Shadows on the Aegean

by Suzanne Frank

  “Aye?”

  “Who are you?”

  The man opened his mouth… and no answer came.

  He saw visions in his head, confused flashes of a life he recognized as his own. Women and men in black wigs and elaborate kilts, wearing collars of exquisite beauty and construction around their necks. He saw multitudes of rekkit, commoners, stretched before a parted sea. The face of a woman, eyes as green as grass, hovered before him. Her lips formed a word, a name, but he couldn’t read it. Then he saw her again, bedraggled and weeping. Kneeling, her hand across her breast, the other outstretched. A blinding light obliterated her … and the man was lying on the couch again.

  “My lord? Who are you?”

  The man blinked against gathering tears. “Je ne sais pas.”

  The priest stepped back. “Who, my lord?”

  The man realized that he had spoken words he should never say, that he had a great secret he must not share. He licked his lips and forced himself to concentrate, to speak the language the priest spoke.

  “Who are you?”

  “I know not, my lord.”

  The priest pursed his lips, then nodded. “Rest, it will come to you.”

  He left and the man lay back, panting as though he’d run a great distance. A ring was fitted onto the small finger of his right hand. His left being bandaged, he put his finger into his mouth, pulling off the ring and then holding it in his right hand. His stomach clenched as he stared at it.

  It was small, made for a graceful finger. Staring at the ring of silver and gold with amber chips, he heard words in a different language from the one he’d just used, spoken in his own voice, rough with tears.

  “As unbreakable is this circle, so is my love for you. As pure as the metal, so do I love you. Like the silver and gold, our lives are woven together, forever binding us, even though we now take separate paths.” Separate paths … He felt such an ache inside, such emptiness. His chest heaved, each breath agony. The priest returned, admonishing him to drink from an alabaster cup and rest again.

  Floating in a sea of disconnected memories, the man felt bandages being replaced over his eyes. They prevented his ka from fleeing the virulent ukhedu that must be in his body. Protect me, he thought as the sleeping draught seduced him into darkness.

  STILL CLAMMY FROM HIS BATH, Imhotep was ushered into the darkness of the sleeping chamber. Senwosret lay on the couch, his shaved head covered, his large hands clenched on the linen covers. Ipiankhu, in full court attire, stood by his side, a phalanx of priests to his right.

  Imhotep looked at the vizier, and he nodded slightly. Senwosret’s condition had not improved. Pharaoh, living forever!, was losing his sight. After the appropriate greetings, Imhotep performed the examination he did each morning.

  Each day was dimmer for Pharaoh and grimmer for Egypt.

  “Can you count my fingers, My Majesty?” Imhotep held his two fingers above Senwosret’s face. The room was silent. “My Majesty?”

  “Hold them up and I will count them!”

  Imhotep slowly lowered his hand. Pharaoh was blind. Blind Horus. It was not a good omen.

  Imhotep turned to Ipiankhu, trying to hide the fear in his expression. The vizier spoke quickly. “Nay, My Majesty, this exam is unnecessary today. Tomorrow we will do it.” He gestured uselessly to Imhotep. “Hemu neter Imhotep has returned from Avaris. Perhaps he has heard of some medicament with which to return My Majesty’s sight?”

  It was important that Pharaoh not lose hope. Meanwhile he and Ipiankhu would scour the courts of Egypt and every other land, searching for some, any, remedy. Pharaoh must not grow discouraged. If the rekkit knew what was happening, there would be mass hysteria in addition to the famine. A hungry people were an intemperate people. Add to that the watchful presence of the Aztlantu envoy and military, and Egypt would know the gods were against them.

  “How was your trip to Noph?” Senwosret asked. “Did you find a remedy?”

  Imhotep ran his tongue over his teeth, rattling the looser ones. “I have a poultice to try on My Majesty?” he said. “To have its greatest effect, though, it must be taken at the full of the moon.”

  “As you know, the last full moon is just past, My Majesty. You have more than a week before the next,” Ipiankhu offered before Pharaoh asked.

  “What of the man you brought back?” Senwosret asked.

