The Forest of Myrrh (Imhotep Book 3)

by Jerry Dubs

  Instead of answering, the woman shook her head and turned away. Her ribs were clearly visible from the back and her thighs seemed to stop abruptly at her back without having enough mass to form buttocks.

  Imhotep blinked. He forgot sometimes that he spent most of his time among the ruling class, all of them clean, well dressed, and well fed. He wondered how old the woman was. By modern standards she looked at least eighty years old, but he guessed that she was probably little more than thirty, but worn by life, drained by malnutrition and ravaged by any number of parasites.

  Following Bata down the matted trail, he emerged at the spot where the woman had stood.

  “Over there,” Bata said, pointing to a thicker growth of underbrush. Imhotep stared at it a moment before he realized that he was looking at the side of a lean-to. Outside of it there was a small circle of stones and a darker heap of ashes – a cook fire.

  “I don’t have any food,” the woman said as she appeared from inside the lean-to.

  “We brought food,” Imhotep said.

  “Is this where Ptah-Shepses lives?” Bata said.

  The woman looked at Bata and then at Imhotep who was wearing his official kilt and the thickly beaded menat necklace that signified his office.

  “Greetings, little mother,” he said. “My name is Imhotep. My friend is called Bata.” He looked for a place to set the bag, seeing none, he handed it to Bata. “We brought some figs and bread,” he said, nodding to the bag.

  She squinted at Imhotep and then looked at the bag.

  “Yes, this is where Ptah-Shepses lives,” she said, unsure if she could take the sack. Stepping forward, she said, “I am Nofret.”

  “Nofret,” Imhotep said, nodding again at the bag.

  “Who is out there?” a man’s voice called from the lean-to.

  “Guests,” Nofret shouted back.

  “Tell them to shove off,” the man shouted.

  Bata looked at Imhotep knowingly.

  “They brought food,” Nofret said, taking the sack from Bata and looking inside. She sniffed loudly and cocked an eye at Imhotep. “There’s no fish in here, right?” she said. “He is sick of fish. Every day it is fish.”

  “No, no fish,” Bata said.

  Nofret pulled a fig from the sack, sniffed it and bit off the end. Juice ran down her chin and she wiped it with her bare arm and then, nodding her satisfaction, she turned to lead them to the lean-to.

  Although the palm leaves that covered the long sloping side of the lean-to kept the interior shaded, the morning heat had already pushed its way inside. As Imhotep’s eyes adjusted to the shadows he saw that there was nothing inside the hut, no cooking pots, no oil jars, no lamps, no baskets, nothing to show that this was a place where people lived.

  Ptah-Shepses was sitting cross-legged on the ground at the far edge of the lean-to. His head was unshaved, the hair a black tangle and he had a beard, the growth thin on his sunken cheeks, but heavy on his chin. Facing away from them, he twisted toward them without rising. As he did, Imhotep saw the bulge over his right shoulder, a knotted ball with hairs sprouting on it.

  He had a scowl on his face – angry over the interruption, angry at life – Imhotep didn’t know. When he saw Imhotep, his eyes began at Imhotep’s bare feet, traveled up to the blue edge of his white kilt, then slowly up his chest. It seemed to Imhotep that the man’s movements were slow, not through anger or menace, but because it pained him to move.

  When Ptah-Shepses’ eyes reached Imhotep’s face, his expression grew darker.

  He opened his mouth showing a few rotten teeth and then rocked to his side. Unable to get to his feet he grunted and glared at his wife who hurried to help him to his feet.

  “Lord Imhotep, long life,” Ptah-Shepses said, spitting on the ground and scowling at Imhotep.

  “Long life to you, Ptah-Shepses,” Imhotep said. Although he tried to ignore the man’s insolence, he felt himself flush with heat and anger.

  Staring at Imhotep, Ptah-Shepses said to his wife, “This is the great Lord Imhotep.”

  She shrugged in answer and Ptah-Shepses started to raise his hand to strike her, but he stopped himself and settled for glaring at her instead.

  “I am sorry, Lord Imhotep,” Nofret said, her head bowed.

  “We have nothing to be sorry for,” her husband roared, angry enough now to swing a fist at her. She ducked away and took a step back.

