by Jerry Dubs
Things have changed since Hetephernebti’s brother ruled the land, she thought. And not for the better. But then, when was change ever good?
“The room?” Imhotep prompted. He was having trouble keeping his voice neutral and commanding. He knew Bernib casually. She had always struck him as a narrow-minded zealot; convinced that the worshipers of Re were superior to those who followed the other gods.
Like any fervently religious person, he thought.
He raised an eyebrow at Bernib, suddenly realizing that he should view her as a suspect. She was now the Voice of Re, taking Hetephernebti’s place as high priestess. She had benefited the most from Hetephernebti’s death.
“Where were you when Hetephernebti died?” he asked.
Bernib looked confused. “Why here, of course. Where else would I be?”
“No,” Imhotep persisted, his lingering foul mood coloring his voice. “I mean ... ”
“Lord Imhotep understands you were here,” Bata interrupted smoothly. He pointed an open hand down the hallway behind Bernib. “If you could please show us the room, the actual chamber where you found Hetephernebti?”
Bernib looked at Imhotep for a moment, still confused by his question. She lived here in the temple. She had always lived here. Where else could she be? The strange man with the royal necklace was still frowning, so she looked instead at Bata. He was smiling happily and nodding toward the hallway.
Sighing deeply, she turned to lead them to the oil storage room where Hetephernebti had been found lying face down in a pool of blood. Bernib had wanted the room cleaned immediately, but Amtes had stopped her.
A wbt-priestess and cousin to King Huni, Amtes had insisted that the king would want to know how Hetephernebti had died. As if that mattered, Bernib had thought, but she had held her tongue. In the days of King Khaba and Merneith, his sadistic companion, Bernib had learned the valuable habit of holding her tongue.
Bernib led Imhotep and Bata past the high priestess’ chambers, rooms she now occupied, rooms she intended to hold.
A scowl on his face, Imhotep seemed to ignore the paintings and the tapestries they passed. Bata saw that he was biting back his anger.
Bernib paused by an open doorway.
“Castor oil?” Bata said, sniffing.
“Yes, this is a storage room for oils and for linens,” Bernib said, pointing to a back wall where bolts of white cloth were stored on a wide table. “We found her over there,” she pointed to the interior wall to the left of the entrance. She looked at Imhotep, a frown on her face.
“Yes, Voice of Re?” he said, using the title Bernib had taken on Hetephernebti’s death.
“Hetephernebti believed in the will of the gods.”
“Yes,” Imhotep agreed, biting off the word impatiently.
She stared at him, unable to understand why he didn’t think as she did. Waving her hand at the dried blood and the broken jars where Hetephernebti had died, she said, “This was the will of the gods. It happened to Re’s own voice here in his own Place of Pillars.”
“Yes,” Imhotep agreed, “but sometimes people do things because they are sure that they are following a god’s will.”
“Of course,” Bernib said. “All that we do is the will of the gods. That is why we must choose our god wisely. As Hetephernebti did. As I have. And you?”
“No one can doubt Re’s greatness,” Bata said quickly, lightly placing a hand on Imhotep’s arm.
Bernib put her hands on her ample hips and studied Imhotep, taking the measure of the outlander who dared to question the god’s will.
“Do you question why Re rises each morning? Do you inquire into how Tefnut can cause water to fall from the sky? Do you ask how Re knows the secret names of all things?” she asked accusingly.
Imhotep dropped his head and closed his eyes. He thought of Copernicus and Galileo peeling back the mysteries of nature despite the restraining hand of religion. Yes, he wanted to say, we will question the sun’s movements and the nature of weather and how the universe came into being. That is exactly what we will do.
Bata was sure he could hear Imhotep grinding his teeth together.
He stepped between Imhotep and Bernib. Smiling, he said, “Thank you, Voice of Re. Lord Imhotep and I will work quickly and then this room can be returned to ma’at.”
