Hot Times in Magma City, 1990-95 Page 10

  The stranger was drawing him out of the sun, into the sparse shade of a five-branched palm at the edge of the plaza.

  “I am very ill, yes—” he managed finally. “The heat—my head—”

  “Yes. Yes. It is so sad. But look, my friend, the god is coming now.”

  He thought at first that some apparition was descending, that Horus or Thoth had come to carry him off to the Land of the Dead. But no, no, that wasn’t what the stranger meant at all. A stupefying roar had gone up from the crowd, a bursting swell of incredible noise. The man pointed. He managed to follow the outstretched arm. His vision was blurring again, but he could make out a commotion near the front of the temple, brawny men wearing nothing but strips of blue and gold cloth advancing, wielding whips, people falling back, and then a chariot appearing from somewhere, everything gilded, blindingly bright, falcons on the yoke-pole, a great solar disk above them, winged goddesses on the sides, horned creatures behind; and out of the temple and into the chariot, then, there came a slow portly figure, ornately robed in the stifling heat—the blue crown on his head, the khepresh, and the two scepters in his hands, the crook and the flail, and the stiff little false beard strapped to his chin—

  The king, it was—it must be—the Pharaoh, getting into the chariot—he has been at some ceremony in the temple, and now he will return to his palace across the river—

  Drums and trumpets, and the sound of high-pitched things something like oboes. An immense roar. “Horus!” the crowd was crying now. Ten thousand voices at once, a single throat. “Horus! Neb-Maat-Re! Life! Health! Strength!”

  Neb-Maat-Re. The Pharaoh Amenhotep III, that was what that meant. His coronation name. It was the king himself, yes. Standing there, smiling, acknowledging the crowd, before his very eyes.

  “Lord of the Two Lands!” they were shouting. “Son of Re! Living image of Amon! Mighty one! Benefactor of Egypt! Life! Health! Strength!”

  Too much, too much, too much. He was totally overwhelmed by it all. He was thirty-five centuries out of his proper time, a displacement that he had been confident he would be able to comprehend until the moment he found himself actually experiencing it. Now his entire body convulsed in a tremor born of fatigue and confusion and panic. He tottered and desperately grasped the palm tree’s rough scaly trunk. The last of his little strength was fleeing under the impact of all this staggering unthinkable reality. Thebes as a living city—Amenhotep III himself, wearing the blue crown—the masked priests, hawk-faced, ibis-faced, dog-faced—the dark mysterious figure of a woman coming out now, surely the queen, taking her place beside the Pharaoh—the chariot beginning to move—

  “Life! Health! Strength!”

  For the king, maybe. Not for him. How had he ever managed to pass the psychological tests for this mission? He was flunking now. He had been able to fake his way successfully among tougher people all his life, but the truth was coming out at last. His legs were turning to water. His eyes were rolling in his head. They had sent the wrong man for the job: he saw that clearly now. Indeed it was the only thing he could see clearly. He was too complicated, too—delicate. They should have sent some stolid unimaginative jock, some prosaic astronaut type, invulnerable to emotion, to the hot dark unreasoning side of life, poetry-free, magic-free, someone who would not become overwhelmed like this by the sight of a fat middle-aged man in a silly costume getting into a Hollywood chariot.

  Was it that? Or simply the heat, and the lingering shock of the thirty-five-C jump itself?

  “Ah, my friend, my friend,” the dark-eyed stranger was saying. “I fear you are becoming an Osiris this very minute. It is so sad for you. I will do what I can to help you. I will use my skills. But you must pray, my dear friend. Ask the king to spare your life. Ask the Lady Isis. Ask the mercy of Thoth the Healer, my friend, or you will die as surely as—”

  It was the last thing he heard as he pitched forward and crumpled to the ground at the palm tree’s base.

  TWO

  The stranger rested quietly on a bed in the House of Life in the Precinct of Mut that lay just to the south of Ipet-sut, the great temple of Amon, in the baffling jumble of holy buildings that future ages would call Karnak. The pavilion he was in was open to the sky, a simple colonnade; its slim pillars, rising like stems to the swollen lotus-buds at the top, were painted a soothing pink and blue and white. The stranger’s eyes were closed and peaceful and his breath was coming slowly and easily, but there was the gleam of fever on his face and his lips were drawn back in an odd grimace, an ugly lopsided smile. Now and again a powerful shudder rippled through his body.

  “He will die very soon, I think,” the physician said. His name was Hapu-seneb and he was the one who had been with the stranger when he collapsed outside the Temple of the Southern Harem of Amon.

  “No,” said the priestess. “I think he will live. I am quite sure that he will live.”

  The physician made a soft smothered sound of scorn.

  But the priestess paid no heed to that. She moved closer to the bed, which stood high off the floor of the room and sloped noticeably from head to foot. The stranger lay naked on a mattress of cord matting, tightly stretched and covered with cushions, and his head rested on a curving block of wood. He was slender and light-boned, almost feminine in his delicacy, though his lean body was muscular and covered with a thick mat of dark curling hair.

