Nile Builder: The Architect from the East

Chapter 113: Chapter 7: The Medical Houses Go Down — Universal Care Reaches the Villages

On the day the medical house law went before the court, the old priests came earliest of all.

Their white robes formed a line and took the best places at the side of the hall. At their head was still the tottering old priest. This time he did not totter. He held his back straight, and the moment the pharaoh opened his mouth, he was the first to step out.

Outside the palace gate, people had come too. There were old patients of the field hospital, farming folk from the villages outside the city, and a few medicine traders. They did not shout or make trouble; they only stood. An old man said to the person beside him: ”Today it is the matter of seeing sickness that is being deliberated. The matter of sickness touches lives even more closely than the granaries.”

”It is exactly for that,” the person beside him said, ”that we had to come.”

In the hall, the pharaoh sat down. He glanced once at the center of the hall — on the long table lay the third roll of law. He said: ”Deliberate.”

”Pharaoh.” The old priest bowed and stepped out. ”This old servant has only one question today — in this medical house law, why is the examination of physicians not given to the temple?”

The hall went quiet.

”For a thousand years,” the old priest said, ”the men who practice medicine in Egypt have all come out of the temple. The craft of seeing sickness was handed down by the god; the prescriptions for using medicines are kept in the temple’s care. And now the law is written: the power of examination belongs to the guild — and what is the guild? A pack of wall-layers and stone-dressers! Setting them to examine physicians — is this not taking the god’s medicine and asking the stones for their opinion!”

In the corner of the hall, someone laughed low. The rows of the conservatives sat upright, every one, waiting for what would come next.

”And the medical accounts.” the old priest said. ”The account of the medical house, posted monthly. Let the assembly think — the person who sees a physician, who is willing to have others know his sickness? Post these boards, and the poor will not dare come, afraid of showing their shame; the rich will not dare come, afraid of showing their wealth. In the end, the door of the medical house is open, and there is no one inside it.” He turned to Imset. ”Imset, you came out of the priesthood too. Lay your hand on your heart and say — these articles, did you ever see them in the temple, in your years there?”

Every eye in the hall turned to Imset.

Imset rose. He did not look at the old priest. He saluted the pharaoh and said: ”Pharaoh. The old priest asks me whether I ever saw these articles in the temple, in my years there.” He paused. ”I saw them. I saw the temple dispensary, its door opening toward those with money. I saw the temple’s incense money, and how it could not cure the fevers and chills of the country folk. And I also saw—” His voice sank. ”A farm woman, holding a child burning with fever, kneeling outside the temple gate through a whole night. At dawn, the child had no breath left. The priest of the temple said: this was the god’s will.”

The hall was so quiet it was terrible.

”Now the gentleman asks me why the power of examination is not given to the temple.” Imset said. ”I will tell the gentleman — because the temple’s medicine can cure the people of the city, and cannot cure the people of the countryside; because the temple’s door opens to incense, and has not opened to the sick.” He paused. ”The examination of physicians has never tested theology. What it tests is — fear stillness, not blood.”

”’Fear stillness, not blood.’” The old priest laughed coldly. ”Who set those words?”

”Nekhet, the old pharmacist of Thebes.” Imset said. ”He kept the apothecary for thirty years, and dictated half a lifetime of skill into the book. If the gentleman thinks the words are wrong, go to Thebes and say so to him.”

”You!”

”And the medical accounts.” Shafi rose.

She held her thin book, and her voice trembled a little, and not one word of it shook: ”The gentleman says that once the boards are posted, the poor will not dare come.” She opened the book and drew out a page. ”This is the account of the Thebes field hospital. It is written here: this month, what medicines came in, at what price; who was seen, with what ailment; how much was received, and how many had no money, entered in the column of ’owed.’” She paused. ”After the posting, the people coming to the hospital increased by three tenths. Sir — what the poor fear is not showing their shame. What the poor fear is that the price of medicine has no standard, and that once through the door, they cannot pay their way out.”

”This . . .” The old priest’s mouth opened.

”One more word.” Asaf stepped out. ”The old priest says the guild is a pack of wall-layers and stone-dressers, unfit to examine physicians.” He looked around the hall. ”Then let me ask the assembly one thing — in these four months, the Thebes field hospital saved one thousand one hundred and thirty-seven patient-visits. What did that rest on — the temple’s incense, or the wall-layers and stone-dressers, one load of water, one pot of medicine, one bed, boiled and carried out?”

No one in the hall took up the answer.

