by Jerry Dubs
“Tell me more, dear sister.”
There will be a time, Kanakht thought, not too long from now, when I won’t have to make excuses to do whatever I want.
He was waiting for Makare in the small room that served as headquarters for the garrison at Khmunu. As was his custom, Kanakht had arrived early for his meeting. He never allowed a meeting to start without him or, more importantly, gave the people at a meeting the opportunity to talk about him before he arrived.
He had told Djoser that he needed to meet privately with Makare to probe the depth of the guards’ loyalty here in Khmunu. He had explained to Djoser that he needed to meet the young guard without Sekhmire, commander of the royal guard, so that Makare would speak more freely.
Kanakht frowned to himself. He planned to use Makare as the human knife who would cut down the upstart Djoser. Sekhmire would execute Makare if he ever suspected the young soldier was thinking about harming the king.
Yes, we need to meet privately, Kanakht thought grimly.
It was the famine that had led Kanakht to question Djoser’s fitness to rule The Two Lands. The River Iteru had always flooded. Every year. Without fail. But after Djoser declared himself the living incarnation of Horus, the river receded, withdrawing its blessing.
Priests throughout Kemet looked at each other knowingly, but no one spoke the words. Still they formed in Kanakht’s mind.
Djoser has angered the gods. He has led the country away from ma’at.
Kanakht knew that Djoser would not, could not retract his claim to divinity. Faced with a choice between his personal loyalty to the royal house and his love of The Two Lands, Kanakht made an uneasy decision: Djoser had to die.
However, open rebellion was impossible. And so Kanakht had recruited quietly, forming alliances in the dark, away from Waset, hidden from Djoser’s watchful spies.
He told Djoser that he was investigating the rumors of unrest, gauging the allegiance of the guards, sounding out the trustworthiness of the priesthood beyond the immediate area of Waset, where Djoser had taken up residence.
The investigation gave Kanakht excuse to travel as he did, to meet with those he needed to see. Those meetings would be seen as his devoted attempt to thwart an uprising, not to lead it. At least he hoped so. There were times when he talked with Djoser that he thought he saw a glint of suspicion in the king’s eyes. But then what king was ever not so?
I’ll certainly be suspicious, he thought.
He wondered if the effort to gain the throne and the energy it would take to keep the double crown on his head would be worth it. At times the eternal rest and comfort of Khert-Neter seemed more and more attractive.
There were so many threads to hold in his hand.
As he waited on Makare, he wondered if the soldier’s older brother, Nesi, was having any success up river at the first cataract. King Djoser’s son, Teti, was there trying to find a practical way to ensure a good flood: clearing boulders or digging canals. Nesi was part of Teti’s bodyguard, but his allegiance was to Kanakht. It was bought with gold and maintained by the beautiful young servant girl whom Kanakht had given him. Nesi was supposed to help Teti have a fatal accident, ending the line of succession so that there would be no blood relative to contest Kanakht’s claim.
Prince Teti was not yet twenty, still given to the bold games of the young. The river at the cataract was treacherous. It had been Kanakht’s idea, carefully planted so that Nesi thought it was his, to help Teti meet his death in the river. With the churning water, the boulders and Teti’s reputation for carelessness, there was a reasonable chance that Teti’s death would be accepted as an accident.
Now he needed to bring Makare more fully into the plot to assassinate the king.
While Kanakht was meeting with Makare, word of Prince Teti’s accident reached King Djoser.
He and Hetephernebti were still walking in the Garden of Ma’at, the conversation moving from matters of state to family news. A shout from his guard alerted him. He turned and saw a messenger running toward him, one of the royal guards at his side.
Djoser accepted the news of Teti’s accident calmly, until the messenger had left.
Hetephernebti placed a hand on his arm. “I will go with you, brother.”
His face was composed, but she saw a hard glint in his eyes. “Kanakht is behind this. At night sometimes I wonder if my father’s death was as benign as it seemed. I wonder if Kanakht meant to take the throne then, but somehow failed to dispatch me first. I kept him close so that I could better keep watch on him.
