Imhotep

by Jerry Dubs

  In the center, a gleaming pedestal supported a gold-plated boat. Two long, polished cedar poles ran through leather thongs on the side of the boat so that it could be carried. At the center of the boat was a flat platform on which a statue of Sobek stood. The god was shown as a man wearing a short kilt, one leg stepping forward. His head was the head of a crocodile, his mouth slightly open to show his teeth. His arms were held straight at his side. One hand held a small flail, the other a short, hook-handled scepter.

  There was an audible gasp from some of the priests as they recognized the royal symbols of power in the god’s hands. They looked at King Djoser to see what his reaction would be at seeing the symbols of his royal power in the god’s hands.

  King Djoser stepped to the small statue and gently touched its polished surface. He ran his fingers across the ridges of teeth and swept his thumb along its chest.

  “It is beautiful, First Prophet Djefi. Simply beautiful,” he said in a reverent voice. “I see you have given it the royal scepter and flail. So you envision Sobek as a guardian of the king. How wise. We welcome another protector. Mehen and his hooded serpents, Selket and her scorpions and even Shu and Amun will welcome Sobek to their ranks. As Horus, I welcome Sobek’s might and protection.”

  He stroked the golden figure again, a serene smile on his face. He turned to the assemblage behind him; saw their faces - some amazed at his reaction, the older priests frowning, whether at his acceptance or his identification as the god Horus, King Djoser didn’t know.

  Or care.

  He knew what lay ahead. His vizier Imhotep had told him. Suddenly he was eager to move on, to put an end to the intrigue. He clapped his hands sharply.

  “Let us see Sobek now, let me view this new guardian of the Two Lands. Have you managed to tame this wild, raging spirit, First Prophet? I think not. You may think you have, but gods sometimes hold surprises.”

  He turned and swept from the room, heading to the courtyard and the stone chair that sat in its center.

  Kanakht couldn’t believe that Djefi had had the audacity to fashion a statue of the god holding the symbols of royal power. What, if anything, did the fat idiot have in his mind?

  The moment of decision was here. Everything was in place: his assassins were primed; the gathering would witness the god’s rebuke of Djoser. All Kanakht had to do was allow events to unfold. As soon as the king and Teti were dead, he would assume command and order Sekhmire to immediately execute the assassins Nesi and Makare. Djefi, too! The loose ends would be eliminated and suspicion averted from him.

  Blood would fill the courtyard. It would be a fitting dedication for a temple to a bloodthirsty god!

  They emerged from the temple and Kanakht was shocked to see that the king’s elite company, soldiers personally selected and nurtured by Djoser himself, had arrived and taken up a position ringing the courtyard.

  Suddenly Kanakht had a premonition that it was he, not the king, who was about to die. The king’s company shouldn’t be here. They were not expected. King Djoser must have recalled them secretly, which could only mean that he knew about the plot.

  A wave of fear swept through Kanakht at the sight of the hard, loyal soldiers. The sky grew black, his vision collapsed to a single bright point of light and he felt himself stumble. Strong arms caught him and a comforting voice penetrated his darkness.

  “Here old friend,” King Djoser said under his breath so that only Kanakht could hear. “Stay strong just a little longer.” Then the king raised his voice so that all could hear.

  “Make way,” he said loudly. “Here, Kanakht, sit and rest. I can stand for the ceremony.”

  Kanakht stumbled across the courtyard supported by the king himself. He sank into a chair and as his head cleared, he realized with a horrible thrill that he, not King Djoser, was sitting in the stone chair at the center of the courtyard.

  Djefi saw Kanakht sit in the chair where King Djoser was supposed to sit, where he had to sit! He felt his bowels churn and then a new thought pushed its way forward. This was wonderful, perfect! Sobek would attack Kanakht and kill him while the vizier’s secret assassins attacked the king and Prince Teti.

  There would be no one left to implicate him in the plot except Waja-Hur, who couldn’t even remember his name. All Djefi needed to do was allow the attack to unfold, and then remind everyone that the king himself had designated Sobek as a protector of the king. And Sobek had protected the king by attacking the evil Kanakht, that’s what he would say.