Satisfied that she had taught the outlander a lesson about the implacable power of the gods, Bernib stared at Imhotep’s bowed head. No doubt, she thought, he is hiding his shame. Nodding quickly, she looked back at Bata – at least he was of the Two Lands, he understood – and she said, “As it should be.”
- 0 -
Imhotep stood outside the doorway as Bernib’s heavy footsteps slapped down the hallway. Counting his breaths, he composed himself. Glancing at Bata he saw that his friend’s face, usually alight with inner amusement, was solemn as he looked at the dark stains created by Hetephernebti’s blood.
“I visited her often in the year that you were away with Maya,” Bata said matter-of-factly.
“I didn’t know that,” Imhotep said. When he had taken his ill daughter into the future he had been away for a weekend, but on his return though the time portal he discovered that a year had passed in ancient Egypt. “That year is lost to me.”
“She always welcomed me warmly, fed me well and asked about Meryt. She looked on her as a daughter,” Bata said.
“She was devoted to her family,” Imhotep said as he stepped into the room, moving to his right to avoid the death scene. “And to her god,” he added.
“Lord Imhotep,” Bata said. “Bernib is what she is, but she is not a killer. She could never imagine Re asking her to kill Hetephernebti. I know that you are angry. I know that you are worried about Meryt. I know that you have suffered ... ”
Nodding, Imhotep interrupted him. “I know, I know.” He looked around the room and then sighed. “I have no idea what to do here, Bata. I see the stain of Hetephernebti’s blood and I see the broken pottery. But it means nothing to me. I just ... ” He stopped himself and straightened his shoulders.
Leaning against the rough stone wall he tried to concentrate on the scene.
Light from one narrow window fell on the broken pottery and the dark stain on the floor. The other side of the room was filled with knee-high jars. The walls were bare and there was little space to walk. Just inside the doorway there was enough room for a few people to stand, but it didn’t seem likely to Imhotep that the room would have been someplace that a killer would lure a victim.
On the other hand, he thought, it is secluded.
While Imhotep chased his thoughts, Bata squatted and rested his elbows on his knees as he looked at the bloody floor.
After a moment, Bata said, “There is a red hand there.” He pointed to a larger, curved piece of a broken jar. Rocking forward onto his hands and knees he stretched his arm over the dried blood. “Right there,” he said, touching the pottery.
Placing a hand against the wall behind him, Imhotep bent his knees, listened to them crack, and then gingerly sat with his back to the wall. “I see it,” he said. “Can you reach it?”
Ignoring Imhotep’s ungainly slide down the wall, Bata leaned forward until his hand was on the piece of pottery. He lifted it gently, tugging it free from the congealed blood that held it to the floor. He backed away and then stood. As he took it to Imhotep he saw that Imhotep was staring at the floor near the far wall, a pained look on his face.
“Lord Imhotep,” he said, quickly dropping to his knees beside Imhotep.
“Is there something on the floor over there?” Imhotep asked.
Relieved that Imhotep’s expression had been the result of straining to see and not a sign of pain, Bata looked across the room. Sunlight painted a rectangle on the rough stone wall. The bottom of the rectangle angled across the floor and in the center of the highlighted area the dried blood rose and fell, draped over a small, narrow hump.
“What is it?” Bata asked, leaning forward to step toward it.
Imhotep put out a hand to stop him. “In a minute,” he said. “Is there anything else here?” Lowering his arm he pushed against the bottom of the window ledge. Bata stood quickly and took Imhotep’s other arm to help him to his feet.
“Thank you, Bata,” Imhotep said.
“Of course, Lord Imhotep,” Bata said, embarrassed.
“No, Bata, I mean thank you for intervening with Bernib earlier and now, for not pointing out my need for help. But we can’t ignore it any longer.” He frowned as he thought and then said, “I don’t feel unwell; my stomach is fine, my bowels move freely and my stream is still strong.
“It is just my legs. When I was in Helwan with Akila I tried to exercise. I walked all that I could and I thought I was fine. But here we walk everywhere. And the chairs have no padding and the bed is hard.”
