by Jerry Dubs
Tama, the voice of balance and fairness, had lost her way.
No one had known if she would appear at King Djoser’s funeral, but she stood now before his casket. She was dressed in a deep blue gown held with two broad straps, her arms were encased in a blue linen sheath. Attached to the sheath were hundreds of long, blue-green beads, each bead held a deep green feather. Her thumbs hooked into the end of the feather sheath pulling it tight so the feathers spread like a bird’s wing. A red leather strap encircled her black wig and held an ostrich feather in place.
She stood with her arms by her side, her face, lined with age, raised toward the ceiling where shadows danced over the rough stones.
“I have held the heart of King Djoser,” she said in a voice colored with pain.
“I have weighed the heart of King Djoser. I have weighed his deeds. I have weighed his thoughts. I have weighed his actions. I have weighed the good and I have weighed the bad.
“I have found his heart to be free of evil. I have found it free of misdeeds. I have found it free of greed and of corruption. I have found his actions pure and his heart loving.”
She knelt on one knee by the casket and spread her arms, the feathery wings arced in protection over Djoser’s wrapped body. A gasp and trill ran through the assembly. Tama’s posture, the colorful wings, the intoxicating incense, the wavering light the painted coffin resting on silver-gold beams, the cavernous depth of the pyramid’s chamber, it all overwhelmed the mourners. They felt themselves transported to a sacred space where the Two Lands and Khert-Neter merged, an intersection between the lives they lived and the eternal lives of the gods.
Almost draped over the coffin, Tama arched her back, raised her winged arms and commanded, “Awake in peace, O Pure One, in peace! Awake in peace, Horus of-the-East, in peace! Awake in peace, Soul-of-the-East, in peace! Awake in peace, Horus-of-Lightland, in peace!”
As she spoke, Imhotep nodded to the priests of Anubis and Thoth who had waited in the shadows. Some of them silently approached the casket while others took their place by six large wooden wheels threaded with thick ropes that ran under the casket and threaded around six wheels on the other side.
The wheels silently turned, the ropes drew taut and the casket rose. The priests kneeling by the casket removed the electrum-covered beams that had supported the sarcophagus. The priests who manned the ropes watched each other and silently began a practiced chant. As their bodies rocked to their unspoken rhythm, they slowly fed the rope through the wheels and the casket began a slow descent into the long shaft that led to the burial tomb.
Kneeling over the dark space, Tama said, “You lie down in the Night-bark, you awake in the Day-bark, for you are he who gazes on the gods. There is no god who gazes on you! O father of Djoser, take Djoser with you living, to your mother Nut! Gates of sky, open for Djoser. Gates of heaven, open for Djoser. Djoser comes to you, make him live!”
Red light danced up the shaft as the casket moved deeper beneath the desert. Two dozen priests waited below by the huge granite sarcophagus, their heads craned back as they watched their king’s coffin descend.
The wheels turned, the ropes lowered the casket and Tama stood now, her winged arms outstretched.
“Commend this Djoser to the Great Noble, the beloved of Ptah, the son of Ptah, to speak for this Djoser, to make flourish his jar-stands on earth, for Djoser is one with these four gods: Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, Kebhsenuf, who live by ma’at.”
There was a muffled sound from the shaft as the wooden casket reached the burial vault. A chanted prayer echoed up from the subterranean chamber as the priests settled Djoser’s wooden casket within the stone sarcophagus.
Imhotep felt a nearly irresistible urge to tiptoe forward and look down the shaft. But suddenly the pyramid grew dark as the torches were extinguished. The abraded red light from below rose from the burial shaft and Imhotep was seized again with a sense of dread. A combination of deja vu and forboding swept over him. The darkness of the tomb blanketed his mind, and Hetephernebti’s earlier words of warning filled his thoughts.
The red light grew weaker and then faded as the underground priests finished sealing Djoser’s sarcophagus. A single torchbearer entered the pyramid and the funeral party turned to follow the boy out of the stone mountain that Imhotep had raised on the desert of Saqqara.
