The Twice Born (38 page)

Huy shrugged out of his friend’s grasp. “But Thothmes, she promised not to go there,” he protested. “Did she forget?”

Thothmes’ eyes went blank for a moment. His hands and lips were trembling. “Not Nasha,” he stuttered. “My mother. My mother went there. Two days ago.” He swept up Huy’s leather bag. “The skiff is waiting for us on the canal. My father sent a messenger to Khmun for you. He must have passed your barge somewhere on the river. Oh, hurry up, Huy!”

Dread washed over Huy. Even as he was being pulled along in Thothmes’ panic-stricken wake, his gaze went to the entrance of his courtyard where his cell waited for him, cozy and secure. “But Thothmes, what can I do?” he called to the wiry little body pelting ahead of him towards the sun-seared expanse of paving between the canal and the temple pylon. “I’m not a healer!”

Thothmes ignored him. Running up the ramp of the skiff at the foot of the watersteps, he yelled at the helmsman, and the sailors lifted their oars. Huy tumbled after him, the ramp was pulled onto the deck, and Thothmes finally stood still, his fingers clenched around the railing, his breath coming hard. Huy came up beside him.

“A litter would have taken too long,” Thothmes muttered. “You must save her, Huy, you must! Put your hands on her. Make her better. You can diagnose—you’ve done it before. Surely you can heal as well!”

Huy remembered making a diagnosis. That awful sense of dislocation had come upon him, as usual with no warning, and left him with a piercing headache. It seemed a long time ago and he could not remember the person, the ailment, or the prescription that had come out of his mouth. “That was different,” he said. “Thothmes, listen to me! I am not a healer.”

Thothmes’ head went down. His expression became mutinous. “You don’t know that. You are an anomaly, a creation of the gods. Even you don’t know what you can and can’t do.” He turned an anguished face to Huy. “I beg you. My father begs you.”

Huy’s dread began to be mixed with a feeling of hopelessness.
I know I can do nothing but tell Nakht the exact moment when Nefer-Mut will die
, Huy thought dismally.
Gods, how terrible! What a useless gift I’ve been given, predicting the future when for Thothmes’ mother there is no future, only the drafty dimness of the Judgment Hall
.

Another thought struck him and he shuddered. Nasha had laughed at him but had kept her promise to stay away from that street. Nevertheless an accident had occurred there to a member of her family. It was as if the event itself had to take place to one of them regardless of his warning; the moment could not be averted. Nasha was safe, but her mother had been sacrificed.
If I had touched Nefer-Mut, held her hand, would I have Seen the same disaster falling on Nasha rather than her?
His thoughts ran on.
Or on Thothmes if I had Seen for Nakht? What does this mean? If I had not inadvertently Seen for Nasha, would the accident have happened at all? Is it possible that the Seeing itself actually changes fate?
That idea, alien and cold, had seemed to spring into his mind with an eagerness that made him lean against the rail in sudden weakness. Thothmes turned to him quickly. Huy clenched his teeth. “Your mother is very dear to me,” he said. “I will try.”

The guard on Nakht’s watersteps acknowledged them briefly as they ran along the ramp and passed him, going swiftly between the quivering willows and onto the path leading directly to the main entrance of the house. There was no sign of the servant who customarily waited on his stool under the portico to welcome guests. The door was open. Thothmes plunged into the coolness of the reception hall and sped across it, disappearing along the passage and up the stairs leading to the women’s quarters, Huy on his heels. Mixed odours assailed Huy’s nostrils: perfume, the faint tang of cinnamon, and under them, almost undetectable, a whiff of fresh blood. His stomach contracted. He followed Thothmes through a doorway on his right and slowed, his heart palpitating.

Although the room was large, the starry ceiling high, it seemed cramped for the crowd of people clustered about the dais at the far end where the wide couch stood. Pale faces turned towards the newcomers and at once a reverential pathway opened for both boys. Nakht emerged from the throng. “Do what you can, Huy,” he said without preamble. “Her injury is fatal unless the gods intervene.” Huy nodded, stepped up onto the dais, and knelt beside the low couch.

