by Jerry Dubs
Siptah, the boy Imhotep and Meryt had viewed as a nephew, was a man now, hardened by years as a soldier and tempered by years serving under King Khaba. The son of King Djoser’s personal guard, he had seized the throne in the confusion following King Khaba’s death.
He sat comfortably on the throne, his oiled torso gleaming like rocks washed by the river’s waters, his eyes fixed with casual power. His head was bare, the double crown sitting on a small stand beside the wooden throne. The beaded pectoral hung on an ivory peg on the wall behind him.
It was, Imhotep thought, to be an informal talk.
He shook his head, and stepped toward the throne.
“Siptah,” he began and suddenly his legs buckled. As he fell, he realized that one of the soldiers had struck the back of his knees with the shaft of his spear. He tried to catch himself, but his one arm, weakened by the fall on the boat, gave way and the side of his face landed hard on the stone.
“Raise him,” King Huni said with detachment in his voice.
Imhotep felt hands grab him and bring him to his feet. He felt dizzy for a moment and leaned on one of the soldiers.
“Get him a chair,” King Huni ordered and soon Imhotep felt himself lowered to a hard wooden seat. He felt behind him to see if he was on a stool or a chair. Feeling a backrest, he leaned back a moment, then caught himself and sat as straight as he could.
“Thank you, King Huni,” he said, forcing himself to follow protocol. “Long life.”
Looking up he watched King Huni wave a hand to dismiss the guards. Kewab hesitated for a moment and then as King Huni nodded his head at Imhotep and smiled disparagingly, Kewab turned and left Imhotep and the king alone.
Imhotep twisted in his chair to watch Kewab and when he turned back he saw that King Huni had left the dais and was approaching him. He was shaking his head, a frown curling his lips. As he reached Imhotep, King Huni raised the skirt of his kilt and used the linen to dab at the blood on Imhotep’s face.
Then he knelt by Imhotep and said, “I am so sorry, dear uncle. Please forgive me.”
“Forgive?” Imhotep said, astonished.
“Kewab is a good man. My father said he reminds him of himself when he was young. And I need good men, Imhotep.”
Imhotep sighed in relief.
“But I am King Huni, now, Imhotep. I am not little Siptah. Ma’at requires that we follow custom. You must show me the respect that you showed King Djoser. I cannot allow anything less. Do you understand?”
“Of course, King Huni,” Imhotep said. “Forgive me.”
King Huni smiled and rose to his feet. Extending his hands, he helped Imhotep to his feet. Then draping an arm about Imhotep’s narrow shoulders, he walked him to the window.
Re laid his warm fingers on Imhotep’s face and chest and, closing his eyes, Imhotep turned his face toward the blazing sun. Then, raising a hand to shield his eyes he looked into the courtyard.
Setka, Prince Setka, Imhotep reminded himself, was training. Young enough to still wear a sidelock of youth, the boy was swinging a short club at his teacher, who was parrying each swing and pushing back with enough force to make the boy shuffle his feet quickly to keep his balance.
“Eight floods old,” King Huni said proudly.
“I remember when you were that age,” Imhotep said. “You were constantly in fights.”
“And winning,” King Huni said.
“Yes,” Imhotep said, “and against older boys.”
King Huni crossed his arms and leaned against the stone wall. “My father taught me well,” he said. He looked at Imhotep and said, “As did Tjau’s father.”
Imhotep reddened at the mention of his son’s name.
“Tjau would have been a good soldier. He would have been a good doctor. I wish he was here now. I would have you train him to be my vizier. His heart was a mixture of knowledge and compassion.”
Imhotep’s eyes watered. Although he had tried to bury his memory of Tjau the pain of his death five years earlier remained raw.
“I did not know King Khaba’s plan, dear uncle. I didn’t know that you were in danger and I didn’t know that Tjau would be sacrificed,” King Huni said.
“I know,” Imhotep managed to say. “I never thought to blame you.”
