The Forest of Myrrh (Imhotep Book 3)

by Jerry Dubs

  “You can tell that from DNA samples?”

  “Yes, you can trace ancestry very precisely.”

  “I still don’t understand. I mean I guess as a hobby ... ” he said.

  “Well,” she sighed, “your genetics are very confusing, Tim. Maya’s and Meryt’s genomes should be one generation apart. That makes sense, mother and daughter. But you are from the modern world, you genome should be a hundred generations after Maya. So what I expected to find was that Maya’s genome would be a strange mixture of modern DNA and ancient DNA. That’s why I did the testing.

  “But, Tim,” Akila said, “there wasn’t anything strange about it, not a single misplaced protein, nothing. Her DNA, and Neferhotep’s DNA are entirely consistent with the ancient world.”

  “I’m sorry, Akila, I still don’t understand. They are from this time, well, from King Djoser’s time. Their DNA should be consistent with the ancient world.”

  Akila shook her head. “No, it should be a mixture of yours and Meryt’s. You are definitely their parents and grandparents. So their genomes should be a combination of old and new.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You have a sample from me. Right?”

  She nodded again. “And that is what doesn’t make sense. Your genome is from this era, or rather from the time of King Djoser. That’s why Maya’s and Neferhotep’s DNA isn’t mixed up.”

  “That’s impossible,” Imhotep said, rising and shaking his head, dismissing theoretical worries. He had always found that even if physics proved that a rock was more space than solid, it was still hard. “Your thing-a-ma-bob must be broken.”

  Akila shrugged. “That’s what I thought, Tim. That’s why I didn’t bring it up. You are right, it doesn’t make sense. Something must be wrong with the genome sequencer.”

  Putting the puzzle behind him, Imhotep stretched and walked toward the doorway. “I have to pee,” he said. “That beer Hatshepsut had was wonderful. I could tell that Bata was here.”

  He paused by the doorway, and turning, he said with a smile, “My tongue can trace Bata’s evolution of beer making.”

  Akila smiled in return and then, when Imhotep had disappeared, she got out her medical kit and took a sample of her own DNA.

  Dreams

  “Get my masseuse,” Seni told Sabestet.

  Sabestet bowed his head and began to back out of the governor’s chambers. His master had become more demanding since the seer had confirmed his suspicion that he was dying. Turning as he reached the doorway, Sabestet thought of fish pulled from nets. They were so graceful when in water, but on land, with death approaching, they twisted and jumped, frantically trying to hold onto a life that could not be held.

  “And send for those children. The ones who were here the last time. And tell her no jewelry and have the boy shaved. Completely. He looked like a baboon.”

  Seni closed his eyes and muttered to himself, “I was never that hairy.”

  - 0 -

  Bintanath saw that the indoor pond had been cleaned, water splashed down the waterfall and the dead willow branches had been replaced with fresh, green ones. Delicate green cords held the drooping branches aside to provide a clear view of the cushion-covered floor.

  She had heard the rumor that Seni was dying. She looked on the room, restored to the glory of the days when he had been young and strong, and she thought, He wants to recapture his vitality.

  Men, she thought, unable to accept the natural flow of life.

  Shaking her head, she lined up the scented oil bottles beside the cushioned table that had been placed by the pond. She selected a tall, delicate bottle and from it she poured rose-scented moringa oil on her hands. Slowly she rubbed it across her arms, kneading it into the wrinkled pads of her elbows. A very rare oil from beyond Ta Netjer, it was said to return aging skin to the softness of a baby.

  Raising her hands to her face, she inhaled the scent as she rubbed the oil on her neck. She closed her eyes, lost in the aroma and the silky smoothness of the oil.

  Too good, much too good for him, she thought, replacing the stopper in the alabaster bottle and setting it aside. She uncapped the next jar and raised it to her nose. Lavender. Yes, relaxing, yet with a sensual edge. If the old man is to be aroused, this is my best hope, she thought, turning to lean against the table.

  A moment later Dakhamunzu and Huya were led into the room.