  “Stop that!” Imhotep shouted.

  The hunchback wiped a dirty forearm across his face.

  “Oh, I remember, that voice. You like to give orders. Well you don’t give them here and you don’t give them to me, not anymore,” he said.

  Bata stepped quickly in front of Imhotep to protect him.

  “And always someone willing to protect you,” Ptah-Shepses said, sneering at Bata.

  “King Huni protects me,” Imhotep said, his anger growing. “I am the king’s vizier, Ptah-Shepses, and you will respect me as you would respect the king.”

  Ptah-Shepses slowly pivoted and pointed to his scabbed and dirty buttocks. “The king can respect this,” he said.

  As Bata gasped at the disrespect Imhotep pushed past him and raised his staff. Before he could swing it, Nofret slid in front of her husband.

  “Please, Lord Imhotep,” she said, holding her thin arms overhead.

  Imhotep felt Bata’s hands on his shoulders. “I told you they are dangerous,” he whispered, pulling Imhotep away from Ptah-Shepses, who had turned. Seeing Imhotep’s raised staff, Ptah-Shepses pushed his wife aside and staggered toward Imhotep.

  “Move!” Imhotep shouted at Bata and then lowered his staff. He lunged forward and stabbed at Ptah-Shepses, who swatted the stick away. The movement threw him off balance and Ptah-Shepses fell.

  While Ptah-Shepses rolled to his side and tried to push himself to his feet, Bata took the staff from Imhotep.

  A soldier by training, Bata held the staff like a short, stabbing spear. Balanced on wide-spread feet, his knees bent, Bata said, “You would attack the king’s vizier? Come to me, deformed hunchback.”

  “Stop!” Nofret said, kneeling beside her husband. To Imhotep’s amazement, he saw the man’s chest start to heave and heard him begin to cry.

  “Ptah-Shepses, Nofret,” Imhotep said, regaining his composure, “What is this about? What is your grievance against me?”

  Ptah-Shepses looked up, his face wet with tears. “I worked for you for ten years at the tomb for King Djoser,” he said, his voice unsteady.

  “Many men worked there,” Imhotep said.

  Ptah-Shepses nodded. “And many are like me. Or worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ptah-Shepses looked over his shoulder at his bent back. “Your stones broke me.”

  Nofret glared over her shoulder. “He can’t fish, he can’t hunt, he can’t gather reeds.” Turning back to her husband, she gently stroked his arm. “He was so strong and handsome when he left to work on the tomb,” Nofret said softly to herself.

  “I am sorry, Nofret,” Imhotep said, his anger now replaced by a heavy sadness. “Did your foreman know about your injury?” he asked.

  Ptah-Shepses nodded.

  “I don’t understand,” Imhotep said to himself. “I talked with King Djoser about this.”

  “You talked to the king about me?” Ptah-Shepses asked.

  Imhotep shook his head. “Not you, but all the workers. Djoser agreed to have tombs dug for those who died during construction. Workers who were injured were to be given homes and food for life.

  “Who was your foreman?”

  “Zezemonekh,” Ptah-Shepses said. He lowered his head. “He died. One of the sledges broke loose and slid down the ramp. It fell off the ramp.”

  Imhotep closed his eyes as he remembered the accident. A dozen men had been killed that day. He had been at the peak of the growing pyramid, watching as the work crews levered the huge stones into place. There had been a loud crack, as loud as the snap when a stone broke loose in th
e quarry and fell to the rocks below. Imhotep had hurried over to the edge of the level and looked down.

  One of the huge drag ropes had snapped and, in slow motion, one after another, the men holding the rope on the leading edge of the sledge fell to the ground as the rope came free. The men holding the intact rope on the other side of the sledge were pulled toward the heavily loaded sledge as it began to slide back down the long ramp.

  Some dug in their heels, trying to stop the unstoppable weight, others raised their hands, burnt from the friction of the sliding rope.

  Imhotep had shouted and started to run down the ramp, even though he knew there was nothing he could do.

  As the sledge reached the first wide turn it plowed furrows out of the ruts worn in the ramp and headed toward the edge of the half-built pyramid.

  On the higher levels the workers were all shouting now, running toward the edge of the ramps, waving their arms at the men below.

