Imhotep (11 page)

With
her brother holding her hand, Hapu touched the cold compress again.

“Ahhh,”
Ahmes said.

Hapu
giggled and mimicked her brother with a small “ahhh.”

Tim
slowly moved the compress from his arm to Hapu’s.

“Ahhh,”
he said.

Ahmes
put his small hand on the compress and said, “It will help you, Hapu.” He
leaned forward and whispered to her, “He is Netjer Tim.  He’s very
nice.  And he’s not scary either.”

S
itting under the canopy of his boat,
Djefi’s thoughts were as dark as the slow moving water.

He had
never seen the River Iteru so low.  It had been dropping steadily for
seven years, ever since King Djoser had taken the throne and declared himself a
living god.  There was barely any current to slow Djefi's boat on its
upriver voyage to the canal that led to To-She.  The trip would be shorter
than Djefi expected.

However,
with the water so low, the boatmen had to watch for rocks along the riverbed
that might scrape the bottom of the boat.  Unless they were ignorant sons
of dung beetles, Djefi thought angrily, they would have enough sense to avoid
collisions, wood-scraping jolts which could shake the boat enough to cause beer
to slop out of a golden cup and on to a fine linen robe.

Dagi,
who had been piloting the boat when it struck submerged rocks, was now nursing
open cuts on his back from the lashing Djefi himself had administered. 
The boatman would have been beaten longer had Djefi not tired from the heat and
exertion after ten lashes.  The priest could have ordered another crewman
to continue the whipping, but Djefi was too exhausted to even listen to the
man’s screams.

And
now because of Dagi's carelessness, Djefi, tired and angry, sat in a
foul-smelling robe with one less cup of beer available to drink.

But
they would be back at To-She tomorrow, thanks be to Sobek! 

He
would be off this swaying boat and back among the shaded pathways of the oasis
that he and Sobek called home.

The
two strange gods, if they were gods, would be there by now and Yunet would have
met them.  Djefi was eager to hear her opinion of them because, even
though the chantress lacked the training and delicacy of spirit to be a
webt-priest or even a ka-servant, she did have an uncanny ability to see things
that fell below Djefi’s elevated view.

She
would know if this Brian was truly a god and Diane a goddess.

He sighed
and stared off into the distance.

So
much was happening.

Even
in To-She, away from the river and isolated from the rumors that ran up and
down The Two Lands, Djefi had heard of the unrest caused by the prolonged
famine. Kemet was in discord, and now strange gods walk out of Kanakht’s tomb.

It was
too much to be coincidence; Djefi was sure that their appearance had to be
related to the famine and to the plans Kanakht had hinted at when Djefi met him
at Khmunu.

What
would Yunet think of his meeting with the royal adviser and with Waja-Hur, that
shrunken old priest?

Djefi
hadn’t returned to To-She after the meeting because Kanakht had sent him to
inspect the tomb.  Did the adviser know the gods would appear?  Did
he have that kind of power, to make gods appear?

Djefi
had so much to discuss with Yunet.

H
is meeting with Kanakht and Waja-Hur had
taken place almost three weeks ago.  He had been summoned by Kanakht to
travel upriver to Khmunu, where Waja-Hur lived.  The ancient priest to the
god Thoth seldom traveled anymore.

The
trip, which took more than a week in each direction, had disrupted his planning
for the festival at To-She, but even a high priest did not refuse an invitation
from the man who was second in power only to King Djoser. 

Kanakht
had arrived from the other direction, following the river down from the town of
Waset where King Djoser was holding council with priests of Khonsu, Mut and
Amon.  The harvest season was approaching and, all along the river,
everyone knew how meager the results would be.  King Djoser was consulting
with the priests in hopes of finding a way to restore balance to
Kemet.   

“He
seeks advice,” Kanakht had said and coughed a wheezing laugh. 

The
three men met in Waja-Hur’s private quarters inside the Temple of Thoth. 
The room stood by itself away from the dark inner chambers of the small
temple.  It was little more than a mud-brick shack and as poorly
furnished.  Niches in the wall were filled with small statues of the
gods.  There were no windows and only one doorway, through which shadowy
light spilled onto the dirt floor.

