by Jerry Dubs
Imhotep nodded.
“And yet you sit on the roof drinking beer, or trying to drink it,” he added, looking at the stain on Imhotep’s loincloth.
While Imhotep tried to think of a response, Bata chatted on. “Never mind, Lord Imhotep, let your pickled brain rest.” He led Imhotep back to his resting spot by the beer pot.
“As you know, Meryt has been trying to keep me busy so that I wouldn’t worry about you, as if worrying about you ever helped. Before Ahmes’ last attempt to retrieve you, Meryt sent me to Iunu to see Hetephernebti.
“Since Teti, excuse me, since King Sekhemkhet took the throne, Re has lost some of his luster and Hetephernebti has withdrawn to her temple. I don’t know if it is because of her sadness at King Djoser’s death or if King Sekhemkhet hasn’t asked her to attend celebrations or if she is just growing weary with years and prefers not to travel.
“But, whatever the reason, she is seldom at the palace.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, “Merneith has taken her place. She is always by Khaba’s side and Khaba is always at Teti’s, excuse me, King Sekhemkhet’s side.
“Which reminds me. Ahmes says hello. I saw him in Zau.”
Imhotep picked up the clay beer pot, swished the beer inside and shook his head. He wanted a clear mind. He knew that Bata enjoyed gossip, but he also knew that Bata was much more clever than most people thought; there would be a point to his gossip.
“Zau?” He asked. “Home of the Temple of Neith?”
Bata smiled, happy to see that the Imhotep he hadn’t seen for a year had truly returned.
“Yes, home of the goddess Neith, home of the priestess Merneith and home, for most of the last year, to Ahmes.”
“I didn’t know that Ahmes had moved to Zau. Paneb never said ... ”
“No,” Bata said, growing serious. “Paneb wants Ahmes to work across the river on the king’s pyramid. His eyes are failing, Imhotep,” he added.
“I know, I’ve seen him since I returned.”
“He hoped Ahmes would work at his side, as they had when Ahmes was a boy. But Ahmes is obsessed with Merneith. Of course, nothing good can come from that obsession. For one thing, she is priestess to Neith and unlikely to marry. And of course she is Khaba’s hemet.” He stopped and giggled. “Or more precisely, General Khaba is her hemet. At least that’s what servants at the temple in Zau suggest. She has a wooden ... ” he grabbed himself between his legs, “which she straps on ... ”
Imhotep waved his hand to stop Bata’s detailed description. After seventeen years in the Two Lands, Imhotep knew that sexuality had few of the taboos associated with it in the modern world. Everyone had sex; it wasn’t a secret. Perhaps it was a lack of civilization that allowed the immodesty, perhaps it was the need for the population to grow, perhaps, he thought with a smile, it was simply that they enjoyed it so much.
He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the stream of gossip and the beer.
“At any rate,” Bata continued, clearly disappointed not to be able to repeat the rumors of Merneith’s debauchery, “you will be able to judge all of this first hand.”
Imhotep shook his head. Glancing at the beer pot he wondered if he had drunk more than he thought. “Judge what? I don’t understand.”
“Your disappearance – yes, Imhotep, people still think of you, even if you disappear for a year – was all the talk in the palace, in the temples, in fact, throughout the Two Lands. Where has Imhotep gone? Has he gone to the eternal fields of reeds to visit with the gods? Is he searching through the Land of Punt for more miracles? Has he taken to the seas like Isis, searching for the ka of Djoser?”
Imhotep closed his eyes. The truth – that he had gone through a time portal to travel five thousand years into the future – was even more fantastic than the rumors.
“And now word has spread that you have returned. And everyone is curious. Have you grown a third eye? Has your head changed into that of an ibis? Do you shuffle on your knuckles like one of Thoth’s baboons?”
Pleased with himself, Bata laughed a small chirping chuckle and lowered himself to the roof beside Imhotep. “I added that last one myself. No one really wonders that.”
He nodded at the clay beer pot.
“Isn’t the beer good? I’ve been playing ... ”
“Honey and figs,” Imhotep interrupted to show that he noticed and appreciated Bata’s work.