”Let this humble officer say one word too.” The centurion back from the northern border rose. ”This scar on this humble officer’s arm is a wound of the north. The man who bound it was no priest — he was an old soldier of the company, and he bound it with strips torn from his own clothes.” He paused. ”This humble officer only hopes that from now on, when a soldier of the north is wounded, there is a medical point raised by the law, and a clean strip of cloth.”

”Well said.” The pharaoh spoke. ”The war is over, and the wounds still need someone to tend them.”

The old priest’s face had gone white. He looked left and right, and in the rows of the conservatives, every head hung low, and no one met his eyes.

”Does the assembly have anything further?” the pharaoh asked.

The hall was silent.

”The Ordinance for the Building of Medical Houses for All,” he said, ”is promulgated.”

When the court rose, the people outside the palace gate cheered one more round.

An old patient said: ”The first law tends our grain. The second tends our houses. This third one tends our lives.” He counted on his fingers. ”Grain, houses, lives — these laws are being stood up one by one, along the living road of a person.”

”One is still missing.” the person beside him said. ”The corvée. The deadliest one of all.”

”Wait.” the old patient said. ”Three have stood. Can the fourth be far?”

The conservatives left quietly when the court rose. The old priest’s white robe dragged on the ground, whispering. The young one in the white robe did not trip on the threshold this time — he walked very steadily. Outside the palace gate, he looked back once at the cheering crowd and said in a low voice: ”They are happy too early.”

”What do you mean?” the man beside him asked.

”The medical house law cuts into the incense money.” the young white-robed one said. ”The incense money, we can spare. But the next one . . .” He did not finish. He only shook his head. ”Wait and see.”

On the day the decree went out, Imset took Shafi and sorted, one by one, the things they would need for the countryside.

The list of physicians had been examined. The new capital’s medical house gave three; the guild’s medicine hands gave two; Shafi’s two apprentices counted as half. Imset said: ”Not enough people. First, stand up ten medical points. One point, one person. Those who cannot carry the work alone will study — three months of study, then back for the examination. Pass it, and only then are they sent out.”

”The examination questions,” Shafi said, ”will use old father Nekhet’s set: fear stillness, not blood. Plus two more — recognizing medicines, and sorting the sick.”

”Recognizing medicines — recognizing what?” an apprentice asked.

”Ten kinds, and one mistake sends you back to study again.” Shafi said. ”Medicine is for people to take. One wrong kind recognized is one life.”

On the guild’s side, Kamon picked eight craftsmen to repair the medical points. He said: ”The medical point’s house is built on the same principle as the granary — raised, ventilated, dry. When you work, put one measure more care into your hands. This is a place for saving lives; a wall leaking a little, a roof dropping a corner — that is making jokes with lives.”

”Set your hearts at rest.” the craftsmen said. ”The medical point’s work — we will build it to the granary’s sample.”

The medicines were carried by Meru’s merchant house. Shafi wrote out the medicine list in three copies: one to the merchant house, one kept on file, one traveling with the medicines. The medicine chests were made to her new standard — three-layer bottoms, raised half a foot, the dry and the damp kept apart, and on every compartment a small wooden label with the medicine’s name.

”These chests,” Meru came to look, ”are more particular than my cargo holds.”

”Medicine is more delicate than cargo.” Shafi said. ”One measure of damp, one tenth rotted. One tenth rotted, and someone goes without medicine.”

”Then in the carrying,” Meru said, ”the merchant house’s boats will clear a dry hold for the medicines. Reed mats spread, wooden racks set up, kept apart from the grain.”

”Apart is good.” Shafi said. ”Medicine that has picked up the grain smell is unusable too.”

”Then . . . the accounts of the medical points,” Asaf asked, ”who keeps them?”

”The medicine boys.” Shafi said. ”Kept by the same method as the field hospital: how much came in, how much went out, how much is owed. At the month’s end, posted.” She paused. ”The medical point’s account, from now on, is like the granary’s — only what dares to be posted can stand.”

The road of medicines became, from then on, one of the merchant house’s proper lines.

Meru set rules especially for medicines: the medicine boat carries no cargo; the medicine store mixes in no grain; every batch travels with a manifest, and on the manifest are written its source, its date, and its weight in jin. He said: ”Grain rotted goes to the livestock. Medicine spoiled poisons people. So the medicine road must be cleaner than the grain road.”

”Clean,” Shafi said, ”is the only thing fit to be called a medicine road.”

The first batch of medicines went out to the West Bank. When Old Camel checked the goods, he opened every packet and looked at it. When he was done, he said: ”Shopkeeper Meru, this medicine is better than any I have seen. Dry, clean, no crossed smells.” Meru said: ”Then from now on, everything comes by this standard. Whose medicine dares to play tricks on this road—” He paused. ”The merchant house’s boats will never carry his goods again.”

