The Forest of Myrrh (Imhotep Book 3)

by Jerry Dubs

  Bata leaned to Imhotep and bringing his head near his ear, whispered, “Lord Imhotep, Kewab speaks for King Huni. Seth stalked the land while you were gone. King Huni restored ma’at. Now it is threatened again.”

  “I don’t care,” Imhotep whispered back, stepping toward the doorway.

  “What would Meryt have you do?” Bata said as Imhotep disappeared into his house.

  Bata turned to Kewab and saw that the soldier was gripping his spear with white knuckles, torn between his fear of Imhotep and his duty to follow the king’s orders.

  “He will come,” Bata said, reassuringly.

  Kewab breathed deeply and said, “Yes, he will. He must.”

  - 0 -

  When Imhotep reentered his bedroom he saw Hapu kneeling by Akila.

  “What happened?” he said, rushing to them.

  As Hapu turned and moved from Imhotep’s line of sight, he saw that Akila’s eyes were fluttering open. He knelt beside her, took her hand and squeezed it. She returned his touch, her fingers moving weakly against his.

  “Has Meryt awakened?” she asked.

  Imhotep glanced at his unconscious wife. “No,” he told Akila.” Then moving closer he kissed her forehead and asked, “What can I get you?”

  Ignoring his question, she said, “Get in my kit and take Meryt’s temperature.”

  Before Imhotep could move, Hapu stood and walked to the small table where Akila’s modern medical kit was stored.

  “Fresh meat, fish, lettuce ... there is lettuce here?” Akila said to Imhotep.

  Hapu returned with the medical kit. She handed it to Imhotep who opened it and pulled out a tempstrip. “Yes, we have lettuce,” he answered Akila.

  Imhotep pushed himself across the narrow pathway to the other bed. Awkwardly rolling to his knees he laid the tempstrip on Meryt’s forehead.

  “Lord Imhotep,” Bata said from the doorway.

  Leaning over Meryt, Imhotep ignored Bata’s call.

  “Lord Imhotep,” Bata repeated, more insistently.

  Imhotep leaned over Meryt and read the tempstrip. “Ninety-six,” he told Akila.

  Akila sighed. “Ninety-six,” she repeated, trying to focus.

  “Lord Imhotep,” Bata said again and then there was a shuffling sound.

  Losing patience, Imhotep turned to glare at his friend. But Bata was gone from the doorway, replaced by two young soldiers who entered the room. Leaning down they grabbed Imhotep’s arms as Kewab entered the room behind them.

  “I am sorry, Lord Imhotep,” Kewab said, lowering his eyes. “But I must do what the king commands and the king commands that you come to Waset now.”

  “Stop this immediately,” Imhotep ordered, but the men began to walk him from his bed chamber. “I am not going to leave my wife, she needs me,” he shouted.

  The soldiers dragged him through his house to the front doorway. Imhotep struggled against the men although he knew it was hopeless. Gritting his teeth he tried to tell himself to leave with dignity because no matter what he wished, the soldiers were going to take him to Waset.

  As they left the house, Bata rushed at the guards. Grabbing the nearest man, Bata wrapped his arms around the soldier’s shoulders.

  Thrown off balance, the soldier tried to shrug Bata away, but Bata only squeezed tighter. Then he lowered his grip to immobilize the soldier’s arms and, putting a leg behind the soldier’s knees, he twisted him backward.

  The soldier fell but he kept his hold on Imhotep, dragging him down to the dusty road.

  “Lord Imhotep!” Bata shouted, falling to his knees beside Imhotep. Suddenly he felt the sharp edge of a spear cut against his neck.

  Four strong hands clasped Bata’s shoulders and he was pulled away from Imhotep. As he scrambled to keep his balance, the soldier he had attacked got to his feet and swung a fist at Bata’s face.

  “Stop!” Imhotep commanded from his hands and knees as Bata, his arms restrained by two soldiers, was struck again.

  “Stop, Kewab,” Imhotep shouted, trying to get to his feet. “I command you to stop your men from attacking my friend.”

  The soldiers froze and looked to Kewab who glared at Bata briefly before nodding to his men to stop beating Bata.

