by Jerry Dubs
“You’re not a detective or a policeman,” she said.
She spoke calmly, but too distinctly, Imhotep thought. He knew she was restraining anger.
Seeing him squint into the glare of the sun, she stepped closer and knelt beside him.
Imhotep leaned his head back to look at the sky. After a moment he said, “A long time ago, or a long time in the future, I met a woman at a party. There was a group of us and we were talking about exercising. This woman said she was a runner. One of the other women looked at her and snorted a little. The first woman blushed and then said, ‘Well, OK, I don’t actually run, but I always thought of myself as a runner.’ ”
Akila sat beside him and leaned against the low wall that surrounded the room, her own thoughts bouncing between the ancient reality outside her mind and the modern reality she knew from experience.
“I always wanted to be an artist,” Imhotep continued, staring off into the distance. “I drew and I painted. Some of my work was good, some not so good. But I got better and better. I always had another job. I worked in a clothing store for a while and then tried selling insurance and even vacuum cleaners once. I was horrible at that. Anyhow, when people asked me what I did, I told them that I sold clothes or insurance. But what I did, what my passion was, was drawing, sketching, painting, putting things I saw or remembered or envisioned, on paper or canvas.
“Eventually I realized that I was what I did. I was an artist.” He smiled and shook his head. Turning to Akila, he said, “When I arrived here I knew some first aid. Addy and I had researched the kind of problems we might encounter ... scorpions, heat exhaustion, how to prevent infections, how to avoid getting diarrhea from eating spoiled food or drinking unclean water. I used those rudimentary skills here and they viewed me as a miraculous physician.
“Then King Djoser saw my sketch of the Step Pyramid and I became his architect. Then, because I understood writing, when some of the scribes were struggling with drawing hieroglyphs, I helped them develop hieratic writing. King Djoser heard what I was doing and made me the royal scribe.
“And I knew a little of the future so sometimes I told King Djoser things. It was meant to comfort him, but he began to think I was a seer, so he made me his vizier.
“What I am saying is that in all of those things I became what I did.”
“So you think that by investigating you’ll become an investigator?” she asked.
Imhotep shrugged. “I watched TV, went to movies and read books. I know that the first suspect is the husband if a wife is killed. I know that the driving motives for murder are money and sex.”
Akila shook her head. “There isn’t any money here, Tim, and I don’t think sex is something people fight over like they will in our time. You are needed here, tending to your wife, not off playing detective.”
Imhotep shifted so that he could see Akila better. He tried to read the source of her anger. It isn’t Meryt or being left alone, he thought, it’s being tricked into coming here.
“I’m sorry, Akila,” he said reaching out a hand and taking hers. “I put that message in the tomb asking you to come here because I was desperate. I knew that I couldn’t save Meryt and I believed that you could. I used you. It was selfish. I didn’t think about how you would manage here.”
“I came here freely, Tim,” she answered.
“Then what ... ” he started to ask.
Akila brushed her long hair back from her face.
“I can’t be some second wife or a concubine or mistress. I understand that morals are different here. But they aren’t different here,” she said, touching her chest.
Imhotep quickly nodded. “I know, Akila. I agree. I don’t know what the answer is. But I didn’t bring you here to have a plural marriage or to ask you to be my mistress. I honestly didn’t think that far. I really didn’t believe that my message would reach you. But I had to try.”
She nodded. “I know, Tim, I understand. And I didn’t have to come. I know that. But here we are and I don’t know what to do.”
“Look, Akila, I really do have to go to Iunu. There isn’t any choice. When the king tells you to do something, you do it.” He frowned and looked into her eyes. “Please don’t tell Meryt or Hapu, but when I was in Waset, I was disrespectful to the king. His guards knocked me down. That’s what happened to my face.
“This isn’t the modern world, Akila. We don’t have any constitution or rights. The king literally has life or death power over all of us. And his enemies, both within the Two Lands and in the neighboring lands, wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.