  She was ten years old, the boy was two years older, but his face was still that of a child and Bintanath saw that he had been shaved, his arm pits and his groin were smooth and hairless, making him look even younger.

  They were holding hands, already pretending to be Seni as a boy and his young love, a girl who was never named, although Bintanath had seen the old man silently mouth a name while he watched the children follow his commands so she knew that Dakhamunza, and the string of girls before her, represented a mysterious lost love and not just random desire.

  “Where is the governor?” Dakhamunzu asked in her timid voice.

  “Shhh!” Huya scolded. “You know he doesn’t like us to talk.”

  “He isn’t here,” the girl said with a shrug of her small bare shoulders. She looked down at the boy’s groin. “Did it hurt?” she asked.

  “No, shaving doesn’t hurt,” he said, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows at her ignorance.

  “They pull mine out,” Dakhamunzu said in her heavy accent. A slave brought north from the green lands below Ta-Seti, she had skin as dark as night that lay softly across her small belly and thin legs. “They said that way the hairs won’t grow again.”

  When Huya didn’t answer, she said, “I liked your hair there. It tickled.”

  Stifling a smile, Bintanath said, “Do either of you have to pee or shit? If you do, you’d better go now. He doesn’t like to have his show interrupted.”

  They both shook their heads as footsteps sounded outside the chamber.

  Bintanath nodded toward the cushions beside the artificial pond. “Get in there, hurry!”

  - 0 -

  Seni stepped onto the low stool to raise himself high enough to sit on the massage table. Then he glanced at the boy and girl, smiled in anticipation and turned to lie on his side. Slowly he rolled onto his stomach, resting his chest on a flat pillow Bintanath had placed there and then fluffing another pillow on which he crossed his arms and then rested his head so he could watch the children.

  “Touch each other,” he told Dakhamunzu and Huya, happy to see that the boy had been properly shaved, “with your hands only.”

  “We spent an entire evening touching with just our fingertips,” he murmured.

  The girl and boy looked at each other, unsure what to do. Then Huya reached slowly toward Dakhamunza’s flat chest and Seni shouted, “No, trace her lips, her jaw, her chin, her ears. Her face. That is where the ka lives.”

  He sighed.

  We were children and everything was alive. Each touch burned like Re’s heat, each caress was as powerful as a priest chanting at sunset.

  The girl took Huya’s hand in hers and brought it to her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue, moving with its own will, peeked and darted from her small mouth. The tip of it touched the boy’s palm and Seni shivered as he remembered Mut-Nofret’s warm tongue on his skin, her soft breath brushing him.

  He moaned and Bintanath laid her oiled hands on his back. The thin sheen of oil formed a bridge from her to him and he shivered again.

  “Stand,” Seni whispered as Bintanath’s hands slid across his shoulders, the warmth bringing each nerve to life. “Stand so close that your bellies are almost touching. Put your hands on each other’s hips.” Bintanath moved her hands down his back, anticipating his desire.

  “Just your fingertips,” Seni told the children. “Follow the curve of the back, follow the skin downward. Downward and inward,” his voice thick from memories.

  The children followed his commands, Huya and Dakhamunza bringing his memories to life; Bintanath trailed her fingers across his back,
down toward his pelvis, giving those memories force.

  “Yes,” Seni moaned, closing his eyes. The waterfall trickled, the scent of lavender filled his consciousness, Bintanath traced a trill of pleasure across his skin and his mind floated to a better time.

  - 0 -

  Mut-Nofret’s eyes were always open, watching me, gauging my pleasure, smiling in joy. We touched softly, we slapped and pinched, we scratched and squeezed. Oh, but pain given by her was pleasure and pleasure given by her was ecstasy.

  We had to be silent in our hidden garden. I clenched my teeth so hard that I thought they would break. Her mouth was open wide in silent screams, the tongue alive within. Closer, closer to her, my mouth on hers, our breaths mingling, our kas merging.

  The touch of fingers on his skin were as gentle as the touch of brush on papyrus and Seni found himself thinking of the first letters he received from Mut-Nofret, written as a minor queen of the Two Lands. He sat for hours tracing the symbols with his finger, imagining that his hand now was the same distance from the dried, flattened reeds that hers had been when she had formed the message.