“Now I wonder if I have been too kind. If Teti…” he let the thought hang unfinished.
“The messenger said he was injured, not dead,” she said.
Djoser turned to her, his voice icy. “He is injured now. But if this was not an accident, then whoever had their hand in it has a weakened target.”
They had reached the edge of the garden where they were joined by his guards. He motioned one to him.
“Send this message to Abu, to Waset, to wherever Teti is in his travels. Tell his guards that if any more harm comes to him, they will all die, their families will die, their homes will be burned, their bodies will be fed to jackals.”
The guard turned to run off to send the message.
“Wait,” Djoser said. “Send the message yourself, do not trust it with anyone. And then follow the birds by boat as quickly as you can.” He gave a curt nod and the guard turned and ran toward the docks.
When Djoser traveled, he took with him pens of homing pigeons trained to return to Waset, carrying messages to officials there. The birds were not used often; the pace of life in Kemet seldom required urgent communication, unless there was a war or a threat of invasion. The country’s desert border and powerful reputation made invasion unlikely.
Now his guard would release several birds to Waset, sending only one was unreliable because hawks often took the pigeons. From Waset, more birds would be released, carrying Djoser’s message south to Abu where Teti had been hurt and also to Kom Ombo and Edfu, cities that lay along the river between Abu and Waset.
“Yes, come with me, Nebti,” Djoser said using his sister’s childhood nickname. “We have more to talk about. I need your eyes and ears, and honest heart to watch over Kemet.”
She nodded. “I will be what you need, brother,” she said. “I must see to Tim and then I will meet you at your barge.”
He had already turned to walk away, his guards closing in around him.
“Hurry, Nebti. We leave for Waset immediately.”
Tim held Meryt’s head in his lap. A half-empty bowl of barley broth was on the floor beside him. His right hand held a damp cloth he had used to wash her face, trying to comfort her and lower her temperature.
He felt the presence in the door before the shadow fell across him.
“I must leave, Tim. There has been an accident with King Djoser’s son. I will leave a boat and an attendant here to bring you to Waset when Meryt… no longer needs your attention,” Hetephernebti said.
Tim nodded his understanding. “Can you ask Waja-Hur to stay away? He frightens Meryt.”
He looked drawn and tired, sitting on the floor in the shadows, his kilt dirty, his head covered in rough stubble. Meryt was pale and drawn, but still alive, much to Hetephernebti’s surprise. In fact, although the hut was in darkness, Hetephernebti thought that Meryt looked less pale than she had before and it seemed to her that the lines that had formed around Meryt’s eyes had relaxed.
Hetephernebti had often seen that in the dying. As their body gave up its struggle, they appeared to reach a peace with themselves.
“I will speak with him, but he is Thoth and I cannot command him.”
“Thank you. We should be able to follow you in two or three days.”
Hetephernebti raised her eyebrows, but didn’t question him.
“What happened to King Djoser’s son?”
“Teti was with his companions at the first cataract, trying to find a way
to help the river flood. They were exploring rocks in the river and he fell. Or was pushed. One of his guards is being held until King Djoser can speak with him. Teti is being taken to Waset so the king’s physician can attend him.”
Tim looked past Hetephernebti, past the doorway, his eyes unfocused as he tried to recall everything he could about Djoser.
“I don’t remember anything about Teti, but I’m sure that Djoser will be fine. And this famine will end soon.”
Hetephernebti felt a chill run through her as she listened to his casual prophecy. After a moment she nodded toward Meryt, her eyebrows raised in silent question.
Tim shrugged lightly. “I don’t know, but I will try everything I can.”
He had decided that Meryt was suffering from dysentery, a disease that was common in refugee camps during his time. Part of the diagnosis was based on what he recalled from the research he and Addy had done before the trip. Part was pure hope, based on what he thought he could treat.