  It would be unfortunate that Kanakht’s assassins had been successful, but Sobek had punished the traitor Kanakht. Yes, yes, Djefi thought excitedly. Sobek will increase in standing, I will gain power and I will sit beside whoever claims the empty throne. Then, once things have settled down, who knows? Sobek may decide it is time for me to occupy the throne.

  He could hardly stop from smiling as he walked to a low table filled with food offerings for Sobek. He reached the table, stopped and turned to face the assemblage.

  Imhotep watched Kanakht stagger to the chair. He had seen the vizier’s face blanch when they emerged from the temple and Kanakht had seen the king’s company arrayed around the temple. Imhotep thought for a minute that Kanakht had suffered a stroke. Perhaps he had. He was sitting immobile in the chair, his face drained of color, his hands gripping the stone arms.

  Kanakht’s reaction to the presence of the soldiers and his petrified posture in the chair confirmed King Djoser’s suspicions that Kanakht had been the leader of the plot. His heart swelled in gratitude to the gods for revealing all.

  From the shadow of his hooded robe, the Nubian guard grimaced at the sight of the stone chair.

  Tama looked at the other priests, at the shimmering air radiating from the stone courtyard. She saw the fear on Kanakht’s face, the jubilation on the king’s, the fierce determination on Imhotep’s, and the secret smile playing at Djefi’s mouth. She looked into the dark opening of the well that led to Sobek’s lair and had a vision of truth and order emerging from the darkness. She smelled the sweet, heavy smell of blood and saw it washing away the disorder. And she shivered.

  Makare led Waja-Hur to the gathering, his frail body moving with an awkward stiffness that reflected the confusion of his mind. The old man saw the offering table of food and the fat priest who looked so familiar. He saw the crowd gathered in an arc that followed the circular courtyard.

  Above them the sky was a deep and endless blue, the water, just visible beyond the high rise of the plateau, was a churning, roiling brown. Waja-Hur saw a flock of pigeons moving north, following the river. They suddenly swirled to their left as a circling hawk dove into them, its claws striking and then clutching one of the birds.

  He wondered if it was an omen, or just another isolated moment in the long life of The Two Lands. The world had seemed so clear to him when he was younger, rights and wrongs so easy to distinguish. There had been no confusion, no indecision.

  Now he knew he was drifting away, his mind and ka making ready for the journey to Khert-Neter. At a time when everyone saw everything filled with meaning, he saw the hawk’s attack as simply an act of nature: a predator striking, a helpless pigeon dying. He wondered if this new clarity was truth, or just a pale vision of the world seen through a mind that grew increasingly cloudy.

  Makare placed Waja-Hur near the center of the crowd, just a few feet from his old friend Kanakht, the only familiar face among the group. Something was wrong with Kanakht, Waja-Hur thought. His face was strained and tight.

  Waja-Hur was about to speak to him when the fat priest began to talk and gesture toward the opening that led beneath the courtyard. A brutish bellow came from the opening, as if in response to the priest’s words. Waja-Hur cringed at the roar and then suddenly realized where he was and remembered what was about to happen. He jerked around to look at Makare and saw the soldier’s hand move slowly toward his knife, his eyes on the king who was standing on the other side of the chair.

  Almost everyone t
urned their attention to the mouth of the well where the crocodile’s claws could be heard scraping against the stone ramp. Makare stared at King Djoser, measuring the number of steps it would take to reach him, imagining how he would push past the adviser Imhotep, slip behind Sekhmire and bury his knife in the king’s back.

  He would twist it and then quickly withdraw it in case he needed to fend off Sekhmire.

  He glanced at his brother and saw that Nesi was inching closer to Prince Teti. Then he noticed that Bata was watching his brother also, moving with him as he approached the prince. There was nothing Makare could do except expect his brother to complete his mission.

  The Nubian guard edged through the crowd, slipping closer to Makare and King Djoser.

  Sekhmire felt the crowd shifting behind him and tried to relax, to keep the tension he felt out of his body so he could move and respond quickly.

  There was a murmur of appreciation as the crocodile emerged into the courtyard. It was huge, worthy of representing Sobek. The ridges on its back glistened in the light, its huge angular head rotated slowly as it looked over the crowd. Then it seemed to freeze as it looked at Kanakht in the stone chair.