The stench of new blood enveloped him in its coppery miasma. Nakht’s wife lay on her back. Linens had been packed between her legs, but the blood had already oozed through them to spread a dark scarlet blot on the sheet that covered her. Even as Huy reached for her hand, a trickle of blood appeared from one nostril. Automatically Huy lifted a corner of the sheet and wiped it away. The woman opened her eyes. “Huy,” she whispered. “It hurts.” Her lips were blue, her skin pallid, and the fingers curling weakly about Huy’s own were icy. Huy did not reply. Closing his own eyes, he waited, desperately willing the gift to waken in him, calling silently on Atum himself to heal, to justify the person who had become more to him than his own mother. The expectant crowd behind him disappeared. Fleetingly he had registered Anuket’s presence, she and Nasha pressed together near the foot of the couch, but by the time he began to beseech the god she had gone from his consciousness.

Finally, with a relief bordering on hysteria, he felt the familiar disengagement begin in his mind. The bloodied sheet, the limp form, the bright colours on the wall beyond, dissolved into a fog thicker than river mist on a cold winter morning. Huy continued to wait. There was a sense that he and the hand he was holding were travelling forward at great speed, although the fog remained unshredded by their passage.

Then a hand descended over his, over hers, the grip firm and commanding. Huy looked down. The fingers were black, laden with gold rings, and the sinewy wrist held a bracelet of linked lapis lazuli ankhs. “Let go, Son of Hapu,” a voice said softly. “It is my prerogative to lead her where she must go. Give her to me.” Huy knew that voice. His fingers loosened, and as they did so the fog vanished. Anubis smiled down at him, the god’s sharp fangs gleaming in the light of many candles. A pulsing heart rested on his other palm. Looking about, Huy realized that he was standing in the Judgment Hall. Immediately before him were the scales, one dish higher than the other. Beneath them the monster Sobek, the eater of the guilty, lay curled up asleep. Huy fancied that he could smell Sobek’s breath, fetid with the taste of many kas. But beside him, her gossamer linen stirring against his rough hide in the drafts blowing through that mighty place, was Ma’at herself, the feathers of rightness trembling above her forehead.

Something touched Huy’s arm and, turning, he found himself staring into Nefer-Mut’s face. Her hair lay loose upon her shoulders, her feet were bare, and she was clad in a spotless white sheath from neck to ankles. “Huy, where am I?” she asked, but there was no panic in her voice. She seemed unaware that Anubis had imprisoned her in his grip. “Did you heal me? Am I safe?”

Huy swallowed. “You are in the Judgment Hall,” he answered with difficulty. “Your time in Egypt is over, my mother. I love you so much.”

Her black eyebrows rose. Carefully her gaze roamed the cavernous expanse. She sighed. “So that is how it must be. I love you also, my adopted son. I am sorry that I will not see my children flower into full adulthood. My heart must be weighed. Will it be painful?” Still there was no fear in her face or her tones. It was almost as though, in spite of her words, she was unaware of what had happened to her, of where she was.

For answer Anubis leaned close, holding up the organ throbbing in his hand. “No, dearest, there will be no pain,” he said, his long snout brushing her cheek. “I am holding your hand. Come.” Obediently, like a trusting child, she allowed herself to be led to the scales. At once Sobek woke up, heaved himself onto his haunches, and gave her an appraising leer. But her eyes were on Ma’at as Anubis laid the heart gently on the scales.

“You are Egypt’s sanity,” she said to the goddess, as though she had not been aware of that truth before. Ma’at inclined her head. The scales began to move. Slowly the weights rose, the heart sank, until the two dishes swayed, trembled, and were still.

Anubis had not relinquished her hand. “There is no Duat for you,” he said gravely. “No need for the spells in the Book of Coming Forth by Day. The Son of Hapu has saved you from that ordeal. Look.” She turned her head to where he was pointing and so did Huy. The far end of the Hall had faded. With a cry Huy recognized the lush foliage of the Ished Tree. The sunlight pouring onto the floor of the Judgment Hall was dazzling, the aroma of a thousand different flowers intoxicating. Huy caught a glimpse of flowing water far to the right, beyond a line of spreading palms and willows. Birds flew past his vision. Iridescent butterflies fluttered in the grass. There was no sign of the hyena, but Imhotep rose from his place at the foot of the Tree and held out a hand.

“Welcome to the Paradise of Osiris.” He smiled. “This is the true Egypt. Come.” At that Anubis let go, and the woman walked, then ran, towards Imhotep. Huy wanted to follow. All his muscles tensed to fall forward, to rush to where the shade of those densely packed, fragrant leaves was dappling the ground, but Anubis put out an arm and barred his way.

“Not for you, Son of Hapu, not for you,” he said harshly. “Your destiny still awaits you. This moment of indulgence is over.”

