by Jerry Dubs
The man continued his measured approach, watched now by Babaef, his group of lieutenants, the company commanders and every soldier who could see past the front ranks of the army. Word spread with whispered urgency through the ranks among the men who were too far back to see that ...
... the enemy army had appeared and it was as countless as the sands
... the enemy army had run away and their commander was coming to surrender
... the governor was approaching with a treasure chest to pay his taxes
... a priest had arrived to bless the army.
And then a different rumor came to life. Djoser was blocking the road with a host of dead ancestors and Babaef was frozen in fear.
As the army waited, the solitary man reached the bottom of the incline and stopped.
Babaef was speechless. The man bore an uncanny resemblance to the dead king. His face, his arms and chest, his bearing. It was all Babaef could do to keep himself from kneeling before him.
“General Babaef,” the stranger called in King Kha-Sekhemwy’s measured voice. “You’ve grown fat.”
Behind Babaef one of his lieutenants chuckled. The laughter provided a channel for Babaef’s fear. He whirled toward the man and as the man stood frozen in shock, Babaef pulled the man’s knife from his loincloth and slashed his throat. The man put his hands to his throat, dropped to his knees, his eyes asking – why? – and as blood gurgled from his open throat he collapsed.
“So you can kill with your own hand. You don’t need assassins for every killing,” the stranger said.
Babaef turned and glared at the man.
“Who are you? I want your name so that I can order that it is never spoken anywhere in the Two Lands again.”
The man stepped forward and calmly, with his hands hanging loosely at his side, he said in a voice loud enough for the assembled army to hear, “I am Djoser, son of King Kha-Sekhemwy. And you, General Babaef, are a cowardly assassin. You were afraid to face my father as a man. Instead you plotted behind his back to steal his throne for your lover and you sent killers in the night to attack King Kha-Sekhemwy while he slept.”
Every face in the army turned from Djoser to Babaef to see the general’s reaction. Every man in the army felt a thrill of excitement. They had heard rumors that Djoser was alive and here he was. He wasn’t a spirit or a disembodied ka, he was strong and assured and fearless. He was standing right in front of Babaef and insulting him, accusing him of killing the king. And he was unarmed and alone.
While they admired his courage, every man in the army felt sorry for him. He might be the rightful king but he was foolish and soon he would be dead.
Babaef reached to his right and grabbed a spear from the lieutenant standing there.
“You come with an army. I have no quarrel with you,” Djoser spoke now to the men. “You are following your orders. But they are orders from a cowardly criminal, from a ... ”
Babaef lunged forward. His massive arm swung forward with surprising speed and the spear he was holding flashed through the desert air.
Djoser, who had been watching Babaef closely, felt a lightness enter him as his ka merged with Horus. As it had in his vision so many years ago, time became another dimension, one that he could move through slowly or quickly.
The spear, aimed at his chest, cut through the air, but to Djoser it was floating and drifting as slowly as a falling feather. It was aimed directly at him, just as the blunted spears Sabef had thrown at Djoser when he had practiced in Ta-Seti.
A smile on his face, Djoser sidestepped to his right, brought his left foot behind his right and pivoted. As he turned he raised his right arm.
The spear reached him and Djoser, his body clear of the weapon, swung his right arm down. His hand closed on the moving spear shaft. He continued spinning, his hand twirling the captured wooden shaft in his hand, conserving the weapon’s momentum.
Turning full circle Djoser was once more facing Babaef and the spear was now held firmly in his hand which snapped forward with the speed of a striking cobra. The spear, its redirected speed increased by Djoser’s strength, moved faster than an eye could follow.
It had been moving toward Djoser, then it was twirling around him, then it was raised over his head and now it was passing through General Babaef’s stomach.
There was the sound of wind as Babaef gasped in surprise. Before the men around him could move, the power of the spear had driven Babaef backward onto his heels, backward more, past his point of balance, and then onto his back. Still moving, the spear tip buried itself into the sand.
