Imhotep (35 page)

They
must have walked, Djefi concluded.

He had
dawdled on his way upriver, stopping to rest on land every night, spending time
in villages, watching to see if any boats passed him.  But there had been
no sign of Brian on the river.  Eventually he had given up the
watch.  It was Nimaasted’s job, he had concluded.  Kanakht had
entrusted the priest to dispose of Brian. 

It
is his failure, not mine.

But
now Tama was here in Waset.  It didn’t mean that Brian was here, but it
showed that someone could have traveled here from Khmunu without being seen on
the river.

He
directed the carriers to take him to Kanakht’s home.  Even though it was
late, he wanted to talk with the vizier again, to hear his soothing words. 
And he will have wine to help settle my stomach, Djefi thought, settling back
on his cushions and groaning at his discomfort.

K
anakht didn’t know how long he had been
sitting, staring across the room toward a window.  The light outside had
disappeared and servants had come in and lit torches in his chamber.

He had
started to think about King Djoser and Tim - he refused to think of him
as Imhotep - trying to find a way to turn the king’s sudden attraction to
the outlander into an advantage.  Then his mind had drifted to Tim and the
little he knew of the other two intruders.

They
had arrived in Kemet near the tomb he was having built in Saqqara.  His
eternal house.  He would be there soon.  He would pass this life, the
embalmers would respectfully prepare his body and then he would be carried to
his tomb.  And then after a peaceful rest, he would awaken, young and
alive.  His heart would be weighed and found to be filled with truth. He
would rise on the back of a falcon, rising higher and higher to the eternally
green fields of Khert-Neter.

He
would be able to eat what he wanted and drink when he liked.  His wife and
children, all gone before him, would be there, waiting for him, honoring him.

He
sighed and smiled a sad smile.

There
was a better life waiting for him, he thought.  Not so very long ago he
would have scorned someone who was eager to pass on to Khert-Neter.  What
had happened?  When did this change taken place?  When did I become a
tired old man? 

Through
his unfocused eyes he saw movement at the doorway.

He
nodded his head, giving the servant permission to approach.

“First
Prophet Djefi wishes to see you, Lord Kanakht.”

Kanakht
stifled a sigh and nodded.

“Take
him to the table and tell someone to prepare some food.  I’m sure he will
be hungry.”

The
servant bowed and withdrew.

Kanakht
stood, his hip stiff from sitting so long.  He steadied himself a moment
and then squared his shoulders and turned to go meet Djefi.  He disliked
the fat priest, but he needed his hunger and ambition.

As he
walked toward the doorway, Kanakht realized that his step had lightened.

He
looked forward to saying the words, finding the hunger and fear in Djefi’s soul
and using it to guide the priest to do his bidding.  He thought of Makare
and how easily he had swayed him.

Once I
am king, he thought, these longings for Khert-Neter will pass.  I will
have Khert-Neter here in the Two Lands.

I
t was dark by the riverfront.  A few
torches were lit near loaded barges as watchmen guarded the cargo, but the damp
night air seemed to smother the light just a few feet from the yellow flames.

Tama
led the way, slipping through the shadows toward the water.  Brian walked
behind her, watching her protectively and scanning the area in front of them as
they approached the river.

Hetephernebti
had offered to send men with them, but Tama had argued that the Priestess of Re
could not help someone who was sought by the vizier.  She said that no one
knew Brian was in Waset and so there was little danger unless Djefi had guards
posted at his boats.  They could easily spot them and avoid them, she
said.

As
they neared Djefi’s boats, it was clear that no watch was being kept. 
There were no torches and the sound of scattered snoring came from the boats’
decks.

Tama
took Brian’s hand.  “We will walk along the river as lovers sometimes
do.  It is late, but not so late for those who seek to be alone.”

They
emerged from the shadows and walked along the riverbank, leaning into each
other.  There was no movement from Djefi’s boats.

“Djefi
won’t be staying on the boat,” Brian said.  “On the trip from To-She to
Khmunu he went ashore every night.”

They
stopped near the first boat.  Tama turned her back to the river and put
her arms around Brian, turning him so that he was facing the boat.  He
hugged her, looking at the boat as he did.  There were sleeping forms on
the deck, but none with Diane’s shape.

The
second boat was even quieter, with only three sleeping forms on the deck.

As
they approached the third boat, they realized that it was not one of Djefi’s,
but a smaller craft that stank of goose droppings.

“There
were three, I’m sure,” Brian said.  “Djefi was on one, I was on one and
Diane was on another.”

“Can
you tell which one is missing?”

“No,”
he said, “I wasn’t paying attention to the boat.  I would know the
boatmen, though.”

