Scroll of Saqqara(9)

Khaemwaset had no interest in any of them apart from their illnesses. He had written a work on the diseases particular to women that had become something of a handbook for other physicians, but women as vehicles of pleasure left him largely unmoved. The passions of the past and the mind were much more heady to him.

He greeted the Keeper of the Harem Door more brusquely than he had intended and the man immediately went to the floor, his forehead pressed to Khaemwaset’s sandalled feet in the age-old gesture of supreme submission as he apologized profusely for inconveniencing the great Prince. Khaemwaset impatiently waved him to his feet.

“Pharaoh would not want an apprentice examining one of his women,” he said as they walked along a passage off which, at regular intervals, dainty wooden doors of intricate design were firmly closed. “Who is my patient?” The Keeper stopped outside the last door and Khaemwaset came to a halt, Penbuy and Kasa behind him. Amek’s two soldiers had separated, one to watch each end of the long hallway.

“She is a young Hurrian dancer. The Mighty Bull saw her perform a year ago and invited her to take up residence here. She is a quiet little thing, very beautiful, and has been teaching the other women some of her steps.” He did not knock, but pushed open the door and stood back respectfully. “It keeps them amused and it also gives them some exercise. Most of them are very lazy.”

Khaemwaset dismissed him and walked into the room. It was cosy without being restricting, with a good couch, a few chairs and a scattering of cushions, a shrine, now closed, several tiring boxes no doubt holding a dancer’s gaudy clothing, and a door that obviously led out into the communal gardens. A slave was sitting on a stool by the couch, telling a story in some foreign tongue—Hurrian, Khaemwaset surmised—in a high, sing-song monotone, and the little patient was listening raptly beneath her linen sheets, her black eyes reflecting the light of the oil lamp beside her.

At Khaemwaset’s approach she spoke a sharp word to the girl and struggled to rise, but Khaemwaset waved her down. “Formality is not necessary in the sick room unless petitions to the gods are involved,” he said kindly as the slave retired to a corner and Penbuy and Kasa took up their stations ‘Now what is the matter?”

The girl stared at him for a long moment as though she had not understood, and Khaemwaset wondered how fluent her Egyptian was, but then, with a sidelong glance at his companions, she pulled back the sheets. Her delicate little body was covered in an angry red rash from neck to exquisitely turned ankles. After an intent look, Khaemwaset relaxed both in relief and disappointment—relief that he would not have to spend much time in the harem at this hour and disappointment because the case was not in the least unusual or interesting. With a nod he summoned the Keeper of the Door. “Have any of the other women exhibited this rash?”

The man shook his head. “No, Highness.”

So the problem was not communicable. “What about her diet? Does she eat the same food as the others?”

“Many of the women have their food prepared separately, as they like it,” the Keeper replied readily. “This girl eats from the harem kitchens and I assure you, Prince, that the meals are the finest and freshest quality.” Khaemwaset indicated to Penbuy that the taking of notes was not necessary. “Of course it is,” he said more sharply than he had intended, suddenly not willing to ease the man’s anxiety with tact. “The rash is simply treated. Make a balm of equal parts of Cyperus-of-the-Meadow, onion meal, incense and wild date juice. Have the slave smear it all over her twice a day, and the itching and redness should be gone in a week. Send for me if not.” He was about to turn away when he felt a hand tug at his kilt. He looked down. “Do I not need a spell also, great Prince?” the dancer’s heavily accented, light voice inquired. “Will you not make magic over me?”

Khaemwaset met those alert black eyes with a smile, and taking her supple fingers in his, he sank onto the couch. “No, my dear, it is not necessary,” he assured her. “The evidence of demon-induced illness is lacking. You have perhaps taken too much sun, or been swimming in dirty water, or you may have even brushed against a plant that your body does not like. Don’t worry. The recipe I gave your Keeper was found many years ago among the proven remedies in the temple of Osiris at Abydos and cannot fail.”

For answer she suddenly pressed his hand to her mouth, and the shock of the touch took him unaware. He withdrew hastily and stood. “See that she is anointed at once so that she can sleep,” was his last command before retiring into the passage, and he hurried out the doors, across the gardens and onto his litter, his mind full of the need for his delayed massage and then a deep sleep.