The Egyptian by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 4th, 2022 in Stories

We had long to wait. The sun set, and the air grew cooler. The incense in the porch all burned away, and the goose sizzled sorrowfully in the roasting pit. I grew hungry, and Kipa’s face lengthened and stiffened. My father said nothing but would not light the lamps when darkness fell. We all sat down on stools in the porch and avoided one another’s eyes. It was then I learned what great grief and disappointment the rich and mighty in their thoughtlessness can bring upon the little and poor.

But at last there came the glow of a torch along the street, and my father jumped up and hastened to the kitchen for an ember to light both suet lamps. I raised the water pitcher in trembling hands, and Thutmose breathed heavily beside me.

Ptahor, the royal skull opener, arrived in a simple chair borne by two black slaves. The chair was preceded by a torch-bearing fat servant, who was evidently drunk. With puffings and cheerful cries of greeting, Ptahor stepped from the chair to hail my father, who bowed and stretched forth his hands at knee level before him. The guest laid his hands on Senmut’s shoulders, either to show him that ceremony was needless or to steady himself. Leaning to my father’s shoulder, he kicked at the servant who was with the torch, and told him to sleep his drunken state off under the sycamore. The black men dumped the chair in the acacia bushes and squatted on the ground, without waiting for orders.

Still leaning on my father’s shoulder, Ptahor stepped into the porch. I poured water over his hands despite his protests and handed him the linen cloth, but he asked me to dry his hands since I had rinsed them, and when I had done this, he thanked me and said I was a handsome boy. My father led him to the seat of honour, a chair with a back, which was borrowed from the spice merchant, and he sat down, his inquisitive little eyes peering about him in the light of suet lamps. For a time there was silence. Then, clearing his throat apologetically, he asked for something to drink as the long journey had made his throat dry. My father was delighted and poured out wine for him. Ptahor sniffed at it and tasted it suspiciously, but then emptied the cup with evident enjoyment and gave a contented sigh.

He was a bow-legged, shaven-headed little man with a breast and belly that sagged beneath the thin robe. His collar, set with precious stones, was now soiled like the rest of his dress, and he smelled of wine, sweat and balms.

Kipa served him with spice cakes, small fish softened in oil, fruits and roast goose. He ate politely though it was clear that he had just come from a good meal. He tasted and praised every dish to Kipa’s great delight. At his desire, I took beer and food to the black men, but they returned the courtesy by shouting insults and asking whether old swag-belly was ready to go. The servant snored beneath the sycamore, and I had no wish to wake him.

The evening grew extremely confused, as my father, too, drank more wine than I had ever seen him do, so that at last Kipa, sitting in the kitchen, was overcome with woe and sat rocking back and forth with her head in her hands. When the pitcher was empty, they drank father’s medicinal wine, and when that was gone, they started upon ordinary table beer for Ptahor assured us that he was not particular.

They talked of their student days in the House of Life and told jokes about their teachers, swaying and embracing each other as they sat. Ptahor related his experiences as royal skull opener, affirming that it was the last branch in which any physician should specialise, being more suited to the House of Death than the House of Life. But there was little work attached to it, and he had always been a lazy man, as Senmut the Tranquil would certainly remember. The human head — except for the teeth, ears and throat, which required their own specialists — was in his view the simplest thing to study, and so he had chosen it.

“But,” said he, “if I had had been man enough, I should have remained what I was — an honest physician bringing life to his patients instead of dealing out death when kinsfolk grow weary of the old or the incurably sick. I would bring life, like you, my friend Senmut. Maybe I would be poorer, but I would lead a more honest and more abstinent life than today.”