Imhotep (22 page)

“Hetephernebti
said Djefi was going to Khmunu and then on to Kom Ombo,” Meryt continued. 
“She said he was taking several boats.  He usually takes only one.  I
think he is planning to take Diane and Brian.”

“Did
anyone say anything about you going someplace with Djefi?” Tim asked Brian.

Brian
shook his head. 

“You
understand her,” he said, nodding at Meryt.

“It’s
been a few weeks, so, yeah, I’m understanding more and more.  But it’s
hard.”

Brian
shook his head.

“That
old man, I carried him on my back for three days and he talked the whole time,
well, except for when he passed out or fell asleep.  I have no idea what
he was talking about.  Pahket taught me some, but she talks real slow for
me.”

“You
know, Brian, people think you’re a god or something.  First you saved Neswy
and then that little girl from the crocodile.”

Brian
shrugged.  “I was lucky.  I mean, it wasn’t a real long throw and the
thing wasn’t moving that fast.  I just had this rock in my hand, and,
well  . . . ” He looked away.  “Nolan Ryan would have killed it.  I
just stunned it.”

Tim
reached out and patted Brian’s shoulder.  “You’re a hero to these
people.  Really.  Look, I don’t know what to do about Diane.  Do
you think she really wants to stay here?  I mean, you and I could head
back to that tomb ourselves, if you think that’s what she wants.”

Brian
shook his head.  “No.  She’s pissed off at me, but she can’t want to
stay here.  She’d miss her friends, her credit cards, her family.  I
don’t think she realizes what’s going on, or else she’s given up hope because
she doesn’t think I can help her.  I don’t know.”

“We’re
planning to leave here tomorrow.  Meryt said Hetephernebti is going to a
town called Waset, where King Djoser is now.  Then everyone is going to
Kom Ombo.  Djefi is building a temple there.  So he’ll be there for
sure.  He’s been taking Yunet and Diane with him everywhere he goes, so
they’ll be there.  Meryt said that he’s taking several boats, so you’ll
probably be going too.”

They
were both quiet again, thinking of what it meant.

“Either
you and I leave now, without Diane,” Tim said, “and you don’t want to do that,
and neither do I, or else we follow Diane and try to persuade her to come with
us.  She’s bound to come to her senses soon.”

Brian
rolled his neck, cracking the vertebrae.  He hunched his shoulders,
stretching and twisting.

“You
OK?”

“Yeah,”
Brian sighed.  “I just hate this.  I got us into this, all of us
because you followed me and Diane.  Now I can’t get us out.  I can’t
kidnap Diane and carry her off.  So, yeah, I’ll stay close to her. 
Maybe Pahket can teach me more of their language so I can talk to Yunet or
something.  But I’ll stay close to Diane.”

“And
keep an eye out for us,” Tim said.  “We’ll be leaving before you, so when
I get to these towns I’ll find a place where we can get together.  If
worse comes to worse, Brian, I’ll meet King Djoser.  Meryt thinks he’ll
help us, then it won’t matter what Djefi or Yunet want.  So, a couple
weeks, everything will be worked out.”

P
ahket was proud of Brian.

Wherever
they walked in To-She, people stopped and stared at them.  Many of the
women in the village would stop what they were doing to approach Brian to thank
him for saving little Kiya.  They knew the price of bringing an infant
into the world and how hard it was to see a child through its early years.

Two
days after Brian had saved the little girl, her father had brought Brian a
kilt, its hem decorated with small green crocodiles.

“For
you, Netjer Brian,” he said, offering the neatly folded kilt with both
hands.  His wife stood quietly behind him, holding Kiya’s hand.

Brian
took the kilt and, unfolding it, held it to his waist.

The
family stood nervously, waiting for his reaction.

“It’s
perfect,” he said, in English.  They recognized his tone, but not the
words.  Without thinking, Brian loosened the strip that held the plain
kilt he was wearing, and let it fall to the ground.  Then he wrapped the
new kilt around his waist.

“Good,”
he said in Egyptian, looking down at the kilt as he tied its strap around his
waist. “Very good.  Thank you.”

He
reached out a hand to the father.  The man looked at him as Bakr had weeks
ago at Saqqara.  Brian took the man’s hand and taught him how to shake
hands.  “What’s your name?” he asked in Egyptian.

“Karem,”
the man answered.

