Free Reflections in the Nile by Suzanne Frank

removal,” Cheftu said and the boy left, music from the main temple audible when he opened the heavy curtain.
    Cheftu asked Chloe to open her mouth. He examined her ears, pressed down on her nostrils, and checked her neck.
“Assst,
” he mused as he finished his search and tilted her head back to look full into her face.
    “Try to speak,” he said.
    The sounds that issued from her mouth were garbled and painful to them both.
    “Haii.
That is enough at present.” He stepped back and she looked away. “Have you had any secretions, my lady?” he said as he counted her pulse, his fingers warm and tingly on her cool flesh.
    Chloe shook her head.
    Keonkh went for water. Then Cheftu tilted her head forward and placed his hands on either side of her head his long fingers probing in her carefully arranged hair. “My lady, did you fall?”
    She shrugged.
    “Did you dream of grapes? Or figs?”
    Was he weird? What kind of bizarre question was that? Then the “other” reminded her that those dreams were warnings from the gods of an upcoming illness. She shook her head no. No fruit-filled dreams.
    Basha entered the room with Batu, carrying a large pot. Chloe recognized it as the chamber pot she'd stumbled to this morning. Cheftu had it set on the floor, and then he and Batu bent over it, discussing the contents in quiet tones.
    The physician turned to her, and Chloe felt the breath catch in her throat. This couldn't be real. It must be a dream, a hallucination. He looked familiar, so apparently he was someone she'd liked and so had given him a role in her Egyptian fantasy—just as the
Wizard of Oz
was populated with Dorothy's friends and enemies. She dropped her gaze to his hands.
    They were beautiful—the hands of an artist or scholar—with long fingers, squarely trimmed nails; not rough, but not soft, either. Hands to create and heal.
    Her thoughts were interrupted as both boys returned to their places: Keonkh rapidly writing, Batu assisting Cheftu. From an alcove beside the door Cheftu removed a cow-headed statuette and replaced it with a jackal-headed obsidian statue. He then lit a dish of incense before it.
    She searched her memory, trying to place the god's face and name. Cheftu withdrew a small papyrus from his basket and handed it to Chloe. “Since the problem is within your mouth, we shall speak to the god of your lips.” Chloe took the scroll in her hands and looked at it. It was written in hieratic, a shorthand version of hieroglyphs.
    Batu handed Cheftu the water, and Chloe watched as he poured some of it in a black alabaster cup decorated with carvings of the jackal-headed god. He poured the remainder in a cup he'd brought. Chloe watched in trepidation as he pulled small jars out of his basket. His broadly muscled back hid his actions, but she could hear him murmuring while he worked. He turned back to her with a cup of yellow green water. “Drink, my lady.”
    Chloe sniffed the water and tried to hide her smirk. This great ancient Egyptian physician had fixed her herbal tea! She sipped gratefully, honey easing the ache in her throat. He watched, his arms crossed over his chest. Closed body language if ever she'd seen it.
    “Have you been relieved, my lady?”
    Chloe met his look. His eyes were as emotionless as the stone on his finger and as exquisitely colored. He reminded her of a cat watching, carelessly and coldly. Hesitantly, because she didn't know what he was talking about she shook her head.
    Cheftu's lips twisted in a cold smile. “Shall I call a slave, or would my lady prefer a sister?” Chloe shrugged. His eyes twinkled maliciously. “Batu, fetch the lady's slave!” Irit came in a few minutes later, crossing her breast.
    “Life, health, and prosperity to you,
Hemu neter,
” she said. “My lady.”
    Cheftu acknowledged her with a nod. They walked toward Chloe, and Batu handed Cheftu an instrument, narrow and long, no wider than a number eight paintbrush. Irit looked offended, but they both