Imhotep (26 page)

The
hallway was empty.

During
their meeting a few days ago, she and Hetephernebti had agreed that she would
journey across land to Waset, traveling not as Tama, high priestess of the
goddess Ma’at, but as Tama, a widowed woman traveling to visit her family. 
She would listen to the workers she met, to the other travelers in the Two
Lands, to the talk in the rest houses and markets along the road.

Hetephernebti
had told Tama that she suspected Djefi, Kanakht and Waja-Hur were plotting to
overthrow King Djoser.  Hetephernebti would protect her brother, helping
him in any way she could.  Tama knew this.  And so the priestess of
Re was traveling with her brother-king telling him what she knew, advising him
and helping him to understand and anticipate whatever attack Kanakht was
plotting.

Tama
would travel alongside the river, listening to the murmurs and rumors,
evaluating the mood of the people, taking the pulse of the Two Lands, searching
for the truth.

Hetephernebti
asked Tama to meet her in Waset.  Hetephernebti hoped to hear that Djoser
still had the love and support of the people.

Tama
wasn’t as optimistic as Hetephernebti.  Even in Khmunu she had heard
whispers that Djoser had offended the gods by declaring himself one of
them.  She realized that Waja-Hur was mumbling those very thoughts to
anyone who would listen, which was why she needed to travel outside Khmunu and
listen to people not poisoned by the thoughts of the bitter priest.

“T
here was another,” Nimaasted said to
Djefi.

Djefi
sat beneath the canopy on his boat.  He had sent all of the crew onshore
to gather provisions for the long trip upriver to Kom Ombo.  He wanted to
rise from his chair and strangle the unapologetic priest.  If Siamun were
here … he left the thought unfinished. 

“You
had three embalmers.  How could they not take this one man?” Djefi asked,
trying to keep his voice calm.  “Did you not understand Kanakht’s orders?”

Nimaasted
paced in front of Djefi.  Kanakht had promised Nimaasted that he would be
the one selected to take Waja-Hur’s place when the aged priest journeyed on to
Khert-Neter, a trip that looked more and more imminent every day.  Old
Waja-Hur frequently failed to recognize anyone, even Nimaasted, who had served
him for ten years.  The old man even forgot to eat sometimes; soon he
would have to be hand fed, or else allowed to die, Nimaasted thought.

Kanakht
had told Nimaasted that an evil man was traveling with Djefi, a man whose very
existence was an affront to the gods, a man who was a threat to the balance of
the Two Lands that Waja-Hur held so dear. 

The
vizier’s speech, and there had been much, much more to it, had no more
substance than the hot winds that blew in from the desert; Nimaasted recognized
lies and misdirection.  But he also understood the unspoken promise in
Kanakht’s words, a promise of power in return for this killing.

But
Kanakht had not explained how huge the man would be, or that another god would
come to his rescue.  Once Nimaasted had seen Brian’s size, he had
recruited three embalmers, men who were comfortable with death, men who would
not be afraid to kill another.

The
embalmers were to come upon Nimaasted and Brian suddenly in the night, to
surround them and show that resistance was useless.  Then they would take
Brian across the river, bound and helpless.  Once on the west bank, they
would kill him, in whatever fashion they chose.

But
someone had materialized in the night and shouted an alarm.  Brian had
reacted more quickly than Nimaasted thought possible for a human, first shoving
him effortlessly to the ground, then running as fast as Horus flies to strike
one embalmer, using his shoulder, like the god Apis, the bull, crushing the man
to the ground.  Then down the dark street to kill the third embalmer and
off into the night, vanishing like a spirit.

After
Hetephernebti’s visit last week, Nimaasted had heard rumors that strange gods
were walking the Two Lands.  Was Brian one of them?  Was the strange
shadow who appeared to help him another?  Was the stranger the one who had
stayed with Hetephernebti’s ill wbt-priestess?  Had he somehow returned to
help his fellow god?  How else could one explain Brian’s escape and his
disappearance?

“Usually
when I ask a question, Nimaasted, I get an answer.  Did you not understand
Kanakht’s orders?”

Waja-Hur
was old and growing senile, Nimaasted thought, but he was still a hundred times
more priestly than this fat, sweating pig who sat in front of him, demanding
answers.

“First
Prophet Djefi,” Nimaasted said, controlling his anger, “Kanakht neglected to
mention that this man was a god or that another god would come to help
him.  I cannot battle gods.”

“What
gods?”

“I
have heard the rumors, First Prophet.  Strange gods are in Kemet.  If
you had seen this Brian last night … No one but a god could move as he did,
could have the power he has.  No one but a god could know our plan when no
one knew it but you, Kanakht and myself.  No one but a god could
materialize in the street in the middle of the night and shout a warning to
this Brian.”

