Imhotep (46 page)

Then
he reached into Sesostris mouth and grabbed his tongue and pulled it out as far
as he could.  With a quick slice of his knife, he cut it off. As Sesostris
gagged on the sudden pain and blood, Siamun held the severed tongue above
Sesostris’s eyes. 

“The
Cutting Out of Sobek’s Tongue,” he said, mimicking Sesostris’ voice.  Then
he laughed and tossed the tongue across the courtyard.

The
smell of blood brought the crocodiles to life.

S
iamun’s eyes had danced with light as he
recounted the story all those years later, and Yunet had understood for the
first time his fear-tinged respect for Djefi.

Although
she and Djefi shared a mother, that offered no real security.  He had used
her once, a five-year-old girl as bait in his trap.  What protection would
Diane, an outlander have?  None.

They
would obey Djefi, get as far from his plans at Kom Ombo as they could. 
Diane would have time to heal.  All they had to do was to avoid angering
Siamun.  That was never easy, she knew.  He always seemed to be on
the verge of erupting into violence.

She
would be careful not to upset him during the trip back to To-She.

T
he river looked like a lake, a wide,
black, moving, churning lake.

Imhotep
leaned against the side of the boat staring at the bowed tops of willow trees,
their whip-like limbs floating on the water.  The taller date palm trees
stood straight, straining to keep their green branches just above the water.

It
seemed strange to see the river flooding when there had been no rain.  But
Imhotep knew that there had been torrents of rain farther south, beyond Nubia
and beyond Kush.  The pelting rain had swept across the decaying leaves
and the rich loamy soil of the rain forests, washing it into the river, which
was surging now below the boat.

Meryt
was sitting at his feet.  It was morning and she had just finished heaving
her breakfast over the side of the boat.  She had pushed Imhotep away when
her stomach first started to quiver.

“Aren’t
you tired of watching me be sick?” she had snapped at him.  “There’s
nothing you can do.”

He had
shrugged.  “I can be here.”

“I
think I can manage  . . . ” she had started to say and then she had to lean
over the side of the boat.  He stood beside her, rubbing her back until
she was finished.  Then she had slumped by his feet.

He was
worried about the duration of the morning sickness, but Sekhmire’s wife had
assured them that it varied from woman to woman and even from pregnancy to
pregnancy.  “You will be fine,” Sati had told Meryt before they had left
Abu for the short journey to Kom Ombo and the dedication of the new temple to
Sobek. 

“Take
naps and remember to keep eating small meals, little sister.  Lots of
them.” Then she had turned to Imhotep.  “If you are like my Sekhmire
you’ll enjoy one of the changes.  She’ll grow larger,” she had held her
cupped hands in front of her breasts when she said this. 

Imhotep
had blushed.  He had gotten used to their comfort with nudity; it fit his
artist’s view of the world.  But he wasn’t sure he would ever get used to
their casual sexuality. 

“But
they will be tender, so be gentle.” Sati had enjoyed his discomfort.  He
was such a strange man.  King Djoser and her Sekhmire thought he really
was a god, a god of medicine, a god who could see into the future. 

But to
her he seemed like a little boy when it came to some things.  He did seem
to truly care for Meryt, so she welcomed him into their lives.  Still it
was fun to tease him.

“He is
always gentle,” Meryt had said.

“So,
are you ready for the trip?” Imhotep had asked, trying to change the subject.

“That’s
good,” Sati had said to Meryt, ignoring Imhotep’s comment.  “But sometimes
… ” she had smiled and raised her eyebrows.  “But after the sickness
passes, and it will, Meryt, I promise, then you can go back to behaving like
new lovers.”

Imhotep
had tried to interrupt, but Sati hadn’t slowed down.

“When
your belly starts to swell, then try either riding him or let him come to you
from behind.”

“I’m
sure you have some packing to finish,” Imhotep had said.  “I know we do.”

“No,
we have everything ready,” Meryt had said innocently.

Sati
had embraced Meryt and whispered in her ear.  “He’s a sweet man. 
Break him in gently.” Meryt had giggled as Sati let her go.

Imhotep
had stepped to Sati and opened his arms to embrace her.  She had moved
inside his arms to hug him.  “She is a treasure,” she had whispered to
him.  “I know you’ll treat her like one.” She had squeezed him and backed
away.

