. Nebifu was alarmed to see the journal, so he must have assumed that someone in the royal family gave it to Merat, or that she got it herself. Another streak of light snakes across the sky. The rains are almost upon us and I walk even faster. The scroll must not get wet.

  “So Wujat told the queen but not Pharaoh?” Reb
pants. “Why would he do that?”

  “Why does anyone do anything stupid?” Paser says, with an acknowledging grin. “He must be in love with her.”

  Struck silent by this shocking theory and the need to seek shelter before the storm hits, we race the remaining distance to the tomb where my parents lie. Reaching it just as the skies open, we dive through the entrance, Set’s torrential fury finally unleashed.

  “There is no guard,” I say, brushing the damp off. Aside from the intermittent thundering of the heavens the tomb is eerily quiet. It occurs to me that there were no guards standing watch over Nebifu, either.

  “They are likely off celebrating with everyone else,” Reb says.

  The darkness engulfs us as we enter the main chapel. I feel around the walls for a lantern, knowing that my hands trace over painted murals, though they are impossible to see in the dark.

  “I have something,” Paser says. I follow the sound of his voice and something is thrust into my arms. “Hold this,” he says, handing me what feels like a small terracotta pot.

  There is the sound of flint striking flint, one, two, three times, a spark, then another and finally it catches the floating wick of the oil lamp. Carefully, we proceed down the steep shaft, lower and lower into the depths of the earth.

  “When exactly is this mastaba due to be filled?” Reb asks, glancing around at the confining passageway.

  “I am not sure,” I say, holding up the light. I will have to come back for the scroll before that happens. We are almost at the central room, where the hallways with the grand arches of inscribed family names lead off into separate tunnels. “This way.” I take the path on my right and walk down the deserted hall, the last footsteps to walk this way my own.

  I stop at their room and enter, again, sorely aware that I have brought nothing to offer them.

  But wait.

  That is not true.

  Pulling the transcribed scroll from my robes, I place it on top of my father’s coffin.

  “Here you are, Father,” I say, voice low. “I did my best to complete the work you started. It is not quite finished, but I am afraid it is the best I could manage for now. Guard it well.”

  Paser and Reb have walked in behind me, and though I have kept my voice quiet and my words rushed, Paser puts a hand on my shoulder. “He would be most proud, Sesha.”

  “Yes, Sesha,” a cold voice says. “Most proud.”

  33

  THE THREE OF US SPIN IN unison, like palace dancers who’ve spent the last five moons rehearsing.

  Queen Anat’s statuesque form is lit by the dim light of my lantern, and we stand there, struck dumb by her presence. She moves into the room, two soldiers close behind. On her left I recognize the one holding the torch, as he does me. Crooked Nose. He gives me a smile so twisted it makes his nose seem straight.

  Hathor, help me.

  “Your Majesty,” I say, moving my body to block the scroll from her view.

  She does not mince words. “Give me the papyrus, Sesha.”

  “I gave it to Pharaoh, your husband,” I say.

  “Not that one,” she says, hands on her hips, jewels dangling from her wrists. It is strange, what stands out when one is in the grips of shock. I notice the henna running down Queen Anat’s arms, dissolving in the rain. Rich red patterns merge in a design even more abstract than the artist, probably Nebet, originally intended. The rest of the queen is fairly dry; the guards must have shielded her with palm fronds to avoid the worst of the weather. Her next words snap me back to attention. “I want the copy your father made.”

  “How do you know my father made a copy?” I say.

  “Everyone knew.” She laughs. A low, ugly sound. “Why do you think he was killed?”

  I step in front of Reb and Paser, who have been standing tall in front of me. “You tell me.” Their solid presence makes me brave. Maybe foolishly so. “Why would a good man be killed?”

  “Your father was a heretic, Sesha. He gave as much credence to science as he did to the gods. Maybe more so. And that is a very. Big. Sin.” She saunters forward, hands swinging at her sides. “Against the gods. Against Pharaoh and his family. Against all Egypt.” She brings her face close to mine and lowers her voice to a whisper. “And though my husband is a brave man, he is still a man, concerned with glory and the exploits of war. Let that get out to the masses, that their pharaoh and his family are, in fact, mere mortals and not the embodiment of their gods on earth … why, who do you think loses their authority?” Her lips brush against my cheek. “Their power?”

  My mouth is dry. “You do.”

  “Clever child.” She gives my cheek a condescending pat and pulls back, examining me. “This is especially true in times of political turmoil. It does not take much to swing the balance of power when civil unrest is brewing. And anything that might cause that balance to shift during these precarious times must be … contained. If people come to believe that it is science that saves them — no matter how small its part — and not their gods, it will only add to the chaos. Ma’at would never be restored. You do not want to destroy the balance of the entire universe, do you, Sesha?”

