The Egyptian by Mika Waltari

Posted by admin_akashic on Mar 4th, 2022 in Stories

With friendly courtesy, he thanked all who had helped him, naming me among them, though I had but handed him his instruments as they were needed. I had not understood his purpose in this, but in giving me his ebony box to carry, he had singled me out to be his assistant in Pharaoh’s palace. I had now served him at two operations and was therefore experienced and more useful to him than even the royal physicians where the opening of a skull was concerned. I did not understand this and was wildly amazed when he said:

“Maybe we are already ripe to deal with the royal skull. Are you ready, Sinuhe?”

Wrapped in my simple doctor’s mantle, I stepped up beside him in the carrying chair. The blood stauncher sat on one of the poles, and Pharaoh’s slaves ran with us to the landing stage at so smooth a pace that the chair never swayed. Pharaoh’s ship awaited us, manned by picked slaves who rowed so swiftly that we seemed rather to fly over the water than float upon it. From Pharaoh’s landing stage, we were borne rapidly to the Golden House, and I did not wonder at our haste, for soldiers were already marching along the streets of Thebes, gates were being closed, and merchants were carrying their goods into their warehouses, closing doors and shuttering windows . It was clear from this that the great Pharaoh was soon to die.

Book 3: Thebes Fever

A great concourse of people from every walk of life had gathered by the walls of the Golden House, and even the off limits 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 past the third sunrise after his skull had been opened.

Through the gate of lilies, we were taken to the royal apartments, and the distinguished courtiers were our servants and prostrated themselves before Ptahor and me, 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.

The great Pharaoh lay beneath a golden canopy where the bedposts were protecting gods and the bedstead was supported by lions. His swollen, decrepit body was naked, stripped of all the symbols of sovereignty. He was unconscious, his aged head hung sideways, and he breathed stertorously, 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. The walls of his room were glowing in red, gold and blue — and fish were swimming, ducks flying and reeds waving upon the floor.