Brian
smiled widely.  “Finally, a name I can recognize. KA-REEM,” he said in
English, pronouncing the name loudly and distinctly as if he were a radio
announcer at a basketball game.  He laughed and said the name again.

The
family laughed hesitantly, unsure why this god was laughing.

Brian
clapped the father gently on the back and thanked him again.  Then he
knelt by Kiya.

“You’re
a pretty little thing,” he said in English.  “But you got to learn to
watch out for stuff.  Here’s what I do.  You have to pay attention to
things, right?  But you can’t focus on one thing too much.  It’s like
this.” 

He
brought his hands up to the side of his face and curled the fingers to form a
tunnel to look through.  Kiya copied his motion.  He nodded his head
to show she was doing the right thing.  While she looked through the small
window of her hands, Brian slowly reached around out of her field of
vision.  Clapping his outstretched fingers against his thumb to imitate a
crocodile’s mouth, he tickled her side.

She
dropped her hands and laughed.

“See,
you can’t get tunnel vision.”

He put
his hands up and stared at her, nodding permission.  She reached over and
he pretended to be surprised.

When
she put her hands up to take her turn he shook his head and gently pushed her
hands down.  “No, don’t limit your view.  You got to see everything.”

Then
in Egyptian he said, “Be watchful.” He looked over his shoulder at Pahket, to
check if he had said the words correctly.

She
nodded her approval, her eyes brimming with happy tears.

Later
that day, as they walked alone in the green fields beyond the orchard, Pahket
told him that they would be going with Djefi to visit a priest at a town called
Khmunu.

“Diane
is going?” he asked.

Pahket
nodded.

“Same
boat?” he asked.

“I
don’t know Netjer Brian, but at night we will leave the boat, so you can be
with her then.”

There
was something in her voice that caught his attention.  He knew that even
when he understood the individual words she said that he sometimes missed all
of her meaning.  He looked at her now and thought he caught a hint of
sadness or resignation in her eyes.

M
eryt lay curled on the deck of
Hetephernebti’s boat, gripping her stomach, her face tight with pain.

She
had stayed away from Tim the previous day, telling him that she did not feel
well.  She hadn’t seemed concerned and when he saw her wearing a kilt he
had assumed that she was menstruating.

He
knew that the way women were treated during their monthly cycle varied among
ancient societies.  He had no idea how the ancient Egyptians dealt with
it.  So he spent the day with his note pad, sketching the river scenery
and constructing future conversations with Diane, trying to find the right tone
of persuasion or sternness.  He realized that he didn’t know her well
enough to guess at her responses, but he wanted to be prepared.

Now
when he saw Meryt in pain, he ran to her and knelt by her side.

With
her eyes shut tight she didn’t realize that he was there.

He
laid his hand against her forehead.  It was burning hot.

She
opened her eyes at his touch.

“Netjer
Tim, you must stay away.”

He
smiled at her.  “Do you think I will get what you have?” he asked gently,
brushing her forehead softly.

She
nodded.

A
shadow appeared over them.

“She
has the wasting disease,” Hetephernebti said.  “And yes, Netjer Tim, you
will catch it.  Come with me.” She turned and walked toward the canopy
that covered the deck at the stern of the boat.

“I’ll
be right back, Meryt,” Tim said, touching her frail arm.

“We
will arrive at Khmunu tonight.  We will put her ashore there. 
Waja-Hur will watch over her ending days.”

Tim
was stunned, hoping that he misunderstood her.

“I am
very sorry, Netjer Tim.  Meryt is so young and it seems so unfair. 
You have grown close, haven’t you?”

“No,
wait,” he said.  “What do you mean, her ending days?”

“She
has the wasting illness,” she said, her voice resigned and sad.

“I
don’t understand.”

“She
cannot eat or drink, it gives her pain,” Hetephernebti said with a sigh. 
“When she empties herself there is blood.  We cannot help her.  The
disease passes quickly from one person to another.  I have seen entire
families brought down with it.  It is so very sad.  The children and
the elderly always die.  Meryt is not a child anymore, but she has little
strength.”

“We
can’t just let her die.”

Hetephernebti
smiled sadly.  “We cannot help her, Netjer Tim.  There is nothing to
do.  At Khmunu I will put her in Waja-Hur’s care.  She will be made
comfortable and when her ka passes to Khert-Neter, he will prepare her body for
the journey also.”

