The Buried Pyramid (Imhotep Book 2)

by Jerry Dubs

  “Twenty-twenty-two,” Tim repeated as Bakr and Ahmes lowered him into a cushioned chair.

  He had survived entombment; he was alive and back in the modern world!

  As he sank into the chair cushions he felt himself surrender to the exhaustion he had been fighting since Ahmes had unwrapped him. As the soft cushions enfolded him he felt the weight of the alabaster sarcophagus closing in around him. Against his will, his eyes closed and as he opened his mouth to speak, his shoulders sagged.

  The world turned black.

  Crayons and treasures

  Vaporous memories painted on smoke drifted through Tim’s unconscious mind: awaking in terror wrapped in mortuary linens, tightly bound and unable to open his eyes; listening to muted, mournful chanting over the skeletal thrum of the sistrums as he was entombed; shaking in anger as his screams lay silent in his constricted throat; lying immobile in the black tomb as feeling fled his feet, legs, hands and arms; unexpectedly feeling a wash of coolness on his skin, the gentle probing and touch of another human; tasting water dribbled onto his lips and – miracle of miracles – breathing unfiltered air; looking skyward into an endless blackness pierced by a million sparkling lights; hearing Ahmes’ compassionate voice and feeling his sturdy strength as he lifted him; jostling across the sand, helpless and weak; leaning against Ahmes and speaking to a man.

  Squeezing his eyes to make the memories vanish, he suddenly realized that unlike the silent eternity that he had spent entombed, there was a world outside of his mind, a world that smelled of coffee and sounded like a woman softly humming.

  Where am I?

  Blinking open his eyes, he turned his head, exhilarated by the freedom of movement and frightened by the weakness of his muscles.

  A woman was sitting on the opposite bed. Wearing black slacks under a dark purple abaya decorated with geometric patterns on the two pockets, she held a cup of coffee in her hand as she looked down at a computer tablet on her lap. A black-and-white-checkered scarf covered her head, its tail draping over her shoulder.

  Straining to raise his head, Tim saw a silver IV stand beside his bed. A large bag, half filled with a clear liquid, hung from one of the hooks and a tube twisted down from the bag to his arm where wide, white tape held a needle in place.

  Sensing his movement, the woman looked up and said, “Good afternoon.”

  She tapped at the computer tablet and then turned her attention to Tim. “You’ve been unconscious for two days. Your companion, Ahmes – that is his name, isn’t it? – has been by your bed most of the time. I chased him away several times, but he keeps coming back.”

  She smiled and cocked her head at Tim. “He doesn’t speak English or Arabic. Or French or German, either, as far as I can tell. But Bakr said that you spoke English.”

  His head spinning in confusion, Tim slowly blinked and took a deep breath. The woman was Akila! Why was she here? How had she found him?

  He looked over at her, trying to make certain that it really was Akila and not a hallucination. But after days in the subterranean tomb, the bright light that streamed in from a window over his bed and from another window beside the doorway felt as if it was slicing into his eyes. Raising a hand to shield his face he was startled to see a thin and wrinkled forearm.

  Hurriedly he lowered his arm and, rocking forward, he tried to raise himself up on his elbows. As he moved, Akila slid fluidly onto the bed beside him. She leaned forward and put an arm behind his shoulders to support him. A floral scent followed her motion and, closing his eyes, Tim was transported for a moment to King Djoser’s palace gardens in Waset where lotus blossoms floated on green ponds.

  Awakened by the aroma, the past clung to him, its powerful tendrils pulling on him.

  Unwillingly, he remembered the verdant smell of the river delta when he had first seen Meryt and the wash of the water over their naked bodies when they later made love in the river off the island of Abu. He heard the calls of sky-darkening flocks of ibises as they heralded the rise of the river and the lion-like roar of the great crocodile at the temple of Sobek when Kanakht was killed. And then sadness overtook him as he remembered the sacrifice of Brian, the death of King Djoser, the assassination of Teti and the murder of his own son Tjau.