And Imhotep, great architect, royal scribe, trusted vizier, and unparalleled physician, shivered with fear.
Imhotep
Imhotep sat on his rooftop terrace in Ineb-Hedj watching nothing.
Palm fronds flapped listlessly in a weak breeze that carried no relief from the heat. Re, drifting languidly toward the western horizon, pushed long, tired shadows across the rooftop. A pair of benches sat against the wall beside Imhotep, but he had chosen to sit on a pillow on the floor, his back turned toward the wall and the sun.
A clay pot of honey-flavored beer sat beside him.
The timid air that brushed across his face carried the smoky scent of cook fires, the tang of onions in broth – there are always onions, he thought – and a heavy aroma of grease. Goose, he thought. Someone is cooking a goose.
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift.
Djoser is dead.
The Step Pyramid is built.
Teti is now king.
Hetephernebti has returned to Iunu.
Rubbing a hand across the stubble that was pushing through the scalp of his unshaved head, Imhotep thought of Hetephernebti’s receding figure as she had waved goodbye from her departing boat. She had moved with the same grace as always, but he thought there had been a hint of resignation in her posture – a slight slump in her shoulders, an awkward stiffness to her arms, hesitant footsteps.
Sighing, Imhotep took a mental count of the years. Time was measured in the Two Lands by the flooding of the river and by the years of the king’s reign.
We are in the first year of King Sekhemkhet’s reign, Imhotep thought. I arrived in the sixteenth year of King Djoser’s reign. I have been here almost fifteen years.
And now, Djoser is dead.
He lifted the beer pot and drank. The beer was stored in clay jars set in water to keep them cool – cool as defined in the Two Lands, cool to Imhotep’s way of thinking. To Tim Hope’s mind the beer was warm.
It has been fifteen years since I saw an ice cube, he thought. He closed his eyes and imagined ice cream and snow cones, chilled wine, frosty mugs of beer and air conditioning.
An ink jar, brush and blank piece of papyrus lay on the rooftop beside him. He glanced at them, took another sip of the warm beer and looked away across the rooftop. Facing east, he could see the tops of other homes, their flat roofs serving as extra rooms where early in the morning and late in the evening there was a chance to catch a breeze, to be away from the heat of the cook fires and the heavy air of the homes.
A few houses away a man moved across his roof terrace. A curtain of shimmering heat waves made him appear to be a mirage. The man sensed Imhotep’s gaze and looked toward him. Raising an arm, he waved a greeting. Imhotep waved back.
As he lowered his arm he looked at his hand. The back of it was dark, a permanent tan from living beneath the desert sun. He turned his hand sideways. A clear dividing line ran the length of the side of his index finger. The top half, the exterior of his hand that always faced this world, was dark like everyone else’s hands. But the lower half of his finger was pale; it was the color of the world he had left behind.
A wave of melancholy struck him.
His lower lip trembled and his eyes grew wet with tears. Bowing his head he gave in to the unexpected wave of homesickness. His shoulders shook and he gasped as he cried, stifling the sound so his family wouldn’t hear.
He bent his legs, drawing his knees to his face and, sitting there, he crossed his arms across his legs and laid his head on his arms.
Eyes closed and flushed with tears, he pictured Addy, his fiancee who had been killed just before their planned trip to Egypt.
He saw his parents, their faces filled with confusion, when he told them he was going to Egypt even though Addy had died.
Were they still alive? What did that even mean when he was living in a time five thousand years before they were born?
He pictured himself sitting in the sand at Saqqara, a short walk across the desert from this rooftop but an unimaginable distance in time. He had been sketching the Step Pyramid when Brian and Diane had walked past him. She had been angry, he remembered the frown on her face, the squint of her eyes. Brian had raised his sunglasses and, looking at him, had winked and smiled. They had disappeared into a tomb and never re-emerged.
Chased by thoughts of how Addy had died within sight of uncaring strangers, Tim Hope had followed the missing Americans.
