The Buried Pyramid (Imhotep Book 2)

by Jerry Dubs

  Nemaathep put her hand to her mouth and stared at Djoser, his arms and chest glistening with water, his short kilt wet and clinging to him like a second skin. He started to walk quickly toward Inetkawes who thrust the water pitcher back into Nemaathep’s arms, laughed and ran from the room.

  Djoser stopped after a few steps and turned toward his older sister.

  “Lady Ipwet,” he said solemnly and bowed.

  “Lord Hemwy,” she answered, shaking her head. “This is Nemaathep,” she said, nodding toward the servant girl who alternated between looking at Djoser, Hetephernebti and toward the reception room where Inetkawes stood, doubled over and laughing.

  “Lord,” Nemaathep said.

  Djoser took three steps to her and reached out for the heavy pitcher. He took it from her and smiled. “Good morning, Lady Nemaathep. I hope you are not as dangerous as Inetkawes.”

  “Dangerous?” The girl looked at Djoser with worried eyes, surprised to hear that her friend was a danger to the imposing man standing beside her.

  “Oh, yes, Lady Nemaathep, Inetkawes assaulted me while I slept. First she tried to drown me and then she tried to smother me. She looks kind and sweet, but that beautiful exterior hides a dangerous heart.”

  “How could she drown you, you have big muscles?” Nemaathep said.

  “She attacked me when I was sleeping,” he said, then seeing the worried look on the girl’s face, he knelt in front of her. “Inetkawes isn’t really dangerous, little one. We were just playing.”

  He reached out to squeeze the girl’s arm. “If you keep carrying such heavy water jars, your muscles will soon be bigger than mine.”

  “Then I’ll be safe from Inetkawes,” Nemaathep said.

  Suddenly Djoser turned serious. He laid his hand on Nemaathep’s bare head and said, “I hope you’ll always be safe, from everything, Nemaathep.” Rising he said, “Now, could you please find me a towel?”

  Nemaathep nodded and ran from the room.

  Djoser turned and looked at his sister. His eyes glistened with sudden tears. “Her innocence . . . For the past year I have traveled with my men, strong, fearless warriors. This girl, my Kifi, Inetkawes . . . I forget the joy of an untouched heart.”

  Straightening his shoulders, he wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “So, breakfast?” he asked.

  Hetephernebti smiled at him, her heart thrilled that he had allowed her to see his own spirit. He was still her little brother, touched by the gods, grown to manhood, a leader of men, but her little brother still.

  ***

  Dressed in a dry gown, Inetkawes served Hetephernebti and Djoser breakfast. They sat at a small table in Hetephernebti’s bedroom. Behind them sunlight and the sounds of birds calling to each other floated through the east-facing windows. The morning breeze carried the sun’s warmth into the stone chamber.

  Inetkawes filled their water cups and stepped back from the table.

  Djoser glanced at his sister and then said to Inetkawes, “Join us.”

  Standing, he retrieved a stool from a dressing table and set it across the table from Hetephernebti. He settled on it and nodded at his now empty chair.

  Inetkawes looked to Hetephernebti, who smiled and nodded at the chair Djoser had surrendered. Struck by the mirror actions of her mother and the stranger, Inetkawes sat in the empty chair. As she sat she felt the mood in the room change and it seemed to her as if the rest of the world was waiting quietly outside this small room and that the gods themselves had paused and were listening.

  “Catfish?” Djoser asked as he lifted a sliver of dried fish from a platter. He took a bite of it and chewed thoughtfully.

  “We don’t eat as much fish in Ta-Seti. There is more game there and they do like their cattle. But they roast it too long and they don’t season things as well.” He swallowed the fish and licked his lips. “I didn’t realize how much I missed our food.”

  He reached for the round loaf of bread. Lifting it he leaned forward and inhaled. “Date bread, yes?”

  Hetephernebti smiled, realizing what her brother was doing.

  He tore off a piece of bread and sniffed it again before putting it in his mouth. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked around the food.

  Inetkawes reached for a slice of melon and Hetephernebti lifted her water cup.

