by Jerry Dubs
Imhotep looked from the man’s shaved head to his daughter, who was smiling with joy.
“Pentu is my husband, father.”
“I have heard so many stories about you, but not enough, not enough,” Pentu said, straightening and tilting his head as he unabashedly studied Imhotep.
“Long life, Pentu,” Imhotep said, extending his right arm in greeting.
Pentu took his arm in embrace and then, letting go after a moment, he said, “I grieve your loss, Lord Imhotep. I dreamed of meeting Maya’s mother. Bata spoke of her as a goddess. However,” he said as he nodded to himself, “no doubt she is enjoying a better life in the Field of Reeds.”
Head down, he raised his face and Imhotep saw a kindred spirit smiling at him from Pentu’s honest eyes.
Turning from Imhotep, Pentu knelt on one knee before Akila. “Lady Akila, I presume. Bata and Hapu talked of you with love. Bata said he had never met a woman with a stronger spirit, although, to be honest, he never spoke those words within hearing of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Bata was not stupid,” he said with a small chuckle. “No, no, he was far from that,” he added to himself. “And Sitre said that Lord Imhotep regarded you as a more learned physician than himself.”
He turned his head to Imhotep and said, “Is that true?”
Imhotep, taken with Pentu’s openness, surprised himself by laughing. “Her skills are as far beyond mine as her beauty is beyond mine.”
Standing, Pentu leaned forward and kissed Akila’s cheek. “Then your medical skills must be formidable, surpassing even those of Thoth,” he said.
Then he turned to the waiting servants and said, “Please bring us wine, and beer,” he added, smiling at Imhotep. “We have much to celebrate. Lord Imhotep and Lady Akila have joined us from beyond the dust of our ancestors and Lady Meryt has joined her ancestors. Perhaps her ka will be lured from the gentle beyond to dine with us.”
As the servants left, Pentu pulled Imhotep onto a bench and said, “I don’t know if Maya has told you, but I am a physician as well, trained by Sitre herself! She told me that on your first meeting she had been stung by a scorpion and you saved her life. She said you had a magic cloth that turned colder than Sobek’s belly.
“I always hoped to ask you about that.”
Mut-Nofret’s Plan
Seni pushed himself to his feet. His legs were stiff, his hips sore.
My body is drying like a goat’s carcass left in the desert, he thought. At least I have had many good years. More than poor Akheperenre ever had, even if he did become pharaoh.
Pharaoh!
He shuffled across the room to the artificial pond, its still water covered with scum. The waterfall that fed it no longer burbled; the water wheel outside the wall gathered cobwebs and bird nests. Brown branches from the willow tree trunk hung over the still water. Seni tugged a branch free. Wrinkled, spear-shaped leaves fell to the floor. Holding the dry twig in his hand, he snapped it in half.
Akheperenre!
It was right that Khnum’s wheel had turned out a misshapen vessel from the coupling of Thutmose and Mut-Nofret. Mut-Nofret’s love was meant for me, her body and mine were one.
Yet ... If the poor boy had been healthy, how different life would have been ... If the assassins at Abu had killed Hatshepsut as well as Amenmose and Wadjmose ... If Thutmose had raised his daughter as a woman and not a surrogate son ... If that strange warrior had not magically appeared in the temple ...
If crocodiles shit gold ...
- 0 -
Mut-Nofret wrote asking for more and different kinds of wood to create incense, for strange resins to burn. The priests had told her that the fragrance and smoke of the exotic scents would soothe her son’s mind, heal his ba and satisfy his ka.
That is what the letters said, but Mut-Nofret and Seni had been secret lovers for so long that their words carried two meanings.
He sent her myrrh, of course, not just the purest resins, but blends containing powdered beetles or the hair of a baboon or the scrapings of ivory from an elephant’s tusk. He sent her frankincense, scented with rose petals or lotus. He found a trader from the distant east who carried bdellion and another who sold nuggets of exotic ambers, some brown, some red, some tinted green.
