by Jerry Dubs
Arriving in Men-Nefer before dawn, he had shaved and bathed, visited the Temple of Ptah, and now was preparing to receive the Egyptian envoy and the daughter of the distant king.
He picked up an alabaster bottle, lifted the stopper and sniffed at the perfumed oil. Frowning, he tried to place the scent. There was myrrh, of course, for most perfumes, especially those from temples, contained myrrh. He sniffed again. Cinnamon? He shook his head. Too sweet, he thought, replacing the stopper and picking a different bottle.
This oil had a softer fragrance, yet it carried weight. He tipped the bottle against his hand and then rubbed his fingers against the oil. It seemed to evaporate at his touch, leaving behind a thin sheen on his skin. Holding his hand to his face, he inhaled slowly, letting the aroma linger in his nose.
A slight acerbic tinge lay over a green scent that evoked a forest. Southernwood, he thought, recognizing the aroma.
He poured some of the oil, cassia oil, he thought, appreciating its thin body, onto his hand and began to rub it over his shoulders and chest. He had been taunted by some of the charioteers because of his ability to discern fragrances and recognize different oils, but he was his mother’s son and had been raised in the palace where close quarters fostered appreciation of aromas.
Rubbing oil on his shaved head, he breathed in the fragrance, wiped his hands on a linen cloth and turned his attention to his duties.
As Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s health had declined, Pharaoh Thutmose had become obsessed with making sure that the Thutmose bloodline continued. Although his wife had given him a son and was pregnant now with another child, he had begun collecting secondary wives to produce more heirs.
Two years ago, he had instructed his ambassadors to demand tribute wives from allies and vassals.
Some of the charioteers argued that by taking foreign wives Pharaoh Thutmose was diluting the blood of the Two Lands. Others argued that the seed of an Egyptian god would purify the blood of outlanders.
Neferhotep, who was also the son of his practical father, kept his counsel. Pharaoh Thutmose would do as he pleased and standing in his way would be as productive — and as dangerous — as debating a crocodile.
And, Neferhotep recognized, his own grandfather was an outlander.
Although, he thought solemnly, he is also a god. A very human one.
In the seven years since Neferhotep and Bata had rescued Imhotep and Akila from the temple of Abu, Neferhotep had come to love Imhotep as a second father, trust his advice and, he admitted to himself, worship him as a god.
And, Neferhotep thought, a swell of well-being filling him, he respects and loves me as well.
Straightening his shoulders as he emerged from his chambers, Neferhotep strode across the courtyard to his waiting chariot.
The holiness of the temple grounds, the rhythmic sound of distant chanting, and the fragrance of the southernwood oil swirled through his mind, and he felt his heartbeat align with the pulse of the Two Lands.
Mounting his chariot, he turned to the five charioteers who waited for him. He nodded, slapped the reins against the backs of his horses and felt the world move beneath his wheels.
As it always did, the pull of the chariot made his ka light. He directed his horses to the gateway that led to the docks and smiled.
I have been blessed.
***
Menhet, Menwi, and Merti braced themselves against the railing of the ship, which swayed beneath their feet even though it was docked.
Seeing the tall, majestic walls of Hut-ka-Ptah, House of the Soul of Ptah, Menhet felt anticipation tug at the cloak of disappointment that had draped itself over her shoulders since leaving Alalakh.
Perhaps this land will have a prince for me.
Merti’s young eyes saw the stately palm trees, the twisting plumes of smoke that rose from a thousand cook fires, and the bustling movement of merchants, sailors, guards, and dock workers. The sea, she thought, was filled with life beneath the surface, but this ... her thoughts scattered as a trio of low-flying cranes flew past, their long, sticklike legs trailing behind them. Gasping in surprise, she tugged on Menwi’s arm and pointed to the strange birds.
Smiling down at her little sister, Menwi felt as if she were looking at the world through the thinnest of linen cloths. Merti’s joyful face looked gentle and unfocused. The wood of the ship felt soft and dreamlike. The sounds of the shouting boatmen and the cawing of the birds, all were muted.
