Imhotep (41 page)

Kanakht
leaned closer to her, his face drawn tight with anger.

“You
think the people have no will?” he asked.  “You think the army is only
strong arms and willing backs?  Ask King Djoser, ask Hetephernebti. 
You live in your world of truth and ideals, Tama.  The world I live in is
colored with half-truths, with ambition, with unrealized dreams and
desires.  The people in my world, Tama, in the real world, they want more
than a full belly.  And they see that King Djoser cannot give them even
that.”

Tama
looked at Waja-Hur, his face pale, his eyes distant, his breathing more regular
now, but still shallow. 

“Kanakht,”
she said, gathering her thoughts, “What you say is true.  I know
that.  But it is only part of our world.  I search for truth, the
truth that lies beneath all.  The world you live in, with King Djoser,
with the generals, with the governors of the nomes is a small, small part of
the Two Lands. 

“I
agree that part of the Two Lands is filled with ambition and a hunger that
would devour all of Kemet.  And that is why Waja-Hur’s words, as old as
they are, are true.  The balance must be maintained.  I don’t believe
the people of the Two Lands would rise up against King Djoser, or against
whoever sits on the throne, but if disorder is sown, if the balance is struck
down, then it is possible that more than one person will seek to restore it.

“If
the disorder is too great, the people may choose to follow a different leader
than the one you would put on the throne.”

Suddenly
Djefi spoke, his voice high pitched, but held in control.

“Ah,
but they will follow a king the gods put on the throne.”

Tama
and Kanakht turned to look at the fat priest, whose presence they had
forgotten.

He was
leaning forward in his chair, his robe straining against rolls of fat, his
small eyes intense and bright.

“So
much talk,” he said.  He smiled smugly.  “At To-She we do not talk so
much.  We act.  Come to Kom Ombo, Tama.  You will see your
precious ‘truth’ in action.”

He
leaned back in his chair and looked toward the doorway.  Snapping his
fingers, he called, “More beer, boy, more beer.”

The
young boy who was standing by the doorway picked up the jar of beer and using
both hands, carried it to Djefi and carefully poured more beer into the
priest’s cup.  As he turned, Hetephernebti entered the hut carrying a
round loaf of bread.

She
was followed by Nimaasted.

Seeing
Waja-Hur, the young priest pushed past Hetephernebti and rushed to Waja-Hur’s
side.  He bent down and cupped Waja-Hur’s face in his hands. 

“Little
father,” he said, leaning close to him.  He moved his hand down Waja-Hur’s
neck to feel the weak pulse there.  Waja-Hur rolled his eyes toward
Nimaasted and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Nimaasted
put an arm under Waja-Hur’s legs and easily lifted the small man.  He
headed toward the door. 

“Please,”
he said over his shoulder, “Come with me, Tama.  Go to my room. 
There is a sack by the altar, it has amulets in it.  I will take Waja-Hur
to Akhenre, he has treated him before.  Bring the amulets to him.”

Tama
turned to Hetephernebti before she left. 

“Waja-Hur
has grown weaker since I last saw him.  His ka is preparing to leave his
body.  Akhenre is a good doctor and will help him, but I’m not sure what
more can be done,”

“Go,
little sister,” Hetephernebti answered.

K
anakht and Hetephernebti stood silently for
a moment, looking absently out the doorway.  Djefi sipped noisily at his
beer.

“You
and Tama have been talking,” Kanakht said.

Hetephernebti
didn’t answer.

“I
advised Tama to be careful,” Kanakht continued.  “She is a smart
woman.  I hope she sees the wisdom of my advice.”

Hetephernebti
turned to him now.  She glanced at Djefi who sat unmoving on his chair,
his eyes fixed on them.

“I
know that you are planning to kill my brother,” she said.  Djefi coughed
at her openness, but Kanakht merely smiled at her.

“And I
thought Tama was the direct one.  You have always been more discreet,
Hetephernebti.  Much like your brother.”

“Be
careful what you plan,” she said.  “If I know of your intentions, you can
be sure my brother knows.”

Kanakht
looked away from her, out the door into the fading light.

He
nodded his head.

“In
some few ways King Djoser has been a good king, Hetephernebti.  But he has
reached too far.  We both know it.  I think that in some way he
welcomes the idea of being tested.  He allows it to see if the gods are
truly with him, if he truly is one of them.  I think he will accept what
the gods decide.  You would be wise to accept it, too.”