He
looked at the two boats.  The first had an awning over the stern.  He
remembered that was where Djefi sat to stay out of the sun.  The second
boat was a little smaller and there was no awning.

He
walked closer to the boat, peering through the darkness, trying to see if he
recognized any of the boatmen.  It was too dark to make out any of their
faces.  He felt Tama pull on his arm.

“It
doesn’t matter,” she whispered.  “If she and Yunet are not on the deck and
if Hetephernebti is right that they didn’t come into town, then they must be on
the boat that isn’t here.”

He
nodded agreement and followed her away from the water’s edge.

They
walked back into Waset, keeping to back streets on their way to the palace.

“Where
would she have gone?” he asked.

“Djefi
said he was going to Kom Ombo.  He is building a new temple to Sobek
there.  He would want to keep her near him, so I think she would be headed
there.”

“Why
would he have sent her away?”

Tama
thought for a few minutes as they walked on in silence.

“He
probably sent word for them to leave when he saw me here.  I didn’t think
of that.  He might have guessed that we are traveling together.”

After
a few more steps, Brian asked, “Where is Kom Ombo?”

A
t first light Brian began walking south
toward Kom Ombo. 

Tama
had given him the donkey and the long striped robes of a Nubian to wear as a
disguise.  She told him that she could not go with him because she had to
return to Khmunu for the ceremony that would help persuade the gods to bring
moisture to the Two Lands.

“Djefi
will be going to Khmunu also,” she had told Brian.  “The way should be
clear at Kom Ombo to see Diane.”

As she
stood at the edge of town watching him walk away, leading the small donkey,
Tama felt a presence at her side.

“Why
did you tell him everything?” she asked Hetephernebti.

Hetephernebti
caressed Tama’s head.  “If Brian is a god, then he already knew what I was
saying.  If the gods sent him, then either they would tell him or they
were acting through me to tell him.  And, little sister, if he is only a
man, an outlander as you say, then he will leave the Two Lands and his
knowledge will not matter.”

Tama
turned to her friend, a worried look on her face.  “But Hetephernebti,
what if he is just a man who now believes that he is a god?  What if he
acts against Kanakht and Djefi thinking he cannot be harmed because he is a
god?  What then?”

Hetephernebti
gazed at Brian, who was now just a small, distant form moving across the sands
of Kemet.

“Then,
Tama, that is what the gods want.”

D
ear Addy, Tim wrote and stopped.  He
stuck the pencil behind his ear and stared at the journal page.  The
morning light lay across the empty, ivory-colored paper, highlighting the
granular texture of the sketchpad.

Looking
up, Tim saw the wooden deck of the boat, narrowing as it approached the
stern.  The cedar planking was smooth from a combination of age and steady
use.  Beyond, out of sight from his low perspective, the sluggish water of
the river pushed its way north, the opposite direction King Djoser’s boat was
traveling.

From
his seated position, Tim could see the west bank, where there seemed to be
fewer and fewer trees as they got closer to Abu and the first cataract, the
spot where the river narrowed as it crashed through rocks, and where Teti had
fallen.

King
Djoser was at the prow of the ship talking with Sekhmire, commander of the
house guard.  Sekhmire was the only guard on the king’s boat.  The
others followed in smaller boats, making up the rest of the small armada that
carried King Djoser through his land.

They
had passed Kom Ombo yesterday, the town a small gathering of mud huts on the
east side of the river.  On the opposite bank of the river a new temple
was rising from a sandstone plateau that overlooked a bend in the river.

“The
new Temple of Sobek,” King Djoser had said, nodding at the stone pillars as
they passed.  “It will be dedicated a few days after the river floods.” He
had kept his eyes on the nearly completed temple, but Tim knew the comment was
directed at him.

Whatever
happened now, Tim knew his future was linked with King Djoser’s and, more
immediately, with the depth of the river.

Meryt
sat beside him, a light linen cloth over her head to shelter her from the
sun.  She was almost fully recovered from her illness.  Her humor and
inquisitiveness had returned, along with her energy, but exposure to the heat
of the sun still tired her.

Tim
touched her hand, bringing a squeeze in response. Then he turned his attention
back to the journal.

We
are just a few days from Abu, which marks the southern border of Kemet. 
There is a temple there to the ram-headed god they call Khnum.  Before I
left Cairo, when I was waiting in Diane and Brian’s room, I read the history of
the Step Pyramid and King Djoser.  According to the book, the famine ended
after seven years when King Djoser made a sacrifice to Khnum and gave some land
to the temple there.

I’m
traveling with the king, his personal bodyguard, and with Meryt.  She’s
beside me now, watching me write, keeping me company.  I started to tell
you about her before.

