The Buried Pyramid (Imhotep Book 2)

by Jerry Dubs

  “I didn’t think that I would be able to return, Meryt,” he said finally. “I thought that I had lost you forever. No,” he shook his head, “I don’t mean that as an excuse. There isn’t any ... ”

  Meryt put a hand over his sputtering lips.

  “You have never understood my love, Imhotep. Oh, do not look upset. You are a wonderful husband and you cherish me. I have never doubted that. Even that first morning, when you saw me in the delta. I didn’t know your heart then, but I saw your ka through your eyes, Imhotep. You loved me and wanted me long before you knew it.”

  “You have always been the breath that gives me life,” he said solemnly.

  Meryt lowered her eyes. She felt them fill with tears. “And you have been mine,” she said, turning her face to his.

  “But do you understand that I have always shared you? I shared you with King Djoser and with Paneb and with Hetephernebti and with your passion for building and with the demands of the ill and the needs of the Two Lands.

  “But I have never felt neglected or slighted, Imhotep.

  “I have my own life, with our children and Bata and with our friends. I have my own worship of Re, my own celebration of life and my own exploration of the Two Lands. I never sat at home longing for you or wondering what you were doing.

  “I have taken pleasure in your happiness, as you find pleasure in mine.”

  Imhotep nodded silently, fighting tears.

  She raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm.

  “You and I, Imhotep, we have always looked at life with open eyes. I know that mine are colored with my love of Re and that yours are colored with your own past. Yet when we see a crocodile along the river, we avoid it. We know that if we want to eat tomorrow we need to go to the market today.”

  Imhotep felt his heart shrink in fear as he understood where her thoughts were going.

  “You saved me once when I had the wasting disease. You saved me a second time by allowing yourself to be buried alive. You might save me yet again with these pills. But perhaps my ka is preparing to depart. Maya still needs a mother and you will need a wife.”

  “No,” he said quickly.

  Meryt leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Your love of another does not diminish your love for me, Imhotep. The River Iteru waters all the fields it passes, it is home to countless fish, the hippos and crocodiles find shelter in it, geese and ducks live in it and snakes and frogs.

  “Its flow is not diminished by their presence.

  “Our love is like that. It is surging and powerful and all-encompassing.”

  Imhotep tilted his head to rest his cheek against the top of Meryt’s head. It would be good to have a real doctor tend to Meryt, but Akila needed to stay in the future until she had treated Maya’s blood flukes.

  While his mind focused on dates and timelines, his heart ached.

  After just being reunited with Meryt, he didn’t want to consider losing her again. Yet he thought of Akila. They had not just taken solace in each others' arms, they had found a renewed joy of life.

  He thought of his last night in the future when he and Akila had held each other outside the Step Pyramid. She had offered to give up everything she knew to accompany him to the ancient world and yet she had accepted his plea to stay behind to care for Maya.

  Feeling Meryt’s heartbeat beside him and remembering the warmth of Akila’s last embrace, he marveled at the love he had been given.

  Fate Fulfilled

  A hawk swooped past them, the tips of its wing feathers splayed like fingers, its short hooked beak frowning at them beneath imperious eyes. Snapping its wings to gather speed as it passed, it called to them in its high-pitched voice.

  “A warning,” Paneb said, pausing to lean on his walking stick. He turned toward Imhotep and Meryt, his blind eyes looking at them and beyond them.

  “Imhotep, do you remember the day you arrived here?” He motioned with his walking stick, pointing up the sandy wadi toward the tomb of Ipy. “Ahmes and I were getting ready to enter the tomb to paint. Ahmes saw you first. He tugged on my arm and pointed toward the tomb entrance. But before I saw you, I heard the hawk call. Horus himself, I know it now with certainty. He was watching from above, heralding your arrival.”

  Leaning on Imhotep’s arm, Meryt looked at her husband and smiled.

  “I might be blind,” Paneb said, “but I know that you’re smiling at my words. You think I’m just a senile old man.”

  “I never think of you as old,” Imhotep answered teasingly.