  Ipiankhu looked at Imhotep, curious. “Merely a patient, My Majesty,” Imhotep hedged. “He was found trampled in the Apis chambers. I am trying to nurse him to health, though he seems to care not if he lives or dies.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Aii … I do not know. Due to the nature of his wounds, My Majesty, he awakened only once while my staff attended him. He fell back into an unwakable sleep almost instantly. By Isis, I have the smallest hope for his survival.”

  “What color are his eyes?”

  “His eyes?” Imhotep repeated in surprise, looking to Ipiankhu.

  “Pharaoh, living forever! has dreamed a golden-eyed man will restore his sight,” the vizier said. “My Majesty knows no person with these strange gold eyes.”

  “His eyes are bandaged, My Majesty,” Imhotep answered.

  “His sight is also damaged?”

  “Nay, My Majesty, but you well know that one’s eyes are the windows to one’s ka. Consequently, we seek to keep the patient’s eyes closed. If he wakes healthy enough to merit their being unbandaged, I will check their color.”

  Pharaoh beckoned the scribe. “I will offer prayers to Thoth and HatHor for him.”

  Imhotep paced impatiently. The man was neither dead nor alive. He might not win the wager from that aged physician in Noph! The patient lay like a corpse, and Imhotep still hadn’t gotten a glimpse of his eyes to see their color. Would the patient’s spirit fly away if Imhotep forced his eyes open? It was forbidden in the House of Life. Even if his eyes were the right color, the man would be dead, useless to Pharaoh, without his ka.

  A knock heralded the vizier, and Imhotep bowed automatically. “Life, health, and prosperity.”

  “Aye, may your gods smile on you.” The words were hurried, and Imhotep dismissed the slaves. Ipiankhu walked to the side of the couch, looking down on the bandaged man. “How is he?”

  “Deaf to our words,” Imhotep said. “What did the envoy say?”

  Ipiankhu sighed and swallowed his cup of beer in one gulp. He’d forsaken a wig today and instead wore a headcloth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. “Envoy Nestor seems sympathetic that we cannot pay the fifty percent tribute. After much haggling, he said that less grain is acceptable, but the Aztlantu want hostages and twice as many Apis bulls.”

  “Hostages?”

  “Aye, though of course they were called ‘guests for the goodwill of our empires.’ ” Ipiankhu quoted bitterly.

  “Rekkit?”

  The vizier snorted. “Nay. Our finest. Magi and noblemen.”

  “So how many kur of grain is a nobleman worth?”

  He smiled, a curious, rare curving of his thick lips. “Seven.”

  “Seven kur?”

  “Nay, seven hostages. Three children, preferably.”

  Imhotep rose and stomped to the balcony, where the huge carcass of the Aztlantu ship floated. “If only we could just destroy the ship and the envoy, then maybe—”

  “You know better. They would send a dozen more. Every day Nestor releases birds.” Ipiankhu shrugged. “Presumably they report on his day’s work.”

  “Aye.” Imhotep sighed. “Aztlantu train birds as couriers. The empire’s spies from around the nations keep the clan chieftains aware of events. It is an unbeatable form of communication. They know the spy’s thoughts within days of his thinking them.”

  “It is very nearly magic,” Ipiankhu muttered.

  “So we give them the bulls, the grain, and the hostages?” Imhotep asked.

  “What choice have we?” Ipiankhu asked. “Though the bulls are quite sickly, I fear.”

&nbs
p; “If the Apis bulls are not on Egypt’s shore, we will not be held responsible for their starvation,” Imhotep said.

  “If they demand twice as many bulls, they will get some that are sick,” Ipiankhu said. “Livestock are victims of the famine, just as the rekkit are.”

  “When does the envoy plan on leaving?” Imhotep asked.

  “He needs to have the bulls in Aztlan shortly. If he sets sail at week’s end, all should be well.”

  Imhotep sat down. “Who goes as hostages?”

  Ipiankhu joined him. “I will ask the Unknown to show me.”

  Imhotep sighed, weary. “I was born in Aztlan,” he mused. “A more beautiful land, a more industrious people, you cannot imagine. Justice, honor, discipline, such were the standards of the day.” He shook his head. “Haii, apparently no more.”

  “Will you send greetings to your father?”

  Imhotep stiffened. Ipiankhu knew his father was the Grand Spiralmaster of Aztlan, even though Imhotep never mentioned him. Imhotep’s gray eyes narrowed. “I have no father. Only sons.”