She
has brought color and life back to me.  I used to get angry when I heard
someone laugh.  How could they be happy after what had happened?  But
now I look forward to her laughter. 

I
know that I was withdrawing from everything.  You know, I actually quit
shaking hands with people.  I didn’t want to touch anyone if I couldn’t
touch you.  I know I was indulging myself by dwelling on my loss and
pain.  I wanted to never feel happy again.  I think I was trying to
prove the depth of my love, but I was also angry.

Maybe
it’s something in the air here.  Seriously, when I arrived here, I
remember feeling different.  It started as soon as I stepped out of the
tomb.  The air, the light, the colors, everything felt
different.  I remember drawing in a deep breath of air...

He put
the pencil back behind his ear and stretched out his hand to touch Meryt’s
leg.  She was sitting cross-legged, her hands resting on her lap, her head
cocked slightly, watching Tim and looking beyond at the riverbank.  He
laid his hand on her smooth thigh and traced circles with his fingers across
her soft skin.

She
placed a hand on top of his and lightly rubbed the back of his hand, feeling
the skin drawn tight across the bones that led to his fingers.

He
closed his eyes and focused his attention on his hand, feeling and being
touched.  He knew she was doing the same, making this small point of
contact a bridge between them.

“Look
over there,” Meryt said quietly.

He
looked up to see her pointing past the riverbank to distant sand dunes, shaped
by the wind into pyramid shapes.  “I’ve never seen anything like that
before,” she said.  “I wonder if it’s soft like sand, or hard.  Could
you run up their side, oh, and roll down?” Her voice was excited, filled with
the wonder that Tim saw in all her actions.

It
struck him that there were no pyramids here in this ancient time.  If he
really were Imhotep, THE Imhotep, then he would be the man remembered for
directing the construction of the first pyramid.  The hills off in the
distance were the shape of the true pyramids, the ones that would come
later.  The inspiration for those tombs, he realized now, came from
nature, from these hills in southern Kemet.

He
looked from the sliding river bank and the distant hills to Meryt, her face so
alive and animated, her skin, even in the shadows beneath the linen scarf, so
luminous and beautiful. 

Then
he glanced down at the journal, the dry, dark strokes against the page -
a bloodless attempt to grab life and hold onto it, to pin it down like a
collection of dead butterflies.  Elegant lines, heart-breaking delicacy
and beauty, but no life.  All past, no present.  And no future.

He
raised his hand from her lap and grabbed the corner of the page on which he was
writing.  Gripping the journal spine firmly, he pulled the
page toward him, listening to the ripping sound as it tore free.

He
rocked forward and stood up.  He slid his journal back into the backpack,
but carried the torn page to the center of the boat where a small fire was kept
burning, watchfully tended so it didn’t spread to the wooden ship.  He
touched the shoulder of the boatman who was sitting by the small fire. 
When he looked up Tim gave him the loose paper and nodded toward the fire.

There
is so much to do, Tim thought, as he walked back to Meryt.  I’m living and
there is so much to do.  Later, when I’ve stopped creating, stopped
living, there will be time to remember.

B
ata was a captive, but he was on an island
in a land where there really was no place to hide.  And so he roamed free,
working on the temple grounds at Abu, waiting for King Djoser to arrive and
decide his fate.

Three
years ago he had become a member of Prince Teti’s guard, joining two other men
none of them older than twenty-five, who traveled with the prince, trained with
him, ate with him and hunted with him.

It was
a good life.  They traveled with Prince Teti up and down the river,
standing guard by him during ceremonies; competing with him in races, and
wrestling, and throwing spears; visiting the hundred temples along the river,
and the thousand girls who longed to be close to the prince.

They
had stood together along the riverbank, relieving themselves, contesting who
could create the highest arc.  They had emptied skins of wine and jars of
beer, passing out on the floor and waking up wrenching out their guts, laughing
at each other’s misery.  They had been together with women, comparing
their endurance and size.

They
were friends, although they never forgot that Prince Teti was of royal blood.

They
knew that as Prince Teti grew older and assumed more royal duties this time of
wildness and adventure would end.  They would grow old together, recalling
their youth and laughing at the memories.

But
now, now they were still young and wild, strong and fast.

Bata
had no idea why he was being punished.  They had been in the river, Prince
Teti high on a rock when suddenly he fell, silently, arms unmoving.  Bata
could see it clearly, remembering it happening slowly, implacably.  He had
run toward the spot in the river where the prince was falling, but got there
too late to catch him.

Fortunately
the river was deeper there.  The prince’s arm hit a rock, Bata could hear
the sickening snap as the bone broke, but his head and the rest of his body
landed in open water.  Bata had run to Prince Teti and lifted him up,
careful to avoid the mangled arm, holding the prince’s head above water.