  The papyrus was a magical link between them.

  He had studied the message, noting each misplaced phrase, each awkward construction and soon – because they shared a single ka – he could read her secret meaning. Soon he knew what each message would say before it arrived and he prepared.

  Governor Seni’s personal guard were Nubians, but not simply the warriors of Ta-Seti, but the very best warriors. They were the elite known as Medjays, ferocious, powerful and completely loyal to Seni. He paid them well and he kept their wives and children in his own protective care, a care that the Medjays knew would turn vindictive if their loyalty ever faltered.

  It never did.

  Using the information Mut-Nofret sent him, Seni sent the Medjays on raids, a task they enjoyed. Small villages along the trade route to Ta Netjer were burned to the ground, the men killed, the women raped, the children sold into slavery.

  Seni sent alarming reports to Pharaoh Thutmose about the mysterious raids.

  Then he sent the Medjays to attack merchants themselves. Not all of the merchants, just the ones who were reluctant to pay the protective tariff Seni added to their bills.

  Seni sent even more alarming reports to Thutmose, begging him to send General Amenmose because the attackers were so powerful that only the great general could defeat them.

  He knew – for Mut-Nofret had told him – that Thutmose was an aging warrior with a young warrior’s vanity. If he lived long enough to celebrate another Sed jubilee there was little chance that he would be able to walk about the temple of Amun, much less run around it.

  At least that was the rumor that Mut-Nofret circulated in Waset: The great Thutmose was growing feeble.

  Mut-Nofret knew her husband well. He needed to refute the rumors, both to show the people of the Two Lands that he remained vigorous and to demonstrate to himself that his strength endured.

  The minor uprising in Ta-Seti was his chance to prove his warrior’s skills again. When he had conquered Ta-Seti years ago, he had led his flotilla back to the Two Lands with the body of the dead chief of Ta-Seti hanging from the prow of his ship.

  He wanted another glorious campaign before his death.

  - 0 -

  The children were standing beneath the dying willow branches, looking hesitantly toward Governor Seni and Bintanath. They had exhausted their small imaginations and were waiting for more commands from the governor.

  Still on his stomach, his eyes closed, Seni’s hips bounced slightly beneath Bintanath’s hand that was caressing and probing. The masseuse saw the children looking and tilted her head toward the doorway. Seni was lost in his own world, a mixture of memories and dying desires; the children were no longer needed to bring his past to life.

  - 0 -

  When Mut-Nofret wrote that Thutmose was going to lead his army to Ta-Seti, Seni directed the Medjays to create a band of lesser warriors to continue raids along the river. They would provide a weak target for Thutmose. Then he sent the Medjays into the jungle, where they began their secret journey northward to Abu where Queen Ahmose, her sons Amenmose and Wadjmose, and her daughter Hatshepsut waited for Thutmose’s glorious return.

  And Seni began to count the days until he and Mut-Nofret would be reunited.

  He clutched the pillows beneath his head now and tried to recapture the anticipation. Those days had been alive with swirling energy. He had not felt so alive since his childhood when Mut-Nofret had been with him in the garden.

  Thutmose arrived in Ta-Seti. He found and killed the raiders that Seni’s Medjays had left behind. The Medjays themselves had secretly followed the river to Abu.

  Later, after Thutmose had departed, Seni received a report from a spy in Abu.

  The Medjays had killed Amenmose’s guards. They had killed Amenmose and Wadjmose. They had chased Hatshepsut into the temple, where they tracked her to her mother’s chambers.

  Fluttering open, Seni’s eyes rolled upward as Bintanath worked her hand on him, moving, gripping, matching his rhythm.

  So close! So close!

  The Medjays, three of them, against a little girl and a frightened woman.

  The cut of a knife, the jab of a spear. That was all that was needed and Akheperenre would become pharaoh. Mut-Nofret would be regent and he would ... he would ...

  The warriors had entered the queen’s chambers.

  Seni arched his back, the memories of blood lust coursing through him.

  So close!

