Imhotep (23 page)

He
felt the presence in the door before the shadow fell across him.

“I
must leave, Tim.  There has been an accident with King Djoser’s son. 
I will leave a boat and an attendant here to bring you to Waset when Meryt … 
no longer needs your attention,” Hetephernebti said.

Tim
nodded his understanding.  “Can you ask Waja-Hur to stay away?  He
frightens Meryt.”

He
looked drawn and tired, sitting on the floor in the shadows, his kilt dirty,
his head covered in rough stubble.  Meryt was pale and drawn, but still
alive, much to Hetephernebti’s surprise.  In fact, although the hut was in
darkness, Hetephernebti thought that Meryt looked less pale than she had before
and it seemed to her that the lines that had formed around Meryt’s eyes had
relaxed. 

Hetephernebti
had often seen that in the dying.  As their body gave up its struggle,
they appeared to reach a peace with themselves.

“I
will speak with him, but he is Thoth and I cannot command him.”

“Thank
you.  We should be able to follow you in two or three days.”

Hetephernebti
raised her eyebrows, but didn’t question him.

“What
happened to King Djoser’s son?”

“Teti
was with his companions at the first cataract, trying to find a way to help the
river flood.  They were exploring rocks in the river and he fell.  Or
was pushed.  One of his guards is being held until King Djoser can speak
with him.  Teti is being taken to Waset so the king’s physician can attend
him.”

Tim
looked past Hetephernebti, past the doorway, his eyes unfocused as he tried to
recall everything he could about Djoser.

“I
don’t remember anything about Teti, but I’m sure that Djoser will be
fine.  And this famine will end soon.”

Hetephernebti
felt a chill run through her as she listened to his casual prophecy. 
After a moment she nodded toward Meryt, her eyebrows raised in silent question.

Tim
shrugged lightly.  “I don’t know, but I will try everything I can.”

He had
decided that Meryt was suffering from dysentery, a disease that was common in
refugee camps during his time.  Part of the diagnosis was based on what he
recalled from the research he and Addy had done before the trip.  Part was
pure hope, based on what he thought he could treat.

The
illness was caused by bacteria.  It was spread through poor hygiene. 
The severe dehydration it caused made it dangerous, often fatally so, among the
young and the elderly. 

He had
chlorine tablets to purify water for her so she wouldn’t be exposed to more
bacteria.  He had a small bottle of antibiotics that would overwhelm the
infection-causing bacteria.  He had some salt tables that would help her
retain water and some aspirin for her fever.

He
hoped that he had guessed right.

Meryt
had been unconscious most of the first day they had been ashore and Tim
couldn’t figure out how to get any of the antibiotics into her system.

When
she woke toward evening he made her swallow a penicillin tablet and drink some
water in which he had cooked a little barley.  The next morning her fever
seemed worse.  He crushed another penicillin tablet and dissolved it in a
small cup of boiled water.  Sip by sip he got her to drink the water, but
then she threw up, crying her apologies as she retched.

Later
that day she seemed almost normal, but very tired and without appetite. 
At his insistence she drank some young wine that had not fermented and took
another penicillin tablet.  Tim spent the night lying beside her, checking
her shallow breathing, fearful that it would stop and that he wouldn’t have any
idea what to do.

Knowing
he would be of no help to her if he got sick, he took care to wash his hands
thoroughly and to keep his food at the other side of the small hut. 

Today
she had seemed more alert at times, but extremely tired.  Although the
diarrhea had passed, he suspected that was because she had been unable to
eat.  She had taken two more doses of the penicillin and a few aspirin,
but she had eaten very little and drank virtually nothing.

Was
she improving?  Would she live?  Tim didn’t know.

He
brushed Meryt’s head gently and looked up at Hetephernebti. 

“I
don’t know,” he said, his voice soft and worried.

Hetephernebti
paused a moment, then turned and was gone.

“What
don’t you know?” Meryt whispered weakly, her eyes still shut.  “I thought
you knew everything.”