“And now, here we are, Imhotep. I am king and the Two Lands are being pulled apart. Some of the governors are withholding taxes, some are sending smaller militias than I require, some are doing both. The Nubians, peaceful neighbors when King Djoser sat on this throne, are turning away our trading ships. And yesterday a boy arrived exhausted and carrying a child. They had been with a caravan across the eastern desert and were attacked by men who looked like sand-dwellers. But the boy said they spoke our language.”
Imhotep nodded.
When he had been exiled to the modern world he had haunted the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities and scoured the Internet in search of clues to what had happened to Meryt and Maya. Although their names were lost to history, he had learned that King Huni would be the last ruler of the Third Dynasty.
King Huni studied Imhotep for a moment and then said, “My father told me that you know the future.”
“Some of it is clear, other paths are closed to me,” Imhotep answered evasively.
He looked up at King Huni. The king’s eyes were clear and untroubled, filled with the confidence of youth.
He will need it, Imhotep thought.
“Kewab said he told you about Hetephernebti,” King Huni said, leaning on the window sill and watching his son who was now stabbing at a target of reed bundles tied to resemble the shape of a man.
“I am my father’s son, Imhotep, and I don’t believe in accidents. When you first came to the Two Lands, you proved that Bata was innocent of trying to kill Prince Teti. When Waja-Hur died, you discovered that he had been killed.
“Now I need to know how Hetephernebti died. Is she part of the tapestry of unrest? How has her death unsettled ma’at?” He paused and then turned to Imhotep. “Is there someone close to me I need to watch?”
King Huni put his hands on Imhotep's shoulders and said, “I ask you as your king. I ask for the peace of the Two Lands. I ask in the memory of my friend and your son, Tjau.
“Lord Imhotep, travel to Iunu and discover the truth of Hetephernebti’s death.”
Discontent
“You must keep your visit short,” Kewab shouted at Imhotep three days later as he stepped off the swaying boat onto the wharf in Ineb-Hedj.
Imhotep raised a hand to show Kewab that he had heard him, but he didn’t turn around to reply. Although Kewab had treated him with respect during the return voyage, Imhotep was still angry at the way the young officer had treated him on the trip to Waset.
He knew it was childish to hold a grudge; Kewab had only done what he believed King Huni wanted. But Imhotep couldn’t quell his anger. The young soldier’s attitude was one more wedge that was being driven between him and the Two Lands.
The excitement and discovery that had filled his early years, the engulfing labor of building the Step Pyramid, the joyous years of sharing his life with Meryt, all had been shattered when he had been entombed alive. Exiled in the modern world, he had held on to the broken memories and kept them alive for five years. Then when he had returned to the Two Lands, Merneith had attacked Meryt and Imhotep’s world had bled once again.
Now, just as Akila had arrived and was nursing Meryt back to health, darkness was creeping into his life again. Even though he didn’t believe in the thousand gods of the ancient world, Imhotep felt Seth’s fetid breath blowing over the Two Lands.
- 0 -
“Meryt is awake,” Bata shouted from the rooftop a few minutes later when he saw Imhotep walking down the street toward his home.
Quickening his pace, aware that a few years earlier he would have broken into a jog, not just an impatient, limping walk, Imhotep hurried toward his house, watching as Bata easily ran down the steps from the roof.
“She woke up two d
ays ago and Akila had her drink unfermented date wine and eat a goose liver,” Bata said, slowing to match Imhotep’s stride.
“Has she spoken? Is she as she was before?”
“Yes, yes,” Bata said. “She is weak, but stronger every day.”
“What does Akila say?” Imhotep asked.
“She said that Meryt will recover but that it will take some time.” Bata looked at Imhotep. “She is truly a doctor?”
“Yes,” Imhotep said. “When I was awakened from the tomb I was more dead than alive, Bata. Yet she healed me. If anyone can bring Meryt back, it is Akila.”
Suddenly Imhotep slowed his pace and held a hand to his left side as pain shot through him. He stopped and took a deep breath, his attention on his diaphragm. He pushed against his lower abdomen, probing for a tender spot.
“What is wrong?” Bata asked.
Imhotep shook his head. “Nothing,” he said with a disappointed frown. “I am just getting old.” He took another breath and then resumed his rapid pace.