  And through it all, he felt the beating of Meryt’s unflinching love, her great heart that accepted and cherished the heat and the hunger, the songs and the swirling sandstorms, the floods and the bleating of goats, the laughter of children and the screams of the birthing mothers, the bounce and sway of bundles on the reedgatherers’ backs, the dust from the quarry and the gleam from the jewellers’ displays, the stench of offal from the butchers’ stalls and the heavy aroma of the blossoms and the fruit and the fish and the crocodiles along the river.

  His mind enmeshed by his memories, Tim let Akila arrange a pillow behind him and then help him turn on the bed without tangling the IV. As he sat unseeing, she reached to the nightstand beside the bed and picked up a box of tissues. Leaning close, she tenderly dried Tim’s eyes, dabbing at the rivulet of tears on his sunken cheeks.

  Her touch brought him back and, raising his eyes to hers he said, “I’m sorry,” and was surprised at the weakness of his voice and at how harsh the air felt against his throat.

  “What have you been through?” Akila said to herself as she studied Tim.

  Straightening, she put her hands in her pocket, cocked her head and looked at Tim. “Most of my patients want to know where they are. Some even want to know who I am,” she said. When Tim didn’t respond, she said, “You are in a guest room of the Blue Lotus, near Saqqara. I am Doctor Akila Kalthoum. It is August third, twenty-twenty-two.”

  As her voice penetrated his fog, he thought, Twenty-twenty-two. When I was here with Maya it was twenty-twenty-seven. He was sure that the difference in years mattered, but he couldn’t work out why. He had traveled five thousand years. Why did five years matter?

  He realized that Akila had stopped speaking and she was kneeling now beside his bed, a hand reaching toward his wrist. He felt her warm fingers on his skin and the gentle pressure of his blood pulsing against her fingertips.

  As his heartbeat measured the passing moments, Tim looked at Akila’s hand, then followed it to her arm and on to her face. Her eyes seemed sadder than he remembered them, her face thinner.

  Feeling his eyes on her, she looked back at him and said, “Bakr, the man who owns this guest house, and I are old friends. He called me when you passed out in his front room. That was two days ago. We put you in a room, a back room away from everyone. I’m giving you saline solution to rehydrate you, but you need more attention.

  “No one knows that you are here, and Bakr will keep you safe. But eventually you’ll need to tell us who you are and who you are hiding from.

  “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  Tim nodded his head.

  “No, say something. All I’ve heard you say is ‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know if you actually speak English or if you’re repeating a phrase you heard. Do you speak English?”

  Tim nodded again and swallowed. Pointing at his throat he said, “It hurts when I talk. Can you please get me some water?”

  Akila allowed herself a small smile and then walked to a sink that was against the wall to the right of the door.

  As she turned away from him, Tim realized that she didn’t know who he was. And suddenly he understood why the dates mattered.

  From Akila’s perspective, they had never met.

  She returned with a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed near him. When he reached for the glass, she allowed him to take it, but kept her own hand over his. He drank slowly, savoring the feel of the cool water as it washed over his tongue and slid down his dry throat.

  “Thank you,” Tim said, giving the water glass to her. Their eyes met for a moment and then he quickly looked away, aware of her beauty – her strong nose, her soft brown skin, her full intelligent eyes, and the small silver ring that accented her full lips
– and embarrassed by his recognition of it.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Ahmes poked his head into the room and then smiled happily.

  “Lord Imhotep, you’re awake!” he said, entering the room and walking quickly to Tim’s bedside. Kneeling by the bed he laid a ring-bound sketch pad and a box of crayons on the bedspread and took Tim’s hand, careful to avoid the IV tube.

  “It has been two days. I didn’t know what I could do to help you,” he said.

  Tim smiled and said, “I’ve been well cared for.”

  “And you are awake. Risen from the dead. Like Osiris himself,” Ahmes said excitedly.

  “What is that?” Tim asked, nodding toward the sketchbook to change the subject.

  “Bakr gave it to me,” Ahmes said.

  “Show me,” Tim said.

  Flipping open the sketchbook Ahmes revealed a vibrant drawing of a young woman kneading bread by a stone oven, another of a trellised archway by a lily pad-covered pond, and a third drawing of Bakr sipping coffee at a dining table made of long, bound reeds.