Djefi’s
voice rose to an hysterical squeak. ”No, Nimaasted, no.  You are making
things up to explain your failure!  We ask you to do something and you
failed.  There is no more to it than that.”

Nimaasted
was seized with a nearly overwhelming desire to rush at the fat priest and push
him off his chair and into the river.  Instead, he clenched his fists and
breathed deeply.  He had risen to his position by solving problems, not
creating new ones.

“As
you say, First Prophet.  Yet we have searched all of Khmunu and Brian is
not in the town.  We have searched every home, every hut, even the
temples, yes, even the Temple of Ma’at.  Brian is not to be found, neither
is his accomplice.”

“He
must be here.  You must search again.”

As
Djefi spoke, a boatman appeared at the edge of the bank carrying a sack. 
Behind him more of the boatmen appeared, returning from the markets of Khmunu.

“I
leave shortly,” Djefi said.  “Send word to Kanakht when you’ve found and
disposed of this Brian.”

Nimaasted
bowed his head and withdrew.  His appearance was one of acceptance and
humility, but in his mind he wondered: If he found this Brian, should he
apologize and seek to align himself with the powerful god instead of this fat,
quivering priest?

“W
hat do you call your language?” Tama asked
Brian.

“English.”

“Teach
me,” she said.  “You may be a god, you may not.  But I cannot know
your thoughts if you must talk in my language.  So, if I am to know the
truth, I must learn your language.”

Brian
wondered what she saw in his eyes as he stared at her, unable to look at
anything else, wishing he could spend days simply admiring her.

She
was so beautiful and graceful, so alive and honest in her movements. 
Everything she did, walking, sitting, speaking, it all had an economy and a
purity that reminded him of what he loved about sports.  He thought of
video clips of Joe DiMaggio playing the outfield, so graceful and effortless.

It was
late afternoon and they were in her chambers.  He had been taken to a
secluded part of the pond and allowed to bathe.  His kilt had been washed
and returned to him.  As each hour passed, he grew more optimistic that
she would help him, that she believed he was innocent.

Tama
walked to a window and beckoned Brian to her.  She pointed to the sun as
it floated just above the western horizon.  She turned to him.

He
could smell the perfumes and oils she had used.  He fought to keep his
eyes from drifting from her face, so perfect in its proportions, so open and
honest, to her bare shoulders.

She
saw his struggle.  Raising her hand, she turned his head firmly toward the
window and pointed to the setting sun again.

“Sun,”
he said in English.

“Sun,”
she repeated.

Then
she waved to the sky, pale blue and empty.

“Sky,”
he said.

“Sky,”
she repeated.  “Sun, sky.”

She
turned to him and studied him.  “Netjer?” she asked.

It was
a word he had heard often from Pahket. “God?” he repeated in English.  He
shook his head.  “No, not god.”

It was
the answer she hoped for.  Turning away from him she walked to the doorway
where an attendant waited.

“We
will be leaving at sunset.  Please have the donkeys ready by the south
gate.  And spread the word that I will be in seclusion with Ma’at. 
My trip is to be a secret.”

The
attendant nodded and left quietly.

“So,
Brian,” she said, approaching him, “we will take a trip together. 
Hopefully we will discover the truth about Kemet. And the truth about you.”

H
esire was an old man who hoped to grow
older. 

But as
the doctor looked at Prince Teti’s blackening fingers and thought of the news
he would have to give King Djoser, he wondered if he would live to see
tomorrow.

Prince
Teti’s left forearm had been badly broken, the jagged end of the bone ripping
through the flesh and skin when the prince had fallen from a boulder in the
river near Abu.  The doctor at Abu, a man named Rudamon, whom Hesire had
trained himself, had set the arm and encased it in a cast made of palm leaf
fiber lint and tree bark.  Rudamon had used mud from the River Iteru to
pack the ragged gash where the bone had protruded through Prince Teti’s arm.

Hesire
had not removed the cast when Prince Teti had arrived in Waset; he wanted to
allow the river’s mud to do its work healing the wound.  Besides, the only
true way to know if the bone had been set properly was to do it yourself, to
feel the bones fall snugly together.  Hesire trusted that Rudamon had done
that.  Unwrapping the cast now would serve no purpose, except to cause the
prince pain.

But
Prince Teti’s fingers had started to turn black, not the dark red and purple
from a fall, but something more sinister.

Hesire
would watch for red streaks to appear above the cast on Prince Teti’s
forearm.  If the streaks appeared and grew, then the arm would have to be
removed. 

Hesire
was not optimistic. The darkening fingers were a bad sign.

It was
this news that Hesire feared to bring to King Djoser.

A
prince with one arm was not a prince, he was a cripple.  A king needed
strength, but even more so, he needed to project strength.

I
n a letter Rudamon sent to Hesire, he had
described the injury and his treatment.