Tim
heard her, but his mind was elsewhere.  He imagined Addy dying alone in
her car while strangers stood by watching.  If he turned his head just a
few degrees he would see Meryt lying alone in her pain, drifting toward death,
but alive, still alive and in need.

Even
if he couldn’t save her, he could stay with her, hold her and comfort
her.  He realized with a hot rush that his feelings for her had grown much
stronger than he had admitted to himself.

He
looked up and saw that Hetephernebti was watching him, her eyes searching his
face, trying to look into what he was thinking and feeling.  Somehow he
didn’t feel it was an intrusion, but rather that she was trying to find out
what he really wanted and how she could help him.

“I
cannot leave her, Hetephernebti.”

“You
will catch the illness.  You are strong. It is possible you will
recover.  And it is possible that you will not.”

He
nodded slowly, his thoughts within.  He didn’t believe in fate.  He
didn’t believe that the tractor-trailer had overturned so that Addy would take
a different exit and find herself in a dangerous neighborhood.  He didn’t
believe that she had died so he would find himself here alone and he didn’t
believe that the one person he had grown to care about had become deathly ill
so that he would die here, five thousand years before his time.

He
believed that the chaotic path he had followed had led to this situation and he
would deal with it, and then continue to follow that path wherever in the
unknown future it would lead.  He believed in himself and that he would
never leave someone in need. 

He
looked at Hetephernebti’s kind face, saw the warmth and concern there, but
shook his head slightly.  “I cannot leave her.”

“S
o, dear sister, I have heard exciting news
from your distant province.  I hear that gods are walking the Two Lands in
Men-Nefer.”

King
Djoser and Hetephernebti were walking hand in hand through a small garden near
the Temple of Ma’at in Khmunu.  Although they were alone, his personal
guards patrolled the perimeter of the grounds.

“Yes,
brother.  It seems living gods are walking all throughout Kemet.”

Although
Djoser’s face showed no anger, Hetephernebti felt his grip tighten on her
hand.  She knew the royal blood they shared did not protect her from her
brother.  His power over the people of Kemet was absolute; they lived,
married and died by his leave.  If she had ever shown the slightest desire
for the throne, he would kill her without a glimmer of remorse.

But
she had never married, so there was no ambitious spouse to look upon Djoser as
an obstacle to power.  Her religious devotion to Re was known throughout
the Two Lands.  She suspected that she was the one person in Kemet who
would speak honestly to her brother.  She knew he valued that
truthfulness, even if it meant that she sometimes reminded him of her
disapproval of his self-proclaimed divine status.

“Tell
me about them.”

“Well,
first of all, I’m not sure that they,” she emphasized the word, a small
atonement to her brother, “are gods.  Djefi has been hiding two of them,
or trying to.  But Djefi is so inept  . . . ”

“But
dangerous,” Djoser interrupted.  “There are stories.  Djefi’s tiny
voice and unbecoming size make him seem a fool.  I fear that beneath all
that hulk and pomposity there is very little.  He is just an empty shell,
but all the more dangerous because he is constantly striving to prove that he
is more than he knows he is.”

Hetephernebti
nodded in agreement.  Her brother had an uncanny ability to see into a
person’s very ka and to understand what they would do before they did. 
She wondered what he saw in her and realized that whatever it was, it allowed
her to stay alive and to be his confidant.

“He
sent the one called Brian into the desert with that soulless animal
Siamun.  Something happened out there and one of the hunters was
injured.  Siamun left the crippled hunter and Brian without food or water
to die in the desert, three days out of To-She.  Brian staggered into
To-She just before the start of the festival, carrying the crippled man, alive,
on his back.  Then the next day he saved a child from a crocodile. 
The people at To-She are ready to worship him instead of Sobek.”

“Then
Brian had better watch his back,” Djoser said.

“There
is a woman.  Her name is Diane.  Djefi actually brought her to Iunu,
but he kept her secluded.  I don’t know anymore about her except that she
is constantly watched over by a woman Djefi trusts.”

“And
your personal god?”

Hetephernebti
stopped walking and turned to face her brother-king.  “My personal god is Re,
dear brother.  I love and respect all the gods.  All of them,” she
said, looking into his eyes.  “But I am, first, last and always, a servant
of Re.”