  “I will come peaceable,” Imhotep said staggering to his feet.

  Kewab turned to Imhotep. His angry eyes looked at him and then darted away. Behind him Bata stopped struggling. “I will come for you, Lord Imhotep,” he said.

  “No,” Imhotep said, “stay here, Bata, and watch over our family.”

  Governor Threshen

  Governor Threshen didn’t trust Weshptah.

  The scribe’s head was too big and it was too round. His eyes bothered Threshen, too, always watering and blinking, like an owl with sand in its eyes. Sometimes Threshen considered beating him, just to hear what kind of cry he would make. Would he caw like a wounded bird or croak like a swamp frog?

  But Threshen didn’t like to touch things that weren’t beautiful, so Weshptah, with his crooked teeth and loose jowls, was safe.

  Standing across the room from the scribe, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind a low table, Threshen stared at the papyrus and the stone bowl of ink by the scribe’s wrinkled hand.

  I should have one of the girls trained to paint the symbols, he thought. He closed his eyes and imagined Redji – he thought that was the name of the girl who had been brought to him last night – sitting by the window, her slim shoulders outlined by the morning sunshine. The skin so tight and smooth, like polished wood, but so soft and giving, he thought, with a smile.

  “Lord Threshen?” Weshptah said mildly. He was used to retrieving Threshen from his frequent reveries. Sometimes Weshptah wondered how the boy even fed himself. But he doesn’t, Weshptah reminded himself, his girls do that for him.

  “Don’t speak while I’m thinking,” Threshen said.

  “Yes, Lord Threshen,” Weshptah said, wondering exactly what Threshen considered thinking. He knew that Threshen was most likely daydreaming, either fantasizing about a new girl or reliving last night’s rape.

  It was a harsh word, but Weshptah didn’t know what else to call it. The girls Threshen coupled with were not old enough to choose to be with him. Closing his eyes he reversed the normal plea that women made to the goddess of fertility and asked Taweret to prevent Threshen’s couplings from leading to new life.

  It seemed to Weshptah, who had no wife or children, that the very people who should never have children often had the most offspring.

  The farmers and the fishermen and the weavers and the reed gatherers, they should be blessed with children to help their labor. But the bureaucrats – including myself – and the priests, what use do we have for children? I can carry my brush and papyrus without help.

  “How many small cattle?” Threshen asked.

  Weshptah stifled a sigh. He knew that Threshen had no concept of numbers or inventories. There were three quantities in Threshen’s life: None, enough and a lot. Born to a governor, Threshen had no personal experience with ‘None’ and no patience with ‘Enough.’ He expected ‘A lot,’ whether it was beer or women or food or jewelry.

  Currently he was obsessed with the king’s levy. Threshen believed that the king wanted ‘A lot’ when all that Threshen wanted to give was ‘None.’

  The king’s tax collectors wanted a tenth of Threshen’s herd of small cattle. The governor’s fields held two hundred, so the king required twenty. Weshptah thought it was reasonable, it was less than King Khaba and his greedy concubine Merneith demanded.

  But he knew how Threshen would view the tax, so he answered, “A lot.”

  Threshen cursed and pounded a fist against the wall. If the king wanted a lot of his cattle and geese and oils and wheat, then he would want a lot of his soldiers. And Threshen was hoarding his soldiers. He had plans for them.

  “Lord Threshen?” Weshptah said, wondering if they would ever complete this useless exercise. When they were finished he would order
the cattle drivers to collect twenty-two small cattle, twenty for the king, one for the tax collector and one for himself. It was how it was done, how it was always done.

  “Yes, yes, Weshptah, just shut up,” Threshen said. He picked up an alabaster jar and considered throwing it at the scribe’s oversized head. But then I’d have to find another scribe and they’re all alike, Threshen sighed.

  Looking at Weshptah he thought of another scribe, the upstart Imhotep.

  He had heard about the king’s guards taking Imhotep to Waset. The fool had fought with the guards, or at least his servant had. Threshen shook his head. He would have had the servant flayed, his skin stripped from him, and then laid him on a dung heap while he was still alive.

  People need to know their place, he thought. That’s what ma’at is all about. The common people need to stay common.

