serene and quiet as always, Benedict’s small world was shaken to the very core. He looked upon the lush green banks sliding silently by, and all he saw was desolation. In his mind, moment by moment, he relived the riot in Akhenaten’s Holy City; he heard the angry cries and saw the stones striking the priests, striking his father.
Refusing to leave his injured father’s bedside, he sat in misery, rarely stirring, filled with dread and fear, while a succession of ministering priests came and went.
“I will not swear falsely,” Anen told him. “Your father’s injury is very grave.”
Benedict turned anxious, uncomprehending eyes upon the priest.
“But know you,” Anen continued, “our skills are great, and every possible remedy will be availed for him. Take courage in this knowledge.” He placed a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “On this, I have made my vow. In the name of Amun, it shall be.”
Unable to understand the language of those around him, Benedict derived little comfort from this assurance. Still, he heard the sound of hope in the priest’s voice and felt his encouragement in the gentle touch. He did take courage, and he prayed as he had never prayed before, using the only prayer he knew well, and saying it over and over until it became only Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done… Amen.
It took two days for the barge to sail upriver to Amun’s Holy City; by the time they reached the temple, Arthur had rallied somewhat. He was able to sit up and take a little water and, though the priests were reluctant to give him too much food, they allowed him a little of the flat bread sprinkled with salt. Benedict was relieved and took this as a good sign.
Upon arrival at Niwet-Amun, a cadre of servants carried Arthur’s pallet from the dock to the House of Wholeness and Healing, a large square structure occupying the eastern quarter of the temple compound. There the injured man was placed on a low bed in a cool, dark room to be watched night and day. The temple physicians busied themselves with a thorough examination of the livid wound, which had swollen the entire left side of Arthur’s head. Arthur endured their gentle probing, groaning and grinding his teeth.
“You’re going to be all right,” Benedict assured him.
When the physicians finished, Arthur sank back into a deep sleep and did not awaken again until sunset. “Water,” he said, his voice a croaking whisper.
The priests in attendance did not know what he said, so Benedict repeated it and mimed drinking from a cup. One of the younger physicians poured a shallow bowl of water infused with honey and herbs.
“Here, drink this,” Benedict said, bending near. “How do you feel?”
“Hurts,” whispered Arthur. “Inside… it hurts.” He made to turn his head, but the effort defeated him. “Where are we?”
“We are back in the temple. There are doctors here. They are taking care of you,” Benedict told him. “They are going to make you well. You’re going to be all right.”
“Good.” Arthur offered the bare hint of a nod. “Well done, son.”
The young physician offered the cup once more, and Arthur was given a little more to drink. After taking a few sips, he tried to sit up. The movement brought him pain, and he lay back, panting with the effort.
“Just rest now,” Benedict told him. “They will take care of you.”
Arthur slept then and awoke in the night complaining about the noise in his ears. Benedict tried to convey to the priest in attendance what his father was saying; he pulled on his ears and made a sound like the buzzing of angry bees. The doctor nodded and hurried away, returning with two senior physicians. He pointed to Benedict and gestured for him to perform the pantomime again, which he did. The elder doctors nodded, and one of them stepped close to the patient; holding his hand before Arthur’s face, he clicked his fingers. When this failed to elicit a response, he clapped his hands-first in front of his face, and then next to his ear.
Arthur’s eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes.
“Did you hear that?” asked Benedict. When his father did not reply, he asked again, more loudly.
“Ah… yes… I heard.” He opened his mouth and swallowed. “… Mouth is dry.”
Benedict took up the cup of honey water and, gently raising his father’s injured head, gave him another drink. Arthur seemed to relax somewhat; he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. The next time he awoke, he called out for Benedict who, asleep beside him, rose and bent near. “I am here, Father,” he said. “What do you need?”
Arthur raised a trembling hand and pawed the air. “I can’t see you,” he gasped. “I can’t see.”
Benedict took his hand and held it. “I am here.”
“My eyes… I can’t see.”
The young physician, hearing the exchange, appeared, and Benedict explained as best he could what his father had said. The night doctor ran to fetch the two senior physicians, and they examined Arthur, carefully lifting his head and feeling the massive discoloured lump and gazing long into the injured man’s left eye using a candle and disk of polished bronze.
They exchanged a few words over their patient, then sent the younger one away. He returned a short time later with Anen, and the three held close consultation for a moment. Then Anen nodded and turned to Benedict.
“What is wrong?” said the young man. “What does it mean?”
“I am sorry,” Anen said, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “There is bleeding inside his head. It is making a swelling and a pressure in the brain.”
Benedict did not understand a word of what he was being told, but he understood the priest’s grave tone. “He’s going to be well, isn’t he? He’s going to get better.”
“We must open his skull to let out some of the blood and relieve the pressure.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Benedict, frustrated at not being able to comprehend the priest. “I don’t understand.”
Anen gestured to the young physician, who came forward and offered his own head for examination. Anen proceeded to demonstrate what he was talking about by way of indicating on the young man’s head what he intended. He drew a small circle on his subject’s scalp, then lifted it away and proceeded to tap and pick at the centre of the imaginary circle.
“You are going to open my father’s skull?” wondered Benedict, aghast at the very idea.
Anen caught the disbelief in the youth’s tone and shocked expression. He sought to reassure him. “It is dangerous, truly. All such procedures carry great risk. Yet this treatment is well established among us, and our physicians are skilled in its application.” He gazed intently at Benedict. “We must begin at once.”
Benedict could only nod helplessly. He gazed at his father’s inert form. “Do what you must.”
Anen led the youth to his father’s bedside and with a gentle touch roused the suffering man. “We will treat you, my friend, using a special procedure. I have every confidence in its success, but if you have anything to say to your son, you should speak now.”
Arthur understood what Benedict did not. He stretched out his hand to his son and gripped it hard. “I am not afraid,” he whispered.
“They are going to make you better,” insisted Benedict, clasping his father’s hand tight in both his own. “Do you hear? They are going to make you well again.”
“I love you, son,” replied Arthur. “Take care of your mother. Tell her I… I am sorry.”
Anen, stepping near, took Benedict by the arm and drew him away. “We must begin at once if we are to save him.”
The senior priest clapped his hands, and four physicians appeared. They wore white linen robes and small white caps, and each carried a tray of instruments, jars, and vials. Temple servants scurried behind them with stands on which to place the trays; other servants brought torches on high stands, which they placed around the bed. Still others appeared bearing basins of water and piles of folded cloths.
They went straight to work. While one of the priest physicians shaved the left side of Arthur’s head, one administered a tincture of herbs mixed with opium, and a third undressed him. His shirt had to be cut off; the priest applied the scissors, pulling the cloth away in strips to reveal a torso decorated with bright blue tattoos-all in the same neat hand, all of them utterly incomprehensible symbols. When the last shreds of his shirt had been removed, the priest spread cloths under Arthur’s head and shoulders and washed his neck, shoulders, and chest; while all this was going on, the fourth priest prepared the instruments, rinsing them in a special mixture of distilled vinegar.
When everything was ready and in order, Anen gestured to one of the attendant servants, who turned to
