Imhotep (29 page)

“Are
you unafraid?” Prince Teti asked, his tone one of curiosity, not menace.

“I was
afraid, Prince Teti.  All of my life I was afraid,” he said.

He
thought of the needless worries from his past - finding the right clothes
for a party, auditioning for school plays, anxiously showing his first drawings
to a friend, being late for an appointment, getting into the right school,
mispronouncing a word when ordering at a restaurant - all of these fears
that had seemed so real and large at the time.  Now he saw that they had
been meaningless.  The energy he had wasted, the hesitation he had felt,
all so unnecessary.

Tim
turned to his backpack and dug inside the front pouch.  Finding what he
wanted, he reached for Prince Teti’s cast.  With a few, sure strokes he
drew on the cast a vulture’s spread wings, the ancient symbol that was often
drawn around the king, to show divine protection.

“When I
was younger, I was afraid of shadows.  There,” he said, capping the black
marker, “your arm is protected twice.”

Prince
Teti looked at the drawing and smiled.  “And now?” he asked.

“Strange
things have happened to me, Prince Teti,” Tim answered.  “I have felt fear
when there was no need.  Fear deserted me when it should have warned
me.  I think I have lost my respect for fear.”

As he
spoke, Tim was unaware of what he was saying until the words came out, and
hearing them, he felt a weight lift from his heart, a lightening of his spirit
that reminded him of the buoyant mood that had come over him when he first
emerged from Kanakht’s tomb and breathed the air of ancient Egypt.

The
room itself seemed to grow brighter.  Tim was suddenly aware of Meryt’s
gaze.  He knew without turning to her that she was watching him, seeing
him with a heart filled with love.  He felt Hesire’s concerns: for Prince
Teti’s health, for his unnamed friend’s wanderings into dementia, for his own
aging body, for the Two Lands.  He saw the pride and confidence in Prince
Teti’s eyes.

Although
he knew that the life and energy he felt now were confined to a stone chamber
that would be reduced to crumbling dust by the time he would be born, he
understood that each passing moment was real and important even though it
arrived and departed in the blink of an eye.  He suddenly realized that he
needed to touch each moment, to let each passing second fill his life,
expanding and rising.

Without
thinking he slowly reached out his hand and tenderly caressed Prince Teti’s
smooth head, feeling the smoothness of the oil with which the prince had been
anointed that morning, sensing the slight brush of the shaved nubs of his hair,
the underlying firmness of his skull, aware somehow of the dreams and hopes of
the fifteen-year-old man-boy.

Hesire
and Meryt stood transfixed.  Aside from King Djoser, no one would ever
think to touch the prince in such an intimate way.

Prince
Teti stood unflinching, his eyes on Tim’s face.  He saw that Tim’s eyes
were looking past him, seeing something in another realm.  He felt an
energy and warmth in Tim’s touch and he believed that this living god was
transferring to him a touch of his immortality.

“All
will be well, Prince Teti,” Tim said.  “All is well.”

As his
hand slid from Prince Teti’s smooth head to his shoulder, Tim was suddenly
struck with a thought.

He
turned the prince so that his back was to the light.  Then Tim traced the
line of the wound on Prince Teti’s back, up to the base of the boy’s skull
where the bump had been.

“Prince
Teti,” Tim said.  “Tell me again about your injury.  You said you
fell.  Where were you?”

“In
the river, at Abu.”

“No, I
mean tell me where you were standing.”

Prince
Teti looked puzzled.

“Were
you between some rocks, in an area where the water runs fast, near the shore?”

“I was
standing atop a boulder, to get a view of the river.”

Tim
stretched an arm out at waist height.  “This high?”

Prince
Teti laughed.  “No, Netjer Tim, a boulder.” He reached his good hand over
his head.  “A little higher than this.”

Tim
thought for a moment.  “How many companions were with you?”

“Three.”

“Where
were they?”

Prince
Teti squinted his eyes as he thought back to the river.  He looked at Tim,
realizing what he was asking.  “Yes, Netjer Tim.  Nesi was behind me. 
He had given me his shoulder to help scale the rock.  Bata was in front of
me, below in the river. Rensi was on the riverbank.  He is afraid of
water, well actually the mud and stones at the bottom of the water.”

“And
you fell forward, didn’t you?” Tim asked.

Prince
Teti reached around to touch the wound on his back.  “Nesi,” he whispered.