“Yes,” Bata said. “But not just raw figs. It gets too fruity. I scorch the figs, just for a moment. It releases their true, inner flavor and adds weight to the sweetness. Then I crush them and strain the beer through the mash. There’s a little sediment,” he acknowledged, “but not too much.”
“Clearly Meryt is not keeping you busy enough,” Imhotep said with a smile.
“Well,” Bata said, “there isn’t nearly as much to clean up around here when you are gone.”
Imhotep laughed aloud and looked happily at his friend. Sitting beside him on the rooftop, accepting Imhotep’s absence and incredible explanation, bantering and joking as if Imhotep had been gone for a week rather than a year, Bata was a rock. A dependable, loving friend, his life was intertwined with Imhotep’s and Meryt’s, his ka given over to protecting theirs, like Mafdet protecting them from snakes or Anubis guarding over the dead.
“Thank you, Bata ... ” he started to say, his voice unexpectedly thick with emotion.
Bata held up a hand to stop him. “I am happy you have returned, Lord Imhotep. But, I was telling you ... when I was in Zau I was called into the presence of the Spear of Neith, that’s what Merneith calls herself now. Priestess isn’t dramatic enough.
“Although, I must admit, she does deserve a dramatic name. Her skin is even whiter now than before, or perhaps that is because so little of it is visible and what you can see blazes like the caps of waves on the water.” Happy with his description, Bata waved his hand to create imaginary water waves.
“She has become a canvas for Ahmes. Her arms, legs, back, chest, stomach, face, everything is covered with his paintings. I’m told that most of them change each week but more and more are permanent. I don’t know how that is possible. I mean she has to bathe.”
“Needles,” Imhotep answered.
Bata cocked his head in question.
“You put ink in a hollow needle. When the needle punctures the skin, the ink is released and colors the skin. It doesn’t wash off.”
“Does it hurt?” Bata asked.
“I never had it done to me, but I would think that it hurts a little.”
“Can you do this?”
“You’d like your skin decorated?”
Bata nodded his head. “Yes, I think so. Not as much as Merneith, but maybe a bull, for Ptah, here,” he pointed to his left shoulder. “And maybe Hathor on the other shoulder.”
Imhotep smiled. “Sure. I can make some drawings and we can figure out how to do it.”
Bata clapped his hands in excitement. Imhotep closed his eyes and pictured himself busy with a new hobby. Maybe I’ll put out a sign, Imhotep’s Tattoo Parlor, he thought with a smile.
He lifted the beer pot and took a long drink.
“So,” Bata continued, “I was called before the Spear of Neith. You have to kneel at the doorway and approach her on hands and knees, then stay on your knees, like a captive, while she talks to you.” He frowned in distaste at the ostentatious arrogance.
“Anyhow, she demands that you attend the Festival of Lights.”
“Me?”
Bata nodded. “And Maya. She said she wants to see the miracle.”
Suddenly Imhotep’s good mood evaporated and the beer in his stomach gathered weight, turning into a clawed fist.
Neith Goes Forth
A shoulder-high wall, its top studded with broken stones, surrounded a wide clearing in front of the Temple of Neith. Standing by one of the narrow open doorways in the wall, Maya held Imhotep’s hand and looked at the plaza, which was divided by a shallow stream that cut a jagged path through the clearin
g.
Surveying the plaza, Imhotep saw that polished stones and flat, reflective scraps of silver and gold were imbedded in the wall. He studied the wall in puzzlement, wondering if there was a method to the placement or if the decorations were random.
He felt Maya tug on his hand. Looking down he saw her point across the clearing at Ahmes who had entered through another opening and was running toward them.
“Hi, Maya,” he called. He leaped across the small stream and jogged to a stop by them. “Lord Imhotep,” he said, bowing his head.
Imhotep reached over and, putting his hand on the back on Ahmes’ neck, he pulled him close. He put his cheek against the side of Ahmes’ head. “It is good to see you Ahmes,” he whispered. Then pulling back slightly, he kissed the young man’s forehead.
“I was just admiring your wall,” Imhotep said as Ahmes blushed at the open show of affection.