“I had almost forgotten!” Huy cried out. “The glory of it, Anubis! For so long the beauties of Egypt became drab and lifeless in comparison, and now will be so again until …” His breath faltered. He was on his feet facing into a room full of stunned faces, his nostrils cringing from the need to inhale decaying blood and the anxious sweat of the crowd. “She has gone to Osiris,” he croaked. “I saw it. Her heart received a favourable weighing. I saw it. Most noble Nakht, Thothmes, forgive me. Forgive me!”

At once Nasha began to wail. “It should have been me!” she screamed. “Why wasn’t it me, Huy? I did as you told me, I stayed away from that street, then why her?” She was struggling to tear her sheath, tugging at its neck in the ancient gesture of grief. Nakht signalled and her body servant went to her, leading her through the gathering and out the door. Huy stepped down from the dais with its sad burden.

Nakht came up to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I do not understand much of this,” he said heavily. “Perhaps Ramose will be able to enlighten me. Huy, do you know why my beloved wife should have died in Nasha’s place?” Huy shook his head, unable to respond for the tears threatening to spill over and disgrace him. “The sem priests will be sent for and the period of mourning will begin,” Nakht went on, and for the first time Huy heard the Governor’s voice lose its assurance. “You loved her too. You will perform the rites of formal mourning with us, and she will go to our tomb in the middle of the month of Thoth, but for now you must return to the school. Thothmes will stay here.”

On his way to the door Huy brushed by Thothmes and Anuket. He did not look at them. Thothmes put out a hand, but Huy ignored it, frantic to gain the passage beyond, the reception hall, the path leading to the watersteps, and the rocking of the skiff that would return him to his cell and its blessed seclusion. “She is dead,” he blurted to the guard on the watersteps who was waiting with the crew of the skiff, and he walked up the ramp and lowered himself to the deck in the grip of utter desolation.

Avoiding both priests and pupils, he arrived at his cell and sent a servant to the school’s physician. “I have a headache that prevents me from seeing,” he said. “There are dots and patterns before my eyes. Tell the physician to prepare a phial of strong poppy for me, bring it, and then make sure that I am not disturbed until tomorrow morning.”
Neither wine nor beer will grant me the oblivion I crave
, he thought to himself as he stood before the likeness of his totem, Khenti-kheti, bereft of the urge to pray, bereft of everything but the need to lose himself completely.
I refuse to think! I refuse to remember these moments, so fresh, that have already slipped into the past where no power may retrieve or change them. Ah gods, the delirious pleasures of Paradise that flooded my senses! A woman I loved is dead and all I can mourn is my own secret loss
.

He was still standing when a figure darkened his doorway and the physician himself entered. “Your health is a matter of concern to the whole temple, Master Huy. I must examine you.”

But Huy waved him away. “It is only the sort of headache to which I am prone. Otherwise I am perfectly well. Give me the poppy please, Master, and let me sleep.”

The man grunted, but after a keen look into Huy’s eyes he passed him the phial. “You are pale and seem tired. Very well. But I shall return after the first meal tomorrow. I have ordered a servant to keep watch outside your cell in case you need me in the night.” He bowed and left.

Immediately Huy removed the wax seal on the tiny bottle, set its neck inside his mouth, and drained it eagerly, adding water to the dregs so that he might drink every drop of the bitter-tasting liquid. Then he took off his kilt and lay down, pulling a sheet over him.

As he became aware of a warm languor spreading through his limbs and then his torso to his chest, he waited confidently for the delightful flow to enter and obliterate his consciousness; but the moments went by and he remained fully alert, although his pain eased a little. Angry and disappointed, he turned onto his side and stared at Thothmes’ empty cot against the far wall.
So not even the poppy, the most powerful sedative obtainable in Egypt, will work against that core in me that is forever alert, forever vigilant. I am not to be allowed one moment of loss of self, no respite from either the agony or the delight each day brings me. Only physical discomfort will respond to this blessed drug. I am dependent on my will alone
.

With that in mind he closed his eyes, trying to lure sleep to him by imagining a peaceful night sky full of bright stars. But the stars kept fading, changing to the glistening green of leaves above Imhotep’s head, and once again Huy’s body, though sluggish from the poppy, tensed to run into the sage’s open arms. Nakht’s wife rolled her tousled head towards him on the pillow. “Huy, it hurts,” her blue lips said. Her fingers were cold with death. The hand of Anubis was cool with authority.