He sent them all to her and in return she sent him messages thanking him and asking for more. Embedded in each was a disjointed phrase, an awkward word. Over the course of three years he recorded the fragments, piecing together her secret words that described her plan.
If it worked, Akheperenre would become pharaoh. Mut-Nofret would rule as regent for the addled boy. She would recall Seni from Ta-Seti and they would be together again.
... if it worked.
And it almost had, Seni thought with a bitter smile. Who could foresee that a warrior from another world would save Hatshepsut?
And who could anticipate that Hatshepsut would become a man?
Sitre
“They have slaves,” Akila whispered in English to Imhotep as they waited in Maya’s courtyard later that afternoon.
Sitting by the garden pond, its water cooling the air, the leaves of the plants deflecting and softening the harsh sunlight, Imhotep rolled a silver goblet filled with water between his palms. He had moved through the morning and early afternoon in a daze.
The horror of Meryt’s death intruded on every quiet moment. The joy of finding Maya alive was stained by having missed so many years with her and finding her now as a woman, a member of the royal court and living a lifestyle that was alien to him.
And he found himself mourning Bata and angry with him at the same time.
Bata had been loyal beyond belief, continuing to search for them for twenty-seven years. Yet, if he had accepted the loss of Meryt and Imhotep, if he had quit trying the stone door, if he had never rescued them, then Imhotep would have died in the temple courtyard with Meryt.
I wouldn’t be tortured by her death.
He stared at the silver goblet. But Akila would also have died, he thought. He shook his head. I’m being selfish. Bata saved me. He allowed me to learn that Maya is alive and thriving. And that I have a grandson.
“Tim,” Akila whispered.
He looked up at her, startled to hear his old name.
“She has slaves,” Akila repeated, again in English.
He nodded. “I saw.”
Angry, she stood and walked to the pond. Slipping off a sandal, she trailed her foot through the water. Almost immediately, a young girl ran to her and knelt, holding out a cloth to dry her foot when she raised it from the water.
Imhotep saw Akila’s back tighten. Pushing himself from the bench, he walked to the girl and touched her shoulder. Eyes wide, the slave looked up and, seeing Imhotep’s extended hand, she gave him the cloth. He smiled and tilted his head, dismissing her.
Kneeling in the girl’s place, he touched Akila’s leg and then dried her foot when she offered it to him. She shook her head angrily and then smiled in sympathy when she saw that he had just realized that he was without his staff and he didn’t know if he would be able to get back to his feet.
She helped him up and held his arm as they walked back to the bench.
“When I first arrived in ancient Egypt,” he said in English as they sat and he stretched his stiff right leg, “and was admitted to King Djoser’s court, he took me to Abu, which is where I met Bata. Bata was suspected of trying to kill Prince Teti. Any other king would simply have killed Bata, but Djoser took the time to learn the truth.”
He shook his head. “I can’t imagine another man better suited to rule a country. He really did rule from within ma’at.” He thought about his long dead friend for a moment and then said, “But, the point is, he could have killed Bata. No one would have thought it wrong, even Bata because King Djoser had absolute power, life-and-death power over everyone in the Two Lands.
“The idea of someone having that kind of power was alien to me and when I finally understood it I was shocked. But there wasn’t anything I could
do about it. I was in this ancient society and those were the rules. All I could do was to try to mitigate it whenever I saw it.”
“And that’s how you see this?” Akila asked, nodding toward the slave girl who was waiting nearby.
Imhotep sighed.
“I don’t know what we, what you and I, can do. I mean, there has always been slavery. There were millions and millions of slaves in our modern world. I don’t mean just wage slaves, but real slaves. India, China, Pakistan, Nigeria, the Congo. Real slaves.”
“Most of them women,” Akila said. “Sex slaves.”
Imhotep took her hand. “I know, Akila.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “We see the world from within our own skin. I can’t imagine the misery many people have.”
Akila glanced at him.
He has been buried alive. He watched his son being murdered. He just saw his wife stabbed and killed, and he sympathizes with the pain other people feel, she thought, feeling small.