“Djoser was a very powerful king who had organized a tight, central government. I read all the history that I could find when we were in modern Egypt. I know that King Huni is the last ruler of the Third Dynasty. This world,” he gestured over the roof, “will soon begin to fall apart.”
He paused and looked over the roof. From where he was sitting he could see the fronds of palms, the sky and, in the distance, looking away from the river and following the slight rise of the land, he could see the red-brown of the desert. On the ground, in the present, during a single lifetime, everything seemed permanent and unalterable. But Imhotep knew how fragile a single life was, whether it was the life of a person or a country.
“When I was with you for those five years I forgot how blunt and brutal this world is. They don’t practice the double speak of modern politicians. There isn’t any need for secret renditions or hidden prisons. The king just does whatever the hell he wants. If he is smart, like Djoser was, he’ll rule fairly, build trust and respect, drape himself with an aura of ma’at. But he will still carry a knife and surround himself with guards.”
Imhotep leaned an elbow on the low wall and levered himself to his knees. Then, holding onto the wall, he pushed himself to his feet.
“Tim,” Akila said, watching his struggle as she rose easily behind him, “what is wrong?”
He shook his head. “I fell on the boat and hit my shoulder. The guards knocked me down in the palace. My right knee buckles once in awhile. And mostly I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of being ordered around, I’m worried about you and about Meryt. I’m sad that Hetephernebti died and I’m frightened of what lies ahead of us.”
Akila moved closer and hugged him, laying her head against his bare shoulder.
He returned her embrace and then gently tilted her head up so that her face was near his. Leaning toward her, he kissed her mouth, their lips meeting softly and then moving and pushing against each other with an urgency neither had anticipated.
Pulling away, Akila put a hand on each side of Imhotep’s face.
“I can’t do this, Tim,” she said.
He nodded, pushing away the unexpected desire that had swept over him. “I know. I’m sorry, Akila.” He stopped himself. “No, I’m not sorry. I do still love you.” He looked into her eyes, willing her to look into his.
“During all the years I lived here, Akila, I felt like I belonged here. I was ... I am Imhotep. The time I was back in my birth world, it all felt disjointed and wrong. The only thing right about it was you. Your serenity, your compassion, your love ... you kept me alive, Akila, not just physically, but my will to live.”
Despite the tears that welled in them, Akila kept her eyes on his.
“You are beautiful and strong and smart and I want to be with you. I want to hold you and make love to you. I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake with your warmth beside me.” He looked down at the roof. “That desire was born in another world, and it hasn’t died. But ... ” his eyes traveled across the roof to the steps that led down to the house that he and Meryt shared.
He blinked back his own tears.
“I don’t know what to do, either. But more and more I feel like I don’t belong here anymore,” he said quietly, surprising himself with the words. “I don’t think I belong in the world we left behind. The rulers there – the CEOs and the politicians – have become so consumed by greed and selfishness that I
can’t stand to think about it.
“But I don’t feel right here anymore. They killed Tjau. Meryt and Maya only narrowly avoided becoming slaves. They thought that they had killed me. And now they’ve killed Hetephernebti.”
He blinked his eyes dry and looked at Akila. “I don’t know what to do except to move forward.”
They stood silently for a minute, holding hands, but, lost in their own thoughts, neither felt the connection.
Bloody Clues
Imhotep had visited Iunu twenty-three years ago when he had first arrived in the Two Lands.
Emerging from the Tomb of Kanakht into the ancient world, he had been discovered by a tomb artist named Paneb and his young stepson, Ahmes. Imhotep, then simply Tim Hope, had been taken in by Paneb and his family. They had taught him the language and the customs of the ancient land, and a few weeks later Tim had joined them on a pilgrimage to the Temple of Re in Iunu.
With the other villagers of Ineb-Hedj, they had trekked northward, following the river toward the delta. Awakening early one morning after they had entered the delta, Tim had discovered Meryt, one of several wbt-priestesses Hetephernebti had sent to find the outlander who was rumored to be in the Two Lands.