  “This is delicious,” he said, reaching again for the bread. “They don’t grind the wheat as fine in Ta-Seti. And there isn’t as much honey in it. I never thought about that before. I wonder if there are fewer bees or if they aren’t as good at harvesting the honey.”

  “You aren’t from Ta-Seti?” Inetkawes asked. “I thought you were from Ta-Seti.” She looked at Djoser whose eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “Brother?” Hetephernebti asked.

  Djoser turned his attention to his sister.

  The tone of Hetephernebti’s voice caught Inetkawes’ attention. Although ‘brother’ was commonly used to address friends, it sounded differently now.

  Djoser smiled and took another bite of bread. The women watched him and waited.

  Finally he leaned forward and talked directly to Inetkawes.

  “Inetkawes, we just met yesterday, so we really don’t know each other, do we? But I know your mother. I see her spirit in you, her honesty and her loyalty. I want to trust you. Can you trust me?”

  Inetkawes turned to look at Hetephernebti. She saw no hint from her mother and so she turned back to Djoser and tried to see in his eyes what he was truly asking her.

  Trust had never been something Inetkawes thought about. There were no secrets in the Temple of Re. There were no hidden treasures, no concealed passages. If someone was injured or ill, whoever was with them would help them. If someone was hungry they would be fed. If a favor was asked, it was given. There was an unspoken expectation that they would help one another. Trust was as unnecessary as a lamp during the day.

  They did trust in Re. They trusted that the god would survive each night and reappear each morning. They trusted that fire would bake bread and that fishermen would catch fish. But that was simply the way the world worked.

  Djoser looked to his sister. “Were we ever like this?” he asked.

  Hetephernebti thought of her childhood dreams. Yes, she thought, I was once filled with trust. That trust was destroyed, but Re has rebuilt it. Then she thought of young Djoser and his uncanny ability to discern the truth in stories told by his friends. His trust had always been in himself, not others, she realized.

  Inetkawes leaned across the table and took Djoser’s wrist in her hand. With her other hand she reached for Hetephernebti’s hand. “I trust this,” she said. “You are here. I feel you and see you. I trust my mother. I trust she would care for me if I were ill and feed me if I were hungry.”

  Slowly, Inetkawes withdrew her hand from Djoser’s wrist, her fingertips softly trailing across his skin. “And you, well, I trust that you want me,” she said.

  With a movement so fast it was unseen, Djoser turned his wrist and caught Inetkawes’ retreating hand in a soft but unyielding grip. She let him turn her arm until her palm was facing upward. Then he leaned forward and kissed her open hand.

  Releasing her, Djoser raised his head and look into her eyes.

  “You have Hetephernebti’s insight and her honest tongue ... ” he said.

  “Hetephernebti?” Inetkawes asked.

  “And, yes, you are beautiful and desirable. But more than your body and your kisses, I want your heart, Inetkawes. I want it to be open to me ... ”

  “Hetephernebti was queen before I was born,” Inetkawes said. “Did you know her?”

  “ ... so I will open my heart to yours.”

  Inetkawes discovered that she was sitting on the edge of her chair and that she wasn’t breathing. She looked at Hetephernebti and Djoser. Her mother was still as a statue, her face composed and poised as always. She radiated a confident acceptance; the gods directed her life. Djoser was drinking from his cup, his eyes
full of amusement and a different confidence; he was directing his own life.

  And the lives of others, Inetkawes thought.

  Djoser set his cup on the table. As he lowered the cup, Inetkawes saw a smile on his lips. He was amused and assured and open and honest and she felt her heart grow lighter, lighter than the feather of Ma’at. Whatever worries she had, whatever fears she might encounter, she knew that this man would protect her.

  Time seemed to slow and she watched Djoser’s mouth move. She saw the air vibrate as words rolled from his ka to his throat through the essence of the Two Lands and on to her ears.

  “I am Djoser, son of King Kha-Sekhemwy, The Powerful One. I am Horus Rising. This woman is my sister, Hetephernebti, true queen of the Two Lands. I am going to take the throne that was our father’s. I will rebuild the House that is the Two Lands and you, Inetkawes, you will be my wife.”

