by Jerry Dubs
He saw Khaba step toward the king, his bad leg stiffly swung forward. In Khaba’s hand was a familiar stone blade.
He saw Merneith reach down and put her hand over Khaba’s knife hand. The two of them were behind the king, but visible to Tjau.
Imhotep blinked. There was blackness and when he opened his eyes the ancient tableau in front of him had shifted.
Now he saw Tjau’s eyes widen as the boy saw the knife in Khaba’s hand. Tjau screamed “No!” and leaned forward to run toward the king, to put himself between the king and the naked blade, which Imhotep realized now was the ceremonial knife Djoser had given to him and that he had given to Ahmes to hide.
Imhotep’s eyes shut. Blackness once more. He willed them open and he saw King Sekhemkhet stiffened as Tjau ran toward him. From the far wall behind Tjau, Siptah looked up at the sound of Tjau’s shout and pulled his own knife from his kilt. Leaning forward he started to run furiously at Tjau who he thought was attacking the king.
Imhotep pushed furiously against the hands restraining him. The soldiers bent down to him, turning their heads away from the king to focus on what they thought was Imhotep’s attempt to escape.
Closing his eyes, Imhotep brought a knee up to push himself to his feet.
He could hear his son’s footsteps and the heavier, quicker sound of Siptah’s rushing feet.
He could smell the blood and the mud on the false virgins and he could feel the heat from the torches. His spirit encompassed and embraced the chamber and he knew that even if he could get free from the soldiers he would be too late to stop Merneith or Khaba or Tjau or Siptah.
In the next moment, Tjau threw himself at the king trying to push him away from Khaba’s knife. But, Khaba, his hand guided by Merneith’s, drove the knife blade into the king’s back.
Seeing the scene from his position, Imhotep understood that Tjau was trying to save the king. But Siptah, charging after Tjau, saw only that Imhotep’s son had attacked the king.
Stabbed, the king turned sideways toward Khaba, his face a mixture of pain and surprise. Merneith and Khaba released their grip on the blade and the king fell to his knees. Tjau’s momentum brought him to rest atop the king’s falling body.
He cradled his little sister in one arm and with the other he reached to pull the knife from the king’s back. Seeing the carved ivory handle, he gasped in shock as he recognized the knife his father had given him.
Maya, wriggling free from her brother, rolled onto the floor and shrieked in pain. Siptah, his own knife drawn, reached Tjau and pushed him off the king. He pinned him against the stone floor and held his blade to Tjau’s throat.
As Maya cried and King Sekhemkhet gasped in pain, Merneith screamed, “The boy attacked the king! Kill him!”
The soldiers looked up at Merneith’s shout and ran to their fallen king. Imhotep quickly rose to his feet and with legs half-numb from kneeling he ran forward.
Before he could take a step, he saw Khaba grab Siptah’s shoulders and pull him away from Tjau. As Imhotep’s son rolled to his side to get up the four false virgins beside Merneith attacked, driving their spears into Tjau’s stomach and chest.
“No!” Imhotep screamed and pushed past the soldiers to launch himself at the attacking girls. The soldiers grabbed at him, slowing him, and to his horror he saw the girls pull their bloody spears from Tjau and drive them into his body again. Twisting free of the soldiers, Imhotep shouldered against the girls, knocking them aside and then dropped to the floor beside Tjau. The boy’s upper body was torn as if he had been attacked by Wepwawet himself.
Imhotep cradled Tjau’s head in his arms and kissed his son’s forehead.
“I’m so sorry, Tjau,” he said and then he was pulled him away from his dying son.
The false virgins, back on their feet now, approached Imhotep, their spears drawn back to stab him. As they stepped forward, Maya got to her feet and ran to Imhotep. Twisting his head to speak to Khaba, Imhotep begged, “Please don’t harm Maya. She is innocent.”
To Imhotep’s surprise, Khaba seemed stunned, as if he were a victim rather than the man whose hand had just driven a knife into the king’s back.
As Khaba stood in mute shock, Siptah took control of the situation. He held his hand out to the approaching girls. “Stay where you are,” he ordered them in a voice that overrode their hunger for more blood.