Later, his head shaved and dressed like the other villagers, Tim had joined the other pilgrims at the celebration. He had gone to the festival in hopes of finding Brian and Diane, the two American tourists he had followed through the time portal.
He found Diane there, being held captive by Djefi, and only Meryt’s rescue and then Hetephernebti’s intervention had saved him from becoming Djefi’s prisoner as well.
Leaving his home now with Bata and Kewab, Imhotep imagined that his footsteps were leading him into his past, back to the beginning of his strange journey in ancient Egypt.
Winding their way to the river, the men walked past tethered goats bleating in the afternoon sun, ducks and geese hiding in the shade of dust-covered bushes, children playfully chasing each other, and the thin smoke of cook fires.
They reached the wharf, a series of short piers and posts from which small reed boats bobbed, tugged by the slow current of the river. Following Kewab along the river, Bata saw a larger wooden ship tethered beyond the fishing boats.
“Is that ours?” Bata asked, pointing to the ship, its prow and stern curling upward in majestic swirls.
“No, that is Governor Threshen’s boat,” Kewab said, leading them past the ship to a small, flat-bottomed boat with a short mast. A white sail was rolled and tied to the top spar. The bottom spar held the ends of rigging to hold the sail in place when it was unfurled.
“This is our boat.”
“It is small,” Bata said.
“It is made of wood, not reeds,” Kewab pointed out.
Bata put foot on the hull and pressed down. The small boat bobbed in response and Bata flung his arms back to keep his balance.
“You have to step over the edge and into the boat,” Kewab said.
“I know, I know,” Bata said. “I was just testing it.”
Kewab shook his head and jumped lightly into the boat. He stowed the sacks he had carried in the stern and then leaped easily back to the dock.
Bata looked around the wharf. “We don’t have to row ourselves, do we?”
“No,” Kewab said, shaking his head at Bata’s ignorance. He put the little finger of each hand into the corners of his mouth and whistled loudly. Four men who had been sitting under a tree nearby raised their heads.
“Wake up,” Kewab shouted, waving the men over. “King Huni wants us there tonight.”
The men quickly got to their feet and jogged toward Imhotep, Bata, and Kewab. Rowers, Imhotep thought as he took in their muscled shoulders and heavy arms.
“This will hold all of us?” Bata said looking from the large men to the small boat.
Kewab bent over a stack of bundled papyrus reeds, used for emergency caulking between the rope-tied planks of wood. He picked up three bundles and tossed them into the boat. “Yes, Bata, it will hold us all. It can carry an entire squad of men.”
Imhotep clapped a hand against Bata’s back. “It will be fine, Bata. Didn’t you travel the river with young Prince Teti?”
Bata nodded. “Yes, we spent all of our time on the river, in the river, along the river. But I don’t like the river anymore. I’m older now and I don’t think that I would float like I used to.”
Two of the rowers leaned down to hold the boat firmly in place.
Imhotep stepped onto the craft. Feeling the boat move under him, he had a brief moment of vertigo. He grabbed the narrow mast and closed his eyes.
“Lord Imhotep?” Bata said, lightly springing into the boat to him.
Imhotep held out a hand. “I’m fine. I made the journey to Waset and back on this boat. I’ll be fine.
“I know,” Bata said, forgetting his fears as he looked carefully at Imhotep.
Bata knew that he wasn’t alone in his belief that Imhotep had become fragile. Several times he had watched Akila and Imhotep together. While it was clear to Bata that Akila loved Imhotep, he saw that when Imhotep wasn’t looking, Akila’s eyes were assessing him, measuring his health.
“I’m fine, Bata,” Imhotep said, grumpy now. “I don’t need a nursemaid following me around. I’m just older and a little weary.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Bata said with a quick smile. “I’m worried about what Meryt will do to me if I let anything happen to you.”
- 0 -
The rowers bent over the oars, the sluggish river urged them onward, the river bank slid silently past, and the boat raced down the river toward Iunu.
