by Jerry Dubs
“Yes, Lord Imhotep,” Pentu said from behind him, skipping up to walk beside Imhotep.
“Pharaoh has a small menagerie here. She enjoys collecting animals and plants from throughout the Two Lands and from the provinces beyond, especially those to the south. She had a giraffe, but unfortunately she also had a few lions. Even her divine will was unable to keep the lions from acting on their instincts. The giraffe is no more.”
Imhotep turned to see Pentu smiling, not a smile of schadenfreude, but one of amusement.
“Like her father – and his father and his father, so on and so on – Pharaoh Hatshepsut believes that the world should conform to her desires. Perhaps that state of mind is necessary to be an effective ruler. But I find it awkward. No matter how much I wish my medicines will work, if I have not diagnosed the patient properly or if I have mixed the potion incorrectly, it will not work.”
Imhotep cocked his head and said softly, “Should you talk like this within Pharaoh’s palace?”
Pentu looked slightly shocked and then his mouth formed a small circle as he realized what had happened.
“Forgive me, Lord Imhotep. Court politics were no doubt different under King Djoser. I apologize.” He stepped closer. “I admire Pharaoh Hatshepsut immensely. You see, unlike many of her court, and many from her father’s court and her late husband’s court, I have never thought it improper for a woman to rule the land. She had to manufacture a story about Amun impregnating her mother, but that was for the cattle and the superstitious. Those of us who know her always believed she would be a wonderful ruler.
“She has always known that I believe that the wisest and strongest should rule. Strength because it is the natural order and wisdom because it mitigates and guides the strength. Pharaoh Hatshepsut is strong and wise. Her strength encourages me to be frank – although deferent in public, of course – with her. She doesn’t suffer fools and sycophants.
“And, after all, she had the wisdom to accept Bata’s strength and his advice. And, of course, she embraced your daughter. I think you’ll enjoy her very much.”
- 0 -
Slowing to a stop outside the audience chamber, the guards stepped aside to make space for Imhotep’s entourage to enter the room.
Unlike the throne room of King Djoser, which was dominated by the king’s central dais, this room was vast, colorful, and interesting.
An open wall admitted soft light from the gardens, and torches and oil lamps were placed on stands throughout the room, in corners and nooks, beside small amber statues and behind sheer linen screens painted with scenes from the Two Lands, the images brought to life by the dancing flames.
A harpist played softly from a far corner, the delicate melody floating over conversations and laughter issuing from several groups of men and women.
One group was gathered at the end of a long table piled with bowls of pea pods, watermelon, raisins and grapes, figs, and cucumbers; trays of bread; and three clay pots of wine that had the date and farm’s name inscribed on each pot.
Near the harpist, four dancers wearing tight black kilts rehearsed, their large golden earrings dangling as they moved. Just beyond the dancers, two elderly men stole glances at the young girls while they debated dangers Re faced each night, one contending that each night was a repeated ritual, the other maintaining that Re faced new adventures each night.
On the other side of the room, near the edge of the garden, three men and a woman stood by a table that held a model of a temple. Each miniature pillar, the walls and pylons, and several undefined statues were carved from wood. The woman was holding a wooden obelisk, placing it by the front pylon, then moving it behind the angled wall. The man to her right shook his head and lifted it, moving it beside the front entrance. Then he moved it to the other side of the entrance.
“Either way,” he said, “there should be two.”
The second man touched the pylon. “We could make recesses here, and here and here, echoing the shape of the obelisk.”
“And place statues in them,” the woman said. She nodded. “Yes, yes, I see it.”
Maya led them to the group and coughed softly as she stopped behind them.
They turned and Imhotep suppressed a gasp. The woman, looking at him with an amused and quizzical expression, could have been Maya’s twin sister.
Imhotep looked from one to the other with an artist’s eye.
They shared the same shape face, as if Khnum’s hands had been joined in prayer over his potter’s wheel, the heels of his hands touching and his hands opening to form their wide cheek bones and wider foreheads with one elegant curve. Their eyes, which tilted gently toward their noses, rose in the same sunrise arc highlighted by the swooping bend of their thin eyebrows.