As the army looked on in shock and before the lieutenants around the fallen general could move, Djoser had run across the sand.
He was at Babaef now.
He placed a bare foot on the general’s stomach and grabbed the quivering spear shaft. He pulled it from the ground but left the wide, triangular tip in the general’s body. Slowly Djoser twisted the spear buried in Babaef’s gut.
“Your body will be cut into a thousand pieces,” he told the fallen general.
“Your heart will be devoured by jackals. Your name will be removed from every report, every inventory, every document, every wall. Your ka will wander a thousand years, hungry and homeless. Your life will have been nothing, less than the shit from a crocodile,” Djoser said as he twisted the spear and watched Babaef’s face.
One of the lieutenants recovered his senses and pulled his knife. He stepped toward Djoser but before he could raise his arm a half dozen arrows buried themselves in his back. He coughed and collapsed.
The other officers around Babaef turned and saw that the ridge was lined now with more than two hundred Nubian archers.
Still clinging to life, Babaef groaned as Djoser slowly pulled the blood-covered spear from the general’s stomach. The men around them backed away, their empty hands extended from their sides so that the archers could see that they were not armed.
Djoser stepped forward and planted his foot on Babaef’s chest.
With both hands he raised the spear overhead.
“I am Djoser, king of the Two Lands. I am the Great House of Kemet. I am the son of Kha-Sekhemwy who was Horus the Powerful One, and of Menathap, who was the true queen of the Two Lands and who was beloved of Hathor.
“I am Djoser, the Golden One of Re.
“I am the Divine Body of Horus.
“I am Djoser, king of the Two Lands.”
Looking down at Babaef's dying face, he drove the spear downward, smashing the tip through the general's clenched teeth, through the back of his skull and into the desert sand.
Raising both arms overhead, Djoser roared, his cry emptying him of the pain of the long, lost years, cleansing him of the longing for his father and mother and his dead wife and child, and filling him with the satisfaction of avenging his father’s murder as he had promised so many years ago.
Around him the circle of officers knelt and bowed their heads. The men in the army shuffled their feet and looked around them. Somehow their leader had been slain and they had become surrounded. The road behind them was filled with archers from the Lower House. The trees to their left swarmed with militia men, the road ahead was blocked by the bristling bows of the Nubians.
Slowly at first, and then with a mixture of relief and resignation, the soldiers all knelt, laid their weapons in the sand and prayed that Djoser would be merciful.
On the road ridge Sabef shook his head in disbelief. It had been as Djoser had foretold. There had been no battle, yet Babaef had been defeated.
And soon Djoser would sit on the throne of the Two Lands.
Section Three
HORUS
PASSING
2638 CBE
In the
Court of King Djoser
The King Is Dead
“And so my brother became king of the Two Lands,” Hetephernebti told Imhotep in the hallway alcove awash with wavering shadows.
“He and Hemon had persuaded the governors of the Lower
House to contribute gold to pay the back wages of Babaef’s army, so it was a very loyal and satisfied army that Djoser led back upriver to Waset.
“The story of Djoser catching Babaef’s spear and throwing it back to kill him made Djoser seem like a god to the men. With every telling the speed of the spear increased until soon men swore that they had seen Djoser hurl a lightning bolt at Babaef.”
Hetephernebti smiled at the memory.
“Who knows, Imhotep, perhaps I wanted to believe it as well. I was excited. Inetkawes was radiant, filled with confidence and enthusiasm, but then, who of Djoser’s friends and family could avoid his infectious enthusiasm?
“The soldiers, too, they were transformed. They walked taller, they kept themselves cleaner, they tried to copy Djoser’s every move. They believed that they were following the true king. Many believed that they were following a god. I know Djoser thought that they were.”
She paused and she and Imhotep listened to the emptiness of the night. Djoser, lying in his bed down the hallway, was no longer coughing. Imhotep started to rise.
“I should check on him,” he said.
Hetephernebti put her hand on his arm to arrest his movement. Shaking her head, she said, “Teti is with him.”