Unsure
who would read the letter before it reached the hands of the royal physician,
Rudamon had been careful in his description of the injury and its cause. 
He had been told that Prince Teti had fallen from a boulder in a rocky stretch
of the river near Abu.  The prince’s guards had been with him.  He
had lost consciousness.  One guard said his head had been underwater,
another said it wasn’t. 

The
rumor that had reached Hesire’s ears was that a guard named Bata had been found
holding Prince Teti’s head under the water at the base of the rock.  At
least that was what Rensi, the guard who found them claimed.  Bata denied
it, saying that he was supporting the unconscious prince, waiting for help.

The
lack of detail in Rudamon’s terse description made Hesire wonder if there was
something more to the accident.  Rudamon’s caution itself was a clue that
he suspected the injuries had not been accidental and that he didn’t fully
believe the allegations made by the guard Rensi.

Hesire
decided to keep his comments to King Djoser focused on Prince Teti’s injury and
treatment.  There were others, Sekhmire for example, whose duty it was to
protect the king and his family.

As far
as healing the prince, there was little more Hesire could do, except wait. 
He could offer King Djoser no assurance that the bone would knit back together,
or that it would heal straight if it did.

P
rince Teti was fifteen years old, strong
and sturdy like his father, who had great strength in his hands and powerful
legs.  King Djoser could lead a march from sunrise to sunset as he had
many times under his father’s militant rule.  True, the king was shorter
than some men and not as fleet as others.  But his stamina, Hesire shook
his head, his stamina and strength of will were amazing.

Apparently
Prince Teti had inherited his father’s iron will.

According
to the letter from Rudamon, Prince Teti had bitten completely through a leather
strap while Rudamon had pushed the bone back into place, but he had not uttered
a single cry.

“Aside
from the arm, are there other injuries?” Hesire asked, standing before the
seated prince, his brief examination of the arm complete.

Prince
Teti took his time responding.  He had the same unhurried response of his
father, thinking carefully before speaking.  Hesire wondered idly if it
was a trait that was carried in the royal blood or if the prince was
unconsciously emulating his father.

“There
was a bump at the base of my head, in the back near my neck.  But it has
disappeared.  And there is a cut on my back.”

The
physician looked at the prince’s back.  The cut started below the shoulder
blade, a dark, scabbed gash with a wide bruise at the bottom.  The gash
narrowed as it climbed up his back.

“Where
was the bump, Prince Teti?”

He
reached behind his head and pointed to a spot at the base of his skull. 
Hesire saw that the line of the cut pointed directly to the spot Prince Teti
was touching.

“C
ome, sister, walk with me,” King Djoser
said to Hetephernebti, repeating the words he always used when he needed to
confer privately with the only remaining family member from his childhood.

Kanakht
rose to accompany them.

“Kanakht,”
Djoser said, “Please send a message to Abu.  I want the guard Bata held
until I have a chance to talk with him myself.  No one is to help him or
harm him.  I want him unharmed, worried, as he should be, but unharmed.”

Kanakht
looked from Djoser to Hetephernebti, but their faces betrayed nothing.  He
bowed his head and withdrew.

Djoser
took his sister’s hand and led her to the doorway that opened to his personal
garden behind his palace at Waset.

They
walked to a stone bench in the center of the garden by a small pool.  The
shrubbery around the water was cut low, giving Djoser a place to talk, free of
fear that anyone was lurking nearby spying on him.  Sekhmire, commander of
his personal guard, stood by the doorway, his back discreetly turned to the
garden. 

Hesire
had left immediately after giving his medical report to the king, obviously
relieved that he had been allowed to leave unharmed after telling the king that
his son could lose an arm.

Hetephernebti
waited in silence as her brother digested the awful news.  She knew he
would speak only when his thoughts were in order.

His
face was calm, his lips set in a gentle smile, but she saw that his eyes were
unfocused.  He was looking within.

Leaning
down, he swept his hand through the water in the pool.  Still turned away
from Hetephernebti he spoke so softly that she wasn’t sure if he was addressing
her or just allowing his thoughts to take form in the shade of the garden.

“Water,
fire, air.  What thought do they give to their actions?”

Djoser
brought his wet hand to his face.  He tasted the water, careful as always
to not disturb the subtle makeup he wore.

“The
river rises, Nebti, or it doesn’t.  It floods, washing away houses, or it
ignores the Two Lands and denies us the rich earth from Kush.  It simply
acts, regardless of the consequences.  The wind carries the scent of the
lotus blossoms to us, or it grabs fistfuls of sand and hurls it in our
eyes.  Thought?  I don’t think so.

“The
fire bakes our bread, roasts our oxen, nourishing us, or it destroys, remember
the fire in Tahta last year?”

She
nodded.