Their mouths, too, were the same shape, the upper lip echoing the curve of their eyes, the bottom lip slightly thicker at the center, giving the mouth a feminine fullness.
Their builds were similar as well, each with gently sloping shoulders and modest breasts swelling beneath their linen gowns. They each had a slight inward curve at their waist leading to a swell at the hips, a smooth, feline curve.
“Father, I mean, Lord Imhotep, I present Ma’at-ke-re, Foremost of Noble Ladies, Divine of Appearance,” Maya said, her face filled with pride and anticipation.
Holding his staff to keep his balance, Imhotep lowered himself to one knee. “Long life, Ma’at-ke-re,” he said, repeating the formula he had used during the reign of King Djoser.
Beside him, Akila stood in rapt attention, staring at the most famous woman ruler of the ancient world. Unbidden, her mouth softly said, “Hatshepsut.”
Pharaoh Hatshepsut, who was looking at Imhotep, heard the whispered name and slowly moved her gaze to Akila. An unperturbed smile on her mouth, she tilted her head and looked at the strange woman who stood before her and called her by her birth name.
“This is Lady Akila,” Maya told Pharaoh Hatshepsut, “my father’s companion.”
“And my teacher,” Sitre added, moving to Akila’s side.
Pharaoh Hatshepsut smiled at Akila as she stepped to Imhotep. She bent to touch his shoulder and, when he looked up from the floor, she extended her hand to him. “Do not be embarrassed,” Pharaoh Hatshepsut said, cupping her hand at Imhotep, urging him to take her hand. “You must be hundreds and hundreds of years old. Accept my offer of help.”
Seeing her smile, Imhotep clasped her offered hand and felt her strength as she helped him to his feet. Once he was standing, she stepped close and whispered in his ear, “You must tell me about the pyramids, that strange monument of a lion and a man, and ... ” She stepped back and looked into his eyes with a seriousness that told Imhotep that she was accustomed to being obeyed in all things, “you must tell me about the future.”
He felt her hand still holding his, the pressure gentle, but insistent.
“Gracious Ma’at-ke-re ... ” he began.
“No, no, Imhotep, I give you permission to call me Hatshepsut, although I would insist that you remember when others are about that I am ruler of the Two Lands.”
He looked around the room. The harpist had stopped playing, the dancers were frozen, everyone was watching them. Hatshepsut followed his eyes. With her free hand she waved at the others. “Please continue,” she said and then she raised her eyebrows in expectation.
The harpist began to play, the dancers began to move and the distant conversations resumed.
“Now, before you part the curtains of the future, you must meet Senenmut,” Pharaoh Hatshepsut said, turning to reveal one of the men beside the model of the temple.
The same height as Hatshepsut, the man wore a short black wig, the sides and back cut evenly just below his jawline. The front of the wig ended in thick bangs that reached almost to his eyebrows and gave the effect of crowding all the features of his face closer together. His nose sloped outward, ending in a small, blunt point above heavy lips that hovered above a small, receding chin.
Despite the disproportionate features, when S
enenmut smiled a greeting at Imhotep, the eyes, eyebrows, and mouth arrayed themselves into a happy, open, intelligent countenance, and Imhotep immediately liked the man.
Senenmut carefully bowed his head and said, “Greetings, Lord Imhotep.”
“Greetings, Senenmut,” Imhotep said, “forgive me for not knowing your title.”
“Titles,” Pharaoh Hatshepsut said with a light laugh. “Dear Senenmut collects titles like a reed gatherer collects blisters. You have ... thirty?” she said, turning to Senenmut.
“Forty,” Senenmut said with a modest laugh and shrug.
Then he straightened his back and pretended to be a herald announcing his own arrival: “Overseer of the Works, Overseer of the Fields, Overseer of the Double Gold House, Overseer of the Gardens of Amun, Controller of Works, Overseer of the Administrative Office of the Mansion, Conductor of Festivals, and so on and so on.” He paused and winked at Imhotep. “I would be happy to lend you any of those titles, but I think that the name Imhotep itself outranks any of them. But,” he added with a sincere smile. “The one title I will never relinquish is Tutor to Neferu-re.”
