“Sunu,” Dave confirmed, adding the vowel sounds Kate was shy of voicing, “an ordinary lay physician with no priestly titles or royal appointments.”
“What about the cartouche with a loaf of bread in place of the arrow?”
“Just another way of writing the same thing.”
“Can’t it mean shoe … or sandal?” She was fishing, but the cartouches looked like footprints, Tashat’s cartonnage was fitted with palm-frond sandals, and the soles of her feet had been slashed.
“I said sunu. Senu means shoe in Akkadian, an early form of cuneiform that originated somewhere between the Tigris and Euphrates. Are you trying to learn that, too?” He seemed to find the idea amusing.
She wasn’t about to tell him that languages had always come easy for her, or that she was taking a class at Denver University. “Then how do you explain the word ‘physician’ in a cartouche? Even if it’s used symbolically to mean that some physician reigned in her heart, it still doesn’t make sense. There’s no way her husband could be called ordinary. Or her father.”
“Papyrus was a lucrative export. That’s why Akhenaten ordered everyone to write hieratic, to save space. From then on hieroglyphs were used only for sacred writing. So put this in the religious context. Pharaohs were named sons of Amen-Re when they took the throne and became gods themselves. Akhenaten considered himself the son of Aten, and wore a gold bracelet inscribed with his immortal father’s name inside the double cartouches of a pharaoh. He preached that Aten was the ultimate healer. That’s why the practice of medicine went downhill during his reign. Sunu is a kind of generic word for physician, so enclosing it in cartouches probably means something like ‘God is the physician who heals all ills.’”
“I guess that does make sense,” Kate agreed, giving Dave his due.
He surprised her by responding in kind. “Don’t get discouraged, McKinnon. You’re not doing half-bad for a beginner.”
Kate had gone only two blocks when it started snowing, small icy flakes that stung her face like windblown sand. By the time she reached her street she couldn’t see two feet in front of her, her toes had gone numb, and she could hear a squishy noise with every step she took.
Sam heard her stomping around on the front porch and began jumping against the door. Once inside she hugged him close and let her cold fingers sink into his thick fur. Then she started through the house, turning on lights as she went. In the bathroom she peeled off her wet panty hose and pitched them into the sink before heading for the kitchen. “Come on, Sam, let’s put some crunch in your bowl so I can go get warm in the shower.”
She was letting the needles of hot water pummel her back when she heard him barking, reminding her that she had forgotten to let him out. She was drying herself when she heard the door chime, gave a quick swipe down each leg, slipped into her robe, and padded barefoot across the living room to the front door.
“Quiet, Sam,” she whispered, and put her eye to the peephole viewer. It had stopped snowing, and a pristine white blanket covered everything in sight, except for the dark shadow in her driveway. A car with its parking lights on. A movement caught her eye and she saw a figure moving away from her front steps. In that instant she recognized the way he moved and started fumbling with the dead bolt, trying to get the door open before he reached the car.
“Max?” she called, stepping out onto the icy porch. Sam shot past her ankles, lost his footing at the bottom of the snow-covered steps, then scrambled to right himself.
The shadowy figure bent to catch the dog. “Sorry I got you all upset, boy.” The voice was right, and Sam was wagging his tail off, sending snow flying in all directions, but when Max straightened and started toward her, she didn’t recognize his face.
“Uh, listen, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Thought I’d just swing by for a minute on the way to my hotel”—he kept glancing over her shoulder into the lighted house—“and let you know I was here.”
Shivering, bare feet freezing, she wished he would hug her the way he had Sam. “I didn’t recognize you without the beard.”
“Oh! Yeah, I shaved it off.” He hesitated, obviously at a loss for words. “I should’ve called before coming. It was a stupid idea.”
“You caught me in the sh-shower”—her teeth started to chatter—“trying to get warm. I just walked a mile in the snow.”
He nodded. “I noticed your shoes.”
