Imhotep

by Jerry Dubs

  Their journey had been a sojourn into a different world for each of them. She had been visiting the land outside her temple world, immersing herself in the reality of The Two Lands that lay outside the pillars and sacred ponds of Khmunu. He had been running from Diane’s unexpected rejection and the attack orchestrated by Djefi at Khmunu.

  He wasn’t sure what she had found in him, except answers to her never-ending curiosity, but he knew that she had opened his eyes to a new view of the world around him and the people in it. And he saw now that although Tama loved him, it was in her fiercely honest and open way. He was not hers and she would never be his. The ideas of possession and jealousy had been expelled from her world.

  Although he admired her idea, he wanted a feeling of completeness that he knew he would never feel with her.

  Pahket offered it. In her uncomplicated way she was as much a facet of the truth as Tama was. Tama was a powerful light, a sun burning too brightly to look into for more than a moment. Pahket was a warm, comforting fire, nourishing and strong.

  He felt a tinge of disappointment that his decision to be with Pahket meant that he would not hold Tama in his arms again. He knew that if he went to her Tama would accept him, but he understood, at last, that he didn’t need her as a lover. Or, he thought with a swell of surprise, want her.

  As a friend she offered him a different satisfaction. He knew he would never get anything except an honest opinion from her; she was incapable of anything less. She was his touchstone, a genuine measure of reality.

  He returned to the spy hole.

  Pahket and Tama were standing near Imhotep now, waiting for him to notice them. When he did, he and Hetephernebti went to them, leading them away from the center of the courtyard. Brian saw that King Djoser had noticed them, as did the older man who stood beside his throne.

  Brian shook his head in annoyance. He had seen that man before. It had to be either at To-She or Khmunu. He looked at the man again and then closed his eyes, but he couldn't place him.

  Imhotep held a finger to his mouth, signaling Brian to not speak. Silently he took Brian by the arm, leading him away from the wall, down a passageway and into an open garden. Pahket waited by the garden entrance as Imhotep and Brian walked to a bench beneath a willow tree.

  “Jesus, Brian, I am sorry to hear what happened to you. Tama and Pahket told me.”

  Brian almost cried in joy at the sound of English. He opened his mouth to talk, but stopped when Imhotep held up his hand.

  “Wait, I have to get back in there before Kanakht wonders where I went. Here’s what is going on. The king is having a feast to celebrate the beginning of the flood season. That’s extremely important, the flood that is. So I have to be at this feast. But I know we have to talk. Shit. Can you talk? Are you able?”

  “A wihel. Ought ery ell.”

  Imhotep put his hand on Brian’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Brian. This Siamun, that’s his name, right? He’ll be punished. I can promise that. Look, after this feast we’ll meet. I’ll send someone to bring you to my chambers where we’ll be safe. I have a notebook. You can write everything out.

  “I really have to go.” He turned and took a step away, then he stopped and looked back at Brian. “We’ll get this sorted out, Brian. I promise. I have the king’s ear. We’ll get you and Diane back home.”

  At Abu, King Djoser had worn a nemes, a blue and gold striped cloth that covered his shaved scalp and hung down to his shoulders. But tonight he wore the pschent, the double crown of the Two Lands, a tall red outer crown that symbolized his rule over Lower Kemet, with a tall white crown of Upper Kemet that fit inside the red shell and was held in place by an outer coil.

  Although clean-shaven like every other Egyptian, for the feast he wore a long, straight-edged goatee. In his right hand he carried the hook-handled heqa scepter made of polished orange quartz and decorated with wide gold bands.

  He wore a knee-length pleated kilt, bleached a startling white by the sun. White sandals rested under his feet. A wide pectoral necklace fanned across his bare chest, its colorful beads forming the image of a vulture with widespread wings.

  Green kohl covered his upper eyelids; delicate black lines had been drawn to replace his plucked eyebrows, the lines extending from the corners of his eyes to the side of his face. Against his protests, his wife Inetkawes had insisted that a light red paint be applied to his lips.