Then he turned to the doorway where the rest of his soldiers were running into the room. “Take the girl,” he ordered them.
As his men secured the room, Siptah knelt beside King Sekhemkhet. The king was lying on his side, his eyes open and blood trickling from his mouth. Accustomed to comforting dying soldiers, Siptah leaned close to the king’s face to quietly assure him that the pain would soon pass. Instead, it was the king who spoke.
“Who stabbed me?” he asked. “Imhotep’s boy was in front of me when I felt the knife. I ... don’t ... understand,” he said and then his head lolled back and he stopped breathing.
Sensing someone near him, Siptah looked up. Merneith was looking down at him, her mouth set in a frown, but her eyes alight with satisfaction.
Siptah heard more footsteps. Turning he saw that more soldiers had flooded into the room. They wore the blue-trimmed kilts of the royal guard, men directly under the command of General Khaba. They poured into the room, dozens of them, crowding into the chamber and filling it with bristling energy.
Siptah blinked in surprise. The men must have been stationed nearby and judging by the quickness of their arrival, they must have been poised to rush to the chamber.
“The king has been assassinated,” Merneith said loudly. “The murderer has been killed by my girls. Khaba, general of the armies, strong spear of the Two Lands, we beseech you to take the double crown and save the Two Lands.”
Khaba, still gripping Imhotep’s arms, released his hold and stood. He turned to face his soldiers who had filled the room.
“See him!” Merneith proclaimed. “Look upon Khaba, the Golden Falcon. The gods have placed him here in this time and place to maintain ma’at. They have invested in him the very ka of the Two Lands. He is Khaba. He is the Soul Who Has Appeared!
“Kneel before your king!”
Merneith’s rage
Khaba’s soldiers dragged Imhotep down the rough stone hallway to the temple abattoir where they bound his wrists and ankles with leather straps. Forcing him onto his back on the floor they passed a rope between his bound wrists and tied it to a thick wooden post used to tether animals awaiting slaughter. Another rope was used to tie his ankles to a second post.
They drew the ropes taut, pulling his arms and legs so hard that his shoulders and hips ached from the strain. The sharp edges of the uneven stones beneath him cut into his back like blunt knives, but he was oblivious to the pain; his mind was elsewhere.
Imhotep assumed that he was going to be executed. Khaba and Merneith would never allow him to survive; he alone had been positioned at the right angle to see that they were the ones who had stabbed the king and that Tjau had been innocent.
He was certain they would kill him to cover their crime. The idea of dying tonight, perhaps in the next few minutes, overwhelmed him. And then he thought of the brutal murder of his son just minutes ago.
And then Meryt.
Losing both her husband and her son, she will be devastated, he thought. And then he had a dark thought. Would she be safe? Or would Khaba kill Meryt and little Maya and erase their names from all records?
No, he told himself. That isn’t what the history books recorded. Imhotep’s name survives. He was regarded as a god. There was no mention of his execution.
His thoughts were interrupted as a shadow moved through the doorway blocking for a moment the wavering torchlight from the corridor.
Imhotep raised his head the little that his position allowed. To his surprise he saw that it was Merneith and not a soldier arriving to execute him. She was still nude, the paintings on her skin splashed now with drying drops
of commingled blood from King Sekhemkhet and Tjau.
She kicked at the restraining ropes to test their strength and then squatted by his head.
“The great Imhotep, royal scribe, physician of unmatched heka, grand architect of the pyramid tomb for King Djoser, adviser to the god-king,” she said, leaning forward to lightly stroke his cheek. He watched her, his spirits rising at the sympathetic tone of her voice.
He wondered if there were words he could say that would save him, promises that would save Meryt and Maya.
“King Khaba insists on having you killed,” she said casually, her words crushing his hopes as she continued to stroke his cheek. “He has carried a grudge ever since you failed to heal his leg.” She laid a finger on Imhotep’s mouth. “I know, I know, you can’t work miracles. You’re not really a god.”
She traced the line of his jaw up to his ear, then lightly brushed the back of her fingers across his face toward his eyes.