“They were brand-new.” A rush of tears hit her at the thought that Max was standing on her front porch acting like a stranger. “If you don’t turn off those lights and come inside right now, I’m going to catch pneumonia and die. That would be stupid.”
“You’re sure?” A familiar smile started in his eyes and Kate decided he looked younger. Not so sure of himself. She nodded and went back inside, leaving Sam with Max. A few minutes later man and dog burst through the door, grinning like a couple of kids.
Max dropped his briefcase on the floor, peeled off his all-weather coat, and tossed it over the back of the only chair in the room. As if that was a signal, Sam took off like the devil was after him, tearing across the living room to the kitchen, where they heard him crash into a chair. Then he was back, heading straight for Max, who opened his arms only to have Sam swerve aside at the last second and circle toward the kitchen again. Bemused, Kate watched Max play Sam’s game a few more times, until he glanced over at her bare feet.
“Why don’t you go put something on while Sam gets this out of his system?”
Kate was bursting with questions, so she made quick work of a pair of faded blue sweatpants and top to match, gave her hair a lick with the brush to tame the Shirley Temple look, and glanced in the mirror one more time. It was after ten, and she didn’t want to give Max a bum steer about why she’d invited him in.
She found him in the kitchen talking to Sam. “Where do you suppose your Kate would keep the makings for hot chocolate, assuming she has any?”
“Right in front of you, on the shelf with the coffee,” Kate supplied. “If you had let me know you were coming—” She stopped, shocked at hearing herself repeat her mother’s favorite refrain.
“Need to get something hot into you.” Max glanced down at Sam. “Wouldn’t want her to get pneumonia and die, would we, boy?” He took a wooden spoon from the basket on the side of the cabinet and added cocoa mix to the milk he already had heating. “I was on call this weekend, but one of my partners needed to trade so it was a last-minute deal. How about getting us some cups?”
Kate took two stoneware mugs from the cabinet, opened a bag of marshmallows, dropped two into each one, and set them on the stove. After that she let Sam out the back door, stalling for time so she wouldn’t sound too anxious.
“I haven’t had hot chocolate with marshmallows since I was a kid,” Max remarked as he handed her a steaming mug. “Anyway, we sat on the ground in Lubbock for a good three hours waiting for Denver to clear the runways. Didn’t know if I was even going to get here.” He took a careful sip, then drilled her with an accusatory look. “What the hell were you doing out walking in the dark alone?”
“I worked late.” The picture in her head was doing battle with his naked face.
“Couldn’t you have called Cleo or someone?”
“She’s in Aspen. Phil’s teaching her to ski.”
He grinned. “I wonder why that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Did you finish the workup?”
“Yeah, it’s in my briefcase. Still no cause of death, though.” He paused. “How’s it going with the head?”
“Good. The closer I get the harder it is not to work on it.” She watched him slosh the marshmallows around in his mug, not looking at her, as if he felt ill at ease—and decided she didn’t want to hear any excuses.
“Would you like to see some pictures?” she offered, starting for the sunporch.
As she passed him he caught hold of her arm. “In a minute. I need to say something first.”
“That’s okay, Max, we didn�
��t expect—”
He gave her arm a little shake. “Just listen, will you? It’s just, well, the last time I called I—you sounded sort of distant, remote, like you didn’t much want to talk to me. I thought maybe I was pushing too hard, asking too many questions, or—” He paused. “D’you want the real reason I didn’t let you know I was coming? So you couldn’t say ‘just put it in the mail.’”
“Dave was in the workroom when you called.”
“I never even thought of that.” He began shaking his head at how far off the mark he’d been. “But it doesn’t change anything. What I’m trying to say is—I’d like to stay involved, Kate. Do whatever I can to help, but only if you want me to. You, not Dave.”
“Why did you shave your beard?”
“You called me a barbarian.”
“I was teasing, and you know it. And it’s not going to help for you to retreat from the field of battle without ever engaging the enemy”—she waved in the direction of the front porch—“the way you did out there!”