”Those words are heavy.” Old Camel said.

”Not heavy.” Meru said. ”Playing tricks on the medicine road is playing tricks with lives. In the matter of lives, nothing is too heavy.”

The first medical point stood up in Date-Bend Village, outside the new capital.

Date-Bend Village had thirty-some households, half a day’s walk from the city. When choosing the site, Imset made a round of the village and set his mind on the old public house at the village mouth. The house was mud-brick, the walls still sound; only the roof leaked and the floor was damp. He said: ”It is here.”

”Here?” the village head said. ”That house has stood empty for years.”

”Empty is exactly right.” Imset said. ”Repaired, it is a medical point.”

”But that house,” the village head rubbed his hands, ”was where the village kept its public grain in the old days. When the grain moved into the official granary, it went empty. To use it, you must tell the whole village.”

”Tell them.” Imset said. ”Tonight, at the village mouth.”

That night, a fire was lit on the open ground at the village mouth. Imset stood by the fire and laid out the matter of the medical point to the whole village, article by article: the house, the public house; the repairs, the guild’s labor; the medicines, the merchant house at the official price; the seeing of sickness, at open posted prices; those who cannot afford it, entered in the account, repaid at the autumn harvest, or worked off with labor.

”We take no rent for the house.” he said. ”We take only one thing — the door of the medical point is open by day, and if anyone knocks in the night, it opens then too.”

”Open at night too?” someone asked.

”Sickness does not wait for dawn.” Imset said.

The repairers were the guild’s craftsmen. Three days of work: the roof re-laid with new reed mats, the floor raised three inches, two narrow windows opened in the wall, slantwise across from each other. Along the wall went a row of wooden racks, their legs wrapped with grass cord — against the damp. Before the racks stood a consultation table, a scale, and a row of medicine jars.

”This is a medical point.” Imset said to the villagers gathered around. ”From now on, the people of your village, with their small sicknesses, need not walk half a day into the city. This house — whoever comes can be seen.”

”What sicknesses can it see?” someone asked.

”Wind-colds, fevers and chills, loose bowels, wounds, boils and sores.” Imset said. ”Anything greater, that we cannot see here, is transferred to the county medical house. The referral slip is written here at the point.”

”Then . . . the fee?” an old woman asked.

”Open posted prices.” Shafi said. ”There is a board on the wall. Whether a person can afford it or not — the board writes it out plain. Those who cannot afford it, entered in the account. Repaid at the autumn harvest, or worked off — helping sun the medicines, slice the medicines, run errands — all of it counts.”

”Worked off?” The old woman’s eyes lit up. ”Then an old woman like me can be seen too?”

”You can.” Shafi said. ”One day of helping us sun medicines pays for one visit for a wind-cold.”

”Then that is good!” the old woman said. ”I am a fine hand at sunning medicines!”

”Then this medical point,” someone asked in a low voice, ”how does it stand with the old shrine?”

The crowd went quiet for a moment. The old shrine stood north of the village, keeping the spirit tablet of Amun. These years the incense had thinned, but the older people of the village, when they fell sick, still went first to the shrine.

”No conflict.” Imset said. ”The shrine tends the heart; the medical point tends the body. Pray to the god in the heart, take the medicine in the body. Neither holds the other up.”

”Then the god does not take offense?”

”If the god is truly powerful,” Imset said, ”he will only think we are too slow in the saving.”

On the day the medical point opened, three people came.

Not many. The first was the old woman. She did not come to be seen; she came first to ask about sunning the medicines. The second was an old man on a stick, saying his leg hurt. The third was a young wife holding a child, who stood outside the door, looked for a long while, and then left.

”Why did she leave?” the medicine boy asked.

”Afraid she heard some words.” the village head sighed. ”The old shrine in the village . . . these past days someone has been spreading it around that this medical point is a wicked thing. Whoever comes to be seen is one who does not believe in the god. Sickness is the god’s punishment. Take human medicine, and the god grows angrier.”

”The old shrine?” Imset asked.

”The old shrine of the god, from the old days.” the village head said. ”There is an old shrine keeper, living beside it. These words — he is the one spreading them.”

Imset said nothing. He looked once in the direction of the shrine.

The next day, the old shrine keeper came to the door himself.

He stood at the door of the medical point, not entering, not sitting, and said only: ”Priest Imset — oh, now it should be Physician Imset. This old man has not come to quarrel with you. This old man will say one thing only: in this village, the people who believe in the god are many. If your medical point truly means well for the village, change the character ’medicine’ over your door into the character ’god.’ God and physician as one — neither side loses.”