The illness was caused by bacteria. It was spread through poor hygiene. The severe dehydration it caused made it dangerous, often fatally so, among the young and the elderly.
He had chlorine tablets to purify water for her so she wouldn’t be exposed to more bacteria. He had a small bottle of antibiotics that would overwhelm the infection-causing bacteria. He had some salt tables that would help her retain water and some aspirin for her fever.
He hoped that he had guessed right.
Meryt had been unconscious most of the first day they had been ashore and Tim couldn’t figure out how to get any of the antibiotics into her system.
When she woke toward evening he made her swallow a penicillin tablet and drink some water in which he had cooked a little barley. The next morning her fever seemed worse. He crushed another penicillin tablet and dissolved it in a small cup of boiled water. Sip by sip he got her to drink the water, but then she threw up, crying her apologies as she retched.
Later that day she seemed almost normal, but very tired and without appetite. At his insistence she drank some young wine that had not fermented and took another penicillin tablet. Tim spent the night lying beside her, checking her shallow breathing, fearful that it would stop and that he wouldn’t have any idea what to do.
Knowing he would be of no help to her if he got sick, he took care to wash his hands thoroughly and to keep his food at the other side of the small hut.
Today she had seemed more alert at times, but extremely tired. Although the diarrhea had passed, he suspected that was because she had been unable to eat. She had taken two more doses of the penicillin and a few aspirin, but she had eaten very little and drank virtually nothing.
Was she improving? Would she live? Tim didn’t know.
He brushed Meryt’s head gently and looked up at Hetephernebti.
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice soft and worried.
Hetephernebti paused a moment, then turned and was gone.
“What don’t you know?” Meryt whispered weakly, her eyes still shut. “I thought you knew everything.”
Tim put down the damp cloth and caressed her cheek with his hand.
“I know you should eat more soup,” he said.
She tried to smile. “Can I have a drink?”
Tim smiled back at her.
It was the first time she had asked for anything.
The Embalmers of Thoth
The wounds on Dagi’s back were pale, red grooves. The whip lines had scabbed over and healed, leaving pink flesh behind. In a few months the marks from the lashing Djefi had given him would be completely healed, but the humiliation and resentment would never go away.
No longer a pilot, he knelt on the boat’s wooden deck and pulled an oar, one of eight rowers who fought against the current of the slow moving river as Djefi’s three boats angled toward the village of Khmunu.
The waterfront there was empty except for a few small fishing boats.
King Djoser and his small armada had departed a week earlier, sails unfurled and rowers pulling hard for Waset so the king could be with his injured son. Five days later the last of Hetephernebti’s boats had followed up river, carrying Tim and Meryt, who was still weak but past the worst of her illness.
Kanakht also had left Khmunu, summoned by King Djoser to follow him to Waset.
Kanakht’s meeting with Makare had been more successful than he could have hoped. The young soldier was filled with dreams of commanding an army and was willing to do whatever Kanakht asked him to do. However, the news from Abu was not good: the assassination attempt on Djoser’s son Teti had been unsuccessful.
Kanakht hoped that the attack looked like an accident. He had little faith that Nesi could be trusted to stay silent for long if Djoser’s torturers interrogated him. If Nesi had been arrested, then Kanakht would need to oversee the interrogation himself. His presence would remind Nesi that Kanakht’s name could not be mentioned. If it looked as if Nesi were weakening, then Kanakht would have the torturers push hard enough to kill the young guard before any secrets were divulged.
This can be managed, Kanakht had told himself as his boat’s small sail filled with wind and he began the journey to Waset.
Arriving after everyone in the royal party had left, Djefi was surprised to see the waterfront so deserted. He had expected Kanakht’s boat to be there. After all, he thought, the vizier had all but ordered me to come to Khmunu.
As soon as his boat slid near the bank, Djefi sent a runner into Khmunu to find a sedan chair so he could be carried to Waja-Hur’s room. The old priest would know where Kanakht had gone.