This world is a dream, she worried. If I wake, I will find myself in our dark, smoke-filled room in Alalakh.
Then the clatter of hoofbeats broke through her thoughts and the mist of her dreams dissolved.
Blinking, Menwi saw the world anew.
And in the center of the world came a charioteer.
He stood confidently, his body moving as if one with the horses and the rolling chariot. His broad chest gleamed as if coated with the essence of the sun. His eyes sang with adventure and happiness. His face was smooth and strong, like the serene faces on small statues Menwi had seen.
She felt her soul swell as she recognized him as the spirit of the Two Lands. She wanted to close her eyes to offer thanks to the gods, but she didn’t want this vision to vanish.
He must be Lord Pharaoh Thutmose, she thought, ruler of this world.
Ruler of my heart.
She lowered her eyes; this dream was too large to witness.
***
Neferhotep reined his horses to a halt and stepped lightly from his chariot. He closed his eyes a moment and looked down, waiting for the billowing cloud of dust that had trailed him to float past.
Then, he raised his eyes and looked up the gangplank that led to the small ship from Alalakh. A clean-shaven man wearing a broad, beaded necklace that covered a soft chest stood at the top of the ramp.
The man breathed deeply, waved a hand and called, “It is good to be back in the Two Lands!” Then, walking down the gangplank on unsteady sea legs, he asked, “Commander Neferhotep?”
Neferhotep nodded and smiled.
“I am Addaya, commissioner of southern Canaan,” the man said, his eyes looking downward as he reached the end of the plank and stepped onto land.
“Greetings from the Double House,” Neferhotep said, extending his arms to Addaya, who opened his arms to embrace Neferhotep.
As the men exchanged a brief hug, Neferhotep looked up toward the ship where three slight figures had gathered at the top of the gangplank.
“I bring gifts to Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!” Addaya said, drawing back and grinning at Neferhotep. “King Idrimi has sent all three of his daughters as tribute.”
Tribute? Neferhotep thought with a twinge of sadness. Although he had been raised in a household served by slaves, Akila and Imhotep had changed his point of view as they gently, but firmly insisted that the household slaves be freed. Now he found repellent the idea of people being regarded as possessions.
Still, he kept his face unreadable.
He was an envoy of Pharaoh Thutmose, and he knew that Golden Horus viewed all the people, the cattle and sheep and geese and ducks as his possessions, entrusted to his care by Ptah and Amun and Re.
Addaya puffed out his chest. “I was sent to procure an alliance wife for Pharaoh Thutmose, long life! And I have brought him three!”
Neferhotep glanced again at the ship as the three figures, their faces in shadows, began to descend.
“Three?” he said, his mind immediately turning to the changes he would need to make to transport two additional royal wives upriver.
“Two are rather old, but they have not been with a man, I made sure that was understood,” Addaya added quickly. Then he leaned close and whispered, “They are from the very fringes of civilization where practices are, uh, more relaxed.”
As Addaya spoke, the three sisters reached the end of the gangplank and approached Addaya and Neferhotep, their faces turned demurely downward.
“Commander Neferhotep,” Addaya said, “I give into your charge
the daughters of King Idrimi of Alalakh.” He turned and motioned toward the tallest figure. “I present Princess Menhet.”
Neferhotep smiled a greeting to the girl, noting the strain that tightened her mouth. Her hair was unshaved, her nose wide and fleshy with a few pockmarks. Her eyes watched him like a hawk circling a mouse, looking for weakness and a chance to strike.
“Welcome to the Two Lands, Princess Menhet,” Neferhotep said, bowing his head. “I hope you will enjoy being our guest and that you will soon call this land your home.”
“Thank you, commander,” Menhet said, her voice pitched high from nervousness.
“And Princess Menwi,” Addaya said, opening his hand toward the second woman.
Neferhotep turned his eyes to her as she raised her face to greet him.
Her eyes found his and Neferhotep felt his ka take flight.