“I saw you watching us, Imhotep,” she said in a taunting, sing-song voice. “Everyone else was watching King Sekhemkhet or Tjau. Why weren’t you? Did you see the knife? Was it the way Khaba nervously shifted behind the king? Or maybe you just couldn’t take your eyes away from me,” she teased as she brushed her fingertips over his face.
He realized that she was toying with him, her soft touch a sadistic pleasure she was taking before his death. He wondered if she was his executioner, if her other hand held the same knife that she and Khaba had used to kill the king.
“Khaba wasn’t going to do it,” she said. “I had to take his hand and force it forward. He talks so bravely, but when it came down to it, he hesitated. Men, you talk and brag, but it’s all exaggeration. You might be brave in battle when you’re surrounded by other men but that’s because you’re more afraid of losing face.
“That’s why Neith is a goddess and not a god. Women are the true warriors. Every day we do what men can’t do or won’t do. We do it because it has to be done, not because someone is watching us.”
She sighed and, still squatting by his head, she began to urinate. The acrid smell filled the air, mixing with the stench of offal, untanned hides and the fear-produced waste from goats and cows and geese waiting to be slaughtered.
Imhotep tried to twist away from the warm stream that rolled across the packed ground toward him, but the ropes prevented him from moving. He felt a warm dampness reach his shoulders.
Smiling at his discomfort, Merneith wiped droplets of urine from herself and leaning forward, smeared them across Imhotep’s clenched lips. Then she leaned close to his face and stared into his eyes to see his reaction.
“I would love to visit your land. Are all of your countrymen as delicate as you?” she asked as she patted her still damp hand against his cheeks. “I could rule your land so easily. They wouldn’t know what to make of me, would they, Imhotep?”
Shifting, she crawled closer and threw a bare leg over him to straddle him. Imhotep tried to twist again, but seeing that his struggle only excited her he lay still. Facing him as she sat on his stomach, she raised her hand and Imhotep saw that she was gripping Djoser’s bloodied knife.
He braced himself for the pain of a killing thrust, but to his surprise, she laughed and, twisting atop him, she leaned backward to cut through his loincloth. She tugged the cloth free and turned back to face him. Then, laying the knife on the stone floor beside his face, slid her hips down his body to rub herself against him.
“I could have you,” she said matter-of-factly, her hands pressing against his chest.
She rocked on him, her mouth open as she mimicked having an orgasm. Panting, she said, “I could make you hard and ride you until you screamed. Or I could turn you over and take you like I take Khaba. You would scream then, just like Khaba screams.”
She laughed to herself and stopped grinding against him. “And then he hates himself because he enjoys it so much.”
Sitting upright, she arched her back and stretched her arms over her head. Then she turned her attention back to Imhotep and, leaning forward, she traced circles on his bare chest, a child now, exploring a new plaything.
“Oh, Imhotep, I can do anything I want to you. Do you understand that? You are totally in my power. The king is dead and the new king is my lover, my servant.
“I’ve waited all my life for this. But you would never understand, not the great Imhotep. You’ve lived in comfort all your life.”
She stared at him with naked hatred and Imhotep wondered what he had ever done to make her feel such animosity. He started to speak, but she laid her still damp hand across his mouth.
“Don’t talk, Imhotep, your tongue only reveals your ignorance.”
He waited silently, hoping that her anger would play itself out and give him a chance to plead for Meryt’s and Maya’s lives. Her eyes moved to the distance and Imhotep thought she looked like a petulant child.
After a moment she looked back down at him, her eyes shining now with unspilled tears. Seeing her wild mood swings, Imhotep realized that there was little chance he would be able to reason with her; she was off in her own world of anger and depression, exhilaration and celebration.
“When Mother arrived here, exiled by your precious King Djoser, all the men knew who she was, that she had been queen of the Two Lands,” she said in a mournful voice. “They all wanted to ride her, to brag that they had taken the queen. She wrote to Hetephernebti for protection. Do you know how your friend, the sweet priestess of Re, responded? She reminded Mother that King Nebka had stolen the throne from Djoser and that King Nebka had forced himself on her and that when she ran away he had sent men to kill her.”