  The contours and shadings of the faces, the shadows of the stones, the graceful arc of the wrist of the girl kneading bread, all combined to make the paper seem more like a window showing a moment of life. And all of it drawn with children’s crayons.

  Standing behind Ahmes, Akila gasped as she saw the drawings. Tim looked up at her, proud of Ahmes’ work. “He’s marvelous,” he said.

  Leaning closer, Akila reached toward the drawings and slowly traced the lines in the air over the colorful pages.

  “These are incredible,” she said. Looking at Tim, she asked, “How do I tell him the work is beautiful? In his language.”

  “Weret nefer. It means everything is beautiful,” Tim answered.

  “Weret nefer,” she said to Ahmes, touching him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Shukran,” Ahmes said, smiling at Akila

  She laughed, a rolling cascade of delicate notes, and said, “I see Bakr has been teaching you.” Turning to Tim, she said, “Bakr loves to teach his guests how to say ‘Thank you.’ ”

  She looked back at Ahmes and bowed her head. “Al’afw. You’re welcome.”

  In ancient Egyptian, Tim said to Ahmes, “Please ask Bakr for some food for me. Tell him, ‘Food for Tim Hope.’ ” He said the last phrase in English, tilting his head toward Akila so Ahmes would remember how to address him before others.

  Ahmes repeated the English phrase and then he gathered his sketchbook and crayons and left, nodding to Tim and giving Akila a broad smile.

  “To have such talent,” Akila said, looking at the door after Ahmes had gone.

  Tim sipped the water, thrilled to see that his hand was almost steady as it held the glass. The water was cool and soothing as it washed down his throat.

  Such a simple pleasure, he thought, but such a treasure.

  “He called you Imhotep,” Akila said turning to Tim. “He did it a few other times while you were sleeping and he was sitting with you. And you talked in your sleep. Mostly in the other language. What is it?”

  Tim considered lying to her, but decided that eventually he would want to tell her the truth. “It is the language of Kemet, of the Two Lands.”

  “The Two Lands,” she repeated. “You mean ancient Egypt?”

  Tim nodded.

  “And he called you Imhotep. Imhotep as in the Step Pyramid?”

  “Well, em hotep also means ‘In peace.’ It is a greeting,” Tim answered. Before she could question him further, he said, “Thank you for helping me and not reporting me to the authorities.”

  Akila shrugged. “It is very strange, and very normal. The soldiers are our fathers and brothers and cousins and nephews. Yes? And yet we often feel that we are a nation occupied by a foreign force. The rich and powerful old men have grown tired of pretending to care about the poor or the rights of the people. And so we look out for each other when we can.”

  She sat on the opposite bed and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

  “I am speaking frankly to you. I hope you will do the same.”

  Tim nodded, hoping that his mind was clear enough to organize his thoughts. He wondered if she might think that his brain had been damaged if he told her the entire truth.

  “My name is Tim Hope,” he said. “I’ve been ... away ... for – you said it is twenty-twenty-two?” She nodded her head. “I’ve been away for seventeen years. And, uh ... recently I was falsely imprisoned. Ahmes helped me to escape and here I am.”

  Akila looked at him with disappointment.

  “Are you being pursued?”

  “No, that isn’t possible,” he answered, thinking of the series of hieroglyphs that only Ahmes had known. He hoped that Ahmes had destroyed the papyrus.

  Akila studied him for a long moment, giving him a chance to elaborate. When he remained silent, she leaned down to reach under the bed. Tugging, she dragged Ahmes’ cloth sack from beneath the bed. Reaching into it, she pulled out a heavy leather bag.

  She walked to Tim’s bed and untied the leather strap from the neck of the bag. Carefully she emptied the bag onto the bed beside Tim. A cascade of rubies, uncut stones of turquoise, golden bracelets and rings, and gold nuggets spilled onto the bed. Reaching into the bag, Akila pulled out a thick stack of Egyptian pounds, tied with a linen swatch.

  Tim looked in surprise from the glittering pile to Akila, who was watching him closely.

  “Are you sure you aren’t being pursued?” she asked.