“Sekhmire
will journey with King Djoser on his boat. Siptah and I will be traveling with
some of the other families.  You are welcome to travel with us, Meryt, but
I’m sure Imhotep will not leave you out of his sight.”

Meryt
had smiled at her.  She had become such a good friend, one she never would
have met if Hetephernebti hadn’t instructed her to travel with Imhotep when he
had first arrived in The Two Lands.  How strange the way lives become
intertwined, she had thought. 

“Yes,
Imhotep has asked King Djoser if I could travel on the royal boat with them. 
I’m sure the king will enjoy having a sick woman with him,” she had said wryly.

“Did
you hear what he did?” Sati had said quietly, looking around the small room as
if someone could be eavesdropping.  “You know that Inetkawes has stayed at
Waset, so King Djoser has been without a woman the whole time he has been
here.”

She
had glanced around conspiratorially.  “The king loves Inetkawes very
much.  She is a beautiful wife, a perfect manager of the royal
household.  But she is not here.

“So,”
she had lowered her voice even more, forcing Meryt and Imhotep to lean close to
her, “after the dedication of the land and all those birds flew over the king
was in a mood to celebrate.”

She
paused as if remembering.  “I have never seen so many birds.  At
first I was frightened, but they were a good omen, and what a sight.  They
kept coming and coming.  I’m sure it is an omen that the flood will be the
best in memory.  My brother will be worried, he just married last
year.  They live so close to the river.  He’s young and doesn’t
remember a real flood.  We all warned him, but he wouldn’t listen to
anyone.  Now their house will be washed away.  But they will be fine;
my parents will take them in.  They have a darling little girl, just three
years old, but so smart.

“They
live near Edfu, so I’ll be able to stop and visit with them on the way back to
Waset.  I won’t be stopping at Kom Ombo for the temple dedication,” she
had said, moving on from her original thread of conversation. 

“Sekhmire
said that King Djoser has ordered all the wives and children to stay away from
the ceremony.  That is so unusual.  Sekhmire was very secretive about
that.” She had paused and looked suddenly at Imhotep as if expecting him to
explain.

When
she had seen that he wasn’t going to answer, she had continued.  “So I’ll
be going on to Waset from here after stopping at Edfu, little sister. 
Sekhmire said because the river is rising so much and moving so fast, that I
will be home in less than a week.  You’ll visit when you arrive back at
Waset?” she had asked.

Meryt
and Imhotep had both nodded, amused smiles on their faces.

“I
know, I know,” Sati had said.  “I talk too much.  It’s just hard to
say goodbye even if it is just for a few weeks.  Sekhmire has been very
quiet about Kom Ombo and the temple dedication.” She had paused and looked at
Imhotep again.

Sati
had sighed at his silence. 

“You
men!” she had said with mock anger.  “Well, farewell, Meryt.  You’ll
be feeling better soon.” She had turned suddenly, as if forcing herself to
leave, and walked out of their room without a backward glance.

Imhotep
had still been looking at the suddenly empty doorway when Meryt had asked,
“What about Kom Ombo?”

I
never used to get tired.  Now I take
naps in the morning and the afternoon.  Sometimes it seems as if the sun
has just come up and suddenly it is going down.  Someone brings me a meal
and I set it aside to do something, and then when I look again the meal is
eaten and I have onion on my breath.

How
do these things happen?

Ah,
there is a chair.  I can rest just for a moment and then Kanakht will come
back.  Kanakht was here, I’m sure.  Wherever here is.

Waja-Hur
walked slowly across the stone-paved courtyard toward the solitary chair. 
He was almost there when he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

“Wait,
Waja-Hur, wait.” It was Kanakht’s voice.

Waja-Hur
turned slowly.  Kanakht was walking quickly across the courtyard; a fat
priest was standing a little way beyond him, looking across the plaza at
Waja-Hur.  He looked familiar to Waja-Hur.

Kanakht
was waving to Waja-Hur, calling the old priest to him.  Waja-Hur looked
around bewildered and then changed direction to walk back toward his
friend.  Kanakht stopped and waited for Waja-Hur, his eyes darting behind
the priest to watch for movement.