  The sledge reached the side of the ramp, tottered briefly and then the back of it dipped out of sight. As it did, Imhotep saw the ropes that had secured the two large stones in place snap. The blocks, two giant dice rolled by the hands of an uncaring god, tumbled free.

  Imhotep bowed his head as he remembered the cries and the broken bodies.

  “Lord Imhotep?” Bata said, bringing him back to the lean-to in the swamp of the river delta.

  Imhotep nodded. “I will make this right,” he said.

  “Yes, Lord Imhotep,” Bata agreed. Then he turned to Ptah-Shepses. “Have you been to the Temple of Re recently?”

  Ptah-Shepses shook his head. “I can’t walk that far.”

  “What do you mean you will make it right?” Nofret asked, looking at Imhotep.

  “Food, a home. What do you need?”

  “I could use a servant.”

  “We don’t need a servant,” Ptah-Shepses said quickly. “There wouldn’t be anything for them to do.”

  “Who is going to cook? And go to the market? And gather fire wood? And carry water? You aren’t going to,” Nofret said curtly, holding on to her hope.

  “Do you know a temple girl named Tarset?” Bata asked, looking at Ptah-Shepses and then at Nofret.

  “Will she be our servant? Is she strong enough to do everything?” Nofret asked.

  Imhotep put out a hand to stop Bata’s response. Bata looked at him angrily and then followed Imhotep’s nod to look at Ptah-Shepses’ hands. The fingers were huge and misshapen, clearly not the fingers that had left their bloody marks on the broken jar.

  “Ptah-Shepses, Nofret,” Imhotep said, “I am very sorry that you have had troubled days. I will go to the governor and make arrangements for you to be taken care of. My friend Bata will return and tell you what will happen.”

  “Yes,” Bata said. “Or perhaps you would prefer to meet at the Temple of Re. There is a storeroom ... ”

  “No, no,” Imhotep interrupted. “Bata loves a good walk. He would much prefer to come to you. Isn’t that right, dear friend?” he said, looking sternly at Bata.

  “Yes, Lord Imhotep,” Bata said, giving up yet another suspect.

  - 0 -

  “He could barely stand, Bata,” Imhotep said when they were back on the main trail to Iunu.

  “He could have been feigning weakness,” Bata said. “Hunchbacks are clever.”

  “He isn’t a hunchback,” Imhotep said. “He was crippled from working on King Djoser’s tomb, working for me,” he added sadly.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes, Bata’s head down as he thought, Imhotep leaning on his staff more than he wanted to, but happy to have it.

  “What about Tarset?” Bata asked.

  “The temple girl?”

  “The missing temple girl,” Bata said.

  Imhotep paused as he tried to roll a rock away from the path with his staff. He poked at it with his staff, but the rock refused to move. Glaring at it, Imhotep suddenly felt unaccountably angry. The rock, the swamp, the crippled worker, the death of Hetephernebti, the near loss of Meryt … everything he encountered in the Two Lands seemed intent on wearing him down, making his life more difficult.

  He was tired of it all, his body worn and his heart exhausted. All he wanted was to return to Ineb-Hedj to Meryt and his daughter, Maya. He wanted to show Akila the beauty of the ancient world and find a way to make things right with her. He wanted to sit under the shade of a palm tree with a sketchbook and pencil.

  There is always another problem, another person in need. I can’t solve all the problems. I can barely keep my own household together, he thought.

  Angrily he kicked at the rock. He had just spent five years in the modern world, wearing shoes. Now he was barefoot. Realizing his error, he tried to avert the kick. He lost his balance and grabbed his staff with both hands. The shaft broke and Imhotep yelped as he fell to the ground.

  Bata quickly knelt beside him.

  “Lord Imhotep, are you injured?”

  Imhotep tried to laugh but the sounds came out in sad gasps and he found that he was crying. His thoughts bounced from the memory of Meryt lying on the tomb floor, her side sliced open, to Tjau lying defenseless on the floor beside fallen King Sekhemkhet as a half dozen dull spears stabbed him, to the dark corridor in the palace where he had listened to King Djoser coughing as he died.

