shall bless him, and he manifests himself in Aten.” I raised my hand in a gesture of respect, although I had no idea what he was talking about for who would know all the thousand gods of Egypt, least an initiated priest of Amun who had enough in his hands thinking about his holy trinities and nine-shapes.
“Oh, indeed, Aten,” murmured Ptahor soothingly. “Why not Aten, what a slip of my 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 Aten. That was surely soon after the prince’s birth, was it not, fair Tiye? 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 so that a breaking sound came from the head held by the Queen. “A little light, Sinuhe.”
Ptahor heaved a sigh, for the worst was over. Instinctively I sighed too, and 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 yet a deeper coma. Ptahor contemplated Pharaoh’s brain thoughtfully in the bright light, where it lay exposed. The substance of his brain was greyish blue, and it quivered.
“Hm!” Ptahor said musingly. “What is done is done. May his Aten 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; he drew together the edges of the wound and bandaged it. The royal consort laid his head over a neck rest of expensive wood and looked at Ptahor. Blood had dried upon her, but she did not heed it. Ptahor met her fearless gaze without bowing before her 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 Ptahor’s ebony box.
71
“Your reward shall be great,” said the great royal consort, and she signed to us that we might go.
A meal had been prepared for us in the royal hall, and Ptahor looked with delight at the many wine jars that stood along the wall. Having closely examined the seals, he caused one to be opened, and slaves poured water over our hands. I asked how Ptahor dared to speak in such disrespectful manner to the royal consort and the prince.
“Certainly Pharaoh is a god already when he lives,” said Ptahor and grinned so that he looked like an old baboon more than usually, “Certainly temples are built and sacrifices made in his honour throughout the country, but as a physician I have witnessed that he is just a man, mortal and like us. Also the great royal consort is just a woman and has all the qualities of a woman. My words are but flies buzzing in the royal ears, and if I buzz like all other flies around them, they wouldn’t notice me at all. But now they say, ‘Ptahor is a strange, but honourable man. Let us forgive his silly ways for the sake of his old age and good means.’ And they remember me and give me expensive gifts. Keep this in mind that if you want the sovereign hear your words, speak to him in a different way than others speak — speak to him like a man, someone like you. Then he either hears your words or has you beaten and banished from the palace courts, but in either case he will remember you. And it is a great matter if Pharaoh remembers his subordinate.”
Ptahor drank some wine and got merry. The stauncher of blood devoured honey meat with his hands, forgot his unfriendly sleepiness and said, “No more mud hut.” Also he drank wine and he drank it like beer so that his eyes got sleepy and his face became red. Again he said, “No more mud hut, no, no and oh!” A servant poured water on his hands, and he splashed water around the hall. Ptahor looked at him favourably and urged him to have a look at Pharaoh’s stables, since he had a chance to do so, for we could not leave the palace premises before Pharaoh had died or else recovered from his illness. Thus was the custom. And if Pharaoh died, also we had to die.
The stauncher of blood believed that and became sad. But he was delighted by the idea that he would not die in a mud hut, and he went to see Pharaoh’s stables since he had a chance to do so. Ptahor said to the servant escorting him that it would be best to let him sleep in the stables where he would feel at home.
72
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