The Buried Pyramid (Imhotep Book 2)

by Jerry Dubs

  Djoser closed his eyes and smiled. He had traveled the length of the Two Lands. He had talked and listened, touched, inhaled and exhaled the very life of the Two Lands.

  Hemon the Dwarf lived a cloistered life at the mouth of the delta. Hemon had never walked into the red desert beyond sight of the trees that lined the great river. Hemon had never climbed across the boulders of the first cataract. Hemon had never seen the Great Green or the Terraces of Turquoise or the great forests beyond Ta-Seti.

  Hemon might be a great spirit and his thoughts might be clear, but his experiences were small, he could not travel beyond himself.

  Djoser had soared with the gods.

  He felt Hemon lean closer. “My militia, the militias from the other nomes. You’re planning to make them into your army, aren’t you?” He settled back to watch Djoser’s reaction. Then leaning forward again he hissed, “I repeat, I don’t know who you are. Are you from General Babaef, testing my loyalty? Are you from some Nubian king I’ve never heard of, or from Kush or Punt? I demand to know, who are you?”

  Languidly, Djoser turned to face Hemon. He had learned to never show his anger or his impatience. He had separated angry, fighting men with calm, direct action, imposing his will on them. He had faced down a snarling leopard, motionless, calm, prepared. He had killed his daughter’s murderer without a weapon.

  Hemon the Dwarf, indignant and full of himself, didn’t perturb Djoser.

  After all, he believed with every beat of his all-knowing heart that Horus was within him.

  When Djoser opened his eyes he saw a frightened man, a governor who wanted to be king but who was afraid his ambition would betray him, an intelligent man whose dry knowledge was bereft of dreams.

  He reached toward Hemon and put his hard hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. He felt the man shiver briefly. Hemon lowered his head and then, with strength flowing from Djoser’s touch, Hemon looked up.

  Djoser’s eyes rested on Hemon’s and he said, “Fifteen years ago I went with my father across the Great Green to the Terraces of Turquoise. After we inspected the mines there, he took me hunting. We killed gazelles and then I left my father to visit the Temple of Hathor. While I was away from our camp assassins sent by General Babaef killed my father. I fled to Ta-Seti. Now the gods have called me back to the Two Lands.”

  He tightened his grip on Hemon who had started to shiver.

  “You want to know who I am, Lord Hemon?

  “I am Djoser, son of King Kha-Sekhemwy, Horus the Powerful One Who Has Risen. I am Horus-Netjerikhet, Divine of Body. I am King of the Two Lands, I am the Great House of Kemet. That is who I am. And you, Lord Hemon, you can be my friend and my ally or you can be dust blown by the wind across the western desert.”

  Hemon, who prided himself on anticipating and being in control of every situation, discovered that his mouth was dry and his stomach felt ready to empty itself. He looked at Djoser’s face, the eyes, animated from within by a great spirit, were clear, unblinking, almost amused. He saw the wide cheekbones and smooth skin, the full lips and strong jaw.

  He was, Hemon realized with an enlightening shiver, a beautiful man, an uncommon man, a man who could be a king, perhaps a god.

  Djoser turned his back to Hemon and said, “Now, let’s finish this breakfast. We have plans to make if you are to accompany me to Khem.”

  Inventories and Visions

  “I estimate that there are at least a hundred men in each militia still here in the Lower House so two thousand men in the combined militias of the Lower House,” Hemon told Djoser the next evening. “How many Nubians do you plan to amass?” When Djoser looked at him without answering, Hemon quickly stuttered, “I don’t need to know.”

  A day’s walk north of Ineb-Hedj, they were headed for Khem, capital of the second nome which was called Cow’s Leg. Hemon, with six attendants, and Djoser, with his band of archer-merchants, were setting up camp away from the river and the mosquitoes and crocodiles and hippos.

  Hemon had decided that Djoser was not only the rightful heir to the throne but also an irresistible force, like the flood Djoser had described. Not one to stand against the flood, especially if he could ride the current and enrich himself, Hemon was certain that the closer he could get to Djoser the more riches there would be.