“My daughter, great Wife of Amun,” Pharaoh Hatshepsut said.
“But, Lord Imhotep, please, just call me Senenmut. That is the only title that I am sure to answer.”
“Now,” Pharaoh Hatshepsut said, turning to the model, “I think I will save your divination for dessert, Lord Imhotep. But, before we eat, perhaps, you could cast your architect’s eye on this model of my mortuary temple and tell me what you think.”
Stepping to the table, Imhotep glanced at the temple and then shook his head.
“What is it?” Pharaoh Hatshepsut asked.
“Did you say your mortuary temple?” he asked.
“Yes,” Senenmut answered. “We’re trying to decide on the placement of the obelisks. We thought we could place them beside the entry inside the temple, but the custom has been to place them in front,” he said, picking up one of the wooden models.
Imhotep closed his eyes. He pictured Pharaoh Hatshepsut's mortuary temple that had been built into the side of a red sandstone cliff. The columns and walls seemed to erupt from the earth itself and the temple opened onto a wide, inviting ramp that led to a spacious terrace. It was one of the things he had most wanted to see when he and Addy had planned their trip to Egypt almost thirty years ago.
It was elegant, grand in a much different way than the great pyramids of Giza. He could see the row of pillars, the three terraces, the colonnades. There was a name for it, as unusual as the temple itself.
Returning to the present, he opened his eyes and said, “Djeser-Djeseru.”
Senenmut began to speak, but Pharaoh Hatshepsut raised her hand to quiet him.
She was staring eagerly and hungrily at Imhotep. It was a look he had seen before. It had been in the eyes of King Djoser when he had found Imhotep’s sketches of the Step Pyramid.
“What do you mean, Sublime of Sublimes?” she asked Imhotep. “I know you don’t mean this,” she said, waving her hand at the model. “Don’t be insulted, sweet Senenmut, it is a marvelous temple, it would be an honor to live there, but sublime is not the word I would use to describe it.”
“What have you seen, father?” Maya asked, her words breathless with expectation.
Imhotep raised his eyes to Akila and smiled sadly, as if asking forgiveness, then turning back to Pharaoh Hatshepsut he said, “I have seen your mortuary temple. It is beautiful beyond words. It is a temple unlike any other. It is more memorable than the pyramids. It is a treasure, now and forever. It is truly Sublime of Sublimes.”
Genomes
That night as they lay in a large bed in one of the guest rooms of Maya and Pentu’s city house, Akila inhaled as if to speak, then she paused and instead slowly exhaled.
Beside her Imhotep lay on his side, his back to her, and stared at the blackness of the wall across the room. Footsteps fell softly somewhere in the house, an owl called outside and far off there was the sound of geese honking frantically as a desert fox stalked them. The sounds failed to penetrate Imhotep’s consciousness; he was busy constructing mental rooms.
Akila turned onto her back and looked at Imhotep’s unmoving head. She listened, trying to gauge if his breathing fell in the unfettered rhythm of sleep.
He was thinking of Meryt, their last day together, making love in the river. He thought of her innocent smile, her immediacy, her strength in yielding without worry. An image of her dying face, her eyes looking past this life, her mouth open as if she were about to tell him what she saw crossed his mental view. He forced it away and instead imagined her young face as he had sketched it in charcoal, the gentle shading that defined her wide cheek bones, the sheen of her bare head fading into the background.
He blinked, slowly and consciously, placing her image in a safe place, one he would never lose, one he could always find. Then he turned his thoughts to Bata.
Unsure if Imhotep slept, and unable to give herself to sleep, Akila rolled back onto her side. Her eyes found the windows, gray luminous rectangles against the unlit wall. A shadow fluttered past, then another. Bats, she realized, feeding in the night air. Unconsciously she rubbed her shaved head. I’ve gone completely native, she thought as she felt the smooth skin.