Tim
shrugged.  “I don’t know, Prince Teti.  It seems strange that you
would have a cut on your back if you fell forward.  If someone threw a
rock at you, then it could cut your back as it did and hit the back of your
head where the bump was.  It fits.”

“Why?”
Prince Teti said, more to himself than to Tim.

P
rince Teti was seated by his father that
evening when Tim was ushered into the throne room.  Kanakht stood to their
right.  Hetephernebti stood behind Prince Teti, her hand resting on his
shoulder, her fingers idly playing with the linen strap that was his sling.

Tim
and Meryt stopped a few feet from the throne and bowed their heads.  When
King Djoser motioned him forward, Tim glanced at Hetephernebti, but her face
held only the official smile she reserved for state events.

Meryt
nudged him softly and he stepped forward, uncertain about the protocol.

“We
are grateful for your help,” King Djoser said as Tim stopped in front of him.

He
raised his left hand showing Tim a flat ceramic object that was shaped like a
large keyhole.  Two thick beaded strands were attached to it.  Each
of them ended in a mass of smaller threads filled with tiny beads.  The
throng of threads looped together to form a necklace.

Tim
hesitated, unsure what to do.

“Come
forward, Netjer Tim,” Prince Teti said, seeing Tim’s uncertainty.

Tim
stepped closer to King Djoser, whose raised throne kept the king above him.

It
struck Tim that King Djoser was, in a way, the most beautiful person he had
ever seen.  It wasn’t so much the arrangement or proportions of his face
although the wide pronounced cheekbones and strong nose complemented each other
perfectly.  There was an undisguised intelligence in his dark, deep-set
eyes and a calmness about his mouth, the full lips forming a gentle
smile.  He gave the impression of someone who has found an inner calm and
wishes only to help everyone around him.

King
Djoser stood, and bending forward, draped the object he was holding around
Tim’s neck.  Tim felt the large ceramic counterbalance come to rest
between his shoulder blades.  The wide array of tiny beaded strands formed
a necklace that fit snugly around his throat.

Reaching
up, he slid his fingertips across the small beads, enjoying the smooth,
rhythmic feel of the small bumps.

King
Djoser turned his head slightly toward Hetephernebti.  “He needs a new
name, dear sister, a name from the Two Lands.  What was it you said about
him?”

“His
healing?”

“Yes,
but there was something else. Ah yes, that you think he came in peace.”

Hetephernebti
nodded, not surprised that her brother remembered her exact words.

“Welcome
to Kemet, ‘He Who Comes in Peace.'  We present you with this holy menat of
the goddess Hathor as a token of our gratitude,” King Djoser said formally to
Tim.

The
weight of the menat’s counterbalance pulled the polished strands of beads
against Tim’s neck as he felt himself float away from his body.

In his
mind’s eye he rose into a high corner of the stone room and looked down at the
assemblage.  King Djoser sat on a high-backed wooden chair; its surface
gleaming with an overlay of gold.  He wore a pleated kilt, its hem
embroidered with dark brown designs.  In his left hand he held a nekhekh,
the short handled flail that symbolized his power.  A shepherd’s staff,
another symbol of his office, leaned against the back of the chair.  He
was not wearing a wig today; his wide, full skull seemed to glow in the
chamber’s light.  A wide, beaded pectoral swept across his bare chest in a
colorful arc as it stretched from shoulder to shoulder.

Hetephernebti,
her slim dark body a shadow beneath her transparent white robe, stood beside
him.  Black hair from her wig hung in straight woven strands to her
shoulders.  Kanakht, erect, but fighting against the stoop of age, stood
on the other side of the king.  He wore a heavier robe.  His hands
were clutched in fists by his side.

Young
Prince Teti sat in a lower chair beside his father and in front of his
aunt.  He wore only a short kilt.  A white slash of linen - his
broken arm’s sling - crossed his bare chest to his shoulder.

And
standing in front of them, Tim saw himself as they did: a moderately tall, thin
man, a light patina of oil on his shaved head softly reflecting the torch
light.  Hanging between his shoulder blades was an ancient pendant, larger
than a man’s open hand, its surface carved with the protective image of a
vulture wearing a headdress and holding a royal flail.  From this distance
and angle Tim saw that his shaved head looked a little large for his slight
shoulders, and his hands, although relaxed, seemed poised and confident. 