Hetephernebti
raised her chin as she looked at Kanakht.

“I
will fight for my brother,” she said.

“Then
you will lose,” he answered.

I
n the days before the Two Lands were
united, when the gods still walked along the river banks and made their life in
Kemet, Tefnut, also called ‘She-of-Moisture,’ argued with her father, the god
Re.  Of what, no one remembers. 

Tefnut
changed herself into a murderous lion and fled south to Nubia, leaving behind
her father and all the other gods.

Now
Tefnut was also known as “The Eye of Re” and “Lady of the Flame,” but most
importantly the goddess was “She-of-Moisture.”  When she fled Kemet she
took with her the green waters of the oases and the clear waters from the wells
and the slow-moving water from the canals and irrigation ditches and all the
water from the River Iteru.

And
Kemet became dry.  Drier than the skin of a camel’s knee, drier than
scales of a sloughed snakeskin, drier than a farmer's throat after a day of
cutting dusty stalks of wheat.

Kemet
sank into chaos, and even Re, in time, felt the loss of his daughter.  He
called Shu, god of air, filled with divine knowledge; and Thoth, god of
scribes, master of words, recorder of knowledge; and he sent them to Nubia to
find his angry daughter and to persuade her to return.

Thoth
and Shu disguised themselves as baboons, sacred to the god Thoth, and began
their journey.  They passed beyond the Two Lands, beyond the first
cataract, the second and the third, and on into the land of Nubia.  Then
beyond Nubia to Begum where they found Tefnut.

The
goddess was happy as a lion.  She was free to roam the desert, to kill
what she pleased.  Thoth told her about the sadness that had spread
throughout Egypt.  She shrugged her tawny shoulders and growled in
disinterest.  Thoth told her about the pain of the people of Kemet and she
yawned.  He told her that her father wept and she paced and flicked her
tail, eager to return to the hunt.

Thoth
told her stories about the Two Lands, stories of pain and of joy, stories of
great hunts and feasts, stories of the gods and goddesses and she
listened.  Thoth used his words, he sang his stories, he made the sounds
and the empty spaces between the sounds into a net and eventually Tefnut’s
interest was snared and she agreed to come home.

T
ama and Hetephernebti stood together at
the fringe of the crowd as Waja-Hur, with Nimaasted holding his arm,
triumphantly led Tefnut’s homecoming procession through the courtyard.

Screeching
baboons, representing the two gods, knuckle-walked beside Waja-Hur, casting
anxious glances over their shoulders at a desert lion that followed them, kept
at bay by twin acolytes holding golden leashes.

A
train of musicians, dancers and acrobats accompanied them, surrounding six
Nubians who carried a sedan chair on which the statue of a lion-headed woman
was carried.

“I
pray that the moisture does return,” Hetephernebti said, as much to herself as
to Tama. “I watch daily for the ibises,” she said, referring to the flocks of
birds that flew north into Kemet each year just before the flooding waters
arrived.

Tama
took Hetephernebti’s hand.  “I watch for them, also.”

Hetephernebti
turned to her friend.  She brought her eyes up slowly and looked at the
younger priestess.

“The
time may come, Tama, when we must do more than watch and pray.  It may be
here now.”

Tama
smiled sadly.

“It is
not just my brother,” Hetephernebti said.  She led Tama away from the
crowd so they could talk privately.

“Djoser
can take care of Kanakht.  If not, then he doesn’t deserve to sit on the
throne.  The schemes of Kanakht do not concern me.  No, don’t look at
me that way, Tama.  I love Djoser, he is my brother.  But I do
question what he has done.  He is no god.  I know that.  You
know that.  I cannot argue that with Kanakht.

“My
worry is with Djefi.  Not just him, but others like him.  I know they
are watching and wondering and waiting, like a pack of jackals.  They each
believe in their god.  And not just in their god, but that their god is
the most important of all the gods. 

“We
all do, I admit,” Hetephernebti said.

“But
we must content ourselves with the family of gods.  I believe Re guides us
best, you follow Ma’at, Waja-Hur follows Thoth.  Each represents a
different truth, a different aspect of the ma’at that guides us all, even the
gods themselves.  If Djefi is allowed to elevate Sobek, if the viciousness
of that mean-spirited man is given free rein, then the spirit of Kemet will
change.

“I
will not allow it,” she said.

Tama
had never seen this side of her friend.