Bata looked suspiciously at Imhotep. He saw that Imhotep was not swinging one arm when he walked and that his face was bruised. “What happened to your face?” he asked.
Putting a hand on the opening to his house, Imhotep said, “I fell.” Then, avoiding his friend’s eyes, he slid into the shadowed entry of his home.
- 0 -
He entered his bedroom to find Akila sitting beside Meryt who was lying on her bed. Akila was holding Meryt’s hand and leaning forward to talk to her. Hapu stood by the head of the bed, her round face alight with happiness.
Akila twisted on the bed at the sound of Imhotep’s footsteps. Her eyes looked tired, but she was smiling. Imhotep noticed that she no longer had the bandage over the arm that had been used for the transfusion.
Kneeling beside the bed, Imhotep glanced quickly at the three women. Hapu wore only a white kilt and Meryt, Imhotep knew, would be nude beneath the linen sheet. But Akila was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a T-shirt with the name of Helwan University on it.
He put a hand on Akila’s knee and softly squeezed it. “I was afraid,” he said.
“Bata told me what happened,” Akila said. “Are you all right?”
Imhotep shrugged and shook his head. “We’ll talk later,” he said.
He felt a touch on his hand and, looking down, he saw Meryt’s small hand slide over his.
“Hello, beloved,” she said, her voice stronger than Imhotep would have dared to hope. She looked at Akila, her eyes alight in happiness, and moved her hand from Imhotep to Akila.
“Akila was reluctant to talk about it, but Hapu told me what happened.” Meryt looked at Akila and then at Imhotep. “She gave some of her own life to save mine. Now we share our blood, our life, and our love for you.”
Changing the subject, Akila nodded at the wide, beaded neck band of the menat Imhotep was wearing and said, “What is that?”
In answer, he leaned forward and twisted so that she could see the heavy ankh that hung from the back of the necklace.
“It is a symbol of his office,” Hapu said from the foot of the bed, pride in her voice.
Akila raised her eyebrows at Imhotep.
“I am the royal physician.”
“But why are you wearing it?” Akila asked.
“He has been to Waset to see King Huni,” Hapu said.
“I know that,” Akila said, looking questioningly at Imhotep.
“He wears the menat to show that he is acting for the king,” Meryt said, pride in her voice, also. “How is our Siptah?” she asked.
Imhotep forced a smile to his face. “We must call him King Huni, now.”
Suddenly Akila touched his injured cheek. “What happened here?”
He shook his head. “I tripped. Nothing exciting.”
She moved her hand to the colorful beads on his necklace. “What does acting for the king mean?”
Imhotep looked away from her.
“What?” Akila asked. “What is going on?”
“I have to leave,” Imhotep said.
“But you just returned,” Akila said more harshly than she meant.
“Is someone ill?” Meryt asked, fear in her voice. Six years earlier Imhotep had been summoned to the court of King Sekhemkhet when his young son Nebmakhet had been ill. Unable to save the boy, Imhotep had been banished from the court.
“No, no,” he said quickly, guessing her thoughts. Then, remembering how close Meryt had once been to Hetephernebti, he realized that the news he had would affect Meryt almost as strongly as her memories.
“King Huni has asked me to gather some information for him,” he said, trying to find a way to gently break the news.
“About Hetephernebti’s death,” Bata said from the doorway.
As Imhotep twisted around to glare at Bata, Meryt said, “I must have heard you speak of her while I was asleep because I dreamed of her. I think that I knew that she had passed over to the Field of Reeds.”
“Was she with Isis?” Bata said, entering the small room and squeezing past Imhotep to kneel beside Meryt’s bed. “Or Re? I imagine her standing beside Re on his boat as they soar together across the sky. Or with King Djoser and Inetkawes. She told me that she dreamed of them more and more often. She knew,” he said with assurance, “that she would be with them soon.”
“I dreamed that it was festival,” Meryt said, her face filled with excitement as she turned to focus on Bata. “It was that moment before Re arrives, the black sky had turned deep blue and there was a red edge to the far eastern sky.”