  In truth, his protests had been weak. When he looked in the silver mirror his attendants held for him he saw himself as others saw him - a man so handsome he was beautiful. His wide cheekbones and broad forehead gave his beauty an underlying strength. His eyes, highlighted by the makeup, showed depth, intelligence and understanding. It was hard to not smile at the face that stared back at him so serenely, so godlike.

  He sat on his golden throne beside his beautiful wife, Inetkawes, her face still glowing from the exertion of their vigorous lovemaking before the feast. King Djoser smiled at her and enjoyed her provocative, knowing eyes as she looked back at him. She was not a shy, retiring little princess. She was strong woman with a powerful ka.

  King Djoser didn’t give any thought to whether or not she knew of his sexual celebration at Abu after the river began to rise. He assumed she would know and understand. He was after all, King of The Two Lands, a Mighty Bull.

  As if reading his mind, her fingers tightened on his and she leaned her perfumed head closer. “I know what you are thinking, Netjer,” she said, using her pet name for him, playing on its meaning of ‘god.’ She leaned closer and said in a throaty whisper, “Mighty Bull, indeed. After this feast we will see who is mighty.”

  He squeezed her fingers in return.

  He felt a stirring of the peaceful ecstasy that had come over him earlier on his boat. The river was rising; his son was restored to health. All along the river the people of The Two Lands had come out to watch him pass on his journey from Abu to Kom Ombo. Some stood silently, others sang prayers of thanksgiving.

  His new adviser, Imhotep, had explained his ideas for a grand tomb, an eternal house worthy of a god. Made of huge stone blocks, the tomb would rise from a giant square mastaba base, each new layer smaller than the one below it as the form rose skyward.

  Once the flood receded, the planting would begin and soon the river would be a ribbon of blue between lush green fields of flax and barley and wheat. The harvest would follow, surely a bountiful one, and then, after the celebrations, he would order work to begin on the tomb. In his mind’s eye he saw quarrymen cutting the stone, barges taking the blocks to Saqqara and the building of his eternal house beginning.

  But first, the dedication of the new temple of Sobek. His smile turned cold as he thought of what Imhotep had told him about Djefi’s plans. The strange adviser said moments ago that he would have more information later tonight. They would complete their plans then.

  Two harp players entered the room followed by a line of young dancing girls. King Djoser turned his attention to them, his mind closed to the worries of tomorrow and to the plans of the future. It was his special talent: He focused on what was before him, bringing all of his attention to whatever lay before him, whether it be a drawing of a tomb, the sweaty, writhing body of Inetkawes or the shimmering landscape of the country he loved.

  Away from the celebration, excused from his duty for the night, Makare met with his brother Nesi to go over their plans for tomorrow. Kanakht had explained Djefi’s plan to attack the king with a crocodile.

  “It will be a diversion, and later a reason to explain what happened. Remember, when I am on the throne, my version of what happened at Kom Ombo will be the only story. So, listen to me now. The crocodile will attack, or it will not. It doesn’t matter, as long as it becomes free and a diversion is created. People will be moving, there will be confusion. You will strike the king and Prince Teti. Afterward Waja-Hur will declare balance restored. He will ask me to take the throne.

  “You,” he had looked at Makare, “will replace Sekhmire, who m
ay be wounded during the attack, or even killed.” He had reached out and placed a hand on each of the young men’s shoulders. “Together, we will restore glory to Kemet. We will lead the armies south into Nubia and east through Sinai.”

  He had paused and looked knowingly at the two brothers.

  “I am old. My time here grows shorter each day. Once I have restored Kemet on the path of Ma’at, then I will retire, Makare and Nesi. My work will be done. The Two Lands will need strong, young leaders.”

  Makare and Nesi had exchanged hopeful looks.

  Now, on the eve of the attack, they were drinking and building their courage.

  “I will take the king,” Makare said for the fifth time, tilting up the empty clay beer pot.