  He saw Brian crawling across the sand outside the tomb of Kanakht, blood falling from his ripped chest as he used his last breath of strength to save Imhotep’s life. He thought of young Ahmes willingly leaving his world behind to save him from the living entombment. And he thought of Akila, a strong, wonderful woman, who had crawled through a dark burial tunnel and passed through the time portal to enter the past, just because he beckoned her.

  “There has been too much,” he said in English. “I can’t do any more, I can’t ask any more.”

  Bata sat beside him and cradled his crying friend’s head. His own heart filled with a different burden, Bata gently stroked Imhotep’s face, wishing he could take the pain from him.

  Abandoning himself to his sorrow, Imhotep closed his eyes and cried.

  Bata closed his own eyes, but when he did he saw the dark silhouette of a young girl, frightened and alone. He would accompany Imhotep to the palace and then he would make arrangements for the hunchback and his wife. He would let Imhotep lose himself in sorrow and then regain his strength – that is what he does, Bata realized – he empties himself and then finds a strength to be reborn.

  And then, Bata thought, then I will find little Tarset.

  Everyone needs someone who cares for them.

  Weprehwy

  Standing by the river, Bata watched the square white sail of Imhotep’s boat flap in the wind as the rowers pulled the boat across the current. Near the center of the river, the rowers turned the boat against the flow of the river. The sail caught the wind and snapped outward, straining against the ropes that held it in place.

  For a moment the boat stood still, the wind and the current fighting each other, and then the four rowers bent to their oars and the boat lurched forward.

  Imhotep, seated on a wooden stool by the single mast, leaned back, regained his balance and then turned to wave goodbye to Bata.

  “Give Meryt my love,” Bata called, waving in return. “And Maya,” he added, dropping his arm to his side and watching as Imhotep’s boat moved away. He stood by the river a moment, relieved to see Imhotep returning to Meryt and eager to begin his own search.

  - 0 -

  “He’s gone?” Amtes asked.

  Nodding, Bata leaned forward and put a comforting hand on Amtes’ arm. “He has seen what he came to see. Now he will go to Khmunu to examine Hetephernebti’s body.”

  “He can do that?”

  Bata smiled. “He is Imhotep.”

  “But what about the hunchback and Tarset?”

  “He has asked me to find Tarset,” Bata lied.

  In truth, Imhotep had told Bata to come with him to Ineb-Hedj to stay with Meryt while he w
ent on to Khmunu to examine Hetephernebti’s body. Surprising himself and Imhotep, Bata had refused.

  Instead of the argument Bata expected, Imhotep had searched Bata’s eyes. It had felt to Bata as if Imhotep were looking into his ka. Bata had steeled himself and returned Imhotep’s gaze as long as he could. In the end, ashamed that he was putting his own desires above Imhotep’s, he had dropped his eyes, but not before he saw a sad resignation creep into Imhotep’s eyes.

  Bata’s heart had gone cold. He was sure that Imhotep had been looking beyond today, beyond this year, beyond their lifetimes and had been steeling himself to accept what he saw.

  Imhotep had said something in English and then he had stepped to Bata and hugged him.

  “We each must follow our own path,” Imhotep had said.

  Amtes nodded now, digesting the news that Bata would be searching for Tarset and a dangerous hunchback alone.

  “What about the guards who were with you?” she asked.

  “They went with Imhotep.”

  “So ... ”

  Bata stood and walked across to a window. They were in Amtes’ small chamber in the Temple of Re.

  Life there continued as it had when Hetephernebti was Voice of Re. Devotions were held each morning as Re appeared over the eastern horizon, at noon when his solar barge passed directly overhead and then again, with chanted prayers and hymns, as Re entered the underground where he would battle for his survival.

  Amtes was a wbt-priestess, one of several women charged with maintaining daily life in the temple. She helped to oversee the food stores, ensured that there were adequate supplies of linens, oils, and salts. Others dealt with offerings from pilgrims, settled disputes among vendors and distributed food to needy households. Still others maintained the grounds, swept the courtyard, scrubbed floors, freshened murals. There were four men, scribes, who recorded inventories and corresponded with priests from other temples and with state officials.

  Bata looked through the window to a courtyard where three girls were playing with a goose, daring each other to run close to the huge bird. Each time a girl drew near, the goose flapped its wings, stretched its neck and snapped at her. The other girls laughed and clapped.