“An
untended cooking fire, its embers not as cold as the owner thought, stirred
back to life at night and spread.  How many homes were lost, how many
families lamented their losses that season?” he said.

“Am I
a god, Nebti, or am I not a god?  Is the river a river only when it brings
us riches?  Is the wind the wind only when it carries a pleasing
fragrance?  Am I a god only when the land and people flourish, only when I
do what others think is right?”

She
saw that although his voice remained calm, his fists were clenched.

“Does
the river consider its actions?  No, Nebti, it acts as a river acts. 
So with the wind, so with fire.  They are and they act.  No more than
that!  If I act as I act, it is all I can do.”

She
laid her hand on his arm, caressing the smooth skin.

“The
gods did not harm Teti because . . . ” she began.

“This
is not about Teti,” he said, cutting her off.  “Kemet deserves a god to
rule it.  The people need more than a man as leader.  Why does a man
follow another man?  Fear, rewards, love?  Can fear not be overcome,
cannot greater rewards be offered, cannot even love change to hate?  Only
to a god are we steadfast.  You to Re, Waja-Hur to Thoth.  Your
devotion does not waver.

“But
can a god permit his son to be attacked?  Yes, Nebti, I know that Teti did
not fall from a rock.  My son would never fall from a rock.  That is
why that guard will be kept alive.  I will find the truth.  But will
the people continue to regard me as a god if I allow my son to suffer? 
Can a god have a crippled son?  No, Nebti, I think not.  I will have
a son who is sound in all respects, or I will have no son.”

Hetephernebti
couldn’t stop a small gasp.  Djoser chose to ignore it.

She
stroked his arm again, absently comforting him as she thought.

“Dear
brother,” she said.  “I have told you about the strangers.”

He
looked at her, his eyes searching hers, an unspoken question there.

“The
one who was with me, he has healing powers, remember?  One of my
attendants had the wasting illness.  He healed her.  He healed a
little girl of a scorpion sting.”

She
felt the muscles of his arm tighten beneath her hand.

“He
will be here tonight.”

T
im was standing by the prow of the boat as
it docked at Waset.  Meryt stood by his side, supported by his arm around
her small waist.  As they walked off the narrow gangplank, he walked ahead
of her, reaching back to hold her hand.  When she entwined her fingers in
his, he responded with a gentle squeeze.

During
the trip upriver from Khmunu, he had continued to boil water before permitting
her to drink it.  He had prepared her meals himself, not trusting the
hygiene of others.  Her sense of humor returned first, followed by her
inquisitiveness and then, at last, her energy. 

As she
stepped on land, she felt as if the journey from Khmunu had taken her not only
from illness to health, but also from childhood to womanhood.  She and Tim
were not lovers, but she knew that they would be, if only he would allow
it. 

The
early days of her illness were lost to her in a hot haze of fever and
pain.  Her first memory of her new life - that was how she viewed
her miraculous recovery - was of Tim.  She had awakened before dawn,
thirsty and free of the stomach pains that had felt as if Sobek was gnawing on
her belly.  Her head was in his lap as he sat, leaning against the mud
brick wall of the small hut they were using.  He was asleep, his face
drawn from worry, but a small smile was on his lips.

She
had reached up a weak hand and traced the curve of his lips, feeling the raspy
scratch of the stubble of his beard that had grown overnight.  As her
fingertip had moved slowly across his lips, he unconsciously had kissed it, so
loving and gentle, even in his sleep.

She
had brought her hand down to her mouth and kissed the same spot on her
fingertip.

A
guard was waiting for them on the
riverbank.

“Come
with me,” he said, turning and leading them along the riverbank to a broad
avenue that led inward to the town.

They
arrived at a wide doorway in a smoothly plastered whitewashed wall. 
Guards stood by twin pillars embedded by the doorway.

“Where
are we?” Tim asked Meryt.

“I’ve
never been to Waset,” she said.

The
guard paused by the doorway.

“High
Priestess Hetephernebti is with King Djoser, they want to see you,” he
said.  He stood aside and motioned for them to enter the building.

Tim’s
mouth went dry and he felt his heart begin to race.  King Djoser!  A
few weeks ago, in the dead of night at Saqqara, he had slowly pushed his hand
through the opening in the wall of the Serdab and traced the contours of the
stone bust of the king’s face, a statue of a man who had been dead five
thousand years.  Now he was about to meet him.

“Say
“Life, prosperity, health,’ when we meet him,” Meryt said.

“Really?”

“Tim,
I have never met the king, but everyone knows how you greet him.  After
that … ” she shrugged her small shoulders.

K
ing Djoser was seated on a golden throne
on a slightly raised dais.  He wore a white linen kilt, and a broad
jeweled pectoral covered most of his chest.  In his right hand he held a
flail, royal symbol of power.