Merneith closed her eyes and, as escaping tears ran down her face, she repeated words she had memorized as a child, “The generous, loving, priestess of Re wrote, ‘You didn’t find your life miserable when you were sitting on the throne that was once mine. Yet, although King Djoser’s anger and rage were justified, I stayed his hand from taking your life. If you find that life so miserable now, end it.’ ”
Slowly Merneith opened her eyes and stared at Imhotep.
“All glory to Re!” she shouted sarcastically.
Glaring at Imhotep she said, “And you have been their pet since you arrived in the Two Lands. Sheltered by Re’s bitch, then burrowing like a desert viper into King Djoser’s confidence. You never had a worry, never cared about all the people who suffered so Djoser could sit on the throne. No, you played at building, dined at banquets, retired to your fine house, traveled wherever you wanted. And I, daughter of the true king and queen, I was held captive in this snake-infested, mosquito-swarmed swamp.
“Well, now Djoser is dead and his son is dead. His blood washed from the throne, and my Khaba is king, his claim made true by my blood. And you, always gliding above everyone as if you were born to royalty and not the insignificant outlander you are, now you are exactly where you belong.”
She cocked her head and then casually, without thought, she extended a finger, the nail on it long and sharpened to a point. Pressing the nail into his skin she scratched a crude, bloody line across his chest. She watched Imhotep’s face, smiling as he winced from the pain.
Looking down at his chest she concentrated on the slow movement of her finger and the trail of small, bloody bubbles it created. Disappointed, she picked up Djoser’s knife and began to retrace the scratch, cutting deeper into his skin.
“You have no idea what I’ve had to do. Living here, so far from civilization, watching my mother, crippled inside from everything she endured, hearing stories of Djoser and of you. Oh yes, Imhotep, so many stories about you. People think you are a god.
“But look at you, tied up, lying in filth, bleeding because I want you to bleed. You aren’t a god at all.”
She raised her hand and licked his blood from the knife. Then she put it aside and began wriggling her hips against him again. Disappointed in his lack of reaction, she said, “No, you most definitely are not a god.”
Leaning fo
rward, she lay against him, pressing her breasts against his chest and sliding across the bright blood seeping from the cut she had inflicted. She brought her face close to his and her blood-tainted breath washed over him. He twisted his face away from hers only to feel her lips brush against his ear.
“You know what I’m going to do to you, Imhotep?” she whispered as if trying to seduce him. She nuzzled against the side of his exposed throat and then bringing her mouth back to his ear, she whispered, “I’m going to have you buried alive.”
She bit his earlobe and sat upright again.
Her eyes bright with excitement she said, “We’ll take the king’s body to Khmunu to be prepared for burial. You’ll accompany it. You’ll never leave the dead king’s side for all the forty days it takes to make him ready for the tomb. Why? Because you are filled with remorse and shame that your son killed the king. You’ll not bathe. You’ll not shave. You’ll be filthy, just like you view us.”
She clapped her hands and, holding her hands together, she brought them to her mouth as she thought for a moment. Then she said, “No one will ever doubt that it was Tjau who killed the king because you’ll admit it. You’ll tell the holy Hetephernebti and all the other clucking priestesses and priests that you saw Tjau drive his knife – the very knife King Djoser gave to you – into King Sekhemkhet’s back. And then you’ll give your blessing to King Khaba. And what could count for more than the blessing of the mighty Imhotep?
“Oh, the squawking, mindless geese of the Two Lands will be so impressed. This is too perfect, isn’t it?
“Then, when they wrap the king for burial, they’ll wrap you, too. You’ll still be alive. A breathing, living mummy. Unable to move or speak, barely able to breathe, all your horrors and fears locked up inside your chest!”
She clapped her hands again to celebrate her plan.
“When we carry King Sekhemkhet into his burial chamber, you’ll be dragged along and we’ll place you on the ground beside his sarcophagus so that your dying ka can watch over him. And you’ll lie there in the dark – hungry, thirsty, pissing and shitting yourself until you die.”