”God and physician as one.” Imset repeated the words, and said: ”Old shrine keeper, let me answer you with one sentence too. The god is the god, and the physician is the physician. The god’s to the god, and the sick to the physician. Whoever sets a bar between the two—” He paused. ”You know that in the four months in Thebes, how many patients our field hospital took in who had been told their sickness was ’the god’s punishment’? Seventeen. All of them had heard those words, and let small sicknesses drag into great ones.”

The old shrine keeper’s face went white.

”If you truly mean well for the village,” Imset said, ”carry these words around the village for me: sickness is not the god’s punishment. Sickness is sickness. Treated early, it is light; treated late, it is heavy; not treated, it is the end.”

The old shrine keeper opened his mouth, and in the end no words came out, and he turned and left.

After he was gone, Shafi said in a low voice: ”Teacher, will the old shrine keeper carry the words?”

”I do not know.” Imset said. ”But these words are facts. And facts can hold things down. If they cannot hold for a while, they can hold for a lifetime.”

”Then . . .” Shafi asked, ”if he goes on spreading ’the god’s punishment’?”

”Then we go on treating.” Imset said. ”He spreads his words, and we do our treating. Treat one, and one is cured. When the cured are many, his words have no one to listen.” He paused. ”Remember — the physician does not quarrel with rumors. The physician speaks with facts.”

Shafi wrote the words onto the board she carried.

The true turning point came on the night of the fourth day.

A half-grown boy of the village had cut his hand during the autumn reaping. The wound had been left alone, covered up two days, and now it had swollen; the boy burned with fever and talked nonsense. His father and mother panicked and wanted to go to the city, but the night was dark and the road was long, and the boy’s fever could not wait. His father set his teeth, took the boy in his arms, and knocked at the door of the medical point.

Imset lit the lamp and looked at the wound — red, swollen, shining: it had festered. He said: ”Do not be afraid. It can be saved.” First he washed it with boiled salt water, then cleared out the pus, spread on a medicine paste mixed with honey, and bound it with boiled cloth strips. Then he boiled a potion against the fever and spooned it into the boy, mouthful by mouthful.

The boy’s mother stood to one side, clutching the hem of her clothes, her lips bitten white. Shafi held her hand and said: ”Auntie, do not be afraid. The pus is out, and the fever will come down.”

”Tr . . . truly it will come down?” The mother’s voice shook until it broke apart.

”It will.” Shafi said. ”In four months in Thebes, we took wounds heavier than this.”

Near dawn, the boy’s fever broke.

”Saved.” Imset said. ”Half a day later, and the hand could not have been kept.”

The boy’s father dropped to his knees with a thud.

”Rise.” Imset caught his arms. ”We are a medical point, not a shrine. Kneeling is not the custom here.”

”I . . .” the father wiped his tears, ”if I cannot kneel, let me knock my head—”

”Knock nothing.” Imset said. ”Go home, and let the child finish the medicine. In three days, bring him back to change the dressing.”

The father left with endless thanks. At the door he turned back, drew two dry flatbreads from inside his robe, and set them on the consultation table: ”There is nothing else at home. These flatbreads — they are hot.”

”Taken.” Shafi said. ”These flatbreads, we will eat. And if your household falls sick again, do not bear it.”

The matter had spread through the whole village by daylight.

”The medical point saved someone!” The boy’s mother went door to door. ”The child’s hand — it was kept!”

The young wife came back the next day with her child. Before the old shrine keeper’s door, no one came the whole day. By the fifth day, the people coming to the medical point had grown from three to a dozen and more.

”Do you see.” Imset said to Shafi. ”The two words ’god’s punishment’ — one dose of medicine broke them.”

”Broke them well.” Shafi said. ”From now on, wherever the medical point goes up, that dose of medicine goes up with it.”

The old shrine keeper came again on the sixth day.

This time he did not enter. He only stood at the door and looked for a long while — at the villagers queuing, at the price board on the wall, at the medicine boy keeping the accounts with a serious face. When he had looked his fill, he sighed and said: ”Physician Imset, this old man . . . takes back the words.”

”Which words?”

”The ’god and physician as one.’” the old shrine keeper said. ”This old man has lived more than sixty years, and this is the first time I have seen people who have been to see a physician come out of that door smiling.” He paused. ”From now on, if your place is too busy, this old man . . . can also help boil a pot of water.”

”Boiling water — we need it.” Imset said. ”The most precious thing in a medical point is a pot of water that has been boiled. If the old shrine keeper is willing to come, let him tend this pot of water.”

”Then . . . what of the god’s side . . .”

”On the god’s side,” Imset said, ”you go on burning incense. On our side, we go on boiling water. Incense and water — both of them save people.”