Taken off guard, he couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “I should’ve kept the beard. Those cat’s eyes see too damn much.” He lifted a hand as if to touch her, then let it drop. “Gimme a break, will you? I’ve never been around anyone like you.”
“Then we’re even.” They just looked at each other, until Sam scratched on the back door.
When Kate went to let him in, Max followed her to the sunporch. “Where are those drawings you wanted to show me?”
“Not drawings. Photographs. Pinned up on the wall around my worktable.”
He twisted the switch on the flex-arm lamp, stretched it almost straight, and directed the light at the giant mosaic covering the wall on either side of the table, blowups in full color of Tashat in all her forms. The cartonnage viewed from the top and underside, then the outside and inside of her wood coffin, including the lid and floor.
“Wow!” He stepped back. “This is what her coffin looks like?”
Kate nodded. It was the usual mummiform shape except where Tashat’s face and wig were articulated in plaster, but the predominant color was light blue, the color of royalty. “On the left is the underside of the lid. The two figures on the right, Ptah and Khnum, are on the floor of the coffin.”
He leaned forward to examine something she had tacked up over the table. “Don’t tell me—” He held up a hand and glanced from the pink blossoms she’d cut from a seed catalog to the garden painted on the inside of the lid. “This is one of the plants in that garden, right?”
“Foxglove. Except they called it hyena’s tongue.”
“Must be those yellow-ringed brown spots spilling from the throat of the flowers. Not that I’ve seen a hyena’s tongue. Are all the plants medicinal?” It was common knowledge that foxglove contained digitalis, a heart stimulant, so she wasn’t surprised that he’d made the connection.
“You tell me.” She pointed to a gray-green patch. “These are poppies.”
“Opium. Morphine and codeine, to sedate or deaden pain.”
She pointed to another spot. “These with the yellow flowers and forked root are mandrake.”
“Hyoscyamine. Numbs the central nervous system.” He sounded like he was really enjoying this.
“And the castor plant?”
“The oil is a purgative but the beans contain ricin, one of the deadliest poisons around.”
“They burned the oil in their lamps, but they must’ve known about the beans,” Kate agreed, before moving her finger again. “Garlic.”
“Heart problems again?” Max guessed.
Kate shook her head. “Insect bites and tapeworms. And this one, with the lacy leaves and clusters of tiny white flowers, is an acacia tree.”
“Contraceptive.”
“Uh-uh, intestinal worms.”
“If you say so. But the spikes contain gum arabic. And fermented gum arabic gives you lactic acid, which immobilizes sperm. Acetic or tannic acids are more effective, but—”
“Where in the name of Thoth did you learn that?”
He shrugged. “Read it in some journal I suppose. Are there any more?”
“Onions for dysentery, but most workers were paid in bread, beer, and onions.” She pointed to a dark green area. “Parsley for urinary incontinence. Leeks to stop the bleeding after miscarriage or childbirth. Sage to treat a sore throat. Saffron and ginger for stomach disorders. Cabbage to prevent a hangover, and lettuce to stimulate the sexual appetite. I know,” she added before he could, “it’s not like any lettuce we know. Too tall.”
“Stranger still if it affected the libido.” He swung around to face her. “It’s not just your ordinary ancient Egyptian garden?”
“Hardly. Sage and saffron came from Crete, ginger from beyond the Red Sea.”
“Interesting, but where does it get us? Unless we can find some way to tie that coffin to Tashat—” He let the words trail off when he caught her grinning. “Show me.”
Kate adjusted the lamp downward, to where the flower- bordered road began. “This path symbolizes the road to eternity, and this is the beginning, where the road emerges from a pond of blue lotus blossoms—the symbol of rebirth. See where the little girl is drawing in the sand with a reed or stick? She’s using her left hand.” Next Kate pointed to the man and woman farther along the road, seated side by side with a scroll unrolled across their laps. “Their legs are crossed, the traditional way of depicting a scribe, and she’s using her left hand again. It has to be the same person.”