Tim
put down the damp cloth and caressed her cheek with his hand.

“I
know you should eat more soup,” he said.

She
tried to smile.  “Can I have a drink?”

Tim
smiled back at her. 

It was
the first time she had asked for anything.

T
he wounds on Dagi’s back were pale, red
grooves.  The whip lines had scabbed over and healed, leaving pink flesh
behind.  In a few months the marks from the lashing Djefi had given him
would be completely healed, but the humiliation and resentment would never go
away.

No
longer a pilot, he knelt on the boat’s wooden deck and pulled an oar, one of
eight rowers who fought against the current of the slow moving river as Djefi’s
three boats angled toward the village of Khmunu.

The
waterfront there was empty except for a few small fishing boats. 

King
Djoser and his small armada had departed a week earlier, sails unfurled and
rowers pulling hard for Waset so the king could be with his injured son. 
Five days later the last of Hetephernebti’s boats had followed upriver,
carrying Tim and Meryt, who was still weak but past the worst of her illness.

Kanakht
also had left Khmunu, summoned by King Djoser to follow him to Waset.

Kanakht’s
meeting with Makare had been more successful than he could have hoped. 
The young soldier was filled with dreams of commanding an army and was willing
to do whatever Kanakht asked him to do.  However, the news from Abu was
not good: the assassination attempt on Djoser’s son Teti had been
unsuccessful. 

Kanakht
hoped that the attack looked like an accident.  He had little faith that
Nesi could be trusted to stay silent for long if Djoser’s torturers
interrogated him.  If Nesi had been arrested, then Kanakht would need to
oversee the interrogation himself.  His presence would remind Nesi that
Kanakht’s name could not be mentioned.  If it looked as if Nesi were
weakening, then Kanakht would have the torturers push hard enough to kill the
young guard before any secrets were divulged.

This
can be managed,
Kanakht
had told himself as his boat’s small sail filled with wind and he began the
journey to Waset.

Arriving
after everyone in the royal party had left, Djefi was surprised to see the
waterfront so deserted.  He had expected Kanakht’s boat to be there. 
After all,
he thought,
the vizier had all but ordered me to come to
Khmunu.

As
soon as his boat slid near the bank, Djefi sent a runner into Khmunu to find a
sedan chair so he could be carried to Waja-Hur’s room.  The old priest
would know where Kanakht had gone.

“W
hat do you mean he’s come and gone? 
He told me to come here.  We’re supposed to meet, to talk about this
thing,” Djefi knew his voice had risen to a squeaky pitch and he felt his face
flushing.  He looked around Waja-Hur’s dark room.  Why didn’t
Waja-Hur have any furniture in this filthy little chamber?

Waja-Hur
blinked his eyes and stared again at the angry fat man standing just inside his
doorway.  He wore good robes and he had been brought here on a
sedan.  He had greeted Waja-Hur by name, but the aged priest had no idea
who this fat man was.

His
old friend Kanakht had been here.  Was it yesterday?  No, last
week.  It didn’t matter.  Time had shifted in the Two Lands. 
The colors had faded from today, but the past was bright.

When
he had walked the temple this morning all the wbt-priests were strangers to
him, yet they had greeted him by name.  The altar that he always had used
had been moved to a new room that had never been there before, or had it? 
It had seemed eerily familiar. 

A
young boy had approached him to drape the leopard skin robe over his shoulders
and Waja-Hur had said, “Where is  . . . ” and then had stopped, unable to
remember the name of the boy who performed this service.

Only
Thoth, the Reckoner of Times and Seasons, the One who Measured out the Heavens
and Planned the Earth, the Master of Balance, remained the same.

Even
Kanakht had seemed strange when they had met, talking of the king, but calling
him by the wrong name.  When Waja-Hur had corrected him, saying, “I think
you mean King Kha-Sekhemwy, old friend,” Kanakht had looked at Waja-Hur with
confusion.

Balance,
Waja-Hur thought, the balance has shifted and people, places, even the land
itself has moved.  Only the gods remain steadfast.