“Hetephernebti,”
she said.  “We must trust the gods.  Who are we to try to work our
small wills over the gods?  Do you not trust in Re?”

“I
trust Re to be Re, yes.  But I do not expect Re to raise a cup to my lips
when I am thirsty or to wash away my sweat when I am hot.  No, I do for
myself.  We all do.  Re is Re.  I must act on what I believe is
his desire.  I cannot believe that he would want Sobek to rise above all
gods.  Never!  I will do everything I can to help Re, to stop Djefi.”

Tama
was quiet, observing and thinking.

“Dear
sister,” she finally said.  “I do not like Djefi either.  But think,
he is doing what he believes Sobek wants him to do.  He is acting just as
you say you will act, trying to interpret Re’s desire and make it happen here
in Kemet.  If you act against Djefi, how are you different from him?”

Hetephernebti
looked at Tama, her face composed, reflecting the confidence she felt.

“Because,
Tama,” Hetephernebti said, “I am right and he is wrong.  Sobek is an evil
god, a destroyer.  Re is a loving god, he nurtures Kemet.  I will
help my brother because Kanakht is an ambitious, grasping man and if he
succeeds, then Djefi succeeds and I can not allow that to happen.  Never.”

T
ama was about to answer when Hetephernebti
raised her hand.

A man
had approached them, stopping short and waiting for Hetephernebti to signal him
closer.  She nodded her head and as he walked toward them, he said, “I
bring a message from Samut.  He said that the man you sent him to find is
with him at Edfu.  They wait for you there.”

“Brian?”
Tama said to Hetephernebti.

“Yes. 
He must have escaped from the temple at Kom Ombo,” Hetephernebti answered.

Tama's
eyes filled with tears of relief.  “I am going to him.”

P
rince Teti’s arm was withered and pale,
his face was tense and worried.

Hesire
had removed the last wrappings of the cast and was gently probing the prince’s
forearm.

“No,
it doesn’t hurt.  Yes, I can feel it.  Hesire, what is wrong with my
arm?  Look at it!”

“I am,
Prince Teti, I am.  What about this?  Does this hurt?” He moved his
grip lower to the spot where the bone had protruded through the skin.  A
dark jagged line marked where the skin had been torn.

“It’s
all skinny and my hand feels weak.” Prince Teti clenched and unclenched his
fist.  “I have no strength.  How can I hold a spear?”

Hesire
turned Prince Teti’s arm over.  He pinched the narrow forearm.  Yes, it
is more withered than I have ever seen, he thought.  But the bone felt
properly aligned.  There was a small bump where the break had been, but
the bone was solid and Prince Teti didn’t pull away or grimace when Hesire ran
his fingers over it.

The
cast Imhotep had created had done its job.  To be sure, Rudamon had done
the hard part - setting the original break.  Hesire made a mental
note to praise the young priest in front of King Djoser.

“Your
arm is healed, Prince Teti,” Hesire said, finally releasing the arm.

“How
can you say that?” Prince Teti asked.  “Do you see it?  It looks like
a little girl’s arm.  Something is wrong.” He looked in disgust at the
healed arm.

“Prince
Teti, you’ve seen newly born donkeys, haven’t you?”

Prince
Teti nodded his head suspiciously.

“They
can barely stand.  Their legs are weak.  But in a few days they can
run and soon they can carry a pack.”

“I am
not a donkey.  You do not compare a prince of Kemet to a donkey,” Prince
Teti said, straightening his back.

Hesire
sighed.  The boy had grown so much.  He remembered squatting by the
boy’s mother as she sat on the birth chair pushing the boy into the
world.  Looking back, Hesire thought, Prince Teti had always seemed aware
of his status.  He hadn’t cried so much as demanded the nursemaid’s
milk.  He had been imperious all his short life.

Perhaps
he is the son of a god, Hesire thought.

“I am
sorry, Prince Teti.  What I meant to show was that the donkey’s legs are
weak because they have not been used while it is curled up inside its
mother.  Your arm has not been used while it has been in this cast. 
Once you exercise it, it will regain its strength.” He bent down to his basket
and pulled out an object Imhotep had sent from Abu.  It was a small bag of
sand, the grains sewn in a beautiful linen pouch embroidered with a vulture
with its wings spread.

“Here,”
he said as he handed the fist-sized bag to Prince Teti.  “Imhotep said you
are to use this, squeeze it with your right hand.  It will strengthen your
hand and your arm.”