  Meryt let go of his arm and leaned instead toward Paneb. She took the old man’s free arm and hugged it. “I love to hear your stories about Imhotep. Did he ever tell you about the first time he saw me? How he thought I was a boy?”

  Sighing loudly to play along with their game, Imhotep smiled to himself.

  Meryt had completed the initial four-month phase of treatment and was clearly healthier. She no longer became feverish as she slept and her coughing had all but ceased. Her appetite had improved enough that she had begun to complain about eating too much. She claimed that her hair had begun growing more quickly and she was starting to insist that she was strong enough to travel.

  All good signs, Imhotep thought with relief.

  King Huni had visited their home several times, once bringing a line of soldiers, each of them carrying a basket of food.

  “From mother,” he said with amusement. Then, looking much like the young boy Meryt had helped raise, he sat beside her and held her hand.

  During his last visit, King Huni raised the question of a tomb for himself.

  And so Imhotep had asked Paneb to accompany him to Saqqara to survey the plateau for a good site for King Huni’s tomb. Although Paneb was blind, his memory was excellent and he was more practiced in visualizing spaces and structures. Meryt was walking with them, her first long excursion from their house, and so they were strolling leisurely, staying in shaded side paths until they reached the desert.

  It had been a pleasant walk, three old friends quietly enjoying each other’s company. Paneb, his nose and ears sharpened by his blindness, stopped once as they approached a crossroads sheltered by an ancient sycamore tree. He sniffed and frowned.

  Before he could explain his action, a tall figure cloaked by a long black robe and hood, had separated itself from the shadow of the tree and turned away from them. The deep hood had enveloped the stranger’s face and the person’s arms had been crossed, the hands fitted inside the robe’s wide sleeves. Imhotep, who had caught only a glance of the figure, didn’t know if it was a man or a woman, a Nubian or an Egyptian, young or old.

  Paneb had shaken his head and shrugged, then started walking confidently down the path that led to the wadi.

  “Did you see that person?” Imhotep had asked Meryt.

  She had shrugged and said, “It was probably a pilgrim.”

  “A pilgrim?” Imhotep had asked.

  Shaking her head at her husband’s innocence, Meryt had said, “Even locked away in my home, I have heard that people are traveling toward Ineb-Hedj to see if Imhotep has truly returned from the dead. Again.”

  She had leaned closer to him and said, “There were whispers before that you were a god. Now that you have returned those whispers have grown louder. And Siptah does nothing to discourage them. Like King Djoser, he likes the idea of a god walking the Two Lands. Especially if that god is loyal to him.”

  Imhotep had shaken his head.

  “Once people see that you have saved me again, they will probably want to build a temple for you,” Meryt said with a hint of a smile.

  “We could put a brewery in it. Bata could be the high priest,” Paneb had offered with a laugh.

  ***

  They paused outside the entrance to the Tomb of Ipy where Brian was entombed.

  The sides of the wadi were high here, but a trail, starting to the right of the tomb entrance, circled behind the rocks and traced a gentle clim
b to the plateau where the Step Pyramid sat.

  The hawk flew past them again, lower now, its wings working hard as it pushed itself between them and then soared above and past the tomb entrance. When Imhotep and Meryt looked down from the sky they saw the black-robed figure shift among the shadows of the boulders.

  A trill of fear ran through Imhotep.

  There were too many memories here. He had stood in the tomb entrance with a knife at his back. He had been led into the wadi at the end of rope. He had seen Brian die here.

  Beside him Paneb cocked his head again and sniffed.

  Head down, its face still hidden, the black-robed figure walked slowly toward them.

  I don’t want a crazy cult following, Imhotep thought as the person came nearer.

  The figure knelt and a gruff voice said, “Lord Imhotep, slayer of Seth, trickster of Wepwawet.”

  Unafraid and curious as always, Meryt left Imhotep's side and went to the kneeling figure.

  “My husband is not a trickster,” she said as if talking to a child.