  The two acolytes who were holding Sobek in check reached the spots where they were instructed to let go of the ropes tied to Sobek’s head. The crowd’s eyes were on the beast so no one noticed the boys.

  Sobek seemed to crouch low against the stone and then suddenly he raised himself high on his legs and ran toward the stone chair.

  Kanakht screamed in terror and tried to stand, but Sekhmire, who had moved behind him pressed down on his shoulders, holding him in place. Kanakht kicked at Sobek, but the crocodile’s hunger drove him past the old man’s foot.

  In a blur its mouth opened and then snapped shut with a loud crunch. The crocodile twisted onto its left side and rolled away from the chair ripping Kanakht’s lower left leg off.

  As Kanakht screamed, the crowd scattered, turning away from the crocodile and running toward the path that led down from the temple.

  Nesi closed in on Prince Teti and brought his arm back to drive his knife into the prince’s back. Someone caught his arm. He turned to see Meryptah gripping his arm. Before he could wrench it free, he felt a pain in his own back and heard Bata’s grunt as his knife drove into Nesi's side.

  Makare moved more quickly.

  He pushed past Waja-Hur and, as Sekhmire release Kanakht’s shoulders, Makare slammed his elbow against the back of Sekhmire’s head. The guard commander, caught off balance, fell forward against the back of the stone chair, his ribs cracking hard against the rock.

  Makare moved on, two steps away from King Djoser.

  Somehow the adviser Imhotep had slipped between them. Makare raised his unarmed hand to swat the little man away, but Imhotep stepped to the side and raised his own hand.

  “Stop!” Imhotep shouted and clenched his raised fist awkwardly.

  King Djoser turned toward the sound and saw Makare’s upraised hand, the knife’s edge gleaming. As if in slow motion, he saw Sekhmire straighten up from the stone chair, one hand holding his chest, the other pulling free his own knife. He heard a sound like the hiss of a snake coming from Imhotep’s hand and suddenly Makare’s free hand went to his face and he stumbled.

  Imhotep drove his shoulder against Makare, pushing him out into the center of the courtyard.

  Sekhmire lurched toward Makare, his knife ready.

  Makare wiped his hand from his tear-streaked face and with his other he desperately threw his knife at the king.

  The huge Nubian had moved between Imhotep and King Djoser. Seeing Makare bring his arm back to throw his knife, he grabbed the king by the shoulders and pulled him toward himself, turning him away from the knife. Makare’s knife, aimed at the king’s chest, buried itself instead in the Nubian’s back.

  Sekhmire caught Makare as he turned to run away. The assassin, his eyes tearing from the Mace Imhotep had sprayed, blindly swung a fist at the commander. Sekhmire ducked under it, pushed his knife into Makare’s stomach and ripped his belly open. Makare clutched at his stomach, trying to keep his guts inside, but the slippery coils fell to the ground.

  Makare looked at his insides hanging down to the stones and then screamed as Sobek dropped Kanakht’s leg from his mouth, scuttled over and began to chew on Makare’s warm intestines.

  “He is the third stranger from my land,” Imhotep told King Djoser.

  Brian, hidden within the Nubian robe, was standing between two of the king’s guards. They were restraining him and supporting him. The back of his robe was red with blood that oozed out from Makare’s knife that was still stuck there.

  “He saved your life, King Djoser. The knife in his back was thrown at you by Makare.”

  King Djoser nodded curtly and the guards released their grip on Brian, then caught him again as he began to fall.

  “Let me help him” Hesire said, rushing to Brian. The king’s physician motioned for the guards to carry Brian to the shade.

  Makare lay dead in the center of the courtyard in a pool of viscera and blood. The crocodile was feeding on him, ignoring the few people who hadn’t run away from the temple.

  Men from the king’s company placed themselves between the crocodile and King Djoser, their short spears held ready.

  Kanakht lay beside the stone chair, his hands clenched around the remains of his left leg. Imhotep tore a strip from his kilt and, kneeling by him, tied a tourniquet around the bloody stump, using the small Mace canister he had used on Makare to twist the bandage tighter.

  As the bleeding stopped, King Djoser knelt by Imhotep’s side.

