Benedict, bowed low, and, taking him by the hand, led him to a far corner of the room where the youth could watch but would not interfere. Then, at a nod from Anen, the operation began.
The foremost of the priest physicians knelt down beside the bed and took up a small knife with an obsidian blade; he clicked his fingers before Arthur’s eyes, then tapped him lightly on the cheekraising no response. Then with quick, decisive strokes he applied the blade and cut into the scalp around the discoloured lump above the left eye-once, twice, and again. Blood flowed freely from the deep cut. Instantly, wet cloths were applied that had been soaked in some astringent solution, because the gush of blood ceased almost at once. The physician made another quick incision and then pulled back the flap of scalp to reveal a black clot of blood and tissue with white bone beneath. A cloying, sweet smell wafted into the room.
While the first physician held back the flap with a little bronze prong, a second moved swiftly forward with a pair of long, golden tweezers and began picking out bits of clot and dead flesh. When the area was clean, he turned his attention to tweezing out fragments of crushed bone and dropping them into a small silver bowl.
Anen stood by, arms folded across his chest, supervising the procedure. When the priest finished removing the splinters of bone, Anen motioned to the third priest-a short, stocky man with a shaved head and round, cherubic face-who stepped to the bedside and took up a bronze instrument that to Benedict resembled a carpenter’s auger. As the first priest carefully held back the flap of scalp he had freed, the auger was applied to the freshly scoured bone.
The fourth priest moved in to steady the patient’s head, and Benedict heard a sound like that of a millstone grinding corn. Unable to watch, he turned his face and looked away. The grisly sound seemed to go on and on, and when it finished, Benedict glanced around to see that a neat round hole had been bored in his father’s skull. In the centre of the hole was a ghastly clot of blood glistening red-black and virulent. Anen turned and offered Benedict a knowing smile to tell him that all was going well.
The stocky priest stepped back from his work, and another moved into his place. Taking up a tiny golden knife, the physician began gently scraping at the clot, cutting it away, pausing now and then to dab away the blood oozing from the fresh wound and to remove the scrapings and rinse his blade in a bowl of vinegar solution. It was soon finished, and the golden tweezers applied once more to remove every last fragment, sliver, and fleck of broken bone. Greyish pink flesh glistened through the hole.
Anen stepped forward then; the other priests stood back to allow him to examine their work. He bent close, and with the most delicate touch probed the neat incision and felt the smooth edges of bone. He inspected the wound and spoke to his fellow priests. They held close consultation for a moment, whereupon Anen crossed the room to join Benedict.
“There has been much bleeding beneath the bone,” the priest said, willing the youth to understand. “The bleeding is stopped and pressure is relieved. Now we can but watch and wait.”
Benedict heard in the priest’s tone a note of reassurance and clung to it. “Thank you.”
Anen squeezed the young man’s shoulder, then returned to supervise the binding of the wound. A small disk of gold was washed in the vinegar solution and then applied to the naked skull. Working with deft efficiency, the priests closed the wound, replacing the scalp and sewing the edges back together; they then wrapped strips of clean linen around and around the patient’s head. When they finished, Arthur’s head was swathed in a turban. All four doctors stepped back, bowed to the patient and to Anen, then took up their trays and instruments and departed, leaving one behind to watch the patient. Anen released Benedict to approach his father once more.
Despite the ordeal just endured, his father seemed to rest peacefully. His breathing, though shallow, was regular and even. Benedict took this as a good sign. He settled onto his bedside stool to resume his vigil.
Sometime before morning there arose a commotion out in the temple courtyard. Benedict, dozing on his chair, awoke to the sound of raised voices and running feet. Glancing around, he saw that the priest keeping vigil was gone. He went to the door of the Healing House and looked out. Priests with torches were running here and there; they seemed to be barring the gates. No sooner was this accomplished then they raced away, and the courtyard grew quiet once more.
Benedict returned to his father’s room. Taking up a lamp, he moved to the bed and examined his father. Although it was difficult to tell, he sensed a change: his father seemed to rest more peacefully, the lines of tension in his face relaxed, his features composed. Benedict turned to replace the lamp on the stand and heard a faint clicking sound. Looking back, he saw his father’s mouth move, but no sound emerged.
He leaned close once more. “I am here, Father. What is it?”
Again the dry lips moved, and Benedict heard the merest ghost of a breath utter a word.
“I did not hear you, Father. Say it again.”
The voice, rising to a hoarse whisper, repeated the words. “The Spirit… Well… ” Arthur sighed and seemed to sink deeper into the bed.
“What? Father, tell me again.” Benedict stared at his father, fear twisting his gut into a knot. “What did you say?”
Receiving no response, Benedict leaned closer. “Father, I can’t hear you.” He put a tentative hand on his father’s shoulder and jostled him in an attempt to keep him awake just a little longer. “Please, tell me-what did you say?”
“The… Spirit Well… ” The words came out as a moan. With the last of his strength, Arthur moved his hand to his chest. Benedict observed where the hand came to rest. “I have… marked it,” he gasped, his voice trailing into silence.
Benedict gazed at the tattooed symbols on his father’s chest-the familiar spray of curious emblems he was only just beginning to learn how to navigate. He shook his father’s shoulder again.
There was no response.
“Father!” Benedict, growing frantic, shouted. “Please! I don’t understand what you mean.”
Turning from the bed, he ran to the door and called for help. The priest assigned to bedside duty reappeared almost at once. Hurrying across the yard, he bowed to Benedict, then pushed past him and moved quickly to kneel beside the bed, placing a hand on Arthur’s chest. He put his ear close to his patient’s nose and mouth, and paused as if listening.
“He was just-” began Benedict.
The physician raised a palm for silence and then placed his fingertips against Arthur’s neck. Rising, he retrieved a small rectangle of polished bronze from his tray of instruments and held it beneath the stricken man’s nose.
Benedict, his heart in his throat, knew what this meant. Dreading what he would see, yet unable to look away, he stared with growing apprehension as the physician turned the little square of bronze towards him. There was not the slightest smudge of fog or moisture on the polished surface. His father was no longer breathing.
The physician shook his head, then stood and, raising his palms shoulder high, bent at the waist and began chanting in a low, droning voice.
Benedict slumped back against the wall, his eyes on his father’s body. “No. It cannot be,” he murmured, pounding his fist against the wall. “He was just talking to me. He cannot be de-” The boy refused to say the word.
Rushing to the bed, Benedict threw himself down upon his father’s body. There was no movement, no resistance. He clasped his father’s face in his hands and was surprised to feel the warmth there. “Don’t leave me.” His voice cracked. “Please… don’t leave me.”
Strong hands gripped the young man’s arms and pulled him away. Upon release, Arthur’s head rolled to one side. Benedict shook off the priest’s hands and struggled forward once more. “I think he’s unconscious,” he insisted. “We should try to wake him.”
The priest said something to him and shook his head, then went back to his chanting.
An almighty walloping thump sounded in the courtyard-something had crashed into the temple gates. Benedict turned towards the sound, and a servant burst into the room; the servant took one look at the praying priest and disappeared again. Benedict, sinking under the weight of grief rising within him, clasped his hands and began to pray as well. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed as he had never prayed in his life.
The next thing he knew Anen was standing before him, his expression grim, sadness filling his dark eyes. The priest gestured to the body of his friend and said something Benedict could not understand. The young man shook his head, whereupon Anen took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Placing the young man’s hand against his father’s body, he held it there. The flesh was cooler now.