  Her hand lightly touched his forehead.

  “Very warm,” she said.

  “A demon is in him,” said Hapu-seneb. “There is little hope. He will be an Osiris soon. I think the crocodile of the West has him, or perhaps the rerek-snake is at his heart.”

  Now it was the priestess’ turn to utter a little skeptical snort.

  She was a priestess in the service of Isis, although this was the Precinct of Mut and the entire temple complex was dedicated to Amon; but there was nothing unusual about that. Things overlapped; boundaries were fluid; one god turned easily into another. Isis must be served, even in Amon’s temple. The priestess was tall for a woman, and her skin was very pale. She wore a light linen shift that was no more substantial than a mist: her breasts showed through, and the dark triangle at her loins. A heavy black wig of natural hair, intricately interwoven in hundreds of tight plaits, covered her shaven scalp.

  The stranger was muttering now in his sleep, making harsh congested sounds, a babble of alien words.

  “He speaks demon-language,” Hapu-seneb said.

  “Shh! I’m trying to hear!”

  “You understand the language of demons, do you?”

  “Shh!”

  She put her ear close by his mouth. Little spurts and freshets of words came from him: babble, delirium, then a pause, then more feverish muttering. Her eyes widened a little as she listened. Her forehead grew furrowed; she tucked her lower lip in, and nibbled it lightly.

  “What is he saying, then?” asked Hapu-seneb.

  “Words in a foreign language.”

  “But you understand them. After all, you’re foreign yourself. Is he a countryman of yours?”

  “Please,” said the priestess, growing irritated. “What good are these questions?”

  “No good at all,” the physician said. “Well, I will do what I can to save him, I suppose. Your countryman. If that is what he is.” He had brought his equipment with him, his wooden chest of medicines, his pouch of amulets. He gave some thought to selecting an amulet, picking one finally that showed the figure of Amon with four rams’ heads, trampling on a crocodile while eight gods adored him in the background. He whispered a spell over it and fastened it to a knotted cord, which he tied to the stranger’s kilt. He placed the amulet over the stranger’s heart and made magical passes, and said in a deep, impressive tone, “I am this Osiris here in the West. Osiris knows his day, and if he does not exist in it, then I will not exist in it. I am Re who is with the gods and I will not perish; stand up, Horus, that I may number you among the gods.”

  The priestess watched, smiling a litt
le.

  The physician said, “There are other spells I can use.” He closed his eyes a moment and breathed deeply. “Behind me, crocodile, son of Set!” he intoned. “Float not with thy tail. Seize not with thy two arms. Open not thy mouth. May the water become a sheet of fire before thee! The charm of thirty-seven gods is in thine eye. Thou art bound to the four bronze pillars of the south, in front of the barge of Re. Stop, crocodile, son of Set! Protect this man, Amon, husband of thy mother!”

  “That must be a good spell,” said the priestess. “See, he’s stirring a little. And I think his forehead grows cool.”

  “It is one of the most effective spells, yes. But medicines are important too.” The physician began to rummage through the wooden chest, drawing forth little jars, some containing crushed insects, some containing live ones, some holding the powdered dung of powerful animals.

  The priestess laid her hand lightly on Hapu-seneb’s arm.

  “No,” she said. “No medicines.”

  “He needs—”

  “What he needs is to rest. I think you should go now.”

  “But the powder of the scorpion—”

  “Another time, Hapu-seneb.”

  “Lady, I am the physician, not you.”

  “Yes,” she said gently. “And a very fine physician you are. And your spells have been very fine also. But I feel Isis in my veins, and the goddess tells me that what will heal this man is sleep, nothing other than sleep.”

  “Without medicine he will die, lady. And then Isis will have her Osiris.”

  “Go, Hapu-seneb.”

  “The oil of serpent, at least—”

  “Go.”

  The physician scowled and began to say something; but then he converted his anger deftly into a shrug and started to pack up his medical equipment. The priestess was a favorite of the young Prince Amenhotep; everyone knew that. It was perhaps not a good idea to disagree with her too strongly. And if she thought she knew what sort of care this stranger needed better than he did, well—

  When Hapu-Seneb was gone, the priestess threw some grains of incense on the brazier in the corner of the pavilion and stood for a time staring out into the deepening darkness, breathing deeply and trying to calm herself, for she was not at all calm just now, however she may have seemed to the physician. In the distance she heard chanting. A darkening blue was descending from the sky and changing the river’s color. The first stars were appearing overhead. A few fireflies flickered past the tops of the columns. From far away came the mournful sound of the night-trumpet, floating across the water from the royal palace on the west bank.

  Well then, she thought.

  She considered what had to be done now.

  She clapped her hands twice, and two slave-girls came running. To the older and more intelligent one she said, “Go to the House of Stars which is behind the shrine of Men-Kheper-Re, Eyaseyab, and tell Senmut-Ptah the astronomer to come to me right away. He will tell you that he has important work to do. Say to him that I know that, and want him to come all the same, that it’s absolutely essential, an emergency.” The priestess sent the other slave off to fetch cloths steeped in cool water, so that she could bathe the stranger’s forehead.