  He wasn’t sure what to think about Imhotep. He had been vizier to King Djoser when Threshen was born. He was said to work miracles. It was said that even King Djoser, a god himself, treated Imhotep with reverence.

  But his head is too big. Just like my scribe’s, Threshen thought. And they say he is only an outlander, one who weaves spells to confuse people.

  Threshen liked people to look like what they were. Reed gatherers should be bent with long, strong arms. Bakers should have squinty eyes from looking into the ovens and strong hands from kneading bread. Soldiers should stand straight and have thick legs to run into battle. Rowers, he thought, caught up in his thoughts, should have broad backs, and girls, they should be soft and pretty.

  But some of us, Threshen thought with a secret smile, we are very different from what we appear to be. He looked down at the jar he held. The golden stone looked so soft, but it was hard.

  Like me, he thought. Father thought I was weak but each lash of his switch struck stone. And he was too blind to see.

  Threshen felt his shoulders tighten at the memory.

  Seeing Threshen’s gentle mouth, smooth skin, languid brown eyes, delicate hands and narrow waist, his father thought the boy was more female than male. So he had decided to hammer his son into a strong man.

  If Threshen nodded or smiled at a passing servant in the hallway, his father saw it as a sign of weakness. If Threshen thanked his dresser for presenting a well-made kilt, his father saw it as a sign of weakness. If Threshen made eye contact with one of the guards as he passed through a doorway, if he lost a wrestling match while in training, if he failed to lodge his spear in the very center of the wooden target, his father saw it as a sign of weakness.

  And weakness was beaten from the boy.

  When he closed his eyes, Threshen could still see each mottled swirl of the stone pillar he had been forced to embrace as his father beat him. He could hear his father’s taunting words falling with as much pain as each blow of the switch. “Do ... not ... smile ... at ... a ...servant ... Never ... let ... the ... other ... defeat ... you ... Throw ... the ... spear ... farther ... harder.”

  Teeth grinding together, his jaw clenched, Threshen remembered looking into the shadows, and seeing his misshapen brother Sabni watching in fear and shame.

  If Threshen cried out, the blows came faster and harder. And so he had clenched his teeth and taken comfort in Sabni’s sympathetic jerk when each blow landed, and in the silent tears his brother cried at night as he sat beside Threshen’s bed and swore that someday it would end.

  Threshen was roused from his memories by a loud crash. Looking up he saw the alabaster jar he had been holding was now a heap of shards on the floor by the wall behind the scribe who was cowering behind his table, his eyes afraid to meet Threshen’s.

  Father thought I was soft, but I was stone.

  King Huni

  Imhotep had been on the river for two days and he smelled like a goat.

  On the first night aboard the boat Imhotep had felt gloom gather its arms around him like a vulture’s wings. He couldn’t stop thinking of Meryt and Akila. They needed him and he needed to be with them. Instead he had been kidnapped by the king’s guards. Although he had promised to go peacefully, his anger had built throughout the day.

  He had told himself that a coerced promise had no hold over him.

  Watching the rowing soldiers, he had waited for a chance to escape. As the night wore on, the men fell into a somnolent trance, pulling on the oars and then bending forward to start the stroke anew. Most had their eyes closed as they grunted rhythmically. Imhotep had lowered his head and nodded, but through barely opened eyes he had counted the seconds each stroke needed.

  Rocking with the rowers’ rhythm, he had waited until they were in midstroke, then he lurched forward, coming awkwardly to his feet. Thrown off balance by the surge of the boat, he staggered and then, as he turned, one of the rowers grabbed his ankle. Falling, Imhotep twisted at the last moment so that his shoulder rather than his face hit the side of the boat.

  As a sharp pain pulsed through his shoulder Imhotep felt rough hands drag him to the center of the boat. Kewab, his eyes bright with anger, swore as he tied Imhotep’s ankles together and then looped the rope around the ship’s mast.

  Now he was tethered by the feet to the center mast, riding in the middle of the small boat like a goat. He hadn’t been allowed freedom to go to the edge of the boat to relieve himself so he was soiled and wet and angry.