“I didn’t know,” Imhotep said. “I thought he was still a day’s march away.”
Hetephernebti smiled. “He is like his father, willing to push his body beyond the endurance of other men. Djoser was stronger, faster, and quicker than any man I ever saw. But on his triumphant journey up the river Iteru he took his time,” she said, returning to her story.
“At each city he left behind some of the army that General Babaef had led downriver, returning brothers and husbands and fathers to their families. And Djoser took time to meet with village elders, to sup with the leading families. Soon word of his advance spread far enough ahead of him that festivals were organized all along the river.
“You should have seen it, Imhotep. They were not as grand as Djoser’s sed festivals, but in some ways they were even more impressive. Instead of carefully planned, formal celebrations these were spontaneous outpourings of love for my brother. Dancing, food, wine and beer, music, bonfires long into the night. If a village had an ox, it was slaughtered and eaten. Children were brought to be blessed by the new king, mothers brought their daughters, hoping that Djoser would be taken by one of them. Old men told stories about our father, young men tried to sneak aboard the departing boats to become part of the army.
“Inetkawes and I traveled with Djoser. I watched her change during the monthlong journey. Inetkawes, always full of joy and life, joined in the dancing at the festivals, but she learned to slide into the shadows at times so that others could shine. She grew into a woman, Imhotep. Assured that Djoser loved her – she saw it in his every glance, felt it in each touch – she also realized that she would always share him with the Two Lands, and everything that meant.
“I had always wondered how much Djoser believed and how much he projected, do you understand? How much was real and how much was what his iron will wanted to be real. But I saw him day and night, week after week. He was authentic, Imhotep. His belief in his destiny was sincere, his love of the Two Lands was genuine. Everyone felt it.
“I would often catch Sabef, his oldest and dearest friend, standing in the shadows, his eyes wet with love for Djoser. Hemon the Dwarf, previously so full of himself, always calculating and looking for an advantage, he was changed, too, engulfed by Djoser’s generous spirit. I saw him admonish local tax collectors, demanding that they return some of the grain or the salt or the linens to the families who had brought them.
“Djoser’s great ka spread and enthused us all. But while light spread with his advance, darkness was sometimes slow to recede. Those who served Nebka sometimes suffered. We found bodies floating in the river, the ashes of burned huts, families walking the road, their men killed. Some of them might have been loyal to Nebka and paid for their loyalty with their lives. But I suspected that other killings were men using the unrest to settle grudges.”
Hetephernebti took Imhotep’s hand.
“Even though the succession to Teti is uncontested, there will be a period of turmoil. You and Meryt must come to the palace during the transition.”
Imhotep shook his head.
“I’ve made no enemies, Hetephernebti.”
She patted his hand. “If you breathe the air of the king, you make enemies of those who do not. You and Meryt must come to the palace. I will be staying here through the mourning and funeral. I insist.”
Imhotep nodded agreement. Although he felt no danger, he knew that Hetephernebti understood the Two Lands better than he ever would.
“I am not imagining empty threats, Imhotep,” Hetephernebti said. “There is also the matter of Merneith.”
“The priestess?” Imhotep asked.
Merneith was not a common name. The only woman he had met with that name was the bizarre priestess of Neith, the war goddess. An albino with long, delicate limbs, Merneith lived in the temple at Zau. Unlike other women of her time, it was said that Merneith did not shave her head and wear a wig, although Imhotep could not attest to it. The few times he had seen her she had wrapped her head in a red cloth, the color of Neith’s gown. She had seemed extravagant in her devotion to Neith, but Imhotep thought that all the priests and priestesses were consumed by worship of their particular god, which, of course, each priest and priestess considered the most powerful and important of all the gods.
Not unlike the religious leaders of my time, he thought, willing to kill to convert.