They
reached the edge of the courtyard where a low wall defined the perimeter. 
Waja-Hur nodded.  He remembered now.  He had stepped over this wall
earlier.  He had been standing here with Kanakht and the priest. 
They had been talking about the famine. 

Yes,
yes, he remembered now.  This is the Temple of Sobek.  A new
one!  Tomorrow there will be a dedication.  Kanakht and this fat man
had asked me to say something.  But what was it?

He
looked questioningly at Kanakht.  “I have forgotten,” he said.  “I am
sorry.”

Kanakht
reached over and touched his shoulder softly.  “No matter, old
friend.  You have forgotten more than I will ever know and still you know
more than I will ever know.  Come, let us find some shade for you.”

He led
Waja-Hur toward a doorway into the temple.

Djefi
followed, his face set in anger.

“How
can we trust him to say anything?  How can he grant legitimacy to this if
he doesn’t even know what is happening?”

Waja-Hur
turned to Djefi.

“You
have a small voice for such a large man.”

“Djefi,”
Kanakht said before the fat priest could respond.  “Waja-Hur is revered
above all other priests throughout the Two Lands.  We need his
blessing.  When Sobek shows his displeasure with the king, Waja-Hur will
pronounce the god’s action as proof that a change is needed to restore the
balance to the Two Lands.”

Djefi
nodded, his chins shaking and bouncing. 

“We’ve
been over this, Kanakht.  I understand.  What I’m saying is how can
we depend on him,” he nodded his head toward Waja-Hur’s bony back, “to remember
to say anything.”

Kanakht
winked at Djefi.

“He
doesn’t need to say anything.  He just needs to be here.  When this
is over, Djefi, we will spread the story of what happened.  We will say
that Waja-Hur gave his blessing.  He needs to be here so that it could be true. 
Once I am on the throne, no one will dispute my memory.”

H
e wanted to cry in frustration.

As far
as he could tell there were only two other people on the entire planet who
could read English.  One of them was just two miles away, but she was across
the river being guarded by a homicidal maniac.  Brian had no idea where
the other one was.  He thought he had sent a message to him, but he hadn’t
heard anything back.

He
could answer Tama’s questions with nods and shakes of his head, but he had been
unable to explain that they were training a crocodile to eat King Djoser. 

After
several tries he had drawn a crocodile well enough that Tama had figured out
what it was.  He had pretended to eat, so she got that word.  But he
was stuck on king.  Apparently they didn’t wear pointy round crowns here
and they didn’t have any drawings of King Djoser, maybe at one of the temples,
but not here in this hut on the edge of Kom Ombo.

He
glanced outside.  It was getting dark.  Soon he could go for his
evening run and burn off his frustration.

When
Tama had arrived he had been excited, both to see her and because he hoped that
she would be able to understand him.  He couldn’t pronounce the harsh
sounding Egyptian words at all without his tongue.  He could come close to
a lot of English words, but not close enough.  She tried to guess what he
was saying, but they had given up after two days.

Once
Tim arrived, Brian would be able to write out his story and tell Tim what
Siamun was planning.  Until then he would build his strength for the day
when he saw Siamun again.

H
is ka had never felt this light.  His
spirit had expanded beyond him and was lifting him.  He glanced down at
his feet to see if they were still touching the smooth wood of the ship’s
deck.  He chuckled to himself.

The
river was rising, the famine would end.  His godfather Khnum had brought
the waters as he had promised in his dream.  The man-god Imhotep had shown
him the drawings of his pyramid tomb and explained its size.  Could he
build it?  Djoser had asked him.  It was built, so it will be built,
Imhotep had answered with a shrug.

Such a
strange way to state it. 

At
first Djoser had thought Imhotep tangled up the language when he said some
things, but now he believed that Imhotep truly looked at things from far in the
future.  Imhotep had said that he had lived five thousand years from now
and that he ‘remembered’ some things that hadn’t happened yet.  He
‘remembered’ that the famine would end after the offering to Khnum.  He
‘remembered’ that Djoser would not be killed at Kom Ombo.  He ‘remembered’
that this giant pyramid would be built.

Was
Imhotep a god or a madman?  Djoser smiled to himself.  The people of
the Two Lands might wonder the same thing about me.