The old shrine keeper smiled. In the smile there was something hard to put a name to, like a breath let out at last.

The second medical point stood in Ferry Town, twenty li south of the city.

Ferry Town had many people. The boatmen and porters passing north and south, when a headache or a fever came, all bore it hard. Imset chose an abandoned goods shed by the ferry landing, its walls of stone, its foundation good. Shafi looked it over and said: ”This shed is better than the Date-Bend house. The walls are sound, the roof high, the ventilation ready-made.”

”It is right beside the dock, though,” the medicine boy said, ”and the damp is heavy.”

”Which is why the medicine racks must be raised half a foot higher.” Shafi said. ”A medical point beside a dock — the first rule is the damp.” She had the rack legs extended by another length, and a layer of dry reeds spread under the racks. The dry reeds were changed every three days, and it was written in the account.

”What sort of rule is that?” a boatman came over to watch the fun.

”It is a medical point’s rule.” Shafi said. ”The next time your bowels run loose, come here. The medicine is dry, and the sickness mends fast.”

”Bowels run loose . . .” The boatman scratched his head. ”How do you know my bowels run loose?”

”Your face is yellow with a green edge; and you walk with your hand on your stomach.” Shafi said. ”Of the men who work boats on the river, eight in ten have drunk unboiled water.” She turned and took down a packet of medicine from the rack. ”This medicine — boil it in water and drink it. From now on, when you drink water, boil it first.”

The boatman took the medicine and stared for a long while, and said: ”Little miss, that eye of yours is sharper than the old hands on the boats.”

”A physician’s eye,” Shafi said, ”looks at exactly that.”

The Ferry Town medical point, in its first month, saw more than two hundred patients. The most common were loose bowels and sprains. The boatmen passed the word to one another: ”That medical point at the dock — the medicine is true, and the prices are open. One dose for loose bowels, the price of two handfuls of beans.”

”The price of two handfuls of beans?” someone did not believe it.

”Do not believe me — go and read the wall yourself.” the boatman said. ”Prices posted in the open. Can it cheat you?”

When the word reached the new capital, the hall master, copying the accounts, drew a circle especially around the Ferry Town point. He said: ”This medical point was set down in the right place.”

”Right it was.” Imset said. ”The medical point follows the people. Where the people are many, the sicknesses are many. Where the sicknesses are many, the medicine must be near.”

The old town head of Ferry Town cleared out one more room of the town’s public house. He said: ”The medical point’s patients grow day by day. One room cannot turn around. This room — take it for a ward. The heavier ones can lie down to be seen.”

The three words ”lie down to be seen” were, in the countryside, a great matter. Before, when people fell sick, where was there a lying down to be seen? It was all sit a while, grab a handful of medicine, go home and bear it out. Now, the medical point had a straw pallet, spread with a clean reed mat. The gravely sick could lie down, could drink a mouthful of hot water, could have someone watching over them.

An old woman, the first time she lay down on the straw pallet, said: ”I have lived more than half a life, and this is the first time I have been able to lie down when sick.” As she spoke, her eyes reddened. ”This is not seeing sickness. This is treating the sick as people.”

”It always was.” Shafi said. ”What a sick person needs most is exactly this — to be treated as a person.”

The rules of storing medicines, Shafi taught inch by inch.

”Raised half a foot.” She carried the racks, demonstrating for the newly taken medicine boy of the village. ”The damp comes up from the ground. The rack leaves the ground, and the damp cannot rise. Spoiled medicines cut by half — that is the figure Thebes worked out by trial.”

”Dry and damp apart.” She split the packets into two piles. ”The dry on top; the damp below. What has a strong smell goes in its own compartment. When medicines cross their smells, curing turns into sickening.”

”Narrow windows, slantwise across.” She pointed at the two windows in the wall. ”The wind travels the two ends, through and out. The medicines do not smother, and the insects do not bore.”

The medicine boy was a young fellow of sixteen or seventeen. He listened hard, but his hands were all in a flurry. Once, he took mint for wild garlic, and scratched his head in panic. Shafi said: ”Do not be anxious. I mistook it once too. Mistake once, and remember it a lifetime.”

”Sister Shafi,” the young fellow said, ”when I have learned it, can I keep this medical point alone?”

”You can.” Shafi said. ”Learn it solid, and this point is yours. From then on, the people for ten li around will all look to you.”

”Then I must learn it fast.” the young fellow said. ”The people of this village cannot wait.”

