by Jerry Dubs
Wishing he had Djoser’s ability to mentally compartmentalize, he kissed Meryt farewell and left his house.
He walked unescorted through the dusty village streets to the stone pathway that led to the palace complex that he had designed for Djoser when the king had decided to move the capital closer to Saqqara.
His blue-edged kilt identified him as someone who had access to the palace, but the guards all knew Imhotep. Unlike the governors and priests who were called to the palace, Imhotep traveled alone. He was never carried in a litter by muscled servants; he was never followed by a host of attendants; he was never escorted by a retinue of guards.
He was simply Imhotep, a moderately tall, thin man with a head that seemed a bit oversized for his narrow shoulders and an often distant look on his face, one of thought, not arrogance. On those occasions when his thoughts matched his footsteps he smiled at the guards, who gave him a formal salute and then let a protective smile twitch to their lips after he passed.
He entered the palace and walked down the familiar hallway, pausing a moment by the mural Ahmes had painted just before Djoser’s death. Ahead of him lay the king’s private rooms. A hallway came off to the right, just beyond the alcove where he had sat with Hetephernebti the night Djoser died. It led to the reception and audience rooms.
He stood at the intersection and listened. A passing guard touched his shoulder and said, “King Sekhemkhet is in the throne room.”
Imhotep looked at the man’s face, a new guard, one of King Sekhemkhet’s men.
“Thank you,” he answered and walked down the hallway.
He found King Sekhemkhet sitting on the throne, slouched, his feet spread in front of him. He held a bowl of figs on his lap. Djeseretnebi, his third wife – his first two wives had died in childbirth – was sitting on the edge of the low dais. She was short, with wide hips ideal for childbearing. She had already given King Sekhemkhet an heir, a two-year-old boy named Nebmakhet who was tugging on his mother’s gown and threatening to fall at each tottering step. Holding her hands beneath her full belly, Djeseretnebi was smiling at the thought of another prince or princess.
Standing behind King Sekhemkhet was his best friend, Khaba. Two years older than the king, Khaba had taken Bata’s place as one of Prince Teti’s guards fourteen years ago.
He walked with a limp, the result of a broken hip that had happened ten years ago while Imhotep had been closeted with Djoser working on the Step Pyramid. Teti had pleaded for King Djoser to send Imhotep to Khaba in hopes that the powerful physician would miraculously heal his friend’s hip the same way he had repaired Teti’s shattered arm.
But Imhotep had been unable to do more than immobilize Khaba’s hip with a wooden splint and hope that the bone would heal properly. Called back to Saqqara to work on the pyramid, Imhotep had been unable to sit by Khaba and, while soothing his pain, lower his expectations for a full recovery. When the bone had healed and left Khaba with an uneven, sometimes painful gait, he had blamed Imhotep for the incomplete recovery.
Behind Khaba stood Merneith, the albino priestess of Neith.
She was naked, her skin – whiter than Imhotep had remembered – covered in painted pictures. A crocodile, representing the goddess’ son, Sobek, formed an “S” shape rising from her stomach to her chest, its head turned sideways and resting above her left breast. Neith was goddess of war and so each of Merneith’s shoulders was decorated with a shield, her upper arms lined with red arrows. Her head, unshaven as Imhotep had heard, was covered with a spikey field of red-dyed hair that stood upright, rising a hand’s width from her gleaming skull. Around her forehead was a leather thong studded with blood-red gems.
The four of them stopped talking when Imhotep approached and, seeing Imhotep’s eyes stop on Neith, King Sekhemkhet smiled broadly.
“Stunning, isn’t she?” he asked.
Imhotep knelt and bowed his head. He said, “King Sekhemkhet, Queen Djeseretnebi, Lord Khaba, Merneith, Fierce Voice of Neith. Long life to you all.”
Sekhemkhet waved his hand and said, “Come, come, Imhotep. You didn’t kneel before my father.”
Imhotep rose and, keeping his head bowed, said, “You father was always too gracious and generous to me, King Sekhemkhet. The Two Lands was blessed to have him wear the double crown as it is now blessed to have you wear it.”