  Nesi nodded his head. “Yes, yes. I know. I’ll be standing right behind Teti. This time, I won’t depend on the river or the rocks.” He fingered the handle of his knife.

  “Beer! More beer!” Makare shouted. A servant girl appeared in the doorway of the hut carrying a jar. She poured beer into Makare’s pot and then into Nesi’s.

  As she straightened, Nesi grabbed her wrist. “Do you have a friend, or a sister?”

  She nodded, knowing what he wanted.

  “Go get her. She’s not too old, is she?”

  The girl shook her head, stifling a smile. The two men here were barely past their childhood themselves.

  “Well, go get her,” Nesi shouted. “Tomorrow my brother and I will shake this world. Tonight it’s your turn,” he said, grabbing his crotch and shaking it at her.

  Brian and Pahket had gone.

  Imhotep sat with his notebook, re-reading what Brian had written. They had had to resharpen his last, nubby pencil three times. There was less than an inch of it left and only a single page of clean notebook paper. After that, Imhotep would turn to papyrus and inks.

  He had felt a strange disconnect as he watched Brian write and listened to his futile attempts to talk. He knew it had only been a few months since he had leaned against the wall at the ruins of Saqqara and watched Brian saunter through the sand following the fat tour guide. The man who had sat beside him writing about crocodiles and torture and a plot to kill the king of Kemet was a totally different man than the one who had winked at him from behind his sunglasses.

  He felt the pull of the menat around his neck and realized that he hadn’t removed the heavy necklace. As he took it off he saw Meryt watching him, waiting for him to explain what he had learned. She had waited patiently during the last two hours as he had spoken only English, asking Brian questions and trying to learn everything he could about the plot.

  “There is so much to tell,” he said to her. “Let’s go find King Djoser and that way I will only have to tell it once.”

  Meryt nodded and came to him.

  “He said very bad things,” she said. “I watched your face.”

  Imhotep picked up his notebook, leaned to kiss Meryt’s forehead and put his arm around her still tiny waist. “Yes, Meryt. I have never heard things like this before.” They moved toward the doorway. “I don’t understand how people can be like this.”

  They walked silently through the dimly lit passageways toward King Djoser's rooms. A guard stopped them outside the king’s chambers.

  “I am Imhotep. King Djoser is expecting me,” Imhotep said.

  The guard nodded and clapped his hands softly. Two other guards came out of the shadows.

  For a moment Imhotep was frightened. Had Kanakht and Djefi already struck? Was the king overthrown, already dead?

  “This is Imhotep,” the first guard said. “Take him to Sekhmire. King Djoser said he would want to see him.”

  From beyond the doorway, there came a sharp, high-pitched cry of pleasure. “Yes, my mighty bull, yes!”

  Meryt tittered.

  “The king said you should go to see Sekhmire,” the guard said, his face betraying nothing.

  “I can wait,” Imhotep said. “It is very important.”

  The guard shook his head. “You would wait a very long time. But it does not matter. King Djoser said you should talk with Sekhmire. He is waiting for you by the river.”

  Imhotep nodded and turned to follow the guards.

  Meryt leaned close to Imhotep and whispered, “King Djoser doesn’t seem worried.”

  Sekhmire was waiting with Meryptah and Bata.

  “You know that you cannot expect help from any of the other guards with Prince Teti,” he told Meryptah.

  The young man nodded. “Hetephernebti told me that I should be friendly with all of them, but to watch them also.”

  “Especially Nesi,” Bata said, spitting on the ground after saying the guard’s name.

  “Why is he with the guard if he can’t be trusted?” Meryptah asked.

  Sekhmire thought before answering. He wasn’t sure how much of King Djoser’s thinking he should reveal.

  “Look,” he said finally. “If you are hunting and you approach a watering hole and see a deer. You don’t run up and start shouting. You’d scare it away. And there might be others there. No, you watch them and see how many there are and then you strike them all at once.”

  “I never went deer hunting,” Meryptah said.

  “He’s not talking about deer,” Bata said.