  “Will he live?” he asked.

  “If he hasn’t lost too much blood.”

  Kanakht moaned and his eyes fluttered.

  “Leave us,” King Djoser ordered Imhotep.

  The king leaned close to Kanakht’s head.

  “I have served Kemet all my life,” Kanakht said, his eyes unfocused. “I thought I was serving it now,” he said.

  “Who else?” King Djoser asked.

  “Only Djefi and Waja-Hur,” Kanakht said. “It is the truth. I make my heart light.”

  “No others?”

  “None.”

  King Djoser began to untwist the bandage. “You have no need to make your heart light, old friend,” he said.

  Kanakht’s eyes found the king’s face. “I am not going to die?”

  King Djoser finished unwrapping the leg. A little blood continued to seep from the wound. He massaged Kanakht’s thigh roughly and the blood stream began to flow more heavily.

  “No, old friend,” King Djoser said. “You are going to die. But you will never come before Ma’at. I will feed your body to Sobek, piece by piece, as you were ready to do to mine. You will die today, Kanakht, and your ka will have no home.”

  The old man’s eyes closed before King Djoser finished speaking. He gave a small shudder and stopped breathing.

  “Is he dead?”

  King Djoser wiped the blood from his hands on Kanakht’s white robe. Then he stood and looked at Djefi.

  The fat priest looked down at Kanakht, then past him to the stone well where Sobek was dragging the remains of Makare’s body down to his lair. A wide bloody trail was smeared across the white stones.

  “He protected you, did you see that King Djoser? The great Sobek knew there was evil in Kanakht’s heart and he attacked him. I saw it all.”

  King Djoser heard murmuring behind him. He turned and saw the priests and priestess who had run away returning now, curious to see what had happened.

  He motioned to one of his guards to hand him his short spear. He held it firmly in his hand and stared at Djefi. King Djoser waited until the crowd had gathered closer to him.

  “This is what happens to those who oppose the throne. This is what will ever happen to traitors. I am Horus. I am He Who is Above. I am Horus on the Horizon. I am his Left Eye and his Right Eye. I trample my enemies beneath my feet,” King Djoser pro
claimed.

  He stared at Djefi, and then he took two steps to stand over Kanakht’s body. Putting his right foot on Kanakht’s face, he drove the spear into the dead man’s body.

  He pulled the spear out and held it over his head, the red tip dripping blood on the temple stones.

  “I am Horus, son of Isis and Osiris. I have contended with Seth, I have taken the throne that was my father’s. My name is in the mouths of men, I am the substance of The Two Lands.”

  “Life, prosperity, health!” the gathering answered him as he shook the bloodied spear over his head.

  Now another voice was heard, one that only the oldest of the crowd could remember, it had been muted so long.

  Waja-Hur, his frail body seeming to shed its years, stood upright beside King Djoser.

  “I am Thoth, the judge of right and truth in the great company of gods,” he said, his voice booming across the courtyard with a power he had not felt in years. “Hear ye this judgment. I find no wickedness in the heart of Horus, he has not wasted the offerings which have been made in the temples; he has not committed any evil act; and he has not set his mouth in motion with words of evil.”

  “Life, prosperity, health!” they answered.

  King Djoser brought the spear down and laid it on the ground beside Kanakht’s body. “Take him to the well of Sobek,” he ordered the guards.

  Banishment of Djefi

  “I would have killed Djefi,” Prince Teti said that night.

  Imhotep looked at King Djoser to see his reaction. The king lifted a roasted leg of goose to his mouth and pulled at it with his teeth.

  “He deserved it twice. The statue was an insult and you know he trained that crocodile to attack you. The gods saved you from sitting in that chair, otherwise, it would have been you instead of Kanakht,” Prince Teti said.

  King Djoser looked across the table at Imhotep, who was suddenly very busy studying a piece of bread. When Imhotep had told King Djoser and Sekhmire what he had learned from Brian about Djefi’s plans, the king had decided that the three of them would tell no one else. He would let it seem as if the gods had favored him. If Kanakht had not taken ill - perhaps the gods did save me, King Djoser mused - the king would have feigned a sore back and asked Kanakht to sit in the chair in his place.