  “When General Babaef requests men from the nomes he expects ten platoons, each with twenty men. There are another twenty nomes in the Upper House … ”

  “Twenty-two nomes,” Djoser corrected him.

  Hemon squinted up at Djoser as if to question him and decided not to. “So, twenty-two in the Upper House. That would be four thousand four hundred men. Add in the four thousand from the Lower House and General Babaef will have more than eight thousand men in his army.”

  His ever-present bow slung over his shoulder, Sabef approached Djoser and Hemon who were standing at the edge of the encampment. “The men are settled,” he said, interrupting Hemon’s mental inventory.

  Djoser pulled his knife from his loincloth. The knife had a wide stone blade embedded in an ivory handle, the falcon head of Horus carved on one side, the eye of Re on the other. As Hemon watched nervously, Djoser flipped the knife into the air and caught it by its blade. He flipped it again catching the handle and then with a sharp flick of his wrist flipped the knife again, letting it come full circle and catching the handle.

  Djoser nodded to Sabef. “I’m told we have another two days of walking ahead of us.” He continued to flip the knife, his eyes looking from Sabef to the small camp beyond them. “Should we get boats?” he said.

  Sabef shifted his feet, shrugged and said, “We would be moving with the water, but ... ”

  “But you’d rather walk,” Djoser said. Still flipping the knife he turned to Hemon. “Sabef doesn’t like the water. We got caught in a storm on the Great Green years and years ago.”

  “That is ancient history,” Sabef said.

  “I learned the names of all the gods of Ta-Seti that night,” Djoser said, a grin on his face. He looked fondly at his old friend. Still smiling at Sabef, Djoser said, “I trust Sabef more than all those southern gods, Hemon. I trust his eyes and his ears and his heart.”

  “You trust my bow hand,” Sabef said, embarrassed and trying to turn the moment lighter.

  Still flipping and catching his knife, Djoser said, “I’ll tell you how much I trust this man, Hemon. When I was much younger I believed that I could catch an arrow shot at me.” He tilted his head toward Sabef. “He was willing to shoot arrows at me.”

  “Not at you, near you,” Sabef said.

  Djoser laughed.

  “He shot arrows at you?” Hemon asked incredulously.

  “Near him,” Sabef insisted with mock seriousness.

  “Did you catch them?” Hemon asked.

  Djoser shook his head. “No, I managed to knock a few aside ... ”

  “Slow ones,” Sabef interjected.

  “ ... but I never caught one. Not the arrows.”

  “Not the arrows ... what else did he shoot at you?” Hemon asked.

  “Near him,” Sabef insisted again.

  “He threw spears, long sharp spears with feathers tied to the shaft.”

  “Did you catch them?”

  “Not at first. He wouldn’t throw them close enough.”

  Sabef shook his head at the memory of Djoser, barely into his teens, dancing on the balls of his feet, his eyes aflame with excitement, taunting Sabef to throw the spear closer and closer. They had started with blunted shafts but once Djoser began catching them he insisted on pointed spears being thrown at him.

  Djoser flipped his knife again, caught it by its blade and, pivoting to his right, hurled the knife toward a distant palm tree. Fifty paces away, the knife sliced deep into the tree trunk.

  “I’ve always loved throwing and catching things,” Djoser said over his shoulder as he walked toward the tree.

  “He’s always loved danger,” Sabef said softly to Hemon.

  ***


  “The little one doesn’t think we have enough men?” Sabef asked Djoser the next morning as they broke camp. Hemon was by the river, neck-deep in the water washing the night’s sand away. His attendants formed a circle around him to guard against crocodiles.

  “If all the militia from the Upper House and all the militia from here are combined, then Babaef would outnumber us,” Djoser said calmly. “But he won’t bring the entire army. Only a fool would bring the militia from the Lower House into the Lower House to put down a rebellion. He’ll only bring soldiers from the Upper House. That cuts his army in half.

  “Then he’ll need to separate the army that remains behind in Waset because if he suspects that the delta nomes truly are in rebellion he can’t leave the militias from these nomes together. So he’ll send most of them upriver, however he’ll need to leave some of the Upper House soldiers in Waset to protect Nebka.