He had been unable to save Brian. The smiling American was dead now, mummified and buried as the god Ipy in a tomb not far from the Step Pyramid. Diane had returned to her time. To their time. She had been beaten, raped, and nearly killed before he had been able to save her.
Had she recovered?
“Lord Imhotep?”
He looked up. Raising his arms Imhotep wiped away his tears with the underside of his bare forearms leaving a dark smear of kohl on his skin.
He sighed and managed a weak smile for Bata.
The same age as Imhotep, Bata had been part of Teti’s personal guard when Imhotep had arrived in the Two Lands. Teti and his companions had been climbing boulders in the river below Abu when Teti had fallen – pushed or knocked? – from atop a high boulder. He had broken his arm and Bata had been falsely accused of trying to kill the prince.
Imhotep had helped to save Teti’s badly broken arm and proven that Bata had been innocent. As a reward, Imhotep had been brought into King Djoser’s inner circle and Bata had been assigned to Imhotep’s household.
Imhotep had wanted to release Bata from servitude, but Meryt had explained to him that rather than being a servant Bata was now a member of their family. Imhotep couldn’t release him from that.
“But his own family, doesn’t he want to return to them?” Imhotep had asked.
Meryt had laughed at what she saw as a silly question.
“He can if he wants. But we are also his family now. We haven’t replaced his family. How could we do that? He can stay with us, he can leave. Do you want him to leave?’ She had asked with an innocent seriousness that Imhotep found adorable.
Imhotep hadn’t answered. He and Meryt were just beginning their lives together. He didn’t really want a third person with them, but he didn’t know the customs of the Two Lands. He didn’t want to offend King Djoser by refusing his ‘gift,’ or Bata by turning him out or Meryt by seeming ungracious.
His confusion had shown in his face.
“Don’t worry, Imhotep,” Meryt had said, cutting as she always did to the heart of his concerns, “if Bata hears me screaming in happiness, he will quietly tiptoe away, stifling his laughter.”
Imhotep had blushed.
In the intervening years Bata had proven to be an indispensable friend whom Imhotep depended on for advice, an excellent beer brewer, a loving, untiring babysitter, and a most discreet family member. He had never taken a wife and Imhotep suspected that Bata was not attracted to women.
He had broached the subject one night with Meryt as they lay in bed.
She had wrinkled her brow in thought. Imhotep had waited anxiously, worried that Meryt would say something that would be true for her society, but offensive to his liberal twenty-first century views.
“That is very sad,” she had said finally.
“Why?” he had asked with trepidation.
“He can never have children. Having children is the most important thing.”
“But what about him being with another man?”
Meryt had cocked her head at the question. “That is just pleasure. If they enjoy each other ... ” She had shrugged.
“If he loves another man?”
She had laughed. “If they are happy, what does it matter to anyone else? Why are you asking all these questions, Imhotep?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if your views are different than mine. I don’t know how things work here.”
She had playfully reached between Imhotep’s legs and held him. He had quickly responded to her touch. Tugging on him she snuggled closer. “I think things work the same here as they do in your land,” she had said before kissing his chest and flicking her tongue across his nipple. Swinging a leg across his hips, she had rocked back onto him, ending the conversation.
***
“Lord Imhotep,” Bata repeated. “Are you ill?”
Imhotep smiled at his friend. “Just my heart,” he answered.
Bata squatted beside Imhotep, then, changing his mind, he sat and reached for the beer jar. Imhotep smiled and handed it to him.
“It has been more than a month,” Bata said. “Djoser will remain dead. King Sekhemkhet will remain on the throne.” He took a drink and quickly spit the warm beer onto the rooftop. “This beer is boiling,” he said. “You do know that I built a sluice along the northern wall, Imhotep. It slants downward so the water flows quickly, keeping it cool … ”
“I know, Bata. That’s where I got this beer.” Imhotep smiled. “I’ve been up here for a while.”
Bata shook his head and raising himself slightly, tugged a cloth from the waist of his kilt. He handed it to Imhotep.