Standing near the prow of the boat later that day, Imhotep watched the painted stone rampart that gave White Wall its name draw closer. Reflected in the slow-moving brown waters of the river Iteru, the wavering wall seemed like an inverted desert mirage.
Looking from the reflection to the solid stone above it, Imhotep thought of his own life, anchored in the solid reality of ancient Egypt, but constantly drawn to distant, hazy memories.
In four thousand years this will be less than a memory, he thought. White Wall will be Memphis and Memphis will be only a shadow. He turned his head from the city on the western bank of the river and looked off to the east where modern Helwan would lie, where he had taken Maya to be cured and where he had met Akila.
I was selfish to send Akila that message, it was wrong to make it mysterious so it would lure her to join me here in the distant past. But I couldn’t let Meryt die.
He felt the boat shudder as the rowers on the port side reversed their strokes to turn toward land. As he moved his right leg to brace himself, his knee buckled. He dropped to the deck and flung out his hands to catch himself against the low gunwale.
Quickly a pair of hands gripped his shoulders. Bata, kneeling beside him, said, “Lord Imhotep, are you ill?”
“My knee,” Imhotep said, feeling betrayed by his body, “it just gave out.”
Bata helped him to his feet. “You should be happy more parts of your body don’t give out. Rudamon swore that you would never survive the tomb, but you did. And remember, Imhotep, not even Osiris completely recovered from his death.”
“I’m not Osiris, I’m not a god,” Imhotep said.
“No, of course you are not a god. You don’t live in our imaginations, you are here. We can see you and hear you and touch you. But you did build the great tomb of King Djoser and you did stop an assassin by pointing your hand at him and ... ”
Knowing that Bata was teasing him to draw his worry away from his weakened body, Imhotep shook his head and smiled.
“ ... and now you will look into the past and solve the mystery of Hetephernebti’s death,” Bata concluded.
- 0 -
Bernib knew each of the stone columns in the Place of Pillars that the god Re called home. She loved each of the god’s daughters: Hathor, who danced to give him joy; Bastet, who took Apep’s head; and Sekhmet, who wrought Re’s vengeance. Sh
e felt protective of each person who drew breath in the Two Lands, for were they not the cattle of Re?
And so she was at peace with Hetephernebti’s passing because she knew that the priestess of Re was now united with the god. Bernib imagined Hetephernebti joining in the nightly battle to protect Re from the evil serpent. When she closed her eyes she saw Hetephernebti, tall, thin, regal, stern and ever poised, as if her ka already moved among the gods.
“As the gods will” had been Hetephernebti’s favorite phrase, uttered more and more frequently following her brother Djoser’s death and said sometimes with resignation, sometimes with hope, but always with acceptance.
As it should be, Bernib thought, pleased with her own phrase, thinking that Hetephernebti would approve. Leaving her thoughts, she looked disdainfully at the two men who were standing in front of her – Imhotep, haughty and regal despite not being one of Re’s cattle, and his servant, a man who carried himself humbly, but who looked suspiciously as if he shared the outlander’s heretical views.
“Could we see the room where she was found?” Imhotep asked, his accent a blend of peasant and royalty, delta and desert.
She shrugged, her heavy breasts bouncing and then swaying as her shoulders fell.
Imhotep merely blinked and waited for her to lead him to the storage room. His companion, a wide-eyed man who seemed to be biting back a smile, studied her swaying breasts with unabashed interest.
Bernib didn’t know which man she liked less.
She knew that Imhotep and Hetephernebti had been friends for many years, she had seen him visit her frequently. And she knew that he had been a member of King Djoser’s court. But she had heard rumors that he didn’t truly honor the gods.
So she had not been surprised five years ago when he had been disgraced and buried alive. Now he was back – the gods, no doubt, had rejected his ka – and had been sent here, he claimed, by King Huni to ask questions about Hetephernebti’s own passage to the Eternal Field of Reeds.
Bernib sniffed. Although King Huni was one of Re’s cattle, he wasn’t of royal blood. Neither was his wife. Yet he sat on the throne.
