Imhotep (49 page)

“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 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.

B
rian and Pahket had gone.

Imhotep
sat with his notebook, rereading 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.”

S
ekhmire 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 upriver 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.

D
eep 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 his frustration.

K
ing 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.

T
he 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. 

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.  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.

K
anakht 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 gods’ 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.

D
jefi 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 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.

I
mhotep 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.

A
lmost everyone turned 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.