  Ptah's command

  The great river Iteru began in the land of the dead. It flowed through the heavens and then emerged from between two mountains south of Abu, springing from secret caverns where Hapi, god of the flood, lived.

  When Djoser had lived in Ta-Seti he had followed the river south, walking its banks into the jungle beyond Ta-Seti. He had talked with traders from the land of Kush. They had told him that the river began beyond their country and that no one had ever discovered its beginnings; the caverns of Hapi remained hidden.

  Bathing now in the water near the Temple of Re, Djoser felt the current sweep past him and he thought of the water passing through the land of the dead, refreshing the men and women who had gone before him.

  My father should be there in Khert-Neter, he thought, picturing the unmarked grave that held his father’s body. This water that brushes against me should have brushed against him.

  Staring upstream, Djoser thought of the journey the river had taken. It rolled north from Kush, leaving the jungles and passing through Ta-Seti. It shouldered past boulders at the cataracts near the southern border of the Two Lands and cut its way through the desert to the delta, where it carved innumerable channels on its way to the sea.

  It entered the Two Lands through the Upper House. It passed waving forests of reeds that grew along its banks. It carried canted boats laden with grain from the fields and merchants and fishermen. Djoser pictured the river moving relentlessly past the stone walls of the palace in Waset, silent and distant from the window of the throne room where his father used to sit.

  Where Nebka, the usurper, now sat.

  He thought of the river’s journey and of his own wanderings following the water’s flow.

  ***

  A year ago, when Kimisi had been killed and Kifi kidnapped, Djoser had thought that he would never see the Two Lands again. He had led the village warriors after the raiders, resigned to the idea that he might die. It was the risk a warrior took.

  And although Djoser was a careful planner and cautious, he led the men upriver at a ferocious pace. Other wives had been killed by the raiders and other daughters taken; the men he led were as eager as Djoser to exact revenge.

  After two days of tracking, they began to see fresh signs of the raiders and, moving more cautiously, they discovered the raiders’ camp in the early evening. Quietly, watching for sentries, they had encircled the camp. Once in position they settled in to wait for darkness when they would attack.

  And then Djoser heard his daughter cry. He crept around the camp perimeter listening for her. He heard a scuffle and then a muffled moan. Parting the leaves of a tree he looked across the encampment and spotted her.

  One of the men was astride her. Her mouth was gagged with a bloody cloth and his little Kifi was clawing at the man who was forcing her legs apart.

  Without thought Djoser ran into their camp, racing toward his daughter.

  Hearing Djoser approach, the rapist turned his head. With her attacker’s attention diverted, Kifi pulled a knife from the man’s belt. Feeling the tug, the man turned back to Kifi and backhanded her face. He took the knife from her and then, casually and cruelly he drew the knife blade across her neck, cutting her throat as a butcher would kill a goat.

  Screaming and oblivious to the other raiders who were on their feet now, picking up clubs and unsheathing their knives, Djoser charged across the camp. Behind him his followers shouted as they attacked from their hiding places.

  Ablaze with rage and blood lust Djoser felt the strength of Horus enter him. Time itself seemed to slow. As he flew through the camp he saw a fountain of blood spurt from his daughter’s jagged throat, each drop glowing red with her life. He saw her killer rise from her body, his face contorted in a grimace of anticipation and pleasure. He saw a bird lift itself from a branch, its belly as red as the desert sand, the underside of its wings bright as the sun.

  As the man turned to confront Djoser he bent his knees to gather his strength. Crouched, the man was still taller than Djoser. Regripping the handle of his knife, the man brought the weapon across his body ready to swipe the cutting edge at Djoser.

  Empty-handed, Djoser hurtled toward the man: another step, another step, an effortless leap across a tangle of tree roots.

  His eyes assessing Djoser, the raider smiled. He was certain that the smaller, unarmed man would soon lie bleeding on the ground.

  Another step brought Djoser to the camp fire. Without breaking stride, he reached down and grabbed the cold end of a burning branch. Another step and he swept the branch at the man’s stomach. Laughing, the man stepped back and swung his knife at the blazing branch.