And the young fellow did learn fast. In less than a month, he could take stock of the medicines alone, keep the accounts, and fill the prescriptions. Once, Imset tested him: ”A new batch of medicine arrives — what do you do first?” He answered: ”First, look at the dry and the damp. What is damp, air it; what is dry, onto the rack. On the rack, label it.” Imset asked again: ”And if a label is put on wrong?” He answered: ”One wrong kind, restock the whole rack.” Imset nodded: ”You have graduated.”

”Graduated?” The young fellow stared. ”I . . . I have only studied one month.”

”The work of a medical point does not ask how long a man has studied.” Imset said. ”It asks whether the hand is steady, and the heart fine. Your hand is steady; your heart is fine. This medical point — it is given to you.”

The young fellow stood behind the consultation table, his back ramrod straight. From the next day, he sat in this medical point — and from then on, the headaches and fevers of the ten li around Date-Bend Village all passed through his hands.

Ten medical points, ten medicine boys — all of them taught this way. Shafi copied the book into ten sets, one to a point. At the last set, her wrist was swollen again, wrapped in cloth strips, and still she wrote, stroke by stroke. Imset said: ”Rest. Let the apprentice copy it.” She said: ”This book is the medical point’s life-root. One wrong character is one wrong medicine. The apprentice’s hand is still young.”

”Your hand,” Imset said, ”is not old either.”

”But it is steady.” Shafi said.

The rotating training of physicians began in that year too.

The physicians of the county medical houses rotated to the village medical points for one month each season; the medicine boys of the village points went up to the county houses to study for one month each season. The rotation registers were reported month by month to the medical guild for filing. In Thebes, old father Nekhet had taken six apprentices, and taught the sorting of the sick every day in the field hospital. He sent word by other hands: ”These two old eyes of mine — I will teach as many as I can. From now on, the medical points of the whole land will all be examined by ’fear stillness, not blood.’”

”Old father’s eyes,” Imset said, ”are the soul of the medical house law.”

The first batch of the rotation was three physicians from the county houses. When they reached the villages, the first thing they did was not to sit and see patients, but to take stock of the medicine cabinets with the medicine boys. When the stock-taking was done, one physician sighed: ”Writing prescriptions in the city, who ever thought about how the medicines are stored. One hair of damp, and the medicine changes its face.” Shafi said: ”And so the law is written: in the rotation, first learn the medicines, then sit to see patients. A physician who does not know the medicine storehouse writes prescriptions that hang in the air.”

”Sense in that.” the physician said. ”From now on, I will write my prescriptions thinking of the cabinet.”

The word from Thebes came once a month.

Old father Nekhet’s letter came by the merchant boat. The letter said: the field hospital had taken four more new apprentices; he had drawn up twenty questions for the examination of physicians, every one of them set on real cases; and his ”fear stillness, not blood” was now printed on the examination board, hung at the door of the field hospital.

”Old father also said,” the letter-bearer said, ”that in all his life he never thought that he, a man who kept an apothecary, could set examination questions for the physicians of the whole land.”

”Set them he has.” Imset said. ”Go back and tell him — the questions he set will be the ones the whole land is examined by, for ten years to come.”

When Sister Wei heard of it, she brought the women of the Haven, and they boiled a pot of herb soup and carried it to the field hospital: ”The first pot is free of charge. To warm the people coming for the examination.”

”Sister Wei,” the medicine boy said, ”this soup of yours smells better than medicine.”

”Smell or not,” Sister Wei said, ”from now on this medical house is the backing of us women. Childbirth, the children’s sicknesses — all of it at our own door.”

The West Bank’s medical point was organized by Meru. Old Camel helped choose the site, the guild gave the labor, and the medicines came down from the new capital by manifest. On the day it stood, Old Camel stood at its door and said: ”The West Bank, before — to see a physician, you ran ten li to find the sacrificial shrine. Now, it is at your own door.” He paused. ”This law has stood itself into people’s hearts.”

”Stood into the heart,” Meru said, ”is what makes it truly stood.”

The linking of food and medicine was set down at the end of autumn.

The grain of the Ever-Normal Granaries, besides the fair-price sale, now had one more use — the ”medicine grain.” On the stove of every medical point, a pot of sick porridge was boiled every day. The grain came from the nearest Ever-Normal Granary, entered in the ”medicine grain” account, and reported together with the granary account. The sick porridge was for patients only, one thick bowl, nourishing and easy on the body.

”This rule,” Lu Zhu said, ”is still Old Sun’s principle. He said: porridge is the medicine on the outside.”

”Medicine on the outside.” Mery heard of it in the south and wrote a letter back on purpose. ”I have added this method to the manual. The stove of the medical point and the account of the granary, from now on, run on one line.”