Djoser
leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

“Re is
fortunate to have such a servant.  Tell me about Tim.”

She
was not surprised that he knew Tim’s name.

“He
says he is not a god.”

“Do
you believe him?”

Hetephernebti
considered this longer than he expected.  It was a question she had been
unable to answer for herself.  His unexpected devotion to Meryt, he was
secluded with her even now, exposing himself to the wasting disease without any
sign of fear or regret, made her think it was possible he was divine.  He
was rumored to have saved Paneb’s daughter from a scorpion sting and Meryt had
reported how he had disappeared from Djefi’s camp in Iunu, knifing without
sound into the canal’s water and swimming underwater like Sobek.

“He
has powers that are unusual.  Sometimes when I watch him, I think he is
looking at things beyond what I can see.  Yet he seems to be flesh and
blood.  I think he would shed his body as any of us would.  I have
seen pain in his eyes and I have seen love, the kind of love I see in the face
of Re when I chant his thousand names.”

As
ever, Djoser cut to the heart of the matter.  “Should I fear these ‘gods,’
dear sister?”

It was
another question she had considered during the trip upriver.  It certainly
was strange that the three had appeared now, just before the flooding of the
Iteru, and just as hints of a plot against Djoser were appearing.  Gods or
not, were these three strangers a threat to Djoser and to the Two Lands?

“I
believe Tim comes in peace.  I think Brian is a force that Djefi should
fear.  I do not understand Diane.  Not yet.  I think, dear
brother, that there are others, closer at hand, that deserve your attention
more.”

Now he
stopped. 

He was
aware of the travels of everyone up and down the great river.  His spies
had already reported much of what Hetephernebti told him about Brian and Tim
and Diane.  He knew what Hetephernebti was about to tell him, but he
wanted confirmation of his suspicions.  The discontent in the Two Lands
was something he allowed to ferment, watching to see who would be drawn to it
and who would defend him.  It was easier to deal with one’s enemies when
one knew who they were.

He was
relieved that Hetephernebti wanted to talk about it.  Her willingness was
proof again that his trust in her was justified, that she was not part of the
plot.

“Ah,
you speak of Kanakht,” he said.

She
nodded, relieved that he had raised the vizier’s name first.  “Yes, and
others.  He spent time alone with Djefi at To-She and he plans to meet
with Waja-Hur in a few days.”

“Tell
me more, dear sister.”

T
here will be a time,
Kanakht thought, not too long from now,
when
I won’t have to make excuses to do whatever I want.

He was
waiting for Makare in the small room that served as headquarters for the
garrison at Khmunu.  As was his custom, Kanakht had arrived early for his
meeting.  He never allowed a meeting to start without him or, more
importantly, give the people at a meeting the opportunity to talk about him
before he arrived.

He had
told Djoser that he needed to meet privately with Makare to probe the depth of
the guards’ loyalty here in Khmunu.  He had explained to Djoser that he
needed to meet the young guard without Sekhmire, commander of the royal guard,
so that Makare would speak more freely.

Kanakht
frowned to himself.  He planned to use Makare as the human knife who would
cut down the upstart Djoser.  Sekhmire would execute Makare if he ever
suspected the young soldier was thinking about harming the king. 

Yes,
we need to meet privately,
Kanakht thought grimly.

It was
the famine that had led Kanakht to question Djoser’s fitness to rule the Two
Lands.  The River Iteru had always flooded.  Every year. 
Without fail.  But after Djoser declared himself the living incarnation of
Horus, the river receded, withdrawing its blessing.

Priests
throughout Kemet looked at each other knowingly, but no one spoke the
words.  Still they formed in Kanakht’s mind.

Djoser
has angered the gods.  He has led the country away from ma’at.

Kanakht
knew that Djoser would not, could not retract his claim to divinity. 
Faced with a choice between his personal loyalty to the royal house and his love
of the Two Lands, Kanakht made an uneasy decision: Djoser had to die.

However,
open rebellion was impossible.  And so Kanakht had recruited quietly,
forming alliances in the dark, away from Waset, hidden from Djoser’s watchful
spies.

He
told Djoser that he was investigating the rumors of unrest, gauging the
allegiance of the guards, sounding out the trustworthiness of the priesthood
beyond the immediate area of Waset, where Djoser had taken up residence. 