  It was dark and late; wine and curiosity were flaying Imhotep. With a decisive motion he ripped the bandage off the victim’s eyes. If the man died, it would be his secret. If he lived and his eyes were golden, Imhotep would forever after be known as the neter who gave Senwosret his sight. If they were not, then Imhotep would sell the man and make quite a profit.

  Either that, or the man could be one of the four adults required by the Aztlantu. Imhotep ran his tongue over his loose teeth, thinking. The man had been bitten, possibly by one of the bulls. It would be Ma’at if one of the Aztlantu hostages sickened and died from blood poisoning, stolen, as they were, from their homeland.

  The man inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Breath caught in Imhotep’s throat. The man’s eyes were gold, like a cat’s. He blinked, focused, and raised himself up, wincing slightly. “Where am I?”

  His Egyptian was perfect, his gaze clear.

  “Noph.”

  The man glanced around, his gaze going from the woven mats on the floor to the low tables and chairs scattered throughout the room. “Egypt, again. Haii, what time?”

  Imhotep glanced up at the clerestory window. “Nearly dawn.”

  “Nay…” A tone of impatient command crept into his voice. “Who is on the throne?”

  “Pharaoh Senwosret, living forever!”

  The man blanched, falling back on his elbows. Suddenly his skin was gray and his eyes looked hollow. He muttered the pharaoh’s name like an incantation, and Imhotep straightened his amulet against the Evil Eye. “How long have I been ill?”

  Watching the man, Imhotep calculated the time. “Slightly less than two weeks.” He smiled as he called for a scribe. “Send to Noph, one User-Amun. Tell him the patient lives and he owes me our agreed stakes.” The young scribe sleepily marked a piece of ostraca and stumbled from the room. Imhotep turned back to the patient. “You were found in the Apis chamber. Do you remember anything?”

  The man laughed, a raspy sound tinged with despair and a little madness. He looked at his still bandaged hand and quickly stripped away the linen. Using his teeth to rip off the restraints and splint, he held up his hand, looking at it fearfully, touching the tips of his fingers. They remained immobile and awkward. “My hand,” he said softly.

  “It still needs a bit more time. It was broken in several places.”

  “I know, I got caught and the bull drag—” He swallowed and exhaled. “It is not perfect, but I can still use it. Thank you, God,” he said in an undertone, and Imhotep wondered which god he was thanking. Apis? Ptah?

  “Who are you, my lord?”

  “Cheftu sa’a Khamese.”

  Imhotep frowned. “Which Khamese? Where are you from? How did you come to be in the chamber of the Apis bull?”

  The man stared at him, silent. Imhotep waited: silence often produced the most truthful of truths. Nervous sweat beaded Cheftu’s brow and upper lip and he looked fearful again.

  Imhotep turned at a slave’s quiet cough. “The vizier awaits you, my lord.”

  Imhotep hid his surprise. How had Ipiankhu known? He glanced at the nervous Egyptian Cheftu. “Bring the vizier here,” he commanded. “Bring us beer and the patient some mashed grain.” The servant bowed, and Imhotep turned to Cheftu. “What ailment clouds a man’s vision more each day, like a disturbed pond, until finally he is blind?”

  The man blinked, his expression blank, and Imhotep almost laughed. Pharaoh’s dream! Haii! Twice he had foretold accurately, but this time it was nothing more than the wishes of an aging ruler! Imhotep should have wagered on it! He heard Ipiankhu’s steps, yet he could not take his eyes off the sweating Egyptian. For once, Ipiankhu was wrong! Imhotep rattled his teeth in joy and began to turn—

  “Cataracts, my lord, though I would need to examine the patient,” Cheftu said.

  Ipiankhu stepped closer and looked intently into the patient’s face as Imhotep stared, motionless as a granite ushebti funeral statue.

  “The only cataracts I know are rough spots in the Nile,” Ipiankhu said.

  The patient smiled, and suddenly Imhotep sensed in his bones that Ipiankhu and his god had won again. Somehow, birthed by the Apis bull himself, perhaps, this man with the manners of a courtier had been created to heal Pharaoh’s eyesight. “A cataract is also the cloud you are describing,” he said. “It layers day after day until the patient can see nothing except gray.”

  Ipiankhu gasped, and Imhotep met his questioning glance. Still, Imhotep wanted to be sure. “Is there any remedy?”