”One line.” Lu Zhu wrote back. ”Grain in the granary, porridge in the medical point. Grain and medicine were one family from the start.”

The first pot of sick porridge in Date-Bend Village was boiled for the child. The boy with the cut hand had gone through half a month of dressing changes; the wound had closed, but the boy was still weak. Imset had half a dou of new wheat drawn from the new granary, boiled into a thick porridge, to be drunk with the medicine. The boy’s mother held the bowl, and her tears fell, plop, plop: ”My son is this old, and this is the first time he has drunk porridge this thick.”

”Drink it.” Imset said. ”Drink it all, and only then will he have the strength to go down to the fields.”

”Then this porridge . . .” the mother asked, ”how much does it cost?”

”Medicine grain costs nothing.” Shafi said. ”The account is kept on the granary. When your household has recovered, one dou more at the autumn harvest pays it back.”

”One dou . . .” The mother stared. ”Porridge this thick, and only one dou written?”

”It is written in the law.” Shafi said. ”Medicine grain is for urgent saving, not for profit.”

By the time winter came in, ten medical points stood around the new capital.

Ten medical points, ten old houses turned into new rooms, ten physicians who had passed the examination, ten medicine boys keeping the accounts. At the door of every point hung a wooden board, and on the board three lines were written:

The medical account is posted monthly.

The fees are open and true.

Those who cannot afford it — the account records it; repaid at the autumn harvest, or worked off with labor.

Between point and point, each had its own look. By the river, the medicine racks stood especially high; at the mountain’s foot, the wall had one extra window; beside the post road, an extra straw shed stood outside the door, for travelers to rest their feet. But in their bones, they were all one and the same — the raised medicine racks, the slantwise narrow windows, the open price board, the posted account.

”This is the law.” Imset said. ”A law standing does not tie people up. It sets the bones straight. When the bones are straight, however it grows, it is a good shape.”

”And the ones whose bones are not straight?” Shafi asked.

”The ones whose bones are not straight,” Imset said, ”do not pass the examination. And the ones who passed and then went crooked — they will not hold.”

The first cold of the winter was the coldest the new capital’s countryside had seen in years.

But not one door of the ten medical points closed. At the river point, the medicine boy raised the racks by another length, fearing the frozen air creeping up along the ground; at the mountain point, a thick straw curtain hung at the door; at the post-road point, the water on the stove rolled from morning to night — travelers came in, begged a mouthful of hot water, warmed themselves, and went on their way.

”This hot water,” the medicine boy said, ”is medicine too.”

”It is.” Imset said. ”Half of winter’s sicknesses come from the cold. One mouthful of hot water is worth one dose of medicine.”

In those days, the medical points’ doors opened early and closed late. When a night patient knocked, the medicine boy threw on his clothes, rose, lit the lamp, and first poured a bowl of hot water. The patient held the bowl and said: ”For this bowl of water alone, my sickness is three parts lighter.”

”Three parts lighter,” the medicine boy said, ”and seven parts left — those must take the medicine.”

The medicine boy kept the accounts, stroke by stroke. In the winter nights, the lamp of the medical point became a star over the ten li and eight villages. The people far off said: ”Do you see that lamp? That is the medical point. The lamp is lit, so there is someone there. And someone there — that is a settled heart.”

Thebes was moving too. The chief officiant had the old temple clear out a side hall for the examinations of physicians. The first examination — nine came, six passed. The chief officiant offered a stick of incense before the altar and said: ”God, look. From now on, the physicians of this city must all pass this gate. If you do not take offense, let this incense burn straight.”

The incense burned very straight.

After the ten medical points stood, Shafi did one thing more.

She gathered the medicine accounts of the ten points into one master book. Which point lacked which medicine, which point had too much of which, which point was nearing dampness — in the master book, one look told it all. Then she set a rule: what is lacking is reported to the county medical house; what the county house does not have is reported to the new capital’s main house; what the main house cannot move is reported to the merchant house. One line — within three days, the medicine must be on the road.

”What is this called?” Imset asked.

”It is called ’no empty cabinet.’” Shafi said. ”The granary not empty, the grain does not panic. The medicine cabinet not empty, the people’s hearts do not panic. One principle.”

”Good.” Imset said. ”This rule goes into the detailed rules of the medical house law.”

In the medical house of the new capital, the hall master copied the accounts of the ten points into a master book and sent it into the palace. The pharaoh turned to the ”medicine grain” column and asked the Royal Steward: ”This one dou of porridge entered as one dou of grain — is it a loss or a gain?”

”On the face of the account, it balances.” the Steward said. ”But this servant has worked one other account — a patient well one day sooner loses one day less of work. One day less of work lost is one day more of grain in the fields. That account — it gains.”