“Yes, yes, Imhotep. Please, you aren’t a sycophant. Father said you always spoke your mind, even if you knew it wouldn’t please him. I am king now, but I am still Teti and I remember our first meeting. Painful for me, but,” he raised his right arm and flexed his hand open and shut, “worth the pain.”
Imhotep smiled, happy to hear the voice of his friend Teti coming from the king’s mouth. “Thank you, King Sekhemkhet. As I said then, your strength helped you heal.”
“True,” Sekhemkhet agreed. “But what of Merneith?” he asked, turning to look at the priestess. “Isn’t she frighteningly beautiful?”
Looking to the priestess, Imhotep raised his eyebrows in question and when Merneith nodded permission he approached her.
His training as an artist and the years he had spent in the Two Lands, where casual nudity was part of life, had left him with an eye to appreciate Merneith’s form without sexuality intruding.
Merneith was tall for an ancient Egyptian, her height accented by her spiked red hair. Small breasted and lean, she struck a pose for Imhotep, her shoulders pulled back, her left leg a half step in front of her right. Her arms hung straight at her sides, her chin was raised slightly as she stared off into the distance.
Imhotep knelt before her and bowed his head.
Her feet were painted. Green, black, and a shade of dark green combined to create the look of crocodile skin across the top of her feet, the lines carefully following the ridges of her tendons, her toes were painted to resemble claws.
Raising his head, Imhotep followed the curve of her shin where the skin was painted to represent a warrior’s leather greave. To heighten the illusion an actual leather strap was tied around her leg just below her knee and another at her ankle. Her thighs and hips were bare, but unlike other women who kept their pubic hair shaved, Merneith had formed hers into a white, wispy arrow head, the delicate hairs interwoven with a strand of black thread dotted with small, fiery red gems.
The tail of the crocodile began on her stomach, above a painted bed of gray stones and the hint of blue water. The tail was shaded and so three-dimensional that Imhotep unconsciously raised his hand to it.
“It is dry,” Merneith said, arching her back to bring her stomach to his hand.
Imhotep let his hand hover a hair’s breadth from her skin, close enough to feel the warmth of her body, but not touching the paint. Unconsciously, his fingers traced the sweep of the brush the artist had used to create the painting.
Smiling, he stopped and sat back on his haunches. He looked up at Merneith’s face, past the underside of her pale breasts where the front claws of the crocodile were painted.
“It is fantastic,” he said enthusiastically. “It must be the work of Ahmes. No one else could do this.”
“Yes!” King Sekhemkhet said. “I knew you would recognize your apprentice’s work.”
Imhotep rose to his feet, disconcerted to hear a slight pop in his knees. He bowed to Merneith and backed away from her. Her satisfied smile, an expression she had worn from the moment he saw her, remained unchanged.
“He has an imaginative eye and a steady hand. The work is beautiful, a complement to the beauty of the Fierce Voice of Neith,” Imhotep said, smiling at Merneith.
“Yes,” Sekhemkhet agreed, “Ahmes is talented. And I know that you trained him, Imhotep, so you should be praised, also.”
Behind him Khaba shifted his weight and sighed. He swung his stiff leg and began to walk past Merneith. As he passed her, she put out a hand and lightly touched his chest, her eyes seeking his.
Sekhemkhet chuckled. “Khaba likes the old style of painting, everything flat and easy to understa
nd.”
“A painting should represent something, not try to be it,” Khaba said loudly over his shoulder.
Sekhemkhet happily shook his head. “He can be so old-fashioned,” he whispered confidentially to Imhotep, but loudly enough that all could hear him.
“You say ‘old-fashioned’; I say traditional,” Khaba answered.
“And such good hearing for an old man,” Sekhemkhet teased.
Khaba snorted and turned to the food spread on the table by the wall.
Turning serious, Sekhemkhet said, “I want to talk to you about my tomb.”
Imhotep nodded. It was not unusual for work to begin on the king’s tomb as soon as he took the throne.