“I imagine that the stones are harder and the water wetter here,” Bata said, unable to stop himself.
Imhotep laughed lightly. “Yes, yes, and the clouds are too white for my old eyes and Nut’s belly is too far away.”
“Lord Imhotep,” Bata said, turning serious, “If we are speaking of things that don’t need to be spoken, I must tell you this. Your word saved my life when King Djoser thought that I had tried to kill his son. You and Meryt gave me a home and family. I love you as a brother. I love Meryt as my sister. I loved Tjau as my own son and I love Maya as my own daughter.
“I would have given my own blood for Meryt if Akila had allowed it. And when you become infirm I will gladly carry you on my back. Wait,” he held a hand to stop Imhotep from speaking. “I know that you would do the same for me.”
Bata shrugged and said, “You might be a god as many people say. No, don’t protest. It doesn’t matter to me. You are my friend and my brother. So we will help each other as brothers do and if you ever need my help and I do not see it, you will tell me. And I will do the same.”
Not trusting his voice, Imhotep smiled and nodded.
“Now,” Bata said, “let me step through this muck and retrieve whatever is over there.”
He handed Imhotep the pottery shard and then carefully picked his way through the broken pottery to the small object. He picked it from the floor and, returning to Imhotep, placed it in his hand.
Examining the small object, Imhotep saw that it was a small bead, a tube the length of a fingernail. He scraped away some of the dried blood to uncover a black bead.
“I’ve seen beads like that before,” Bata said.
“Where?”
“There is a jeweler in Ineb-Hedj who had some. He said that they are very rare. He claimed that they are made from rocks that fall from the sky. But then merchants will tell you anything.”
A meteorite, Imhotep thought. He tried to remember if he had ever read about ancient Egyptians making jewelry from meteorites. Perhaps Akila will know, he thought, appreciating again the presence of another person from the modern world.
He put the bead into a small, drawstring pouch that he carried tied to his kilt and then turned his attention to the bloody hand print on the pottery shard.
Holding the shard in his left hand he held his right hand over the image. The bloody stain was larger than his hand. He brought it closer to his face and examined it. The broken piece was a jagged triangle. One edge was deep red, blood having soaked into the exposed side. The front of the shard carried the imprint of four fingers and half of a palm.
Imhotep turned it over. Part of a blood thumb print was on the inner edge. Someone had picked up the shard and moved it. The thumb print was lightly smeared, no ridges or whorls were visible. He looked at the four finger prints. There was not enough detail in the fingertips, but the lines of the inner folds of the knuckles and two palm lines were clear.
He idly wondered, are they the heart line and the health line? Or life or fate lines?
“You should draw this,” Bata said.
Imhotep looked at him.
“We could copy it and then have people lay their hand on it. If it fits, then we will know that they were here. Maybe they are the killer,” Bata said, his voice rising in excitement.
“Bata,” Imhotep said, “We don’t know if there is a killer. It is possible that Hetephernebti tripped and fell. She might have had a stroke or a heart attack. The hand print could be from someone who was starting to clean the room or from Hetephernebti herself.”
Seeing Bata’s face fall in disappointment, Imhotep said, “But, you are right. Let’s make a copy of this.”
“Good,” Bata said immediately. “We have two clues now. The hand print and the bead.” He draped an arm around Imhotep’s narrow shoulders and hugged him. “I knew you would solve this mystery.”
Akila and Hapu
“Imhotep wraps their hands in linen and tells them to not row for five days,” Hapu said.
Akila looked down at the sandy trail beneath her feet and smiled. First, do no harm, she thought.
She and Hapu were following a pathway that ran along the river to one of the markets of Ineb-Hedj. While waiting for Meryt to regain strength and for Imhotep to return from Iunu, Akila had decided to set up a clinic where she could help local workers and teach Hapu first aid.
“This is the spot I thought we could use,” Hapu said, pausing beneath a sycamore tree that created an island of shade over a semicircle of low rocks, their surfaces flat and worn.