Prince
Teti took the bag and squeezed it with his weak hand.  Then he took it in
his uninjured arm and squeezed it.  “Will it make this arm stronger, too?”
he asked.

“Yes,”
Hesire answered, happy to see Prince Teti’s enthusiasm.

“Good.”
He took it back in his weak hand and began to squeeze it.  “How long?”

“A few
weeks . . . ”

“Weeks!”

Hesire
stifled a smile at the look of dismay on Prince Teti’s face.  He tried to
remember when a week had seemed like a long time.  He was sure that it
had, but now the days flowed together so quickly that it seemed only yesterday,
not six weeks ago that he had first met the strange Imhotep.

“It is
not such a long time,” Hesire said.

“I was
planning a hunting trip,” Prince Teti said.  He tossed the sand ball into
the air and caught it with his freshly healed hand.  A smile lit up his
face as he gripped the bag strongly.

“I’ll
work harder,” he said.  “I’ll be ready.”

Hesire
allowed himself a chuckle.  “I’m sure you will, Prince Teti.  You are
truly amazing.”

Prince
Teti nodded in unabashed agreement.  “Where is Imhotep?  Is he still
with my father at Abu?”

“Yes,”
Hesire answered.  “King Djoser refuses to leave Abu until the waters
appear.”

Prince
Teti tossed and caught the ball again, the action mimicking his father’s habit
of tossing and catching an unsheathed knife.  “Then I shall go to Abu to
wait for the flood with my father.”

I
mhotep and King Djoser hadn’t spoken a
word to each other for nearly half an hour.  The only sound in the king’s
chambers was the raspy sound of the Senet sticks landing on the wooden table.

King
Djoser gathered the four sticks and rolled them from his hand.  Imhotep
watched in bewilderment as they all landed with their black-painted side
up.  King Djoser reached across for the green cone, his last piece on the
game board.  He tapped the piece triumphantly against each of the six
squares that led to the end of the board.

“Another?”
he asked.

“How
do you do that?” Imhotep asked, more to himself than to the king.  He
picked up the flat sticks and rolled them.  Three landed with their black
side up, the fourth showed its white side, the worst roll.  He scooped
them up and rolled again.  All four landed showing black.

“Sure,
now I roll it,” Imhotep said in mock exasperation.

King
Djoser laughed.

“Hetephernebti
said she thought you might be a god.  Apparently she never saw you play
Senet,” King Djoser said.

Imhotep
realized that he was scowling over losing another game.  Looking up from
the beautifully painted game board he saw King Djoser smiling and watching him.

He
started to laugh.  “There are many ways I could prove to Hetephernebti
that I am not a god,” he said.  He reached for the sticks again.  He
shook them loosely in his hand and tossed them on the table again.  Two
white faces showed this time.

King
Djoser scooped them up, rubbed them with his thumb and gently rolled them from
his hand.  They flashed black and white, tumbled against the Senet board
and landed with only the black faces showing.

King
Djoser smiled broadly.

“I’ve
always been lucky at Senet.  I used to think hard about the number I
needed.  Now,” he shrugged, “I just know that I will get what I need.” He
slid open the drawer at the end of the raised board and carefully put the
sticks away.

Imhotep
picked up the playing pieces and added them to the drawer.

This
was how their meetings began - a few games of Senet, which King Djoser
always won, then the casual turn of the conversation to the topic King Djoser
wanted to discuss.

“When
I slept last night, Imhotep, I had a dream.  Sleep is a strange thing when
you think about it.  Our bodies lie inert, but our spirits, ah, they
fly.  Don’t they?  Some nights I dream of battles, some nights I
dream of other conquests.  Last night I dreamed that Khnum himself stood
before me.  Even as the god spoke, part of my mind said, ‘This is the
dream Imhotep foretold.’

“And
it was, Imhotep.  It was.”

Imhotep
felt a chill run up his spine as he heard the king talk.  He had a brief
disconnected moment as he wondered if his memory of history was being proven
correct or if his suggestion to King Djoser that he would have this dream was
creating history.

In
another time he knew that he would have been paralyzed into inaction by this
circular thought.  Now he had adopted Meryt’s acceptance of life.  If
this was what happened, then it was happening.  He would seize the moment,
revel in it and live it as fully as he could.

King
Djoser had continued to talk while Imhotep was lost in thought.  His
serene voice was tinged with amazement. “Khnum stood before me and he said he
would put his arms around me, steady my body.  He would safeguard my
limbs.  It was the most pleasant and comforting feeling.”