“I was thinking,” King Sekhemkhet continued, “that I want to be buried beside my father. Not in his burial vault, of course, but in a pyramid beside his, off to the east a little, closer to the rising sun. My tomb will be the first thing Re sees as he approaches. Father’s tomb will bid Re farewell in the evening.”
Imhotep began to imagine how another pyramid could fit inside the burial site enclosed by Paneb’s wall.
“The new pyramid would need to be larger, or course,” King Sekhemkhet said. “A son builds on his father’s legacy. That is how we progress.”
Imhotep, his thoughts racing to recall any memories of another pyramid beside the Step Pyramid, hoped that the smile fixed on his face showed enough enthusiasm for the king.
“If the base is larger then the bottom step needs to be higher, which would allow the structure to be taller, I believe.”
“Yes, King Sekhemkhet,” Imhotep agreed.
“You have that look,” Sekhemkhet said.
“Look?”
“When you see into the future. I remember it when you were bandaging my arm. Your ka leaves us.”
“Ah,” Imhotep said. “Those moments have become infrequent, King Sekhemkhet. But you are right, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking of the engineering, the quarries, the laborers. Forgive me.”
Sekhmeket laughed. “So you are already at work.” He clapped his hands and suddenly stood. He walked quickly – his father’s energetic pace – across the room to a long wooden table. Reaching down he took something and then turning back to Imhotep he smiled.
Flicking his wrist, Sekhemkhet tossed his father’s knife into the air and casually caught it. Tossing and catching the weapon, he walked back to Imhotep. With a higher last flip, he caught the knife’s blade and held the handle to Imhotep.
“My father wanted you to have this. He said you were unable to look at anything else when he played with the knife. He used it to distract you from other problems.” Sekhemkhet extended his arm, offering Imhotep the knife.
Imhotep saw the carved handle, the gleaming blade and he thought of the hundred times he had seen the knife in Djoser’s hand and how he would never see his good friend again.
“Truly, Lord Imhotep, take it.”
Suddenly Imhotep felt his eyes fill and, lips quivering, he began to weep.
Sekhemkhet cocked his head and, touched by Imhotep’s obvious love for Djoser, he smiled. Khaba turned from the food table and looked at the king and Imhotep, disgusted by the weakness Imhotep’s tears showed.
From behind the throne, Merneith watched, too, her pale blue eyes filled with interest, moving from Imhotep’s shaking shoulders to Sekhemkhet’s confused face to the hard edges of King Djoser’s favorite knife.
In the Two Lands
Re rose and Re set.
The god battled the devouring serpent Apophis, survived the night, and rose again. And so the unchanging rhythm of the Two Lands continued under a new king.
In Ineb-Hedj, Imhotep met with Paneb to make initial sketches of a new pyramid. After discussing King Sekhemkhet’s demand for a structure larger than his father’s tomb, they walked to the funeral complex where they paced off the sides of the planned pyramid and drove long stakes into the sandy ground to mark the new pyramid’s possible dimensions.
***
Day after day Re sailed across the sky and night after night he defeated Apophis, and soon the third month of Shomu gave way to the final month of the harvest season.
Farmers, their wives and their children all took to the fields to cut and thresh emmer and barley, to pick chick peas and to dig onions and garlic. Reed gatherers waded naked along the banks of the river cutting papyrus and then carrying dripping bundles of reeds from the river past children who chased each other among the palms and sycamores.
Although Meryt’s morning sickness ended, Sati continued her daily visits, bringing with her news that her son Siptah had been given command of the Cobra Company. Tjau lingered in the room whenever Sati visited, hungrily hanging on each word of Siptah’s adventures beyond Ineb-Hedj.
Ahmes disappeared into the delta, taking lodging at the Temple of Neith at Zau.
Rumors of the paintings he created on the walls of the temple, across the ceilings, on Merneith herself, on her wbt-priestesses and on her acolytes drifted upriver to Paneb and Imhotep. Paneb shook his head in formal protest of his son’s departure from traditional painting, but secretly he glowed with pride. Imhotep, who was coming to view work on the new pyramid as drudgery, told Paneb that he wished he was off exploring new ideas like Ahmes was.