Ahmes smiled. “It is made to be admired at night.”
“At night?” Imhotep asked.
“You’ll see,” he said.
Then he picked up Maya and tossed her in the air. “You’re getting bigger and bigger,” he said. “I can hardly lift you.” Holding her over his head, he kissed her bare stomach. “I think you’re getting a fat belly,” he teased.
“Mother said Father is going to get a fat belly. He drinks beer all the time,” Maya said.
Ahmes glanced at Imhotep who shrugged. “I’ve been drinking more, its true.” He patted his small stomach. “I don’t have enough work to do. After this festival I’m going to go back to Ineb-Hedj and figure out how to keep myself busy.”
“Well,” Ahmes said, “King Sekhemkhet is here. Maybe you’ll get a chance to talk and things can go back to the way they were. I know father would appreciate your help at the tomb.”
***
No longer part of the retinue of officials who accompanied the king, Imhotep spent the day in the small village near the temple. Ahmes had excused himself, explaining that he had last-minute preparations to complete.
So Imhotep and Maya wandered through Zau’s market where they picked at fruit and bread until she found a litter of kittens half hidden under a browning palm leaf at the base of a small shed. Imhotep leaned against the small outbuilding and watched her play with the kittens, happy to see her healthy but worried about why Merneith has demanded that he bring his daughter to the celebration.
Soon Re passed overhead and disappeared behind the trees on the western edge of the village and Imhotep heard the sound of voices beyond the scrim of palm and sycamore trees. Picking up Maya he followed the dusty streets seeking the sound and soon found himself in a growing crowd of villagers and pilgrims.
Imhotep had never been to a celebration for the war goddess Neith. The temple was deep in the delta, away from the easy travel of the main river, and Neith, while a feared and respected goddess, was not a major deity like Re or Sobek or Ma’at or Thoth or Horus or Isis, or many of the other dozens of ancient gods and goddesses.
At the festivals in Iunu for Re or for Thoth at Khmunu or Mut at Waset there had been an air of happy excitement and celebration. There were dozens of food stalls and the markets were packed with jewellers and perfume sellers and potters and weavers.
Here the villagers had been almost sullen, as if they were unhappy at having to share their celebration with outsiders, and the few visitors had seemed tense, filled with anticipation mixed with dread.
The crowd that pushed around Imhotep and Maya now was strangely quiet, their voices little more than whispers. Holding Maya, Imhotep moved with the crowd, bumping against shoulders, coming to an abrupt halt behind an arguing couple, almost losing his balance as strangers pushed into him or squeezed in front of him.
The air was filled with dust, the smell of unwashed bodies of men and women who had waited all day in the hot sun, and with snatches of conversations: “How many are there?” “My cousin’s daughter said they had to provide their own weapons.” “I heard that the Spear of Neith is taking part.” “No, she wouldn’t. What if something happened to her?” “Have you ever seen her? It’s not likely she’d be in any danger.”
The crowd shuffled and then surged, stopped and then changed direction.
Taller than most ancient Egyptians, Imhotep raised himself up on his toes to see where the crowd was drifting. He could see the decorated walls of the plaza, dark outlines in the fading light, looming just a few feet away; they were approaching the plaza.
There had been no sound of horns, no priestly procession or call to the crowd, just a sudden movement toward the plaza.
Imhotep shook his head, mildly disappointed in the ceremony. Then he snorted, disappointed more in himself. He wondered again if his brief visit to the modern world had changed him, awakened expectations that couldn’t be matched here in the Two Lands. There was no ice here, no air conditioning, no crowd control, no loudspeakers, no velvet ropes to contain a jostling queue.
Instead he was in a primitive mosh pit, sharing the excitement and energy with everyone else. He decided that he could distance himself and be an observer or he could join in the spirit. He glanced at Maya, her face was filled with happiness. The commotion and movement, so different from her ordinary life, filled her with wonder and joy.
Imhotep smiled to himself, held his daughter tighter and leaned his shoulder into the crowd.
In a few more minutes the crowd began to scatter as they entered the plaza. Imhotep shuffled to his left and soon found himself in an open area midway between two of the gates. He hoisted Maya to his shoulders and felt her short legs clamp the side of his head.