Bata opened his eyes wide and said, “Remember the year when the beetles escaped early and it was too dark to see them and everyone started to run and scream?”
“Hetephernebti was standing on the barge in the canal. The very tip of the obelisk was starting to turn to gold, as if it were on fire. It felt like the first year that I was at the temple, just a little girl and everything was so new and magical,” Meryt continued with her own dream.
Bata nodded agreement. “One year at the Festival of Sekhmet a leashed lion broke loose and everyone was too drunk to even notice. The lion sniffed at everyone, but no one was attacked.” He smiled at the memory and added, “The priests there make the very best beer.”
Meryt looked at Akila and then at Imhotep. “It wasn’t the light or the sound of the crowd whispering excitedly or the smell of the incense, although I remember all of those, what I really felt in my dream was the rightness of it all.”
She looked back again to Akila. “Do you believe in the gods?”
When Akila failed to answer immediately, Meryt sighed. “No, I can see that you are like Imhotep. Are all the people of your time like you? Do you live only in your skin with no hope of more?”
Closing her eyes, Meryt smiled. “The dream was so real. I felt the vibrations of the sistrums and the air itself swirled as the ground exhaled, Geb whispering his love to Nut. Everything was twinkling like Khonsu’s light on the river and it seemed as if we were all one spirit, our kas merging and singing and celebrating.”
As Meryt’s breathing deepened into restful sleep, Imhotep turned to Akila with tears in his eyes. “You saved her life, Akila,” he said, his voice breaking. Opening his arms, he pulled her to him. “You saved my life, you saved my daughter’s life and now you’ve saved Meryt’s life.”
As he embraced Akila, he felt Bata’s strong arms encircle them.
“Everything will be well, Imhotep,” he said, his voice no longer carrying the childish enthusiasm he had feigned to hearten Meryt. Then, leaning his head close to Imhotep’s ear, he whispered, “Akila will care for Meryt, Lord Imhotep. And Hapu will watch over the two of them. I will go and pack for us. For no one can protect us from the king if you don’t go to Iunu and discover the truth of Hetephernebti’s death.”
- 0 -
While Bata gathered food, a spare kilt for Imhotep, a clean loincloth for himself, a short spear, and the wooden amulet, shaped like an ankh with drooping arms, cal
led a tyet or knot of Isis, which he always carried with him when he traveled, Imhotep sat on the flat roof with a papyrus, brush and ink pot.
Expecting to see Akila’s black hair appear over the rooftop, he tried to focus on what he could do to discover how Hetephernebti had died.
He had read a few detective novels when he was young. Reviewing his memories, he thought that “The Gold Bug” by Poe might help him decipher a code and “The Maltese Falcon” by Hammett might help him make witty remarks, but he didn’t see how either skill would help him here.
He tried to picture himself on his hands and knees examining a crime scene like Sherlock Holmes or twirling a pointed moustache like Hercule Poirot as he made leaping deductions.
No, he thought with a frown, I’m more like that guy in the wrinkled trenchcoat, the guy who seemed befuddled and always came back to ask another seemingly pointless question. What was his name?
He shook his head, chasing away his thoughts.
Looking at the blank papyrus, he sighed; Hetephernebti was dead. She had always been part of the landscape of his world, as constant and reliable as the sand and the river and the sky. He had been sad when King Djoser had died, but he had spent fifteen years building a tomb for the king. His inevitable death had always been in Imhotep’s mind. But not Hetephernebti. She had been his first patron, she had sent Meryt to find him, she had introduced him to the royal court, she had saved him from Djefi.
Everything has changed, Imhotep thought.
He looked at the papyrus again. Empty, like an unwritten life. It could hold a love letter, a drawing of a crocodile or a hawk in flight, a blackmail threat, an execution order or a map to a hidden oasis.
“What are you doing?” a voice asked him in English.
“I don’t know. I truly don’t know,” he said aloud and then, as a shadow crossed his outstretched legs, he realized that the voice had not been his subconscious. Looking up he saw Akila, her hands in her pockets, her head tilted toward him – her interrogation stance.