  Trust

  For a nightmare moment, Tim worried that Merneith had discovered that he had escaped death and that she was pursuing him. Then he realized that Akila could only be asking about modern-day threats.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone here except Ahmes.”

  “You must know someone,” Akila insisted. “Someone imprisoned you. You said so yourself.”

  Before Tim could answer, the door opened and Bakr entered carrying a tray of fruit and bread. Ahmes, carrying a pitcher of iced water, followed Bakr through the door.

  “How is our guest?” Bakr asked, his eyes on Tim, his words directed toward Akila.

  “I’m much better,” Tim answered. “Thank you for taking me in.”

  Bakr set the tray on the empty bed and cleared the nightstand, moving the small lamp to the bed. Then he placed the baskets of bread and fruit on the nightstand. Turning to Ahmes he reached for the water pitcher. Taking it he turned to Tim to take the empty glass from him. When he saw the pile of jewelry and gems and the stack of money, he froze.

  Akila spoke to him in hurried Arabic and Bakr slowly took the glass from Tim and turned to Akila. Tim saw him bobbing his head as he whispered to Akila. Then he poured water into the glass and handed it to Tim, studiously ignoring the treasure on the bed.

  “We usually don’t eat in the rooms,” he said apologetically. Then shrugging, he smiled. “But I think you will be fine. Yes?”

  Tim nodded. “Thank you, Bakr,” he said. “I promise you, I am not bringing trouble to your door.”

  With his ever-present smile hanging below doubtful eyes, Bakr nodded and backed out of the room.

  “Lord Imhotep,” Ahmes said softly. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Tim answered. Then tilting his head to the treasure on the bed, he asked, “Where did this come from?”

  “Everyone wanted to help, Lord Imhotep,” he answered. “Hetephernebti said that she believed that the things that we hold precious would always have value. Nimaasted secretly collected everything. He said he could have given me a dozen such bags, but there was no way I could easily carry everything. The water skins were heavy and we all believed that I would need to carry you.”

  Tim wearily waved his hand to stop Ahmes.

  Closing his eyes, he thought of the generosity of the friends he would never see again. He pictured Hetephernebti and her regal bearing; Paneb and his open, generous smile; Rudamon and his wrinkled, worried forehead; Ha
pu, his young assistant, trying to heal patients with her fierce will; Tama and her ethereal beauty; Bata, so considerate and watchful; and Meryt, with her one cast eye and her mischievous smile.

  “Lord Imhotep, have we done something wrong?”

  Tim opened his eyes, realized that he was weeping and smiled at Ahmes. “No, my dear friend, you did well. I just ache for my friends and family.”

  Wiping his face, Tim said, “Thank you, Ahmes. You can go. I need to speak with Akila.”

  Ahmes looked questioningly at Tim who smiled reassuringly.

  When he and Akila were alone, Tim said, “Ahmes said that my friends collected this to help our escape.”

  Akila lifted the basket of bread and sat on the edge of Tim’s bed.

  He reached into the basket and took a piece of bread. Watching her as he pulled at the bread with his teeth, he wondered when he would be able to tell her the truth. And what she would think about his story. And about him.

  She watched him eating, her thoughts trying to reach a balance between her curiosity, her concern for her friend Bakr, and her duty as a doctor.

  Clearly Ahmes was calling him Imhotep. It could be as simple as a writer taking a famous name as a pen name, or a religious leader calling himself Abraham, or a warrior calling himself Saladin. But there was the matter of the jewelry. She was no expert, but the necklaces and rings looked more like artifacts than modern jewelry.

  And the ancient language, if that was really what it was.

  Her thoughts led her to imagine a cult hidden away in the desert pretending to be some lost tribe of ancient Egyptians, speaking a made-up language and creating pretend artifacts. Looking at Tim she couldn’t picture him as a cult leader, he seemed so weak and distraught. But there was intelligence in his eyes, she thought, and clearly he commanded loyalty; Ahmes couldn’t be more devoted.

  “I can’t imagine what you are thinking,” Tim said, swallowing a bite of bread and marveling at its texture, how the rough grain had turned velvety and sweet as he held it in his mouth. “But I promise you that I am not a criminal and no one is chasing me. Bakr is not in any danger. Nor are you.”