Waja-Hur,
naked except for a thin linen belt, was little more than a shadow
himself.  He looked as old as the Two Lands.  He stood in a corner,
barely visible in the dim light, but reeking of the smell of death.  He
was overseer of the royal mortuaries, and as his own death approached, he spent
more and more time in the embalming chambers.

Kanakht
was half the age of Waja-Hur but still old enough to be Djefi’s father. 
The royal adviser wore an immaculate white linen robe and a wide, golden
pectoral, a symbol of his power.  He had served as adviser for King
Djoser’s father for much of his life and he spoke of the current king with an
off-hand familiarity that came from his years in power. 

“Djoser
didn’t seek advice when he decided to call himself ‘Divine of Body.’ But now,
when it is clear the gods are offended by his pretentiousness, now he wants me
to find a miracle.”

“It is
too late,” Waja-Hur said in a raspy whisper.

Each
year, when the sacred white ibises arrived and the star Sopdet followed golden
Re into the morning sky, the river rose like a groom’s staff on his wedding
night.  It would empty itself over the land for fourteen days.  When
it returned to its banks, it left behind the moist, black fertile soil that was
the gods’ gift to Kemet.

But
for seven years the flood had been no more than a trickle from a spent old
man.  The water barely overflowed the bank and left behind little more
than a damp coating.

“The
Golden Falcon,” Kanakht said, dryly referring to King Djoser by the king’s
favorite nickname, “isn’t flying high now.  He knows Kemet cannot survive
another year of famine.  The granaries are empty and this season’s harvest
will not fill them.  Hunger will creep across the land like jackals from
Deshret, stirring up unrest and thoughts of revolt.”

Waja-Hur
nodded in agreement.  “The balance is disturbed,” he said in the grating
whisper that was all he seemed to be able to manage any more. 

Djefi
had heard that years and years ago, when Waja-Hur was young, he constantly
traveled up and down the river.  Whenever he entered a town he would call
the villagers together and loudly preach to them for hours, extolling the
importance of truth and fairness and balance.  Afterward he would sit and
record their names on papyrus rolls, taking as much time as was needed to
record the name of every man, woman and child who came before him.

Only
royalty and the wealthy could afford embalming to preserve their bodies. 
For the rest, only their names would survive.  Having their names recorded
by a priest of the god Thoth was their only path to immortality.

And
now, for more than twice the life spans of most of the people who lived in the
Two Lands, Waja-Hur had represented Thoth.  In his old age, he had come to
be regarded by many as the god himself, aging, but apparently immortal.

Although
Djefi admired the old man’s long dedication to his god, he was glad that age
had withered his vocal stamina.  Balance and fairness were all well and
good, but Djefi was high priest of Sobek, a powerful god of action.  Just
the idea of listening to the old man’s pious prattle made Djefi tired. 
And, he thought, looking around the empty room that Waja-Hur called home, he’d
probably have to remain standing to do it.  Where in Set’s holy name was
the furniture?  Not even a stool?

“Waja-Hur,”
Djefi said, “I know that you are tireless in your service to Thoth, but surely
even you sit sometimes.  Can we not get some chairs, and perhaps a jar of
beer?”

“You
are not in balance,” Waja-Hur answered.

“I
would like to be balanced on a chair,” Djefi answered in his squeaky voice.
“Preferably one with a cushion.  Surely  . . . ”

The
old man frowned at Djefi, but shuffled slowly to the narrow doorway where he
called out in a startlingly loud voice.  A boy brought a square stool and,
following Waja-Hur’s pointed direction, placed it behind Djefi.

The
fat priest gratefully sank onto it.  The boy turned to leave, but Djefi
caught his arm.  “A jar of beer.  And not the weak temple beer.”

Kanakht
laughed quietly.

Djefi
returned to the conversation. “You say King Djoser seeks advice from priests,
but he wants you, his adviser, to find a miracle.  Shouldn’t he be asking
the priests for a miracle and seeking advice from you?”