Long strands of curling brown hair, encircled by a narrow bejeweled band, fell as curtains beside her face. Her nose was a gentle line that flared softly above a small mouth guarded by a narrow upper lip and a full lower lip that curled invitingly. Her skin was the color of unwashed papyrus, but smooth as the alabaster jar he had held in his hand minutes ago.
He saw this without understanding it for his attention was devoured by her eyes, dark windows that called to his ka with promises, not of delight, but of fulfillment.
In the moment they held each other’s gaze, an awakening desire and a rush of joy flooded through him. His heart pounded blood through his chest and neck and face and he was certain that everyone in the Two Lands paused in wonder at the song of his ka.
Menwi parted her lips to speak and Neferhotep felt his own lips open in response, hungry to press hers and to share her breath. He started to lean forward, caught himself, and felt an overwhelming foreboding of disaster.
In a rush he knew that his heart wanted to beat with hers. Her eyes spoke the same desire to him. And, with a black flood of sadness, he understood that he was looking into a future that could never be.
“Welcome, Princess Menwi,” he said, aware that the words had to fight their way through a suddenly thick throat.
“Commander,” Menwi said, “I am eager to place myself in your hands.”
Neferhotep glanced at her quickly.
“So that I may begin my new life in the Two Lands,” Menwi added, her eyes holding his for a moment before she bowed her head demurely.
Goddess of love
Puimre raised a hand to his shoulder to tug on the leopard skin that slid across his round shoulders. Pausing in the fog of incense that hung in the temple corridor, the First Prophet of Ptah breathed heavily and then, grunting unconsciously, he resumed his slow walk through the aromatic mist.
Hut-ka-Ptah had prospered under the joint rule of Pharaoh Hatshepsut and Pharaoh Thutmose. A new, taller pylon had been added to the temple and a small sanctuary of granite had been constructed. Outside the city, additional farmland had been placed under the god’s protection, more fishing vessels had been built, more servants had been hired, and more slaves assigned.
First Prophet Puimre, always large in girth and soft in flesh, had grown with the temple. For the past year Puimre had spent most of his days lying beneath a shady sycamore by the sacred lake attended by servants, amused by magicians, and entertained by musicians. Movement had become tiresome and long speeches exhausting. He delegated his tasks now, speaking for the great god Ptah only during ceremonies attended by Pharaoh Thutmose.
The spirit of Ptah still spoke to him, but Puimre knew that his body muffled the thoughts of his own ka, entombing it like a towering pyramid. He knew that his ba and ka were not in harmony.
But balance would be restored when he rested from life; he had devoted himself to caring for Ptah; the gods would return the favor.
***
Fighting his impatience, Neferhotep stood at the far end of the hallway watching as the priest emerged from the cloud of incense, appearing like a hippopotamus hoisting itself from the river into the morning mist.
“First Prophet of Ptah,” Neferhotep said, pushing aside the image and touching a knee to the stone floor as Puimre reached him. “Forgive the intrusion.”
Puimre laid a sweaty hand on Neferhotep’s head, giving him permission to rise. “I thought you would be rushing upriver with Pharaoh Thutmose’s new bride,” he said, his voice breathy from exertion.
Standing, Neferhotep nodded agreement and said, “That was my plan, Voice of Ptah. However, Prince Idrimi has sent three daughters.”
The priest snorted. “He must be desperate to secure the favor of the Two Lands,” he said. “Are they comely?”
“Yes, Voice of Ptah,” Neferhotep answered immediately, instinctively avoiding criticizing a future wife of Pharaoh Thutmose. He closed his eyes for a moment to bring their faces to his mind, but all he could see was Menwi’s smile.
He was loyal to Pharaoh Thutmose; he joyfully executed his duty to the Two Lands. Yet her smile and the invitation he had seen in her eyes circled over his consciousness like mourning doves, their gray shadows flitting over his every thought.
Eyes darting, he tried to recall the other sisters now, but he could summon only ghost images, faded to indistinct shadows by the beauty of Menwi. Feeling her presence even now, he realized that her ka was calling to him, as loudly and clearly as if she were standing by his side.
“Commander Neferhotep?” Puimre said.