Imhotep remembered the trust and acceptance Bata had shown the day they had met. He was standing in the river by the island of Abu. Where we first met, where I last saw him, Imhotep thought. Another circle completed and closed. He envisioned his friend playing with Tjau and then with Maya. And his silly superstitions. Imhotep smiled. And his artistry in brewing beer. And his unexpected, forgotten skill as a warrior. He provided, Imhotep thought, an all-encompassing comfort and security.
He focused on a memory of Bata sitting on the roof of their long-lost home in Ineb-Hedj, leaning against the low wall, a cup of beer in his hand, a carefree laugh on his face. Carefully, fondly, Imhotep mentally traced the lines of his friend’s face, palm fronds hanging behind him, the later afternoon sun beaming on his face.
Slowly, Akila swung her legs off the low bed and pushed herself to a seated position. Her feet found the stone floor and she rocked to her feet. She was naked, her gown hanging over a wooden mannequin in the dressing room that adjoined their bedroom, her wig sitting on a wooden stand on a table by the far wall.
There were times when the pace of life in the ancient world, when the lack of possessions, when the intense focus on one place and one time was soothing. Even now, having just escaped death and finding herself in an unknown world, there was a stillness that calmed her.
She turned to Imhotep’s figure and stared at his bare back.
Why did he tell Hatshepsut about her tomb? How much more can he carry?
He had left behind his life in modern America, he had rejected a second chance for life in the modern world and now he was in a different era of the ancient world. Instead of mourning his losses, instead of bemoaning what was thrust upon him, he was opening himself to a new life. She shook her head in wonder.
Satisfied that his memories of Bata and Meryt were safely stored with those of Tjau and King Djoser, each available for quiet moments, Imhotep said, “Restless?”
“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Akila said, sitting back on the bed.
“I was awake,” Imhotep said, turning onto his back and looking up at Akila. He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. “I was just organizing my thoughts,” he said. “Sort of re-calibrating everything.”
She squeezed his hand in return.
He let go of her and pushed himself to a seated position.
“You know,” he said, “in another world we would be looking for a clock and wondering what time it is.”
She nodded. “That’s true. We measure things differently here.”
Imhotep arched his back and stretched his arms to his side. “Neferhotep told me something today,” he said.
“I like him,” Akila said. “And Pentu, I think he is terrific. Thoughtf
ul, yet irreverent.”
“He said that you took a sample. He actually said ‘sample,’ in English. I asked him what he meant and he said you put a shiny stick in his mouth and pinched him.”
Akila nodded. “I did. After you left, the second time, and I thought I would never see you again, I got interested in DNA research.”
“Like paternity?” Imhotep said.
“Much, much more, Tim.” Akila thought for a moment, wondering what she should tell him. “There are new mutations all the time in the genetic code we carry. That’s part of evolution. There are groups of people, the groups are called haplogroups, and everyone in that group shares a common mutation.”
Imhotep raised his eyebrows in question. He enjoyed learning, but it was always for a practical purpose. “So a person’s DNA would tell you, what?” he asked.
“Well, it started out with things like paternity, like you said. And criminal cases. And that is useful, but it also can tell you which part of the world your ancestors come from. At one point the popular thinking was that it showed which of Adam’s seven sons was your patriarchal ancestor. But what it really shows is the flow of humanity through different parts of the world.”
“I don’t understand,” Imhotep said.
“I’m not explaining it well,” Akila said, standing and walking to the window.
“Did you test Neferhotep’s DNA to see if he and I are really related? What purpose would that serve?” Imhotep said, his voice emotionless.
“No, no,” Akila said. “I was more interested in the number of generations. The science of genetics has evolved a lot, Tim. I don’t have access to all the data banks now, obviously, but ... ” She walked back to the bed.
“I sequenced your DNA back in Helwan. And I had samples of Maya’s from her visit to the clinic. You two were one generation apart. That makes sense, right? You are her father. The sample I took from Neferhotep showed that you and he are one or two generations apart, without the data banks, I can’t be more precise. Anyhow, again, that makes sense, because you are his grandfather.”