  Suddenly there was a blur of black movement, the robes fluttered to the ground with the sound of a falling, dying bird, and Merneith, her pale nude body coated in ink and dirt, was standing before them. One white hand reached out to grab Meryt’s weak arm, the other held a knife at her throat.

  “No!” Imhotep shouted.

  “What is happening?” Paneb said.

  “No, Merneith,” Imhotep said, “let her go.”

  Meryt kicked weakly at Merneith’s legs. Merneith laughed and changed her grip on Meryt’s arm. She grabbed Meryt’s wrist and twisted so that Meryt screamed in pain and fell to her knees, a thin line of blood trickling down her neck.

  “Careful, Lady Meryt, or the knife will slice deeper and there will be nothing even your god-husband will be able to do to stop your life from draining from you.”

  Imhotep grabbed Paneb’s arm. “Don’t move, Paneb,” he said tersely. “Merneith has a knife at Meryt’s throat.”

  “So you truly are alive, Imhotep,” Merneith said, unable to hide a trace of awe in her voice.

  “Khaba is gone, Merneith,” Imhotep said. “Your time is over. Release Meryt. There is nothing for you here.”

  “Nothing here,” she repeated with a shrug.

  Then, tilting her head toward the tomb she said, “But there, a whole world waits for me there, doesn’t it? That’s where you fled when you were buried. That is the entrance to your home, the land of weak men.”

  She laughed now, the knife blade bouncing against Meryt’s taut neck.

  Suddenly Imhotep saw the mobius strip of time, twisting back on itself, connecting and becoming whole again. His visit to the future, his mistaken conclusion about Diane’s lonely death inside Ipy’s tomb and now this encounter with Merneith – it was all connected.

  “Come, Imhotep, there is an opening behind the boulders. There is a jar of paint and a brush. Before I fell from his heart’s eye, Ahmes told me that they were the keys to opening the doorway to your land.”

  She turned to Paneb.

  “Such a sweet, innocent boy. So delicious,” she said with a guttural laugh.

  Imhotep felt Paneb’s body grow tense with anger under his grip.

  “Let her go and I will help you. I promise,” Imhotep said.

  Merneith shook her head.

  “Take the blind man, pick up the paint and go into the tomb. I will follow with Meryt. You will prepare the door and then I will release her. Or I won’t. You don’t know, do you?”

  ***

  Blind Paneb held the torch as they walked down the familiar hallway to a panel of false doors. Imhotep followed him, his mind working furiously. He was sure that Merneith would kill Meryt without hesitation. He needed to separate them, to paint the correct hieroglyphs over the doorway and then to get Merneith to enter the tomb alone.

  They reached the false door and Imhotep set the paint jar on the floor. He touched Paneb’s shoulder and, his voice tight with anxiety, said, “Over this way a bit, old friend.”

  Then he picked up the brush and turned his back on Merneith and Meryt.

  Although the flickering of the torchlight, the smell of the paint, the dead weight of the still air and the gloom of the tomb all tugged at his concentration, Imhotep raised his hand above the doorway and began to paint.

  As the bristles touched the wall he felt an eerie calm and his hand, ever sure, began to move by itself. The stone asked for the paint, the bristles kissed the rock, breathing on it and leaving behind a black burning trail.

  He drew the first symbol. Then the second and the third. The stately line of hieroglyphs grew and he knew that they were right. Different, but correct. Instead of opening to a future one hundred lifetimes away, taking Merneith to modern Egypt, these hieroglyphs would open the portal to a future only twenty lifetimes away.

  Instead of finding modern Egypt, Merneith would find only darkness and the dead, silent air of an underground tomb that wouldn’t be uncovered for four thousand years.

  Her torch would die. She would grow weak from thirst and hunger. Her hopes and her spirit would die. And she would follow.

  Beside him Paneb seemed a statue, his hands gripping the torch, his unseeing eyes following the sound and the smell of the paintbrush. Glancing at his old friend, Imhotep saw that he was struggling. He wanted his own vengeance on Merneith, he wanted to protect Imhotep and Meryt, but his blindness made him feel impotent.

  “Ma’at is being restored,” Imhotep said to himself, hoping that Paneb would hear his words and understand.