“What do you mean he’s come and gone? He told me to come here. We’re supposed to meet, to talk about this thing,” Djefi knew his voice had risen to a squeaky pitch and he felt his face flushing. He looked around Waja-Hur’s dark room. Why didn’t Waja-Hur have any furniture in this filthy little chamber?
Waja-Hur blinked his eyes and stared again at the angry fat man standing just inside his doorway. He wore good robes and he had been brought here on a sedan. He had greeted Waja-Hur by name, but the aged priest had no idea who this fat man was.
His old friend Kanakht had been here. Was it yesterday? No, last week. It didn’t matter. Time had shifted in the Two Lands. The colors had faded from today, but the past was bright.
When he had walked the temple this morning all the wbt-priests were strangers to him, yet they had greeted him by name. The altar that he always had used had been moved to a new room that had never been there before, or had it? It had seemed eerily familiar.
A young boy had approached him to drape the leopard skin robe over his shoulders and Waja-Hur had said, “Where is . . .” and then had stopped, unable to remember the name of the boy who performed this service.
Only Thoth, the Reckoner of Times and Seasons, the One who Measured out the Heavens and Planned the Earth, the Master of Balance, remained the same.
Even Kanakht had seemed strange when they had met, talking of the king, but calling him by the wrong name. When Waja-Hur had corrected him, saying, “I think you mean King Kha-Sekhemwy, old friend,” Kanakht had looked at Waja-Hur with confusion.
Balance, Waja-Hur thought, the balance has shifted and people, places, even the land itself has moved. Only the gods remain steadfast.
He closed his eyes for a moment remembering his youth. All the faces and names, the colors and smells were there. He could almost feel the sunshine on his shoulders, so broad and strong, so different from the thin, tired back he carried now.
“Waja-Hur, where did Kanakht go? Is he coming back here?”
He opened his eyes; the fat priest was still here. He did look familiar, but Waja-Hur could not remember why.
“Yes,” he said finally. “He was here, but he left.”
Djefi shifted his weight. “You said that. Is Kanakht coming back?”
Waja-Hur shrugged, then he remembered something, a snatch of conversation. “He said that someone named Teti has been hurt, yes. A boy.”
Waja-Hur was confused. He remembered Djoser as a little boy, trailing along, so straight-backed and proud behind his father, King Kha-Sekhemwy. Could he be old enough to have sired a son? Then Waja-Hur had a flash of the boy grown to manhood and wearing the double crown of the Two Lands. Is it a vision from Thoth, a glimpse into the future, or a memory that somehow has escaped me?
Djefi was so frustrated that he wanted to scream. Kanakht was gone. Djoser had been here and left, apparently because of something that happened to Teti. Is Kanakht plotting with others also? Does he have plans within his plans? What else is he scheming that I don’t know about?
Djefi found a soothing tone to talk to Waja-Hur. “Did Kanakht mention Brian? Did he say anything about him, ah, visiting the mortuary?”
Waja-Hur stared at Djefi in confusion. Then his glance traveled past the fat priest to a shadow that appeared in the doorway.
“First Prophet Djefi, I am Nimaasted, Thoth’s servant. I am sorry I was not here to greet you.”
Djefi turned, startled at the man’s sudden appearance.
“Good evening, Waja-Hur,” Nimaasted said. “Kanakht asked me to entertain First Prophet Djefi when he arrived. May I take him with me? You’ll be able to visit with him tonight at the ceremony with Ma’at.”
“Kanakht spoke with you? He left instructions?” Djefi asked.
Nimaasted took Djefi’s elbow and steered him to the doorway. “Yes, he left instructions about Brian and he asked me to offer you his apologies. He was commanded to leave by Djoser himself,” he said softly. “Please come with me and I will tell you everything. I have a comfortable chair and refreshments waiting. I am not quite as devout as Waja-Hur.”
Turning back to the old priest, he said, “Thank you, High Priest. I will send someone with your evening meal and to bring you to the ceremony.”
“What has happened to him?” Djefi said as he struggled into the sedan chair.