An old woman brushed past, looked up at Maya and then glared at Imhotep. Spitting on the ground in front of him she stalked away.
Imhotep watched the old woman who turned back to him once and shook her head.
“Look at the fires, father,” Maya said. She tapped his head and leaned forward until her face entered his field of vision from above. When she was sure that she had his attention, she pointed across the plaza.
The open field was a wonderland of lights. The ground was filled with shallow bowls of oil, each with a floating, lighted wick. The reflective stones and slivers of metal in the surrounding wall picked up the light making the plaza blaze with flickering pins of light, a mirror of Nut’s arched sky above them.
The crowd moved along the wall, blocking the reflected light like clouds or waving palm trees and now Imhotep noticed that even the stream was festooned with light, bowls of flames floating in the water, bobbing back and forth, tethered by unseen cords.
He realized that he was holding his breath, transfixed by the spectacle. He smiled, happy to be awed by the staging.
“Look, father,” Maya whispered, leaning down close to his face again.
This time she didn’t need to point.
Every face in the crowd had turned in the same direction where an escort of soldiers had appeared. The men were naked, their muscled bodies oiled to reflect the lights from the thousands of flames. Each of the men carried a long, oval shield of leather stretched over a wooden frame. The shields were painted with various forms of the goddess Neith. On one shield she was standing with a bow stretched, about to shoot. In another she was poised to hurl a spear. On a third she was standing over a kneeling captive, ax raised to kill.
The soldiers walked slowly to the center of the clearing where they formed a ring, their shields held in front of them. Although the light was dim, Imhotep thought that one of the soldiers had his own narrow shoulders and he wondered if Tjau was here.
Now, from beyond the walls came the hollow, empty sound of drums beating out a cacophonous cadence. There was no rhythm, no measured beat, just a menacing march of percussive explosions, the sound of chaos approaching. The sound of war.
Above and through the deadening beat came the whistling of double reed pipes, their shrill high notes cutting through the heavy thump of the drums and filling the air with a strange dirge.
Imhotep turned towa
rd the sound. The gateway to his right was lined now with more soldiers, each of them bearing a torch, and between them walked Merneith.
Her naked body bore none of the paintings that Bata had described. Instead it glowed, whiter than the torches, whiter than the sand beneath her feet, whiter than the finest linen. The light reflected from her skin, highlighting the bones of her hips, the sinewy length of her legs, the blood tint of her shock of hair, the swelling of her small breasts, their tips painted red.
As one, the crowd inhaled, an inaudible gasp so strong that, to Imhotep, it seemed that the flames from the candles and the lamps and the torches all waved.
Now the drums picked up their pace, the reed pipes shrilled louder, and Merneith walked with a soldier’s marching gait to the circle of soldiers at the center of the plaza. As she came closer, two of the soldiers turned sideways to admit her to the inner ring. Once she was past them the soldiers resumed their place and she was hidden from view behind the men and their shields.
The drums stopped. The pipes fell silent and suddenly the sky was on fire as flaming arrows arched overhead. Shot from beyond the walls, waves of arrows soared through the darkness and disappeared beyond their opposite walls.
As the last of the arrows fell, the soldiers knelt and a new Merneith was revealed.
No longer a white, unpainted canvas, she was now a living mural adorned with a huge painting of a crocodile on her stomach and chest, its knobbed tail falling down and across both legs. Her arms and shoulders, her back and buttocks, all were covered with color: flames, skulls, axes, spears, crossed arrows, kneeling captives, Horus in flight, Re in his golden barque, Ma’at with outstretched feathered arms, Ptah the bull and others, too many for Imhotep to discern in the flickering light, all filled her skin.
She was no longer Merneith the Spear of Neith, she had become the goddess herself – Mistress of the Bow, Goddess of Arrows.
Suddenly there was a cry, then another and soon a shrieking chorus of female screams. Into the plaza, through each doorway ran young girls, nine, ten, eleven years old. Their naked bodies were painted with wild splashes of colors and they carried clubs and wooden knives and short spears.
