that Pharaoh was soon to die.
BOOK 3
Thebes Fever
1
A great concourse of people from every walk of life had gathered by the walls of the golden house, and even the forbidden foreshore was thronged with boats-the wooden rowing boats of the rich and the pitched-reed boats of the poor. At the sight of us a whisper ran through the crowd like the rushing of distant waters, and the news that the royal skull surgeon was on his way sped from mouth to mouth. Then the people held up their hands in grief, while cries and lamentations followed us up to the palace; for everyone knew that no Pharaoh had ever lived until the third sunrise after his skull had been opened.
Through the gate of lilies we were taken to the royal apartments; court chamberlains were our servants and prostrated themselves before us, for we carried death in our hands. A temporary cleansing room had been prepared, but after exchanging a few words with Pharaoh’s own physician, Ptahor raised his hands in sorrow and performed the cleansing ceremonial in but a perfunctory manner. The sacred fire was borne after us, and having passed through a series of splendid rooms, we entered the royal bedchamber.
Great Pharaoh lay beneath a golden canopy; the bedposts were protecting gods, and the bedstead was supported by lions. His swollen body was naked, stripped of all the symbols of sovereignty. He was unconscious, his aged head hung sideways, and he breathed stertori- ously, saliva running from the corner of his mouth. So shadowy and ephemeral is mortal glory that he could not have been distinguished from any of the old men who lay dying in the reception hall of the House of Life. But on the walls of the room he was depicted as speeding in a chariot drawn by swift, plumed horses; his powerful arm drew back the bowstring, and lions, pierced by his arrows, fell dead about his feet.
We prostrated ourselves before him, knowing-as all who had seen death must know-that Ptahor’s arts were useless here. But since throughout the ages the skull of Pharaoh has been opened as a last resort, if natural death has not already supervened, it must be opened now, and we set about our task. I lifted the lid of the ebony box and in the flame purified once more the’scalpels, bores, and forceps. The court physician had already shaved and washed the head of the dying man, and Ptahor ordered the stauncher of blood to sit upon the bed and take Pharaoh’s head in his hands.
Then the royal consort Taia stepped to the bed and forbade him. Hitherto she had stood by the wall with her arms raised in the gesture of grief, motionless as an image. Behind her stood the young heir to the throne, Amenhotep, and his sister Baketamon, but I had not yet dared to raise my eyes to them. Now that a stir ran through the room I looked, and recognized them from the statues in the temples. The prince was of my own age but taller. Princess Baketamon had noble and very lovely features and large, oval eyes. But more majestic than either was the royal consort Taia, though she was short and plump. Her complexion was very dark and her cheekbones broad and prominent. It was said that by birth she was a woman of the people and had Negro blood in her veins; I do not know if this is so, for it is but hearsay. Even if it be true that her parents bore no honorable titles in the records, yet her eyes were intelligent, bold, and piercing, and her whole bearing radiated power. When she moved her hand and looked upon the stauncher of blood, he seemed dust beneath her broad, brown feet. I understood her feelings, for the fellow was an ox driver of low birth and could neither read nor write. He stood with bent head and hanging arms, with his mouth open and a vacant expression on his face. Unskilled, untalented though he was, he yet had the power to stop the flow of blood by his mere presence. Therefore he had been called from his plow and his oxen to be paid his fee in the temple, and despite all cleansing ceremonial the smell of cattle dung clung about him. He himself could not account for his powers. He possessed them, as a jewel may be found in a clod of earth, and they were such as cannot be acquired through study or spiritual exercises.
“I do not permit him to touch the god,” said the Queen. “I will hold the god’s head if it be needful.”
Ptahor protested that the task was an unpleasant and bloody one; nevertheless, she took her place on the edge of the bed and most carefully raised the head of her dying husband into her lap, heedless of the saliva that dripped onto her hands.
“He is mine,” she said, “and no one else shall touch him. It is from my arms that he shall enter the realms of death.”
“He shall step aboard the ship of his father the sun,” said Ptahor, incising the scalp with his flint knife. “Of the sun was he born, to the sun shall he return, and all people shall praise his name from everlasting to everlasting-In the name of Set and all devils, what is the blood stauncher about?”
He had been talking to distract the Queen’s thoughts from the operation, as a skillful doctor will talk to a patient to whom he is causing pain, but the last phrase was hissed at the peasant, who was leaning against the door post with sleepy, half-shut eyes. Sluggish blood had begun to well from Pharaoh’s head and run down into his consort’s lap so that she flinched and her face turned a yellowish gray. The man roused himself from his thoughts- thoughts no doubt of his oxen and his irrigation ditches-remembered his duty, and approaching the bed, he looked at Pharaoh and raised his hands. The flow of blood ceased at once, and I washed and cleaned the head.
“Forgive me, my little lady,” said Ptahor, taking the bore from my hand. “To the sun-ay, indeed, straight to his father in the golden ship, the blessing of Ammon be upon him.”
While he was speaking, he spun the bore swiftly and deftly between his hands so that it grated its way into the bone. The prince opened his eyes, took a step forward, and his face quivered as he said, “Not Ammon but Ra- Herachte shall bless him, and he manifests himself in Aton.”
“Ay, indeed, Aton,” murmured Ptahor soothingly. “Aton, of course-a slip of the tongue.” He took his flint knife again and the ebony- handled hammer, and with light taps began to remove the piece of bone. “For I remember that in his divine wisdom he raised up a temple to Aton. That was surely soon after the prince’s birth, was it not, fair Taia? One moment.”
He glanced uneasily at the prince, who was standing by the bed with clenched fists and twitching face.
“A mouthful of wine would steady my hand and do the prince no harm. At such a time as this one might well break the seal of a royal jar. There!”
I handed him the forceps, and he jerked out the piece of bone with a gfating noise.
“A little light, Sinuhe!”
Ptahor heaved a sigh, for the worst was over, and so did I. The same feeling of relief seemed to be communicated to the unconscious Pharaoh, for his limbs stirred, his breathing grew slower, and he sank into a yet deeper coma. Ptahor contemplated Pharaoh’s brain thoughtfully in the bright light, where it lay exposed: it was grayish blue, and it quivered.
“Hm,” he said musingly. “What is done is done. May his Aton do the rest for him, for this is a matter for gods, not men,”
Lightly and carefully he fitted the piece of bone back into place, smearing size into the crack, drew together the edges of the wound, and bandaged it. The royal consort laid his head over a neck rest of rare wood and looked at Ptahor. Blood had dried upon her, but she did not heed it. Ptahor met her fearless gaze without making obeisance, and said in a low voice, “He will live until dawn, his god permitting.”
Then he raised his hands in a gesture of sorrow, and so did I. But when he raised them to show sympathy, I dared not follow his example, for who was I to pity royalty? I purified the instruments in fire and put them back in the ebony box.
“Your reward shall be great,” said the Queen, and she signed to us that we might go. A meal had been prepared for us in another room, and Ptahor looked with delight at the many wine jars that stood along the wall. Having closely examined the seal of one of these, he caused it to be opened, and a slave poured water over our hands.
When we’re alone again, Ptahor explained to me that Ra- Herachte was the god of the Amenhoteps and that Aton was his manifestation: a god of great antiquity, older indeed than Ammon.
“It is said that the present heir to the throne is the divine son of this Aton,” went on Ptahor. He took a