  Three Medjay warriors against a little girl and her mother! His dream of holding Mut-Nofret in his arms again was that close to coming true!

  So close!

  He gritted his teeth, trying to hold onto the fantasy of what might have been. Thrusting, sweating, gripping the pillow. He bucked and fantasized.

  But reality overrode his dreams, as it always did.

  The gods themselves – was it Isis protecting the queen, was it Hathor appalled by the spilling of royal blood, was it Ma’at bringing strength against strength to maintain balance? – sent a warrior. And this single warrior had killed the Medjays. He had thwarted Seni’s plan. He had kept Seni and Mut-Nofret apart.

  Teeth tearing at his pillow, Seni collapsed on the bed and began to cry.

  Bintanath felt the vitality leave Seni’s body. She withdrew her fingers and let her hand rest on his unmoving back.

  Seni waved a hand, dismissing Bintanath. He lay there sobbing as he remembered the desolation he had felt. And yet, there had been hope still. Thutmose’s sons were dead.

  There was no one standing in the way of Mut-Nofret’s son becoming pharaoh.

  Except the girl who had been saved.

  Hatshepsut lived.

  Ideas

  “Senenmut is here, father,” Maya said as she approached Imhotep, who was sitting alone by a table in the courtyard garden.

  Maya was wearing a white, pleated kalasiris, the form-fitting sheath that had changed little since the time of King Djoser, although the linen now was finer, thinner, and more transparent. Although at home with only family, she was wearing a black wig and an elaborate necklace of turquoise beads.

  Imhotep, bare-headed and wearing the simple kilt he had favored for years, stood and clapped his hands. “Excellent,” he said, turning away from the sheets of papyrus that covered the table. “Maya, could you please have more beer brought and some of that excellent bread? Oh, and if Pentu is about, tell him he is welcome to join us.”

  Maya smiled at her father and shook her head as she looked at the dozens of drawings he had completed that morning. “Did you always have such energy?”

  “Don’t you remember me carrying you on my shoulders as we chased geese? Or when we ran across the river on the back of the crocodiles?” Imhotep said, reaching out and cupping Maya’s face.

  “You have become such a beautiful soul,” he said, leaning close and kissing her forehead.

  Maya lo
oked up and, standing on her toes, kissed Imhotep’s cheek in return. “Despite the slaves?” she asked.

  “Akila has talked with you,” Imhotep said, studying her to see if she was angry, insulted, amused, or indifferent.

  “Only with her eyes. She is too polite.” Maya took Imhotep’s hands. “So I will fetch your bread and beer myself,” she said. “Pentu and I have talked about the slaves. He is much like I remember you, father. He is very practical, willing to consider all questions and determined to make decisions based on reason.”

  Imhotep smiled at her earnestness.

  “I don’t know what will happen, but Pentu is giving it thought,” she said.

  “All will be well,” he said to reassure her.

  “Is that a prophecy?” she asked, her eyes flashing as she teased him.

  “Yes, all will be well if you bring me some of that delicious bread and the beer, the honey-flavored one. Please?”

  She turned and hurried away, a childish energy in her step.

  Two weeks had passed since Imhotep had arrived in Waset and joined his grown daughter’s household. Reunited, the family had quickly moved beyond hesitation and formality. Maya had her mother’s generous, good-natured heart, and Pentu had proven to be a delight. Well-read, discerning, and humorous, he was unafraid to ask questions and totally unconcerned about appearing foolish.

  “I don’t mind not knowing things that no one can truly know. Where did all this sand come from? What is the secret pattern of the movement of the stars? Why are my fingers each a different length?” he had told Imhotep one day. “But it is so much better to learn the answers, to discover the reason behind things.

  “For example,” he had leaned forward, his brown eyes flashing with excitement, “I am told that far below the first cataract there is a season when water falls from the skies. That water is what causes the floods.

  “Now,” he said, leaning back, amusement filling his eyes, “do the gods cause the water to fall from the sky and thus cause the flood?” He shrugged. “I do not know. I don’t mind if the gods take credit, but I like the idea that one thing happens because another event happened first.”