He knew that at least a million people had died during the Crusades, more than three million had been killed in the Thirty Years War when Protestants and Catholics fought for supremacy in Europe. The Holocaust, the Deir Yassin massacre, the many jihads throughout Muslim history, the anti-Sikh riots in India, the wars in Sudan, genocide in Bosnia ... so many deaths because of religion. But Imhotep wondered if religion and belief were the root causes, or if religion was only a mask that ruthless leaders wore to incite their followers.
“Yes, the priestess to Neith,” Hetephernebti said, interrupting his thoughts. “She is Nebka’s daughter.
“When Djoser finally reached Waset, the palace was empty except for Nebka and his Nefermaat, who was both his wife and his daughter. Her mother had died two years earlier and Nebka had taken her as his new wife.
“When we entered the eerily quiet palace — all the servants and guards had fled — it felt so strange to be there after fifteen years. The hallways seemed more narrow, the rooms smaller and less grand.
“Nefermaat, Nebka’s daughter-wife, was on the floor just inside the entrance. She lay face down, her arms were spread in submission, her gown torn and covered with soot, her head bare. Djoser could have taken her as a secondary wife or he could have killed her, no one knew what his plans were.
“He went to her and knelt by her head. His face was unreadable, his eyes telling nothing. I wasn’t close enough to hear his words or hers, or even if they spoke. He stayed there, unmoving. Indecisive? Praying to Horus? I don’t know. After a minute, Sabef walked quietly forward and knelt beside Djoser. He leaned close to him and spoke softly in his ear. My brother’s face remained unchanged.
“He had killed Babaef, of course. Later I heard the story of how he had killed the man who murdered his daughter and wife. Taking life didn’t frighten Djoser and I knew that he would kill Nebka, but Nefermaat was different. As far as we knew she was innocent.
“She was eighteen. Her mother had died two years earlier and Nebka had taken her as his official wife. She was a daughter of the king and the wife of the king, her blood doubly royal and so Djoser had to make a decision. I thought that he wouldn’t let her live unless he took her as a wife.
“Another minute passed, then another. Nefermaat lay unmoving, her face against the stones as she awaited her fate. Sabef murmured again in Djoser’s ear and I saw my brother nod. He stood and without
a backward glance began stalking the hallway toward the king’s chambers.
“Sabef motioned to me. ‘Take her,’ he said.
“ ‘Where?’ ” I asked.
“Sabef shrugged. ‘Far away,’ he said, ‘and quickly.’
“I knelt to help Nefermaat to her feet. As Sabef started to move away, I asked him what he had said to Djoser.
“ ‘Kifi,’ he answered, saying the name of Djoser’s murdered daughter. Then he turned and ran to follow Djoser.
“I helped Nefermaat to her feet and led her from the palace. By the time we had reached the river, word of Nebka’s death had outpaced us. A boatman there told us that the new king had found Nebka dead in his bed, a papyrus with the ink still wet beside him. The papyrus contained a single hieroglyph, a cartouche bearing the symbol ‘strong arm,’ which, as you know, is Djoser’s emblem.
“Of course that story isn’t true at all. Djoser found Nebka cowering in his bedroom. When he saw that Djoser truly was alive, he screamed and charged at him with a knife.” Hetephernebti shook her head. “Nebka was a scribe, not a warrior. Djoser took the knife from him, tossed it aside and then strangled Nebka with his bare hands, chanting the names of our father and mother as he watched Nebka’s life drain away.
“I took Nefermaat north to the delta and soon discovered she was pregnant. I was horrified. I knew that no matter what Sabef might whisper in his ear, Djoser would have no choice but to kill Nefermaat and the unborn son or daughter of the king, because they would be a future rival, or the symbolic leader for a future pretender.
“I hid her away in the Temple of Re where I had once found sanctuary. Then I hoped that my brother’s attention would be turned elsewhere and he would never ask about her.
“Nefermaat gave birth to a girl, an albino. Perhaps the baby had been changed by the fear Nefermaat suffered when Djoser took the throne. Perhaps she was marked because her father was also her grandfather. Perhaps she truly is, as she believes, touched by the gods.