  “The men who do come here will be tired and hungry and grumbling about not getting paid. They will be a long way from their wives and children and they won’t be happy to be ordered to fight their countrymen, even if they do think of them as delta-dwelling, stinking-of-fish countrymen.”

  Djoser shook sand from a linen kilt and placed it in his traveling sack. Each morning he unpacked, inventoried and repacked his pack. Each evening he practiced an hour with his knife and then sharpened the stone edge, then another hour with his bow. Through the years of exile in Ta-Seti he had continued to practice the skills he had learned as a child in the barracks of his father’s army.

  Watching his friend, Sabef smiled. Djoser was ever calm, ever prepared. The only time Sabef had ever seen him enraged was when Djoser had charged bare-handed across the encampment to kill the man who was attacking his daughter. Looking back at it, Sabef suspected that even in that moment of outrage, Djoser had seen the burning campfire, measured the time and distance and had known exactly how he would attack and kill the man.

  “But it doesn’t matter how many men we have or how many Babaef has,” Djoser said, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There won’t be a fight.”

  “No fight?” Sabef asked. “But how will we win? We will win, won’t we?”

  Djoser lifted the strap of his pack over his shoulder and settled the weight on his back.

  “You remember the night on the Terraces of Turquoise when Horus came to me?”

  “And you had a vision,” Sabef said.

  “And Horus and I became one,” Djoser said quietly, insistently. “He has never left me, Sabef. He has grown within me. We share one ka. And we tell you, there will be no fight and yet we will win.”

  Trust and Hope

  When they arrived in Khem, Hemon introduced Djoser, who was traveling still as Hemwy, to Paheri, governor of Cow’s Leg. The men spent two days discussing trade, catching up on news from the Upper House, and feasting.

  On the second evening Hemon met alone with Paheri and emerged afterward to tell Djoser that Paheri had agreed to let him train his militia.

  “He has struggled to meet the higher taxes King Nebka has levied. His accountants are not as ingenious as mine,” Hemon said, shaking his head at the folly of his fellow governor. “Last year the tax collectors took half of his goats and a third of his cattle. When he asked, ‘How will I feed my people?’ they said, ‘Fish.’

  “But he got a small revenge. After the harvest, when General Babaef sent for Paheri’s militia, Paheri formed a company of old men who were not fit for a day of plowing or gathering wheat, and sickly men, with swollen legs or bad eyes or wet bowels.”

  Hemon grew angry as he talked with Djoser.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, “the Two Lands are rich. There is food enough for everyone but King Nebka hoards and misuses our wealth.

  “I’ve heard that there are rats in the granaries of Waset that are larger than the cats who are supposed to feed on them. And I was told by another merchant … ” he paused and looked at Djoser as if measuring how much Djoser would indulge him, “ ... an actual merchant that there are beer shortages in the capital because Nebka allows the grain to rot rather than selling it at a discount to the brewers.”

  Hemon stopped and looked at the ground. Then he looked back at Djoser and was relieved to see concern for the Two Lands in the younger man’s face, not anger at Hemon for telling him the rumors.

  “So, the militia?” Djoser prodded.

  “Yes, the militia,” Hemon said. “I didn’t say it directly, but Paheri understood. I told him I was visiting each nome to ask the other governors for their help. I told him that we are trying to organize the militias, that your men would train them, and that we would be able to develop an army that could stand up to the tax collectors. And to General Babaef.”

  “And to King Nebka?” Djoser asked lightly.

  “That’s the part I didn’t say directly.” Hemon looked down again. He understood that by helping Djoser plan a rebellion against the king he was walking a delicate line, struggling to find firm ground in a swamp filled with asps and vipers. What would happen to him if the rebellion failed? How could Djoser trust him once he was on the throne? Would Djoser worry that Hemon would incite another rebellion with a different ambitious soldier?

  “Walk with me, Lord Hemon,” Djoser said softly, turning to lead the governor away from the small, clay-brick palace of Governor Paheri.

  Khem was a large village rather than a city. Its streets were winding paths, not straight boulevards. The homes were made of wood, palm fronds, and clay bricks and the lines of the bricks were often uneven, sometimes crumbling.