***
Re rose and Re set, the harvest was completed and the end of the year was celebrated with five days of feasts and drunken parties to mark the miraculous births of Osiris, Horus, Set, Isis, and Nephtys.
King Sekhemkhet, comfortable wearing the double crown now, led the celebrations with a regal abandon that endeared him to the populace. His popularity increased even more when on the third day of the festivals, Queen Djeseretnebi gave birth to a daughter.
The festivals ended, the flood arrived and Khaba took the army across the Great Green to inspect the Terraces of Turquoise and to patrol the eastern trade routes. And farmers throughout the Two Lands migrated to Saqqara to work on the new king’s tomb.
In a workshop built near the eastern wall of the funeral complex Imhotep and Paneb built models of a larger pyramid, experimenting with ways to make the sides smooth and playing with arrangements to cantilever the blocks to allow a larger interior chamber.
Soon workers swarmed the Saqqara plateau. Army engineers supervised the cutting of tunnel shafts and the digging of a canal to serve as a delivery system for quarry stones. Some of the workers were sent across the river to join the stone cutters. Others were assigned to erect a tent city for the laborers, still others were sent to the river to man the fleet of boats that would sail up and down the river gathering food for the army of builders.
When an outbreak of intestinal illness struck the camp and then spread to nearby Ineb-Hedj, Imhotep asked Paneb to take on all supervision of the clearing and leveling of the construction site just east of the boundary wall of Djoser’s funeral complex.
Imhotep took Hapu, Paneb’s youngest daughter, as an assistant and together they spent an exhausting month teaching the workers and the villagers to boil water before using it, explaining the importance of keeping sewage drains clean. They supervised the digging of new latrines farther away from the town and from community wells.
All too quickly and with too little work accomplished on the pyramid, the river returned to its banks and the army of laborers left the Saqqara plateau to return to their farms.
The summer months passed with Imhotep fretting about progress on the tomb. Paneb reassured him that he had had the same worries with Djoser’s pyramid, yet they had completed that.
Imhotep was not reassured.
He was worried about Meryt. Her stomach seemed too small for the number of months she had been pregnant. She assured him that she felt life within, holding his hand to her stomach to feel their baby kick, but still he worried.
He was worried about the new pyramid. He had no memory from his earlier life of another pyramid, especially one larger than the Step Pyramid, standing on the Saqqara plateau. He believed that his
appearance in ancient Egypt was somehow fulfilling history, not creating a new timeline, and he was sure that in the future there was no pyramid large standing beside the Step Pyramid.
He was worried about Merneith. Hetephernebti’s warning the night Djoser died kept resurfacing in his dreams. The priestess was far away in the delta, yet he still felt her ominous presence. Was it because Ahmes had gone there, or was it simply his restless subconscious wrestling with Hetephernebti’s warnings?
And he was worried about himself. He was forty years old, young by modern standards, but old in ancient Egypt. He had the advantage of childhood inoculations, he boiled his drinking water, he tried to eat a balanced diet and to exercise, but he worried that it was only a matter of time before a virus that had become extinct by the twentieth century, when he had been born, would find him. Or a bacterium or a parasite. Or a stone would dislodge from the construction site and crush him or a simple cut would become infected and he had no penicillin.
His teeth had started to ache and his bones and muscles seemed reluctant to move in the morning. Sometimes his eyes felt dry and there were moles on his body that he didn’t recall seeing before.
On days when Meryt was energetic and when Tjau was not sulking and when a visible improvement appeared on the construction site, Imhotep told himself that he was simply aging and everything was fine.
But on nights when he woke from a disquieting dream or when Meryt moaned in her sleep or when Tjau openly complained about not being allowed to join the army – on those days Imhotep heard the hundred gods of the Two Lands laugh at him.
***
Re rose and Re set without change, but Imhotep’s world began to brighten.
Ahmes returned from the delta, his infectious enthusiasm energizing Paneb and Imhotep.
King Sekhemkhet visited the construction site where he paced off the length of his pyramid and then the sides of his father’s tomb. He returned with a smile on his face. “It is a hundred paces farther around my tomb that my father’s,” he said. “A hundred!”