He
closed his eyes for a moment remembering his youth.  All the faces and
names, the colors and smells were there.  He could almost feel the
sunshine on his shoulders, so broad and strong, so different from the thin,
tired back he carried now.

“Waja-Hur,
where did Kanakht go?  Is he coming back here?”

He
opened his eyes; the fat priest was still here.  He did look familiar, but
Waja-Hur could not remember why.

“Yes,”
he said finally.  “He was here, but he left.”

Djefi
shifted his weight.  “You said that.  Is Kanakht coming back?”

Waja-Hur
shrugged, then he remembered something, a snatch of conversation.  “He
said that someone named Teti has been hurt, yes.  A boy.”

“Prince
Teti?  King Djoser’s son?”

Waja-Hur
was confused.  He remembered Djoser as a little boy, trailing along, so
straight-backed and proud behind his father, King Kha-Sekhemwy.  Could he
be old enough to have sired a son?  Then Waja-Hur had a flash of the boy
grown to manhood and wearing the double crown of the Two Lands.  Is it a
vision from Thoth, a glimpse into the future, or a memory that somehow has
escaped me?

Djefi
was so frustrated that he wanted to scream.  Kanakht was gone. 
Djoser had been here and left, apparently because of something that happened to
Teti. 
Is Kanakht plotting with others also?  Does he have plans
within his plans?  What else is he scheming that I don’t know about?

Djefi
found a soothing tone to talk to Waja-Hur.  “Did Kanakht mention
Brian?  Did he say anything about him, ah, visiting the mortuary?”

Waja-Hur
stared at Djefi in confusion.  Then his glance traveled past the fat
priest to a shadow that appeared in the doorway.

“First
Prophet Djefi, I am Nimaasted, Thoth’s servant.  I am sorry I was not here
to greet you.”

Djefi
turned, startled at the man’s sudden appearance.

“Good
evening, Waja-Hur,” Nimaasted said.  “Kanakht asked me to entertain First
Prophet Djefi when he arrived.  May I take him with me?  You’ll be
able to visit with him tonight at the ceremony with Ma’at.”

“Kanakht
spoke with you?  He left instructions?” Djefi asked.

Nimaasted
took Djefi’s elbow and steered him to the doorway.  “Yes, he left
instructions about Brian and he asked me to offer you his apologies.  He
was commanded to leave by Djoser himself,” he said softly.  “Please come
with me and I will tell you everything.  I have a comfortable chair and refreshments
waiting.  I am not quite as devout as Waja-Hur.”

Turning
back to the old priest, he said, “Thank you, High Priest.  I will send
someone with your evening meal and to bring you to the ceremony.”

“What
has happened to him?” Djefi said as he struggled into the sedan chair.

Nimaasted
looked sadly toward the darkened doorway of Waja-Hur’s room.  “He is
communing more with the gods than with us lately.”

B
rian looked over his shoulder at the three
small boats. The dusky red western sky silhouetted their thin masts.  On
the far bank of the river, a cluster of palm trees edged along the water,
backlit by the setting sun.  Beyond them the land rose slightly before
leveling off and turning dry as the narrow strip of fertile land gave way to
dry sand.

He
admired action: the grace of a gymnast, the power of a racehorse, the guts and
desperation of a boxer, but there was something so serene and foreign in the
view he saw here that he felt an unexpected swelling in his chest and he sighed
deeply.

Watching
him, Pahket caught the melancholy of his expression, but misunderstood
it.  Earlier she had seen Brian talking with Diane, using their private
language, their voices quiet.  It seemed to her that Brian had been
pleading, the tone of his voice urgent.  Diane hadn’t said much in
return.  Her arms had been crossed and she seldom looked into Brian’s face
as he talked.

Now
Diane had walked ahead with Yunet, following Djefi’s sedan chair toward the
Temple of Ma’at.  All of the attendants and boatmen were following, Brian
and Pahket among them.