With a
tingling glow of recognition and satisfaction, Tim realized that he looked
exactly like the ancient statue of the man who carried the name King Djoser had
just spoken, the name that translated as ‘He Who Comes in Peace,’ the name Tim
had just wondered about a day earlier: Imhotep.

His
consciousness seemed to expand, growing as it had the other morning after he
had examined Prince Teti.  He saw the people of Kemet walking their
fields, bringing in the meager harvest, he saw the reed fishing boats bobbing
in the river’s sluggish current, he felt the clouds of dust that rose from the
donkeys as they carried bundles of papyrus from the river, or sacks of wheat
from the granaries.  He could smell the dryness of the land, he could hear
the murmurs of the families as they gathered for their evening meal and spoke
their misgivings.

He was
filled with the mood of the Two Lands, its resignation to the destiny delivered
by the gods, its underlying contentment to be living by the flowing source of
life, its busyness in the day-to-day gathering of food, weaving of cloth,
baking of bread, brewing of beer, building of huts, quarrying of stone.

His
heart was filled with the ache King Djoser felt for the hunger of the Two
Lands, the desire the king felt for the riches of a heavy harvest and for the
gold and precious stones from the land of Kush and for the tall, straight cedar
wood from the land of Retenu.  He saw a vision of the land as it would be
in the years long after King Djoser’s reign: the serene Sphinx rising from
plateau near Giza, the forest of pillars in the temples at Karnak, the
sandstone beauty of the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepsut, the hidden riches
in the Valley of Kings.

In a
spiraling swirl, his thoughts and imaginings swept through the Two Lands,
following the river back to Waset, back to King Djoser’s sprawling palace
grounds, back to this small stone chamber where he knew that he had been
transformed into the man who would forever be remembered as Imhotep.

K
anakht wondered why blood wasn’t dripping
from his tightly clenched fists.

He had
gotten word from Nimaasted this morning that the outlander Brian had somehow
escaped the assassins at Khmunu. 
It was impossible,
he silently
fumed.  One man against three assassins and Nimaasted, although the priest
really couldn’t be counted on for much.  And then Nimaasted claimed that a
god had materialized in the middle of the night, shouted a warning to Brian and
then killed one of the attackers.

If
Nimaasted was correct, then the god who had miraculously materialized at Khmunu
and thwarted his plans was standing right here in front of him, wearing a
sacred menat draped in place by King Djoser’s own hands.  And he, Kanakht,
vizier to the king, second in power only to the throne, he was standing beside
King Djoser, his face set in a practiced mask, smiling falsely while the blood
pounded through his brain and a humming sound from inside his own head filled
his ears with such a noise that it almost drowned out King Djoser’s voice.

“Imhotep,”
the king repeated.  “Yes, the name suits you.”

“I am
honored, King Djoser,” Tim answered, bowing his head.

“I
have been traveling the river from Iunu up to Abu, Imhotep.  I have talked
with priests and prophets.  I have met with seers and
fortunetellers.  I have looked for magic and miracles.  Akhet, the
season of the inundation, is drawing near.  I have sacrificed to Hapi,
Lord of the Fishes and Birds of the Marshes.  I have called on him to
bring the great waters and the silt to feed my people.

“Has
he heard?  Will he come?” King Djoser asked the questions softly.

Tim
wasn’t sure if King Djoser expected him to answer, or if the king was thinking
aloud.  His confusion vanished when the king turned his wide head directly
toward him and waited.

The
night he had met King Djoser, after he had tamped down his desire for Meryt,
Tim had sat awake trying to recall everything he had read about the ancient
king.

There
were two memorable events during the reign of King Djoser: the building of the
Step Pyramid at Saqqara and the seven-year famine.  From what Meryt and
Paneb had told Tim, the famine was now in its seventh year.  If the
histories of the five-thousand-years-ago period were accurate, then the flood
would return to its full strength this year, bringing the rich soil from inner
Africa to the sandy riverbanks of the Nile.

The
Step Pyramid was remembered because its ancient stones still rose from the
plateau at Saqqara.  The famine and its length were mentioned in ancient
texts, but more visibly, the events were commemorated on a stone monument or
stele that described a dream King Djoser had.  On the stele he had
recorded his anguish over the hunger in Kemet and how the gods spoke to him and
told him that they would relieve the famine.  The god who spoke to him,
Tim remembered, was Khnum, the ram-headed god.