Before
he could even shout for help, Nesi had appeared, splashing from behind the
boulder from which Prince Teti had fallen. Bata had looked to Nesi for
help, but suddenly his friend was yelling, calling out that Bata was trying to
kill Teti.

How
could such a thing happen?

And so
Bata waited at Abu, waited for King Djoser to judge him.  Waited and
wondered why Nesi had accused him.

H
e was cutting papyrus stalks along the
water’s edge when he saw Sekhmire coming toward him, accompanied by a tall,
thin man who wore a pleated white kilt and a wide, beaded necklace.  When
he got closer, Bata recognized the necklace as menat, sign of a healer.

Bata
straightened up, tossed another stalk on the growing pile on the riverbank and
stepped out of the soft mud.  In his right hand he held a wide knife used
to hack at the fibrous stems.

Sekhmire
ignored the weapon.

“Bata,”
he said, he voice friendlier than Bata expected.  “This is Imhotep,
adviser to King Djoser.  He wants to talk to you.”

“Hello,
Bata,” Imhotep said, his accent strangely flat, the words said clearly and
sharply as if he paid great attention to each sound.

Bata
nodded.  “Yes, lord,” he said, guessing at the proper greeting from the
menat around Imhotep’s neck.  He wondered where Kanakht was, wasn’t he
adviser to the king?  Or did the king have several advisers.  Bata
shrugged away the questions and asked Imhotep, “What can I tell you?”

Imhotep
motioned toward a nearby tree. 

“Come
to the shade,” he said.

Under
the tree, Imhotep sat and motioned for Bata to sit with him.  Sekhmire
stood, leaning against the tree, listening and watching.

“Tell
me about Prince Teti’s accident: the speed of the water, the wind, the sounds,
where everyone stood, the color of the stones, what you talked about before the
accident.  Start when all of you were together on the shore and then tell
me everything that happened.”

As
Bata told the story, Imhotep interrupted to clarify an unclear statement, to
have Bata explain again how deep the water was, how much flotsam was in the
water, what color the rocks were.  His idea was to have Bata relate every
detail, especially those that did not matter so that only the truth would fit
the weave of the story. 

With
Imhotep asking questions about everything, Bata gave up trying to guess what
was important.  He closed his eyes and saw the day again, felt the cold
water around his ankles and then his knees.  He remembered Teti falling
limply and silently toward the water, and he told Imhotep everything.

“E
ither Prince Teti fell asleep while he was
standing on top of that boulder or Nesi threw a rock at him and knocked him
unconscious,” Tim told Meryt later that day.

“That’s
what you thought when you examined him at Waset,” she said.

Tim
nodded and bent down to pick up a stone along the river’s bank.  He
bounced it in his hand a few times, and then threw it out into the river. 
He picked up another and threw it again, harder and farther.

“What
is wrong?” Meryt asked him.

He
turned to her, his mouth pulled into a frown, his eyes angry.  “I don’t
have proof,” he said.  “I can’t accuse Nesi of trying to kill Prince Teti
without proof.  I know he did it.  I’m positive.  But I can’t
prove it.”

Meryt
looked confused.

“I
don’t understand, Tim.  Why would you have to prove it?  If you know
he did, then that is enough.  King Djoser will believe you.”

Tim
stopped walking and looked at her.  “That’s true,” he said.  He
thought about what that meant.  Because Hetephernebti had taken an
interest in him, because he had successfully reduced the swelling of Prince
Teti’s arm leading King Djoser to add him to his court, Tim’s, or rather
Imhotep’s word carried the weight of authority.

If he
accused someone, they would be guilty.  If he defended them, then they
were innocent.  Was justice here simply a matter of which person was more
important?  Was influence the coin of truth? 

He
thought of the world he had left behind with local, state and federal police;
with district judges, county courts, state courts and federal courts; with
courts for criminal cases and others for civil cases; lawyers who specialized
in drunk driving cases, in suing other people, in criminal defense, in
bankruptcy suits.

It was
a huge system with so many layers, so many checks and balances - appeals,
sequestered juries, rules of evidence, written records, highly trained
professionals to handle every aspect.

Yet
when he thought of cases that he knew about, none of them seemed to lead to
justice: a famous football player walks away from a double murder charge
despite blood stains and everything but a confession, a basketball player rapes
a girl and his lawyers frightened her away from testifying, a mentally disabled
boy is tricked into admitting a murder he didn’t commit so police can close a
case, businessmen steal life savings of their employees and never go to jail, a
politician runs over a man and kills him, lies about it and spends less time in
jail than a shoplifter.