  Dawn had just arrived, bringing color to the line of trees along the shore. A few boats, some with a solitary fisherman, larger ones with bundles of reeds or stacks of other goods, began to push away from the shore as the royal boat arrived at Waset. Fuming silently, Imhotep watched Kewab approach him.

  Squatting beside Imhotep, the soldier said, “If you were anyone else, we would have beaten you for disobeying the king’s orders and trying to escape.”

  Not trusting himself to speak civilly, and remembering his treatment under King Khaba, Imhotep nodded.

  “When we dock, I will have you taken to a bathhouse. You’ll have an escort, so don’t consider trying to escape again. You’ll be shaved, bathed and perfumed so you will be presentable to King Huni.”

  Imhotep nodded his understanding.

  “King Huni is trying to restore ma’at to the Two Lands,” Kewab said, his voice softening.

  “By kidnapping the vizier to King Djoser? By using force to take the man who raised King Djoser’s tomb? That is how he restores balance?” Imhotep said, his anger overriding his judgment.

  Kewab brought his hand back to strike Imhotep, but stopped when he saw Imhotep’s eyes. They were directed at Kewab, but they were focused far beyond him. He had heard tales of Imhotep’s ability to see the future, to commune with the gods. He knew that Imhotep wasn’t like a priest who burned incense and bowed to the gods, he was more like a companion to them.

  What is he seeing? Kewab wondered, arresting his movement.

  In the next moment Imhotep’s eyes began to water.

  He brought his eyes back to the present and looked at Kewab.

  “All I wanted was a good life,” he shouted, slapping his hand against the wooden deck. “I wanted children and love and to be part of something larger than myself. They took Tjau, they tried to kill Meryt and now you are keeping me from my family.”

  Unknowingly Imhotep had spoken in English.

  The soldiers had stopped their rowing when Imhotep began to shout. Now they watched as Kewab, certain that Imhotep was pronouncing a curse on him, fell backward and scrambled away from the strange outlander who might be a god.

  To protect their kas from the spell, the soldiers turned their eyes away from Imhotep and clutched at whatever amulets they carried with them.

  - 0 -

  Freshly shaved and cleaned, Imhotep walked with as much confidence as his weak leg, injured shoulder and simmering anger permitted. Kewab walked in front of him and two soldiers flanked Imhotep as they walked down the familiar stone corridors of the palace.

  Imhotep tried to hold his composure but each step into the palace reminded him of his l
ast encounter with royal power in ancient Egypt. Marched unwillingly to a royal audience five years ago, he had watched as General Khaba killed King Sekhemkhet and then blamed Imhotep’s son, Tjau, for the assassination. Then he had watched Merneith’s bloody acolytes kill Tjau. To save his wife and daughter, Imhotep had been forced to confess responsibility for the king's assassination. As punishment he had been swathed as a living mummy and left alive in the sealed tomb with King Sekhemkhet.

  Each step into the palace took him deeper into those memories.

  When they reached the entrance to the throne room Imhotep found that his feet wouldn’t move. Kewab, three steps ahead now, turned and looked at him questioningly. Imhotep looked around the chamber, the murals, the flaming torches, the standing screens, the stone floor, the far windows.

  It was all so familiar: he had constantly visited King Djoser in this chamber when he was building his pyramid. But now, after having lived five years in the modern world, it seemed so alien: the scent of burning torches, the rough walls with their colorful, simplistic paintings, the bare-chested soldiers wearing kilts and holding their short, bronze-tipped spears.

  It had been in this room that King Djoser had renamed him Imhotep. He remembered the out-of-body feeling he had experienced, his consciousness floating high above the room, soaring as if he could see the Two Lands stretching from the third cataract to the delta. The sounds, the smells, the heat, the voices, the stink of the river when the water was low, the rustle of reeds when the floods approached, the eye-squinting brightness of the desert, the relieving shade of the palms in the king’s gardens. They had soaked into his body, filling his mind and heart.

  Now he felt like an aging actor stepping onto a set without having learned his lines.

  Kewab nodded to the soldiers, who pushed Imhotep into the throne room. Imhotep stumbled, regained his balance and then found himself standing before the new king.