  “I am flattered at your opinion of me.” I lick my lips and meet her dark eyes boldly, as my world crumbles around me. “So you will destroy a priceless document to preserve the illusion of your power?”

  “Oh, Sesha.” She tsks in a mocking tone. “Our power is not an illusion. It is very real, my dear, and currently all-encompassing.” She tilts her head to the side, chin resting on the top of her thumb and index finger, looking very much like she’s trying to figure out what to do with me. “I am just ensuring it remains so. Now, move,” she commands, pushing me out of the way in a tone that brooks no argument. I stagger to the side as she snatches the scroll up off the coffin, examining it critically. “You have a fair hand, my child. It is a pity the world will never know your talent.” Swirling her robes behind her, she strides out of the room, guards at her back, spears remaining pointed at us as they reverse, Crooked Nose still holding the torch high.

  “Stop,” I say, racing to the door. Halfway down the hallway, she turns, scroll clutched tightly in her hand. “What do you plan to do with it?”

  She looks surprised. “Why, destroy it, of course. Along with its brother.”

  “But your husband needs it! For the war, for his men!”

  “The gods will provide for and protect us, Sesha.” She smiles, serene. “I can see you are just as your father was, of little faith. I suppose that means you will also have to be … dispatched.”

  I ignore her threat. “And what of the other treasures? If the crops fail, they could be used to buy food for the kingdom!”

  Her eyes narrow at me. “Funny, your father also felt that feeding the hordes was more important than preserving the precious riches of our nation. He thought my husband could trade some of the less useful items, though the man was quite particular about his papyri.” She taps the scroll against a hennaed palm. “Hypocrisy, if you ask me. Expecting me to sell off my family’s priceless heirlooms like some pathetic beggar.” She laughs in amusement. “The crops will be just fine, Sesha, the Inundation is not over. Even now, Isis’s tears fall. Besides, famines come and go — it is an unfortunate, yet handy, way to rid the land of … excess. My family will be just fine.”

  “You will doom them all,” I shout, Paser and Reb behind me.

  “Shh, my child,” she says, frowning in annoyance. “You really are most irritating with your opinions. Much like my daughter Merat. Though I suppose she has me to thank for that.” She eyes me down her nose like I am a speck of pond scum on the palace pool. “And speaking of Merat, I know you two have become quite close. You should be the first to learn that she was given to the Hyksos chieftain right before I came here, regardless of her protestations. As a token of our good faith.” Seeing my face, she gives me a look that makes my blood stop in my veins. “But not to worry, we will take care of Ky.”

  “Don’t you touch
him,” I growl, barely recognizing the voice as my own.

  “That will depend on you, my child. Follow us, and not only will my guards kill you on the spot, but I will have to whip up another batch of that poppy infusion you prepared him. Though I lack your skill, of course, so who knows what else may accidentally end up in the concoction. The last person to drink one of my tinctures did not fare so well, I’m afraid. Poor Qar.”

  With a final swirl of her robes, she departs from the hallway and begins to ascend the shaft. Crooked Nose and his partner sneer and make threatening jabs at us as they retreat after her. My eyes fall on Crooked Nose’s hand, the one holding the torch. Unlike his partner’s, his finger is missing a ring. A ring I feel pressing into my side, where I’ve been keeping it at all times.

  “It was you!” I shout. “You started the fire! You killed my parents!” I leap at him, dropping my lantern. Paser and Reb grab both my arms, restraining me from clawing his eyes out. Or rather, more likely, from being skewered like a fish.

  He gives me a contemptuous look and bows low. “At your service, Flea. But I cannot take all the credit.” Nodding over his shoulder at Queen Anat’s retreating form, his tone is almost jovial. “Just following orders.” He lets out an ugly chuckle. “Though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

  Snarling and hurling every curse at him that I can imagine only makes him laugh again, his taunting jeers echoing as he and his partner ascend the shaft behind the queen, and — aside from all the mummified bodies — leave us very much alone in the dark.

  34

  THE FIRST PILE OF RUBBLE to fall down the shaft crashes to the ground in a spray of dust and gravel. Coughing, we run to the shaft, and I yell up it, “You can’t seal us in here!”

  “On the contrary, Flea, we can.” Crooked Nose’s voice carries down, along with another shovelful of large rocks, followed by a few large boulders which are obviously being rolled and pushed into the narrow exit. More dust flies. We are being entombed alive.