Imhotep splashed beer on the cloth and wiped the kohl from his face and arm.
“It is more than King Djoser’s death,” Bata said.
Imhotep nodded without answering.
“It is your own death. Here in this fly-infested, overheated, technologically deprived wasteland.” He said the last part in English, mimicking a curse Imhotep had apparently said once too often.
Imhotep laughed. “Do you even know what those words mean?”
Bata shook his head. “I don’t think they are compliments.” He leaned forward and gently squeezed Imhotep’s arm.
“I’ve been happy here, Bata,” Imhotep said. “I love Meryt and Tjau and you, Bata. I am glad I’m here. I want to be here ... ”
“Good!” Bata said, interrupting him.
He wiped his hands on the damp cloth as if dismissing Imhotep’s melancholy and rose to his feet. Reaching down for Imhotep’s hand, he pulled his friend upright. “We all want you here, also. Especially King Sekhemkhet and the Lady Meryt. They both request your presence.”
***
He found Meryt sitting on the floor beside their bed.
She had changed little since Imhotep had first seen her in the delta near Iunu shortly after he had first arrived in the ancient world. The little weight she had gained during her pregnancy a dozen years ago had quickly vanished. Her breasts, swollen as she fed Tjau, had returned to their small size by the time the boy was three. All of which worried Imhotep because Meryt had been deathly ill with dysentery when she was young and she had remained frail. He had hoped that she would retain a small part of the weight gain.
Hearing him enter their bedroom, Meryt looked up at Imhotep and smiled. As he smiled back at her he noticed the bowl on the floor beside her.
He dropped to his knees beside her and leaned forward to hold her.
“You’re ill,” he said.
“A little,” she admitted. “It has been a week now. Tena across the road has been ill, emptying herself constantly, and I thought that I had the same illness. But she was ill for only three days and I have only been sick with my stomach, whereas she was ... ”
“Meryt, you should ... ”
“I know,” she said, conceding an argument they had had before. “But I didn’t want to bother you. You get alarmed whenever I sneeze.”
He glanced over her shoulder at the bowl. She had vomited, but there was no blood in it. Hugging her tighter, he kissed the top of her head. This isn’t a time to scold her, he thought.
“Have you been able to eat anything?” he asked.
Mery
t nodded and smiled. “Only bland food.” She waited for him to grasp her meaning, then added, “I visited Sati today.”
“Oh, no,” Imhotep said, suddenly understanding.
Sati was the wife of Sekhmire, commander of Djoser’s palace guards. While Imhotep and Sekhmire had become good friends, Sati and Meryt had become closer than sisters, sharing every story about their children, every piece of gossip about the royal family and more intimate details of their own lives than Imhotep wanted to imagine.
It was Sati who had first diagnosed Meryt’s pregnancy fourteen years earlier.
“Oh, yes,” Meryt said, imitating Imhotep’s worried voice. “You are going to be a father again.”
“But how ... ”
Meryt frowned playfully and weakly pantomimed Imhotep holding her hips as he thrust. She tilted her head back and mimicked his groans as he climaxed. Even though they had been together for so long, Imhotep still was embarrassed by Meryt’s open attitude toward sex.
“Alright,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “You know what I meant.”
Meryt stopped her pretend groaning and shrugged. “Perhaps the dates were old or the honey weak or your thrusting too powerful.” They had been using ground dates mixed with honey and applied to a plug of seed wool as birth control.
She giggled and reached for Imhotep. “I will be fine. We’ll have a second child and Tjau will have a little brother or sister to tease.”
***
His thoughts on Meryt’s health, Imhotep absent-mindedly prepared to see the king.
He bathed and then sat impatiently while a barber scraped the stubble from his scalp. He endured Bata’s banter as he applied kohl around Imhotep’s eyes and perfume to his scalp. Then he dressed for court – his formal kilt, a golden armband given to him by Queen Inetkawes to celebrate Tjau’s birth, and the beaded menat necklace with a heavy ankh hanging from the back to serve as a counterweight and to signify his position as royal physician.