“King
Djoser,” Tim answered trying to recall the words that had been carved on the
stele, “Hapi will come.  The river will swell, the plants will flourish,
bending under their fruit, everything will be brought forth.”

King
Djoser stared at him, the confident smile unchanging, assessing his
words.  Tim realized that the king must be surrounded by people who
constantly gave him the answers he wanted to hear - or that they wanted
him to hear.  He wondered how a ruler could ever get honest advice.

“King
Djoser,” he began again, hesitantly, hoping that he remembered correctly. 
“There is more.”

The
king gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

“There
is a temple at Abu.”

“To
Khnum,” King Djoser answered.

“Yes. 
Make a gift of land to the temple.  Enrich it.  Khnum will welcome
the gift. He will embrace you.  He will come to you in a dream, King
Djoser, and put your heart at ease.”

T
he walls of the chamber turned black,
curved and began to move toward each other.  As they grew closer, all
Kanakht could see was a pinpoint of light centered around the face of the
man-god Imhotep.

It was
a struggle for Kanakht to stay upright and to keep this mask of unconcern on
his face.  As if from a great distance, he heard King Djoser’s low voice,
but the words were indistinct.  It didn’t matter.  He had heard
enough.

Where
had this Imhotep come from? 

How
could he know what he knew?

For a
moment Kanakht had thought that the significance of Imhotep’s suggestion would
be lost on King Djoser, but he knew that he was grasping at straws.  King
Djoser was not the warrior his father was, but he was ten times the
politician.  He knew the birth names of every official and every
priest.  He knew the names of all their wives and children.  He
understood every family connection in the Two Lands.

The
high priest at the temple of Khnum was Sennufer, an unassuming, pious man,
perfectly suited for a small temple at the far reaches of Kemet.  By
itself an offering of land to him would be harmless.

But
such an offering would bind the holy man more closely to the throne.  More
importantly, it would inspire more loyalty in the priest’s son, and that son
was Sekhmire, commander of King Djoser’s personal guard. 

Assuming
that the commander would remain steadfast to King Djoser, Kanakht had not even
considered bringing Sekhmire into his plot to kill the king.  Instead,
Kanakht had recruited Makare in Khmunu and Makare’s brother Nesi, one of Prince
Teti’s guards.  Kanakht expected that after King Djoser and Teti were
killed, Sekhmire would be realistic, realize that the power had shifted and
understand that it was in his best interest to align himself with Kanakht as
the vizier took over the throne. 

But if
Sekhmire felt too much loyalty to the dead king, it was possible he would seek
revenge for King Djoser.  And it was possible that his increased loyalty
would lead to heightened vigilance and the plot would be uncovered.  Who
knew what rumors were leaking from Makare’s mouth or - Kanakht almost
passed out at the thought - from the fat lips of the priest Djefi?

Well,
Kanakht thought, steeling
himself,
I knew there were risks.  If this Imhotep was not part of my
original calculations, then I must change my calculations.  Djefi will be
here soon.  I’ll push him, frighten him.  When I’m finished he’ll
know that this is no game we are playing.  Kemet itself depends on us.

I
t was with little gestures that Sekhmire
was bound to King Djoser: the way the king extended his hand seeking Sekhmire’s
help as he disembarked from the royal barge; how the king turned his back to no
one but Sekhmire, showing his complete trust; how he listened without
interruption to Sekhmire’s reports, acknowledging the commander’s authority
over the security of the Two Lands.

Sekhmire
was well paid.  His spacious home had a beautiful garden and a pond. 
His wife was supplied with enough servants to make her life agreeable and
pleasant.  He never wanted for oils or meat or bread.

His
life was good.  Respect, authority, love, and comfort were his.

When
he first heard news that Makare, his commander at Khmunu had met privately with
Kanakht, he had taken no action, but remembered the incident.  Then word
had reached him that Makare had begun to visit a letter-writing scribe to draft
private messages rather than using the scribe who was attached to the compound
at Khmunu.  Sekhmire had hoped that Makare was simply writing love letters
to a mistress, but he kept a closer watch on the commander in distant Khmunu.

Then
the priest Djefi had suddenly become active, leaving his desert oasis and
visiting Waja-Hur, of all people, at the same time Kanakht was there. 
Makare had been at the meeting also.

While
Sekhmire focused on the travels of Kanakht and the suspicious activity of
Makare, Prince Teti was injured at the other end of the country.  Sekhmire
hoped it was an accident, but in his heart, he knew that it was more sinister.