“And
my advice would be for him to perform a miracle.  There is nothing I can
do to make the water flow.  It is in the hands of the gods.  And he
says he is a god, so  . . . ”

“The
time is not right for miracles,” Waja-Hur interrupted.  “Balance. 
There is no balance.”

Djefi
ignored the old man.  “You told the king to perform a miracle?  That
was your advice?”  he asked Kanakht, stunned at the man’s daring. 
Without thinking, he added, “And you are still alive?”

A
large shadow moved outside the doorway, larger than one that would be cast by a
boy carrying beer.  Realizing his vulnerable position, the fat priest
broke into a sudden sweat.  He had been instructed to leave his bodyguards
at his boat.  He was here in Waja-Hur’s temple, surrounded only by the royal
guards who accompanied Kanakht on his travels.

Was
the shadow outside cast by a guard, ready to arrest him for treason?  He
had heard that King Djoser was ever alert to words spoken against the Two
Lands.  Djefi hoped that what he had just said was not
treasonous.  

He
knew how traitors were treated.  He felt his bowels gurgle and had an
awful vision of soiling himself in front of these powerful old men.  He
must be careful not to blurt out anything again.

Kanakht
saw Djefi’s glance at the doorway and the sweat that began to seep through the
priest’s robe.

“Don’t
worry, First Prophet, he is one of my guards, loyal to me not to King Djoser,”
he said.  “And to answer your questions, I am not an idiot.  I
advised him to consult with priests to see what the other gods could do.”

Waja-Hur
hawked loudly and spit.  “Kanakht has always been able to balance his
advice.”

“I
know what you think of politics, old friend.”

“At
To-She, politics is practiced with the jaws of a crocodile,” Djefi said, his
squeaky voice rising higher as he tried to impress the two experienced
men.  “Where is that boy with my beer?”

Waja-Hur
made a soft strangled sound that could have been laughter, but Kanakht nodded
his head at Djefi.

“I’ve
heard of the strength of your convictions, First Prophet.  We believe in
your willingness to protect the Two Lands.  We respect Sobek’s power and
strength.  He is a great god, unafraid of action.”

The
words were spoken as a compliment and Djefi felt that they should have put him
at ease, but instead they brought another gush of sweat.  Djefi was sure
that he was missing something obvious to Kanakht and Waja-Hur.  There was
a message under Kanakht’s words.

Waja-Hur
broke the silence that followed. “Balance, First Prophet.  Gods walk the
green lands of Khert-Neter, not the Two Lands.  Restore the balance.”

Djefi
looked from the old priest to Kanakht.  He was surprised to see sadness
and resignation chase each other quickly across the adviser’s face.

Suddenly,
Djefi had a frightening thought: Were these two old men plotting to kill King
Djoser?  Was that how the balance was to be restored?  Was Kanakht
telling him that they were too weak to do it themselves and that Djefi, priest
of Sobek, was strong so he should do their work for them?

How
was he supposed to respond?  He was unknown at the royal court and could
never denounce Kanakht as a plotter against the king’s life.  However, his
silence now would be interpreted by the men as agreement to their plot. 

His
stomach felt as if it were full of curdled beer as he realized that he was
being brought into a treasonous plot against his will.

Kanakht
misunderstood Djefi’s confused silence. “Ahh, Djefi.  You see the
problem.  There are hard decisions to be made.  Sacrifices are needed
for the Two Lands.”

Djefi’s
mind raced.  Perhaps they were testing his loyalty.  It was possible
that Kanakht had been sent by King Djoser to see if he would agree to a
revolt.  But what if they were sincere and he refused?  Would he live
to walk away from this or would the guard waiting outside the door take
him?  If he agreed and the coup failed, then the king would have him
killed.  But if it succeeded, how much would he gain?  What would be
expected?  Surely they didn’t expect him to actually kill the king
himself.

“A lot
to think about, eh, Djefi,” Kanakht said when the priest remained silent. 
“We are talking here, alone, just the three of us.  We are men of honor
who, in this long time of suffering, have the interest of the Two Lands in our
hearts.  That is all.