Sitting on one of the wide rocks, Akila leaned back to enjoy the clean air and the shade. She breathed deeply to empty her mind. A week had passed since the blood transfusion and her strength had returned. Meryt, she thought, was much stronger and clearly on the way to recovery.
“We call it the Tree of Life ... ” Hapu said, tilting her head at the wide leafy umbrella above them.
Akila smiled.
“ ... because the coffin makers use its wood to prepare a bed for the dead,” Hapu continued.
Absorbing the unexpected linkage between life and death, Akila closed her eyes. This world is so fundamentally different, she thought.
She had been here a week. Imhotep had left two days ago, or was it three now? She wondered. Here in ancient Egypt the days – had it been four days? – and did it matter? – were filled in such a different way than the days in the modern world.
There was no background musical static from radios, no dire intonations from television news readers, no police sirens. The skies were empty; no incessantly whapping helicopters cast shadows as they tilted through the slums, no unmanned drones silently surveyed the streets and markets.
This morning Akila had awakened and, while doing her morning sun salutations, realized that the tightness that had come to perch between her shoulders when Fahim, her husband, had begun joining protests, had dissolved. An ache that had settled around her eyes as she held back tears over Fahim’s death had relaxed.
Lying in Corpse Pose on the rough stone floor she had marveled over the stillness of the Two Lands, a calm that seemed to nestle against her like a sleepy kitten. Breathing deeply, she wondered if her modern, multitasking brain would spin into a frenzy, like a blender chewing on a single ice cube.
She had opened her eyes to a bright shaft of sunlight that angled across the room, carrying with it the musical twittering of swallows floating on the smell of wood smoke from a cook fire. Closing her eyes and focusing once more on her breathing, she heard a light moan from the bed beside her.
Meryt.
In the modern world, Akila and Meryt, both in love with the same man, could never have been friends. Or maybe we could have, Akila thought.
Although at first she had thought of Meryt as a simple innocent in an unsophisticated world, Akila had soon realized that if Meryt was simple, it was in the same way that the Dalai Lama was simple.
It was more, Akila thought, that Meryt was unabashedly direct. Lacking pretension, she felt no need to put herself above – or below – anyone else. She was entirely comfortable in her own skin, in her own world, in her own time. She was, Akila realized, a touc
hstone – the still center in a pool of water from which ripples radiated, gently exploring and accepting.
I understand why Imhotep ached to return to her.
“Akila, are you unhappy?” Hapu said, sliding from her rock to kneel beside Akila beneath the shady sycamore tree.
Akila pushed herself upright, surprised to feel tears on her cheeks.
“No, Hapu,” she said as she wiped her eyes.
“Imhotep will return,” Hapu said, misreading Akila’s emotion. “He has gone away before. He was entombed, but he returned. He has always returned, Akila. He denies that he is a god, yet he is unlike any man I have known. The great King Djoser sought his words. Djefi held a knife to his throat and Merneith had him buried alive. But he has survived. He always survives.
“Many look upon him as father Ptah,” she said, her voice quiet with reverence. “He has touched us all. He has lived among us, but he is not of us.”
Akila smiled and pulled a linen cloth from a bag to wipe dark green kohl from her hands. She had allowed Hapu to apply the sun-screening shadows above her eyes and, unused to wearing makeup, she had forgotten it was there.
“I am not worried about Imhotep,” Akila said.
“I am just overwhelmed to find myself here. It is,” she looked at Hapu, naked except for a white kilt. She looked beyond her to the river bank where naked laborers carried sacks of grain from moored barges and she looked down at her own khaki shorts and T-shirt, “very different. The air, the river, the trees, the people, the food, it is all so different. But,” she arched her back and shook her head, feeling her hair brush against her neck and wondering if she should shave her head like everyone else did, “I will be fine.”
She reached down and took Hapu’s hand. Turning it palm up she softly pinched the web between her thumb and index finger. “This is the spot where they get blisters, yes?”
Hapu nodded. “And across the pads where the fingers join the hand. But it is the younger men. The older men have very hard skin there.”