One of
Prince Teti’s guards, Bata, had been accused of trying to drown the prince, and
so Sekhmire had ordered him arrested.  But Sekhmire knew it was no
coincidence that Makare’s brother Nesi was with the prince when the ‘accident’
happened.

Sekhmire
had dreaded the conversation he knew he needed to have with King Djoser and so
he had steeled himself the morning after Prince Teti’s fall when King Djoser
had summoned him for a private audience.

“Tell
me what you know,” King Djoser had commanded in his quiet way.

He
had.  He told the king about the travels of Kanakht, the sudden activity
of Djefi, the private letters that Makare was having written.  “I did not
think of Makare’s brother Nesi, King Djoser,” he admitted.

“He
was brought to your attention by Kanakht, wasn’t he?” King Djoser had asked,
knowing the answer.

Sekhmire
had nodded.

“Who
is watching Makare?” the king had asked.

“A man
named Ankhu,” Sekhmire had said.  “He is a member of Makare’s guard and my
wife’s cousin.”

“And
Nesi?”

“I am
not having him watched right now, King Djoser.”

“He is
Makare’s brother?” the king had asked.

Sekhmire
had wondered how King Djoser kept track of the relationships of an
insignificant guard.  He knew that the king had other sources of
information, but still he was amazed at the king’s wide knowledge.

“Nesi
and the other guard, a man named Rensi, returned here with Prince Teti. 
They are away from the palace visiting their families.  The third guard,
Bata, is under arrest at Abu.  I have assigned two of my men, Katep and
Bai, to accompany the prince while he is with us.”

Djoser
waited patiently.  Sekhmire reviewed his answer, knowing that something
was missing, something that the king wanted to hear.

“Nesi
is Makare’s brother, your lord, yes.”

“And
you suspect Makare and Kanakht are plotting against me?”

Sekhmire
closed his eyes, ashamed of his failure.  It was so obvious to him now.

“I
will have Nesi arrested immediately,” Sekhmire said.

Afraid
of the king’s anger and embarrassed by his failure to anticipate Nesi’s action,
Sekhmire was stunned when King Djoser spoke gently, with approval.

“You
have done well, Sekhmire, anticipating my desire as always.  Do not arrest
Nesi.  Instead, we will watch him and see who meets with him.  The
same with Kanakht and this priest Djefi.  See who they meet, watch where
they travel.  It is better, Sekhmire, to have a known enemy, than to be
surprised.  We will let them plot and see who else is drawn to them.”

Sekhmire
had nodded his understanding, amazed again at King Djoser’s knowledge and
planning.

King
Djoser stood, indicating that the interview was over.  He stepped to
Sekhmire and placed a hand on the commander’s arm.  His face lit up as he
smiled, the troubles of a brewing revolt forgotten for the moment.  “What
of your son, Sekhmire?  Tell me, do you still plan to turn little Siptah
into a warrior like yourself?”

A
nd now Sekhmire had learned that King
Djoser was about to honor the god Khnum with a grant of land.  His
father’s temple would grow in importance.

He
stood outside the royal chambers and breathed deeply, his heart filled with
love for King Djoser.  He would never let anyone harm the king.

A
cluster of blue water lilies floated
along the edge of the small pond in the walled garden.  Tim leaned against
the rough trunk of a carob tree.  Meryt sat along the edge of the pond,
her legs half immersed in the water.

His
backpack with his sketchbook and first aid kit lay untouched on the grass
beside him.

Meryt
had led him to the garden after his audience with King Djoser.  She had
sensed that he needed a quiet place to think and to digest what had
happened.  She had given him the time and space, sitting quietly, enjoying
the shade and solitude.  Her mind also was filled with questions, but she
saw that Tim, or Imhotep as King Djoser had renamed him, had questions he
needed to answer for himself.

And so
she waited, content to be with him but growing eager to resolve the questions
about them, about his feelings for her.  He was so different from her
brother and from the boys she had known growing up.  He was hesitant about
some things, yet direct and confident about others.  She sensed that he
wanted to be with her, but he never approached her and she wasn’t sure what he
would do if she approached him.  He enjoyed touching stones, trees,
leaves, and fabric, everything they encountered, but he stayed his hand from
touching her.  He looked at her hungrily at times, but never gave voice to
his desire.