  “I know,” Meryptah shrugged. “I’m just saying I never went hunting.”

  Sekhmire put his arm around Meryptah’s shoulders. He’s so young, Sekhmire thought, and immediately realized that he himself wasn’t so young anymore.

  “These men are planning to kill the king and the prince,” Sekhmire said. “I agree that it would be easier if we just took them now, but it is important that we let them try.” He saw that both men were confused.

  “If you know this, just take them,” Bata said.

  Sekhmire shook his head.

  “No. The attack must be allowed and then stopped. That way King Djoser demonstrates his power in public. He shows that it is folly to attack him. It discourages others.”

  “But what if there are more than Nesi and his brother? What if Makare has others?” Bata asked.

  Sekhmire smiled. “Then we will stop them, too, and uncover a nest of vipers. More glory to King Djoser.”

  Bata shook his head. “No I mean what if he has a lot of others.”

  Sekhmire pointed up river where dark shadows could be seen moving toward them. Bata and Meryptah strained to see the shapes.

  “The king’s company,” Sekhmire said. “They have been recalled from the border and they will be at the ceremony tomorrow. Don’t worry, Bata, Meryptah, we will not be alone.”

  The young guards watched as the boats carrying the elite soldiers silently sailed toward Kom Ombo.

  The Hunger of Sobek

  Deep in the well at the Temple of Sobek, the god floated in the rising water, his eyes and nostrils just above the surface.

  He inhaled the scent of fish and algae hanging on the surface of the water, and a stronger earthy smell that lingered on the surface of the silt-filled water. Other smells tumbled down from the circle of daylight at the top of the ramp: roasted geese and oxen, the sour smell of beer, acrid aromas of incense. He breathed in the air testing it and tasting it.

  Intertwined with the other aromas was a sweet fragrance, one that sent a signal through his reptilian brain, triggering desire and hunger. It was the smell that he had come to associate with a feast of living flesh.

  He drank in a deep draught of air and bellowed, his tail waving snake-like in the water behind him. He hadn’t been fed in a week and his hunger was a gnawing ache. He sniffed again at the air and felt the strand of perfumed oil grow stronger.

  He was beast and he did not think, he did not anticipate, he did not plan. But his hunger and the recognition of a smell that led to food triggered his energy and he lurched out of the water toward the light only to be stopped by two ropes looped around his neck and secured in iron rings in the wall.

  He swung his head, trying to catch the ropes and roared hi
s frustration.

  King Djoser had just crossed the courtyard, passing near the well that led to Sobek’s lair. He was stepping across the low retaining wall when Sobek roared, the beast’s cry echoing up from the stone passageway that led to his watery den.

  Hesitating as the sound vibrated across the courtyard, it seemed to King Djoser that the cry was aimed at him.

  He stepped across the low wall and followed Djefi into the outer temple.

  The king, guarded by Sekhmire and a handful of the house guards, was accompanied by Imhotep and Kanakht. Prince Teti and his escort, including Bata and Nesi, had gone to the beer jars in the shade of the small forest of stone columns that formed a covered courtyard. A group of other priests and priestesses from throughout the Two Lands followed the king on his tour of the new temple.

  Although King Djoser had cautioned her not to come, Hetephernebti had insisted on attending the ceremony. She and Ma’at were escorted by Samut and a tall Nubian hidden beneath a colorful robe and hood despite the hot sun.

  Imhotep had insisted that Meryt stay across the river with Pahket. He walked beside King Djoser, his right hand closed around and hiding a small, black cylinder he had taken from his backpack.

  Djefi was sweating as he led the tour through the brightly painted temple. They paused by the narrow doorway that led to the inner sanctum. The chamber was dark, illuminated only by a narrow shaft of light from a single window high on the back wall. A boy was waiting by the doorway with a small lamp.

  As the king stopped at the doorway, Djefi motioned the boy to go inside the room.

  The light from the lamp intensified as it reflected from the polished gold walls of the small room.