“Never believe him, boys,” said my father for Thutmose was sitting with us now and held a small wine cup in his hand. “I am proud to call Pharaoh’s skull opener my friend who in his own line he is the most highly skilled in all of Egypt. Do I not remember the prodigious trepanning operations by which he saved the lives of mighty and humble alike and astonished the world? He released evil spirits that drive men to madness and removed round eggs from men’s brains. Grateful patients bestow gold and silver upon him, chains and drinking cups.”
“But grateful kinsfolk have bestowed even more,” said Ptahor thickly. “For if by chance I heal one in ten, one in fifteen — no, let us say one in a hundred — so much more certain is the death of the others. Have you ever heard of a single Pharaoh who lived three days after his skull had been opened? No, the incurable and mad are put under my flint knife and the richer and more illustrious, the quicker they are sent for my treatment. My hand releases men from pain, my hand divides inheritances — land, cattle, and gold — my hand raises Pharaohs to the throne. Therefore they fear me, and no one dares to speak against me, for I know too much. But what increases knowledge also increases sorrow, and I am a most unhappy man.”
Ptahor wept a little and blew his nose on Kipa’s shroud. “You are poor but respectable, Senmut,” he sobbed. “Therefore, I love you, for I am rich and rotten. I am so terribly rotten, nothing but a lump of ox dung upon the road.”
He took off his jewelled collar and hung it about my father’s neck. Then they began to sing songs whose words I could not understand though Thutmose listened with interest and told me that riper songs were not to be heard even in soldiers’ barracks. Kipa began to weep loudly in the kitchen, and one of the black men came over from the acacia bushes, lifted Ptahor in his arms and would have carried him to his chair, for it was long after bedtime. But Ptahor resisted and uttered pitiful cries, calling upon the watchmen to help him and vowing that the black man meant murder. As my father was of no help, Thutmose and I drove the black man off with sticks until he flew into a rage and went, swearing violently and taking his comrade and chair with him.
Ptahor now emptied the beer jug over himself, asked for oil to rub on his face and tried to bathe in the garden pool. Thutmose whispered to me that we ought to get the old men into bed, and so it came about that my father and the royal skull opener fell asleep on Kipa’s bed with arms about each other’s necks, slobbering oaths of eternal friendship to the last.
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Kipa wept and tore her hair and sprinkled herself with ash from the roasting pit. I was tormented by the thought of what the neighbours would say, for the roaring and racket had sounded far and wide into the still night. But Thutmose was totally placid, for he had seen wilder doings in barracks and in his father’s house when the charioteers talked of the old days and of the punitive expeditions into Syria and the land of Kush. He said the night had been a great success, since the old men had not summoned musicians and girls from pleasure houses to dance for their entertainment. He contrived to quiet Kipa, and after we had cleared away the traces of the feast as best we could, we, too, went to bed. The servant snored on beneath the sycamore, and Thutmose lay down beside me in my bed, put his arm about my neck and talked about girls for he also had drunk wine. But I found this wearisome, being a year or two younger than he, and soon fell asleep.
Early in the morning I was awakened by bumping and sounds of movement in the bedroom, and on entering I saw my father still sound asleep in his clothes with Ptahor’s collar about his neck, but Ptahor was sitting on the floor holding his head in his hands and asking in a woeful voice, “Where am I?”
I greeted him respectfully and told him that he was still in the harbour quarter, at the house of Senmut, the physician to the poor. This quieted him, and he asked for beer in the name of Amun. I pointed out to him that he had emptied the beer jug over himself, as his robe testified. He then rose, drew himself up with a dignified frown and went out. I poured water over his hands, and he bowed his head with a groan, bidding me pour water over his bald head, too. Thutmose, who had also awakened, brought him a can of sour milk and some salted fish. When he had eaten, he grew more cheerful. He went out to the sycamore where the servant lay sleeping and began to beat him with his stick till the fellow woke and stood up, his garment stained from the grass and his face earthy.
“Miserable swine!” cried Ptahor and smote him again. “Is it thus you mind your lord’s affairs and bear the torch before him? Where is my chair? Where is my clean robe? And my medicinal berries? Out of my sight, contemptible thief and swine!”
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