  Behind him Imhotep heard the deep, excited breathing of Merneith and, beneath it, the calm, unhurried breath of Meryt.

  He knew that Meryt would be praying, invoking the help of each god she could remember, calling on Isis and Hathor and Bastet and Re, especially Re.

  Lowering his brush, Imhotep stepped back from the wall and looked at the symbols.

  He thought of Waja-Hur, ancient priest of Thoth who had drawn these symbols by mistake and created the time portal twenty years earlier. Murdered by Djefi, he had been a co-conspirator against King Djoser but, at the end, he had reaffirmed Djoser’s kingship and his immortality.

  “Is it done?” Merneith asked.

  Imhotep held a hand out to silence her.

  He studied the hieroglyphs, comparing them to those that Ahmes had painted for him when he had taken Maya to the future. Only the one symbol was different.

  He closed his eyes. It must work, he told himself. It was, so it will be. He lowered his head and offered a prayer. Not to any god, but to time itself, silent capricious measure of life.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  Behind him he heard a gasp. High pitched, he knew it was Meryt. He wheeled and saw her on the tomb floor, shaken but not bleeding.

  Mesmerized by the doorway, her path to freedom, Merneith had knocked Meryt to the floor and was moving toward the doorway.

  She clutched Imhotep’s arm and he felt the sharp tip of the knife pressing against his back.

  He stiffened, expecting stabbing pain from the knife.

  “No, Imhotep, this isn’t your day to die. You are going with me. You know the language and the customs. Your future and mine are intertwined, as intimate as two lovers,”she whispered, her hot breath on his neck.

  “No,” he said, picturing a slow, painful death locked in a tomb with Merneith.

  Her grip tightened on his arm, the knife tip pushed harder against his back.

  “Oh, yes, Imhotep. We pass through this doorway together.”

  Suddenly Paneb coughed and dropped the torch. In the quavering light Imhotep saw Paneb kneel to a knee, one hand searching on the floor.

  Turning toward Paneb, Merneith hissed, “Sightless, useless man,” and she pushed Imhotep toward the false doorway.

  “Please,” Imhotep begged. “They understand our tongue in the future. They know your name, it has grown in glory. There is a cult that worships you. You will be welcomed and
honored,” he lied desperately.

  She squeezed his arm tighter, her ragged fingernails cutting into him.

  “You lie,” she said, pushing him against the doorway. The stone gave way, beginning to swing open to the dark tomb.

  His face pressed against the stone, Imhotep heard the patter of stones striking the wall. Twisting, he saw Paneb, still on his knees, his arm outstretched from throwing the stones. Laughing at his feeble attack, Merneith twisted and kicked a foot at Paneb, catching his shoulder and knocking him backwards.

  As Paneb fell to his side, Meryt, who had drawn herself into a crouch jumped toward Merneith. Her kicking leg still raised, Merneith lost her balance as Meryt fell against her side. Releasing her grip on Imhotep’s arm she lashed at Meryt with the knife as she tumbled against the partly opened doorway.

  The door swung farther open and Merneith fell backwards through it into darkness.

  Quickly Imhotep put his shoulder against the other side of the pivoted stone and pushed the door shut.

  “The paint!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Hand me the paint!”

  He felt the stone push against him as Merneith tried to reopen the portal.

  “The paint!” he screamed.

  He heard a shuffling sound as Paneb crawled to him.

  “Meryt, hand me the paint!” Imhotep shouted again.

  When she didn’t respond, he felt a chill run over him. Reaching down, he grabbed Paneb’s shoulder and dragged him closer to the stone.

  “Lean against this wall,” Imhotep said. “Don’t let the stone move.”

  Spinning around he saw the paint pot on the floor near the fallen torch. Pushing Paneb against the stone, hoping that the man’s weight would stop Merneith’s attempt to open the door, Imhotep took three quick steps to the paint pot.

  As he picked it up he saw Meryt lying on the floor, one hand on her side, a slow creeping blotch of blood gathering on the stone beneath her.