King
Djoser turned to Imhotep.

“Do
you have your papers, royal scribe?”

Imhotep
opened his journal.

“The
god’s words were so clear to me.  I want you to record them while they
still sing in my memory.  Here is what Khnum said. 

“He
said, ‘I am master of creation.  I have created myself; the great ocean
which came into being in past times, according to whose pleasure the River
Iteru rises.  For I am the master who makes, I am he who makes himself
exalted in Nun, who first came forth, Hapi who hurries at will; fashioner of
everybody, guide of each man to their hour.  I am Tenen, father of Gods,
the great Shou living on the shore.  The two caves are in a trench below
me.  It is up to me to let loose the well.  I know the Iteru, urge
him to the field, I urge him, life appears in every nose.’

“And
he said, ‘I will make the river swell for you, without there being a year of
lack and exhaustion in the whole land, so the plants will flourish, bending
under their fruit.’

“I
heard those very words, Imhotep.  When I awoke, my heart was decided and
at ease.  I knew that my gift was pleasing to Khnum.

“Tomorrow
Prince Teti will arrive.  We will celebrate his return to health and I
will make the sacrifice.  Khnum will be pleased and harmony will return to
the Two Lands.”

T
he Temple of Khnum filled only a small
part of the northern tip of the island of Abu.  The temple courtyard,
enclosed by a low stone wall, was filled with fruit trees and flowering plants,
a fitting display for Khnum who also was the god of fertile soil.

The
grounds of the temple and the cleared area around it had become crowded with
tents as guests arrived for the dedication of the gift King Djoser was
bestowing on the temple.

High
priest Sennufer was sharing his chambers with his son Sekhmire, his wife, Sati,
and their son, Siptah, who had joined the commander at Abu for the ceremony.

Recognizing
that the seven-year famine was the most dangerous threat the Two Lands faced,
King Djoser had abandoned Waset, his administrative center, until the river
rose and the threat was gone. 

He had
even delayed his visit to the army beyond the second cataract.  No
military threat could do as much harm to Kemet as another year without a heavy
harvest. 

No
ceremonies for other gods mattered to the king until this god who controlled
the rise of the river was satisfied and showed his satisfaction by bringing the
rush of silt-laden waters from beyond Nubia.

And so
King Djoser had chosen to stay at Abu. 

He met
daily with Sennufer.  He prayed to Khnum and made offerings.  He had
brought in a court scribe from Asuan, just across the river, to officially
record the huge offering he was making to Khnum.  Stone workers had been
ordered to carve a stone stele commemorating the offering.

Prince
Teti had arrived, the rest of King Djoser’s personal guard had been called back
from their leaves, the boatmen had returned with them. 

Ptahhotep,
an elderly wrinkled man who had outlived all of his sons, was governor of the
southernmost nome, which also was called Abu.  Arriving on the island to
watch King Djoser give away so much of his province, Ptahhotep had wisely
chosen to embrace the king’s idea, offering his own scribes to help with the
paperwork.

All
was ready.  The season of Ahket, the flood, was at hand.

Sekhmire
wore a solemn face when he greeted King Djoser in the king’s chambers before
the temple dedication.

King
Djoser saw the change in the commander’s demeanor and raised an eyebrow in
question.  Before he could say anything, Sekhmire dropped to one knee and
bowed his head.

“I
know there is no need for this, King Djoser, I have pledged loyalty to you
before.  But I want to swear again before all the gods that I will protect
you with my arms, with my heart, with my eyes and mind, with my very spirit.”

He
looked up earnestly at King Djoser.  “This is not because of the gift of
land to the temple or because my father is high priest.  My father taught
me to be humble before the gods, to value my friends and family and to serve
the Two Lands.  During our weeks here I have seen all of this in your
actions.  You are king of the Two Lands.  Thousands of men serve in
your armies.  All of the land and the water, the fishes and the game, the
fields of wheat and the stands of papyrus are yours.  And still you humble
yourself before the gods and make offerings to them.

“I
swear to serve and protect you, King Djoser, Lord of the Two Lands.”

King
Djoser laid a hand on Sekhmire’s shoulder, urging him to his feet.  Once
he was standing, King Djoser embraced him, holding him as he had dreamed the
god Khnum held him.

When
they moved apart, King Djoser saw tears in Sekhmire’s eyes.  He clapped
his hands on the commander’s broad shoulders and smiled at him.