  What the village lacked in grandeur it made up for in charm. The residents were unfailingly friendly, all the cook fires seemed to be heating pots that smelled of onion and duck, and the aroma of freshly baked bread hung in the air everywhere. The streets, often narrowing into little more than trails, were filled with the sound of sheep and geese and the shouts of children.

  As he and Hemon walked the dusty streets, Djoser paused to talk with the villagers, complimenting women on their gowns or sampling the broth in their kettles. He eagerly felt the heft of a worker’s ax or tested the balance of a hunting spear. Children stopped their play as he walked past, growing quiet to watch this handsome man who walked without the stooped back of a laborer, without the boasting strut of a soldier. Even the sight of Hemon, a dwarf wearing spotless linen, a golden necklace and leather sandals, was no match for Djoser’s presence.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, Hemon’s fears had been overwhelmed by admiration for his quiet, self-assured companion. They walked on, coming to the river bank where Djoser pulled his ivory-handled knife from his belt. He began flipping and catching it, a habit that no longer frightened Hemon.

  After a few minutes, he said, “Lord Hemon, if I were to build a raft, I would choose the strongest, healthiest trees for the wood, not decayed, worm-infested logs. And once it was built I would care for the raft, seeing to the knots, replacing worn ropes, keeping it secured at night, bringing it to higher ground when the river floods. In return the raft would serve me, keep me from the snakes and crocodiles in the water, help me travel safely and securely.”

  Djoser chose a target and threw his knife. The blade and ivory handle caught the light from the setting sun and swirled into a bright circle of motion that came to a sudden stop as the blade dug into a tree trunk by the water’s edge.

  Djoser led Hemon to the tree where Hemon saw that the knife was stuck in the tree at his shoulder height. Djoser nodded to him to pull the knife from the tree and then turned to sit on the river bank.

  Hemon levered the knife up and down to loosen it and then tugged it free. Turning he saw Djoser sitting with his back to him. He looked from the broad-bladed knife in his hands to the unprotected back of the man who would rule the Two Lands.

  Without turning to him, Djoser said, “I think, Hemon, that you should start to tell the governors that I am Djoser, son of Kha-Sekhemwy, rightful king of the Two Lands. Tell
them secretly. Insist that no one speak of it. Before long rumors will spread throughout the Lower House, then up the river to Waset and on to the Upper House.

  “Fishermen will talk about the return of the true king. Merchants will nod their heads knowingly, breadmakers will daydream of a new life while they knead their dough, women at their looms will talk about the possibilities, reed gatherers, beer brewers, brick makers, even the soldiers and the palace guards will begin to imagine a different life.

  “And then, Hemon, we will give that life to them.”

  Hemon the Dwarf, knife in hand, stood behind Djoser whose broad, bare back glistened in the dying light, unprotected and exposed. He rubbed his fingers over the ivory carvings of Horus and the eye of Re and he cautiously tested the hard, sharp edge of the stone blade and the palm of his hand.

  Flesh and stone.

  He imagined a future with Djoser as king and compared it to the years he had lived under King Nebka. And he realized with a sudden chill that what he held was not just a knife, but the very future of the Two Lands.

  Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t see Djoser rise to his feet. The distant sounds of the village, the calls of the birds as they flew along the river, the light splashes as fish leapt to snatch insects, all faded from Hemon’s ears.

  Hemon wrapped his small hand around the ivory knife handle and looking up he saw Djoser standing in front of him.

  Gasping, Hemon dropped the knife.

  The blade, heavier than the handle, turned downward. The tip of the knife cut into the soft ground a finger’s width from Hemon’s feet.

  Djoser leaned down and picked up the knife. He wiped the dirt from it on his loincloth and said, “Be careful, Lord Hemon, if you aren’t used to handling weapons you can hurt yourself.”

  Then, seeing the fear on Hemon’s face, Djoser clapped the dwarf’s back and laughed.

  “Don’t look so worried. We’re going to be fine. We each have our tasks. You’ll talk to the governors, Sabef will train the militias and I, well, I’ll be back at Iunu getting married.”