The
investigation gave Kanakht excuse to travel as he did, to meet with those he
needed to see.  Those meetings would be seen as his devoted attempt to
thwart an uprising, not to lead it.  At least he hoped so.  There
were times when he talked with Djoser that he thought he saw a glint of
suspicion in the king’s eyes.  But then what king was ever not so?

I’ll
certainly be suspicious,
he
thought. 

He
wondered if the effort to gain the throne and the energy it would take to keep
the double crown on his head would be worth it.  At times the eternal rest
and comfort of Khert-Neter seemed more and more attractive.

There
were so many threads to hold in his hand. 

As he
waited on Makare, he wondered if the soldier’s older brother, Nesi, was having
any success upriver at the first cataract.  King Djoser’s son, Teti, was
there trying to find a practical way to ensure a good flood: clearing boulders
or digging canals.  Nesi was part of Teti’s bodyguard, but his allegiance
was to Kanakht.  It was bought with gold and maintained by the beautiful
young servant girl whom Kanakht had given him.  Nesi was supposed to help
Teti have a fatal accident, ending the line of succession so that there would
be no blood relative to contest Kanakht’s claim.

Prince
Teti, still in his teens, was given to the bold games of the young.  The
river at the cataract was treacherous.  It had been Kanakht’s idea,
carefully planted so that Nesi thought it was his, to help Teti meet his death
in the river.  With the churning water, the boulders and Teti’s reputation
for carelessness, there was a reasonable chance that Teti’s death would be
accepted as an accident.

Now he
needed to bring Makare more fully into the plot to assassinate the king.

W
hile Kanakht was meeting with Makare, word
of Prince Teti’s accident reached King Djoser.

He and
Hetephernebti were still walking in the Garden of Ma’at, the conversation
moving from matters of state to family news.  A shout from his guard
alerted him.  He turned and saw a messenger running toward him, one of the
royal guards at his side.

Djoser
accepted the news of Teti’s accident calmly, until the messenger had left.

Hetephernebti
placed a hand on his arm.  “I will go with you, brother.”

His
face was composed, but she saw a hard glint in his eyes.  “Kanakht is
behind this.  At night sometimes I wonder if my father’s death was as
benign as it seemed.  I wonder if Kanakht meant to take the throne then,
but somehow failed to dispatch me first.  I kept him close so that I could
better keep watch on him.

“Now I
wonder if I have been too kind.  If Teti … ” he let the thought hang
unfinished.

“The
messenger said he was injured, not dead,” she said.

Djoser
turned to her, his voice icy.  “He is injured now.  But if this was
not an accident, then whoever had their hand in it has a weakened target.”

They
had reached the edge of the garden where they were joined by his guards. 
He motioned one to him.

“Send
this message to Abu, to Waset, to wherever Teti is in his travels.  Tell
his guards that if any more harm comes to him, they will all die, their
families will die, their homes will be burned, their bodies will be fed to
jackals.”

The
guard turned to run off to send the message.

“Wait,”
Djoser said.  “Send the message yourself, do not trust it with
anyone.  And then follow the birds by boat as quickly as you can.” He gave
a curt nod and the guard turned and ran toward the docks.

When
Djoser traveled, he took with him pens of homing pigeons trained to return to
Waset, carrying messages to officials there.  The birds were not used
often; the pace of life in Kemet seldom required urgent communication, unless
there was a war or a threat of invasion.  The country’s desert border and
powerful reputation made invasion unlikely.

Now
his guard would release several birds to Waset, sending only one was unreliable
because hawks often took the pigeons.  From Waset, more birds would be
released, carrying Djoser’s message south to Abu where Teti had been hurt and
also to Kom Ombo and Edfu, cities that lay along the river between Abu and
Waset.

“Yes,
come with me, Nebti,” Djoser said using his sister’s childhood nickname. 
“We have more to talk about.  I need your eyes and ears, and honest heart
to watch over Kemet.”

She
nodded.  “I will be what you need, brother,” she said.  “I must see
to Tim and then I will meet you at your barge.”

He had
already turned to walk away, his guards closing in around him.

“Hurry,
Nebti.  We leave for Waset immediately.”

T
im held Meryt’s head in his lap.  A
half-empty bowl of barley broth was on the floor beside him.  His right
hand held a damp cloth he had used to wash her face, trying to comfort her and
lower her temperature.