She turned her hand to hold his.
This is why I love him, she thought.
He smiled at her and said, “I’ll talk with Maya, after I get to know her again.”
She frowned at herself, upset that she had given him another worry.
“Tim, I know that we can’t go around freeing all the slaves,” she said, searching for a compromise. “But I don’t want them tending me.”
They looked up at the sound of footsteps.
Maya and Neferhotep, followed by a cluster of slaves, entered the courtyard.
“You look beautiful,” Maya said, going to Akila and taking her hands. She leaned forward and kissed her cheeks. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut is never going to let you leave the court, you are too radiant. You, too, father,” she said, turning to Imhotep. “You look so wise and ... ”
“Old?” Imhotep prompted with a smile.
Behind Maya, Neferhotep laughed softly. Maya shook her head and said, “I was too young when I last saw you, but Bata said you were always modest.”
“Bata always said nice things about me to others,” Imhotep said. Then he added with a laugh, “But he was much more honest when we were alone.”
They were silent for a moment and then Neferhotep said, “I have arranged litters to take us to the palace instead of chariots.”
“I can walk,” Akila said quickly, thinking of the litter bearers.
“No, no,” Maya said, “We can’t arrive there on foot. I am Keeper of the Wardrobe and it would reflect badly on Pharaoh Hatshepsut.”
“Maybe Akila and I could walk together,” Pentu said as he joined them. “The chariots are too bouncy for me. Yes, Neferhotep, even when you drive slowly. And the litters jostle me so much that I get dizzy.”
He turned to Akila and bowed. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Akila, of escorting me to the palace?” He turned to Maya. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut won’t mind if I walk, she knows I don’t travel well.”
- 0 -
“You must tell me about these invisible ‘bugs’ that Hapu believes cause illness,” Pentu told Akila as they followed Imhotep’s swaying litter toward the palace.
“When she taught me about them, it immediately made sense. If you are injured, the damage comes from without ... a dog bite, a horse kick, a sword cut. But an illness comes from within. So I like the idea of the agent being within,” he said.
Akila nodded. “That is an excellent way to view it,” she said.
“Thank you,” Pentu said with a smile. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to have you here. Sitre is wonderful and I admire her greatly, but ... ”
“Thank you, Pentu,” Akila said, touching his shoulder. “I’m sure we can learn much from each other.”
They walked quietly for a few minutes, Pentu glancing from Akila to the litter just ahead of them where Imhotep sat. Freshly shaved, wearing the menat necklace of his office and a startlingly white kilt tied with an embroidered belt, Imhotep sat easily on the raised chair. His hands rested on his knees, his back was straight, his face, turned upward toward the afternoon sun, was relaxed and confident.
His body, though worn, looked strong; his face, despite a gathering of lines about his eyes, was that of a young man’s; his expression, edged with pain, exuded understanding and confidence, Pentu thought.
Pentu had heard all the stories Bata told about Imhotep: How he had appeared from the future, how he had saved Prince Teti’s arm, how he had divined the truth about the assassination attempt on Teti, how he had simply pointed a hand at a man who was trying to kill King Djoser and how the man had fallen immediately.
He had listened skeptically to the tale of Imhotep being wrapped as a mummy and buried alive and how he had emerged years later from a tunnel beneath King Djoser’s pyramid.
And the pyramid itself!
The man riding a few paces in front of him had envisioned a mountain of stone and then he had caused it to be raised. And writing! He had created an easier way to record thoughts while still honoring Thoth’s creation of hieroglyphs. And medicine! Before Imhotep there had been spells and magical incantations. Now there was understanding.
Pentu, a man of logic and reality, shivered as he looked at Imhotep. He felt that he could see Imhotep’s immortal ka, bursting with power and knowledge.
Walking beside him, Akila saw the way Pentu looked at Imhotep.