  Cheftu chewed on his upper lip with strong teeth that Imhotep instantly envied. “Surgery.”

  Ipiankhu recoiled. “You would cut Pharaoh, living forever’s! eyes?” He looked at Imhotep, the message clear. Not possible!

  The patient nodded. “Without cutting there is no way to remove the cataracts.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Dozens of times.”

  “My lord,” Ipiankhu said politely. “A moment of your time, please?”

  Imhotep bowed slightly to Cheftu and joined Ipiankhu in the adjacent room. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” the vizier hissed.

  “Pharaoh’s dream said a man with golden eyes! The man has golden eyes!”

  “Aye, he does! But does he know what he’s doing? To let him cut Senwosret? How can you even consider it?”

  Imhotep turned impatiently. “I cannot. But I am curious to hear what he says. You know Pharaoh must be told.”

  “Aye, his spies have probably already informed him. To dally will be to undermine the trust he has in us. How will you present it?”

  “Me?”

  “You are his chief physician and mage.”

  Imhotep groaned.

  Ipiankhu continued. “He will not go against your recommendation. Advise against it; has he refused you before?”

  “Nay, never.” Imhotep ran a hand over his shaved head and heavy collar. “I will go now. Stay with the man Cheftu and tell me what you learn.”

  “Senwosret will listen to you. He always does.”

  Imhotep nodded and left, crossing his chest, muttering the ritual blessing of farewell. Then he clapped for his standard-bearers and litter carriers.

  IPIANKHU RETURNED TO THE PATIENT. “Pardon me, my lord?” Cheftu asked. The vizier turned to him. His hazel eyes were unreadable. “I would you answer a question,” Cheftu asked, his voice steady.

  “If I can, my lord,” the vizier said.

  “Was anyone, uh, with me?”

  “With you?”

  “Found with me, where I was.”

  “This was found,” Ipiankhu said, clapping for a servant. They brought in a small package, and Cheftu remembered the last time he’d seen it.

  Chloe had been lying next to him when he’d awoken. He’d turned to her, disturbed when she did not awake. He’d run his hands over her body, searching for broken bones. He’d felt the lump and pulled it o
ut—the parcel from the market in Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s Egypt, given to her just hours before they’d left that time period. Was that weeks or centuries ago? Cheftu didn’t know.

  When he got no response from her, he had panicked. Laying his head on her chest, he’d hoped for a slight movement, any indication that she was yet alive. No breath, no movement. Her body was granite cold. Had her spirit never traveled here? Holding his breath, he’d listened for her heart again. There was no sound from her body, but the rumble of approaching bulls had quickly become deafening. He grabbed her hand to pull her out of the way, and her ring, the wedding ring he’d given her, had slipped off her cold fingers. Dragging her corpse, he’d stumbled toward the far wall. The animals had rounded the bend, and Cheftu had looked up into the murderous gaze of the Apis bulls, the white markings on their foreheads almost glowing in the faint light.

  Chloe’s body had caught on something, and Cheftu had tried to work her free, the bulls pounding toward him. She wouldn’t move! At the last moment he’d thrown himself flat against the wall. He’d screamed, felt the hooves on her body as though they were on his. Pressing as flat as possible, he’d heard the bulls run past him. The healthiest were first. Then came those that had been used in temple ritual. They’d hobbled, their forelegs cropped, the calves and cows lowing in the whitewashed cavern.

  Cheftu had waited until it sounded clear and then stepped back. He’d turned and seen Chloe. Pulverized. Her beautiful face was a mash of flesh and bone, her body broken and torn. She’d been dead, he knew that, but the destruction of her corpse made him mad for a few moments. He’d kissed her bloodied hands, smoothed away her matted hair, covered her face with cloth as best he could. It was unreal. She had to be alive. Yet she wasn’t; even the blood from her body was stagnated and dead.

  At some point he’d looked up and seen a lone bull running toward him. Unable to bear the thought of Chloe’s body being trampled again, he’d run, inciting the bull to chase. It had cornered him, and though Cheftu had no desire to live, he’d unconsciously turned away and flung himself in piles of manure, protecting his face and groin. The bull had run over him; Cheftu remembered the blinding agony of his hand being crushed, his difficulty breathing.