When
Djefi had returned from his visit to the temples this afternoon, he had called
Brian to his boat and told him that they all were going to attend a ceremony at
the Temple of Ma’at.  Tomorrow, Djefi had told Brian, he would be given a
boat and would be free to return to his country, to visit other temples, to go
where he wanted.  He was, of course, welcome to remain a guest of Sobek.

Brian
had asked if Diane could go with him.

I have
no power over her.  She is a guest and may do as she likes, Djefi had
answered.

Then
Brian had talked with Diane and his happiness at Djefi’s news had crashed head
on against her cold anger at him.

“What
will you do, Netjer Brian?” Pahket had asked him later.  “Are you leaving
Kemet?”

He had
shrugged and given her a small smile.  “I have to find someone,
Pahket.  He is here, or at a town called Waset.  Tomorrow I will look
for him.  Can you come with me?”

“I
will ask,” she had answered, her heart swelling with happiness.

Now
they were walking with the boatmen up the small incline that led away from the
water toward the temple complex.

Pahket
had never been away from To-She before.  She found the trip, the
excitement of seeing new places, even the motion of the river, which was so
different from the sluggish canal at To-She, almost overwhelming.  Change,
she found, was disturbing.

Even
the land here was different.  The soil was sandier and there were fewer
trees and less grass along the river.  The buildings were more scorched by
the sun.  The path they were following into the temple complex was hard
packed and hurt her bare feet.

The
path soon turned into a broad avenue.  A few of the torches that lined it
had been lit as the evening faded.  When they reached the Temple of Ma’at,
Pahket was mildly disappointed because the complex looked smaller than the
temple at To-She.

But as
they came closer, she saw that it was more finely made.  There were no
visible seams in the stone columns and the painted symbols and hieroglyphics
were bright and beautifully drawn. 

She
stopped at the doorway to admire a painting of the goddess Ma’at.  She was
a beautiful woman dressed in a sheer linen robe, a purple belt gathering the
transparent material at the waist, its loose ends falling to her knees. 
Her black hair was trimmed with golden beads and a narrow gold headband secured
a white ostrich feather that rose high above her head.

It was
this feather, the symbol of truth and order, which a person’s heart was weighed
against when he died.  If the heart was free of sins and as light as the
feather, then the owner was maa-kheru - true of word - and was
admitted to the green fields of Khert-Neter.  If the heart weighed down
its side of the scale, it was fed to Ammut, a demon with a crocodile’s head,
the front half of her body that of a lion’s, the rear half that of a
hippopotamus.  If Ammut ate the heart, the owner experienced the death of
death and was no more.

Flickering
torches lit the way as they walked through the temple, emerging at the far end
into an amphitheater along the side of a reflecting pool.

Djefi’s
sedan had been brought to the front row and he was being helped onto a stone
bench covered with pillows.  Pahket saw Diane and Yunet sitting on a bench
near him, a tall man in priestly robes leaning over to talk with them. 
When the man straightened, he scanned the amphitheater, stopping when he was
looking directly at Brian.  He bent down again to speak to Diane and
Yunet, and then he left them to walk up the steps toward Brian and Pahket.

“I am
Nimaasted, servant of Thoth,” he said, stopping in front of Brian and bowing
his head lightly.  “You are Brian?”

Brian
nodded in return.

“Djefi
said you are his guest.  Welcome to the Temple of Ma’at.”

“Thank
you,” Brian answered.

Nimaasted
nodded once more and then was gone.

T
wo rows behind Brian and Pahket, the
boatmen sat together.  Dagi and Karem had watched Nimaasted approach and
speak to Brian.

“Who
was that?” Dagi asked.

Karem
shook his head.

Dagi
turned to the other boatmen.  “Anybody know who that was?”

“That
was, ahh, I can’t remember his name, but I remember his look, he’s the overseer
of the embalmers,” one of the boatmen answered.  “He came to our boat a
couple of years back when one of the rowers stood up, shouted his mother’s name
and fell over dead.  Remember that?  We had just made a run up from
Waset, following the current.  We weren’t working all that hard.”