”A fine word, that ’gains.’” the pharaoh said. ”This law has stood itself worth it.”

He closed the master book and walked to the door of the hall. The winter wind poured in, cold enough to jolt a man. He looked beyond the palace wall for a long time, and said: ”Steward, tell me — when all four of these laws have stood, what will this country become?”

”This servant will not presume to judge.” the Steward said. ”This servant knows only this: grain in the granary, no rain through the roof, sickness with a place to be seen, and no men pressed in the busy season — days like these, the people have been hoping for for a thousand years.”

”Hoping for for a thousand years.” the pharaoh repeated. ”Then let them not hope any longer.” He turned. ”Send the word down. The last law — tomorrow, it goes before the court.”

”Yes.” the Steward bowed. ”The last one.”

The four words ”the last one” echoed lightly through the winter-night hall, like a door hinge, turning, slowly, to its heaviest position.

Imset walked through the last medical point, stood at the village mouth, and looked back. The winter sunset laid the low mud-brick houses in a warm yellow light. An old woman chased out after them and pressed a bag of dried dates into Shafi’s arms: ”Girl, take them. And come back often.”

”We will come often.” Shafi said.

”I am not even sick.” the old woman laughed. ”I just want to see more of you. With you here, my heart is settled.”

On the road back, Imset suddenly said: ”Shafi, do you remember? That year in the abandoned shrine, the first time you knocked over the basket of dried mint.”

”I remember.” Shafi said. ”I sneezed a few times, and cleaned it up with a red face for a long while.”

”In those days,” Imset said, ”my heart was full of revenge. Now . . .” He paused, looking at the lamps before the doors of the far medical points, lighting up one by one. ”Now what I think of is how these lamps can be lit across all Egypt.”

”They will be lit across it.” Shafi said. ”Lamp by lamp.”

On the winter-night post road, the shadows of teacher and student were drawn long by the moonlight. Behind them, the village slept sound.

Back at the Bureau, Lu Zhu was crouching in the courtyard, looking at a map.

On the map were the villages around the new capital. With the charcoal pencil, he circled the villages where medical points stood, one by one. When the circling was done, he looked up and said: ”Ten circles. Set them against the granary circles.”

Imset leaned over to look. After a while, he said: ”They do not match.”

”They do not match.” Lu Zhu said. ”The granaries circle thirty-seven villages; the medical points circle ten.” He paused. ”And so, the medical points must move closer to the granary circles. Where the granary is, people gather. Where people gather, the medical point should follow.”

”Your meaning,” Imset said, ”is that the next batch of medical points stands first beside the Ever-Normal Granaries?”

”It is.” Lu Zhu said. ”The granary is the backing of the grain; the medical point is the backing of the lives. The nearer the two backings stand to each other, the steadier the people’s days.” With the charcoal, he drew a few lines on the map joining the granary circles and the medical circles. ”Look — this line is grain; this line is medicine. The two lines woven make a net, and the villages inside the net are all covered.”

”Covered.” Imset said. ”This net — its name is ’the road of the living.’”

”Right.” Lu Zhu said. ”What we men weave is this net.”

That night, in the deep mansion of the new capital, on the old noble’s table lay the clean register of the ten medical points.

”Ten.” he said. ”Only ten.”

”Ten is not many.” the tall thin man said. ”But at this pace, next year it is a hundred. The year after, the whole land.”

”And so,” the old noble said, ”before they cover the whole land, the last one must be blocked dead.” He set down the register. ”The corvée. No levies in the busy season. That is the root. The three before it all touched small money. This one touches the life.” He paused. ”And a life is not something to be yielded.”

”Then . . . how is it to be blocked?”

”The ancient way.” the old noble said. ”The same two words. This time, stake all our mouths on it — and the ears of the palace too.” He blew out the lamp. ”At first light, we go up to the hall.”

The lamp was out, but no one in the room slept. In the dark, someone’s knuckles tapped the table, tap by tap; someone lifted his tea bowl and set it down again; someone let out a long breath.

”Remember, all of you,” the old noble’s voice came out of the dark, ”this battle — we cannot afford to lose.”

”Cannot afford to lose.” the whole room answered, low.

The winter night: the lamps before the ten medical points are lighting up, one by one. Under the lamps, there are villagers queuing to be seen, medicine boys keeping the accounts by the light, and sick porridge steaming on the stoves. The medical house law has stood. But in the court, the last door is heavier than the three before it — behind that door is the thousand-year corvée, the life-root of half the city’s nobles. The men who have been grinding their teeth for half a year will go up to the hall at first light.

(End of Chapter 7)