  The stranger was still unconscious, but he had stopped babbling now. His face was no longer so rigidly set and the sheen of fever was nearly gone. Perhaps he was simply asleep. The priestess stood above him, frowning.

  She leaned close to him and said, “Can you hear me?”

  He shifted about a bit, but his eyes remained closed.

  “I am Isis,” she said softly. “You are Osiris. You are my Osiris. You are the lost Osiris who was cut asunder and restored to life in my care.”

  He said something now, indistinctly, muttering in his own language again.

  “I am Isis,” she said a second time.

  She rested her hand on his shoulder and let it travel down his body, pausing over his heart to feel the steady beating, then lower, and lower still. His loins were cool and soft, but she felt a quickening in them as her fingers lingered. The priestess smiled. Turning away, she picked up the cool cloth that the young slave-girl had brought and lightly mopped his forehead with it. His eyes fluttered open. Had the cool cloth awakened him, she wondered? Or had it been the touch of her hand at the base of his belly a moment before?

  He was staring at her.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “A little better.” He spoke very softly, so that she had to strain to hear him.

  He glanced down at his nakedness. She saw the movement of his eyes and draped a strip of cloth that she had not yet moistened across his middle.

  “Where am I?”

  “The House of Life in the Precinct of Mut. The physician Hapu-seneb found you in the street outside the southern temple and brought you here. I am Nefret. Isis is the one I serve.”

  “Am I dying, Nefret?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The man who found me said I was. He told me I was about to become Osiris. That means I’m dying, doesn’t it?”

  “It can mean that. It can mean other things. Hapu-seneb is a very fine physician, but he’s not always right. You aren’t dying. I think the heat was too much for you, that’s all. That and perhaps the strain of your voyage.” She studied him thoughtfully. “You came a long way?”

  He hesitated before replying. “You can tell, can you?”

  “A child could tell. Where are you from?”

  Another little pause. A moistening of the lips. “It’s a place called America.”

  “That must be very far away.”

  “Very.”

  “Farther than Syria? Farther than Crete?”

  “Farther, yes. Much farther.”

  “And your name?” the priestess asked.

  “Edward Davis.”

  “Ed-ward Da-vis.”

  “You pronounce it very well.”

  “Edward Davis,” she said again, less awkwardly. “Is that better?”

  “You did it well enough the first time.”

  “What language do they speak in the place called America?” she asked.

  “English.”

  “Not American?”

  “Not American, no. English.”

  “You were speaking in your English while you were asleep, I think.”

  He looked at her. “Was I?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “How would I know? I heard foreign words, that’s all I can tell you. But you speak our language very well, for someone who comes from so far away.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Very well indeed. You arrived just today, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “By the ship that sailed in from Crete?”

  “Yes,” he said. “No. No, not that one. It was a different ship, the one that came from—” He paused again. “It was the ship from Canada.”

  “Canada. Is that near America?”

  “Very near, yes.”

  “And ships from Canada come here often?”

  “Not really. Not very often.”

  “Ah,” she said. “But one came today.”

  “Or yesterday. Everything’s so confused for me—since I became sick—”

  “I understand,” the priestess said. She swabbed his forehead with the cool cloth again. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, not at all.” Then he frowned. Messages seemed to be traveling around inside his body. “Well, a little.”

  “We have some cold roast goose, and some bread. And a little beer. Can you handle that?”

  “I could try,” he said.

  “We’ll bring you some, then.”

  The slave-girl who had gone to fetch the astronomer had returned. She was standing just outside the perimeter of the pavilion, waiting. The priestess glanced at her.

  “The priest Senmut-Ptah is here, Lady. Shall I bring him to you?”

  “No. No, I’ll go to him. This is Edward-Davis. He was ill, but I think he’s recovering. He’d like t
o have some food, and something to drink.”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  The priestess turned to the stranger again. He was sitting up on the bed now, looking off toward the west, toward the river. Night had fully arrived by this time and the torches had been lit along the west bank promenade, and in the hills where the kings’ tombs were. He appeared to be caught up in some enchantment.

  “The city is very beautiful at night, yes,” she said.

  “I can hardly believe I’m really here.”

  “There’s no city like it in all the land. How fortunate you are to see it at its greatest.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  His eyes were shining. He turned to stare at her, and she knew that he was staring at her body through her filmy gown, back-lit by the torches behind her. She felt exposed and curiously vulnerable, and found herself wishing she was wearing something less revealing. It was a long time since she had last cared about that.

  The priestess wondered how old he was. Twenty-five, perhaps? Perhaps even less. Younger than she by a good many years, that much was certain.

  She said, “This is Eyaseyab. She’ll bring you food. If you want anything else, just ask her.”

  “Are you going?”

  “There’s someone I have to speak with,” the priestess said.

  “And then you’ll come back?”

  “Later.”

  “Not too much later, I hope.”

  “Eat. Rest. That’s what’s important now. Eyaseyab will take care of you.” She smiled and turned away. She could feel his eyes on her as she left the pavilion.