She thought to tell him that Imhotep was a man, much the same as Pentu. But even as she thought it, memories of Imhotep flooded her mind: His wasted body when she first saw him, the flesh held together with nothing more than his will power; his willingness to risk his own happiness to find help for Maya; his relentless search for a way to return to his family despite the risk it held for him.
No, she thought, he might not be a god, but he is unlike any other man.
- 0 -
An elderly woman escorted by four guards waited for them by the palace entrance.
As the litter bearers lowered their burdens to the ground, the elderly woman stepped away from her escort, peered toward Imhotep’s litter with weakened eyes and then started to cry. Helped from his litter, Imhotep stood with his heavy walking staff and studied the woman for a moment and then mouthed her name.
Akila recognized Hapu at the same time and ran toward her.
She reached Hapu a step before Imhotep and, opening her arms, pulled her into an embrace.
“Is it really you?” Hapu whispered, her voice hoarse with age.
Shocked at how much Hapu had changed, Akila nodded her head against her friend and said, “Yes, Hapu. Imhotep and I really are here.”
Hapu pulled back now as Imhotep reached her side. He leaned to her and kissed her cheek. “Hapu,” he said happily. “Thank you for taking care of Maya for us.”
“Lord Imhotep,” Hapu said, turning to him and hugging him.
He felt her shake as she wept.
Gently holding her, he softly caressed her back. She felt frail in his arms, her shoulders narrow, the skin of her back dry and stiff. Quickly he added the years. She had been twenty six when he had last seen her, a woman in the prime of her life. Now she was fifty-seven, young for the modern world, but ancient for this time. And again he felt the loss of years.
Composing herself, Hapu pulled back and looked at Imhotep and Akila. “You both look exactly as I remember you. It isn’t possible.”
Maya joined them now, escorted by Neferhotep and two young girls.
“I know, Sitre,” she said. “Neferhotep sent me word when they had found them, but he had never known them before, so he didn’t realize that they were unchanged ... ”
“Yes, that is right,” Imhotep interrupted, “Your name now is Sitre.”
She nodded. “Sitre is my court name. But I am still Hapu.”
“My name was changed also,” Imhotep said with a happy smile. “Sitre – ‘Daughter of Re’ – it suits you. I like it.” He took her hands in his. “Paneb would be so proud of you. And I understand that you are Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s physician. You’ve taken my po
sition. What am I to do?” he said with mock worry.
Sitre shook her head, young eyes beaming at Imhotep from her aged face. “Bata told Pharaoh Hatshepsut story after story about your ability to see into the future,” she said. “I’m sure pharaoh will find a use for you.”
Djeser-Djeseru
Two guards led them through the wide doorway of the palace and into a long, brightly lit hallway.
Sitre and Akila walked together, the two of them reconnecting as they reminisced about their trek up the river Iteru, a few weeks ago for Akila, half a lifetime ago for Sitre. Imhotep and Maya followed. He smiled, content to have his remaining friends and family reunited. Neferhotep and Pentu followed behind, Pentu asking his son about his trip to Abu and digging for details of what he had seen after passing through the time portal.
The hallway was far different from the closed, torch-lit stone corridor that Imhotep remembered from the days of King Djoser.
The wall on their left was covered with a smooth wash of gypsum and limestone plaster on which were painted royal and religious scenes: Pharaoh, it was impossible to tell if the artist intended to represent a specific ruler – perhaps Thutmose I, Imhotep thought – receiving blessings from Thoth, Pharaoh slaying kneeling captives, Pharaoh holding the reins of a two-wheeled war chariot.
There was no wall on their right. Instead the roof was supported by a series of columns, their gold-gilded sides inscribed with hieroglyphs. Imhotep saw cartouches of rulers he didn’t immediately recognize and he saw the symbols for Narmer and Djoser and – was it possible? – the reed, owl, and altar of his name.
Beyond the columns lay a garden, so wide and thick with trees and bushes and flowers that he couldn’t see the stone wall on the far side. He caught movement in the garden, and small dark fingers appeared around the trunk of a palm tree, followed by a small black face capped with a narrow fringe of white.
“Monkeys?” he said aloud.