  Without slowing his momentum, leaping forward as unafraid and deadly as a diving hawk, Djoser extended his arm and thrust the burning end of the branch into the man’s face. The killer screamed and backed away, swinging his knife blindly.

  Djoser followed the man and twisted the burning branch hard against the man’s eyes. As the killer swung his arms at the branch, Djoser dropped it and quickly circled behind the blinded man who was swinging his knife wildly.

  Behind him now, Djoser kicked his heel hard into the back of the man’s knee. As the man fell he twisted and struck again but Djoser had already moved on; he was kneeling by his dying daughter.

  Blood still trickled from the gash at her throat. He gently raised her head and kissed her forehead. “Kifi,” he whispered, “you go to your mother now. Goodbye my child. I love you.”

  Behind him he heard his daughter’s killer roar as he got to his feet.

  Kissing her one last time, Djoser gently lowered his daughter’s head to the ground. Then he stood and turned to her killer. The man was wiping ashes from his blinded eyes with one hand, turning awkwardly in circles and slashing with his knife hand.

  Djoser walked to him and stepped silently inside the arc of the man’s swinging arm. He caught the man’s arm with one hand cupping the fist that held the knife and with his other hand immobilizing the man’s elbow. Twisting around, Djoser drove the man’s knife toward the attacker’s own stomach. Slowly, with steely strength born from drawing the heavy bows of Ta-Seti and with the divine power of Horus, Djoser bent the man’s arm, driving the bloodied tip into the killer’s stomach.

  The man screamed a war cry and, cupping his free hand around the back of Djoser’s head, he slammed his own head downward. Djoser felt the impact of the man’s skull on his own, light sparkled at the edge of his vision, but his arms remained bands of iron, driving the knife deeper and upward, cutting the man’s stomach open.

  Then, keeping a grip on the killer’s knife hand, Djoser thrust his other hand into the man’s opened stomach and squeezed a coil of intestines.

  As the killer screamed and dropped to his knees Djoser brought the tangled offal from the man’s stomach. He lifted a foot and pushed against the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Then kneeling over him he draped the writhing intestines around the man’s neck.

  Realizing what he felt around his throat, the killer screamed once more and tore at the bloody necklace, tearing his own bowels apart in his anguis
hed spasm.

  Djoser ripped the knife from the dying man’s hand and turned to join the battle.

  ***

  As the water of the river Iteru washed over him, Djoser realized that although the killings of Kifi and Kimisi had broken his heart they also had wrenched him loose from life in Ta-Seti and set him on this pathway.

  He would store their memories with that of his father and mother. He would cherish their names and make offerings for their eternal happiness. He would remember their faces and the sounds of their voices and the warmth of their skin, and they would live in his heart.

  Cupping his hands, he filled them with water. He splashed the water over his face, bent and let the river wash over his chest.

  It never ended, the river Iteru. It flowed day and night carrying traces of every land it passed, each person who touched it. It was filled with fish and snakes, with crocodiles and hippos, with birds and frogs. It washed over its banks each year, replenishing the land. It filled the canals, carrying water to the fields.

  It was the very heart and blood of the Two Lands.

  Djoser waded deeper into the river, and the blood of the Two Lands washed over him.

  ***

  Emerging from the river, Djoser’s mind was filled with everything he had learned during his travel from Ta-Seti through the Two Lands and now on to the delta.

  He had visited each of twenty nomes of the Upper House of the Two Lands.

  A child when he had last been in the Two Lands, Djoser walked the markets and temples and government buildings unafraid that he would be recognized. After all, everyone knew that the son of King Kha-Sekhemwy had been killed fifteen years ago.

  He listened to rumors, he asked questions and he saw the poverty that had crept into the Two Lands like a clan of hyenas. But the harm, Djoser soon realized, had come from within.

  As all kings do, King Nebka had ordered new temples built to commemorate his reign. But instead of waiting for the inundation when the farmers were idled by the flood, he impatiently had pulled men from the fields to work in the quarries. With fewer men to work the fields, the harvest had been smaller.