“Unless it’s her mother and father,” Max pointed out.
Kate drew in a quick breath. “I forgot handedness can be familial.”
“More often than not it’s the result of a stressed birth.”
“It’s a stretch, but I think the lotus blossom in her hair signifies a new beginning for her, a kind of rebirth as an adult. From here on they’re always shown side by side and the same size. Yet artistic convention demanded that a wife, even a queen, be shown behind her husband and smaller, with their children behind and smaller than her. The only exception is a relief where Nefertiti is standing beside Akhenaten with her arm around his shoulder.”
“You don’t think Tashat might be Nefertiti, do you?”
Kate shook her head. “Cleo says they’re probably Isis and Osiris. The stair-stepped throne in the woman’s headdress is the hieroglyph for Isis, who the Egyptians called Aset. But there’s nothing to identify him as Osiris—no green face, no tightly wrapped body or sheaf-of-wheat headdress.”
She pointed to the cartouches and told him about her conversation with Dave. “But sunu is a title, not a name. Pharaohs had two names, the one given to them at birth and another when they took the throne. That’s the reason for the double cartouches. But why the same word over and over, even if it takes two different forms?”
“Maybe the words aren’t really identical. What about two physicians but with different specialties?” With Max, trying to solve a puzzle was like a game of leapfrog, each player able to jump ahead because of the other.
“To differentiate status, maybe,” Kate agreed, “but they didn’t have specialties in the Eighteenth Dynasty like they did earlier, in the Old Kingdom, when they had titles like Shepherd of the Anus.” She ducked her head to hide a smile. “I guess that makes proctology the second oldest profession.”
“Okay, suppose she was left-handed. So what?”
“I don’t want to sound like some New Age nut, but I think we could be looking at a kind of puzzle, where each piece contributes to the meaning of the whole—and we should be looking for how she might have used that hand.” She searched through the mess on her worktable for a piece of paper, and scribbled swnw on it.
“That’s the word for physician.” Next she wrote swnw.t. “T is the feminine particle, so now it’s a female physician. For a long time Egyptologists insisted there weren’t any, that the extra character was just scribal error, until a French doctor in Cairo connected it to a physician he knew was female from other evi
dence.” She paused. “What if the arrow is masculine and the bread is feminine?”
“Two physicians, a him and a her?”
“Whoever painted that mask had to be someone close enough to Tashat to know that her idea of heaven was a garden filled with medicinal plants. The coffin inscription says she was a well-educated woman, or words to that effect. Why couldn’t she have been a physician, a healer? It’s a place to begin, isn’t it? A working hypothesis?”
“Why not? I say run with it, see where it takes you.”
Kate let out her breath and gave a little laugh. “Oh, Max, I’m so glad you came. Otherwise, I might never have—” She almost threw caution to the winds and hugged him, but Sam started barking and jumping up, wanting in on the fun, so she grabbed his front paws and danced him around on his hind legs. “Cookie time for you, Samson, while Max and I celebrate with a glass of wine.”
She stopped suddenly and dropped Sam’s paws, leaving him watching her with a puzzled tilt of his head. “If Tashat is the cartouche with the loaf of bread, then the cartouche with the arrow is the head between her legs. They’re traveling the road to eternity together. But surely no one would dare put an adulterous lover on her coffin.”
“Who else could he be? Her father? I know they had priest-physicians back then, but why the hell would anyone put his head between her legs?” He started shaking his head again. “Jesus, and I thought I was hooked before.”
Kate realized he meant it—that Maxwell Cavanaugh couldn’t walk away from Tashat any easier than she could, not without examining every possibility, including some that sounded pretty far out, not to say unlikely. More than that, questioning the conventional wisdom, no matter how sacrosanct, was as much a way of life to him as it was for her. The only way.
“Join the crowd,” she murmured, covering her eagerness to accept his offer with a cliché. She might be overjoyed at the prospect of having Max as a cohort, but that didn’t mean she trusted him completely. Not yet.
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