“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 to 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, backlit 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.