Feeling a wave of shame wash over him, Neferhotep looked up at the priest.
“I am sorry, Voice of Ptah. I am a little overwhelmed by the unexpected arrival of the additional brides. My thoughts are scattered.” He swallowed awkwardly.
“I have sent the three sisters to the room I used last night,” he continued. “But it isn’t adequate. I ask for your help to secure larger quarters for them.” Smiling, he offered a shrug. “I could take them to the governor’s palace, but I am certain that Pharaoh Thutmose would prefer that his father Ptah protect them.”
Puimre held out his arms, his palms facing up. “Yes, Neferhotep. Ptah already is watching over them.” Closing his eyes he said, “Useramen!”
A priest slid from behind Puimre.
Neferhotep blinked in amazement. Had the man been hidden by the cloud of incense, shielded by Puimre’s girth, or did the First Prophet conjure him from the holy ka of the temple itself?
The man wore a shendyt kilt, its many creases ironed sharp and straight. His chest and head were shaved smooth, even his eyebrows had been scraped away, making his round eyes seem as huge and all-knowing as an owl’s. His face was a rectangular block, the sides of it descending to a square chin that lay solidly below snug lips.
“First Prophet,” Useramen said.
“Arrange suitable rooms for our guests,” Puimre said without turning his head to his servant. “Have they eaten?” he asked, talking now to Neferhotep. Before Neferhotep could answer Puimre waved a hand, dismissing the question. “Set them a banquet. And find suitable dressers and attendants for the women.”
“It will be done,” Useramen said, his eyes on the priest, whose eyes were squinted in thought.
“Do you require a scribe?” Puimre asked Neferhotep.
Neferhotep shook his head. “No, First Prophet. Now that Pharaoh Thutmose’s wives are in your care, I will go to the barracks to requisition additional men, to map additional rest stops along the river and to send letters ahead to arrange appropriate quarters for the women.” He paused. “I would like to return to my room here tonight, however.”
Puimre smiled. “Of course. Pharaoh Thutmose’s emissaries are always welcome here. If you need anything,” he tilted his head toward Useramen.
“I will instruct Hekaemsaf to provide three ships from the House of Ptah,” Useramen offered.
“Thank you,” Neferhotep said. “Father Ptah is generous.”
“I will send a servant to await you, Commander Neferhotep,” Useramen said. “Is there anything else you desire?”
Menwi’s face
appeared in Neferhotep’s mind, her lips open in anticipation. He felt another wave of shame. And of desire.
“Commander?” Useramen said gently.
“No, I desire nothing,” Neferhotep said.
***
Carrying a torch, Neferhotep walked the dark streets of Men-Nefer.
His shoulders ached and his calves twitched with knots. He had worked at a desk until midafternoon. Then he had taken his horses and chariot to the training grounds. He had worked the horses hard, but himself harder.
The pull of the reins on his arms, the shifting floor of the chariot, and the fire of the sun on his back brought a welcoming, distracting ache. Although Menwi’s face dissolved from view as he fired arrows at sandbags tied to posts, it reappeared when he dismounted to retrieve his arrows or to water his horses between runs.
He had been with women, taking and giving pleasure, but had never felt his ka pulled to another before. His mother and Pentu shared an easy love, one that Neferhotep thought would be comforting. But he did not see fire there.
Imhotep and Akila had a different love.
Although they often communicated with only a glance or a touch, Neferhotep saw a hidden depth: Imhotep’s eyes and voice seemed to live a life of their own, speaking from the immortal ka that hid within his modest body, and Akila’s eyes spoke of an understanding born of secret knowledge, yet a ready acceptance of the unknown future.
To Neferhotep’s eyes, an unbreakable bond bound Imhotep and Akila, and he knew that they would sacrifice themselves for each other. Their love for each other combined the fire of Re and the weight of Geb.
It was, Neferhotep believed, the love of gods, a love that might consume a mortal.
When he thought of Menwi, he felt the heat of such a love, as if his hand was nearing the heart of a fire.
He knew that he should pull away.
Yet the flames drew him onward.