by Jerry Dubs
Hetephernebti had told Tama that she suspected Djefi, Kanakht and Waja-Hur were plotting to overthrow King Djoser. Hetephernebti would protect her brother, helping him in any way she could. Tama knew this. And so the priestess of Re was traveling with her brother-king telling him what she knew, advising him and helping him to understand and anticipate whatever attack Kanakht was plotting.
Tama would travel alongside the river, listening to the murmurs and rumors, evaluating the mood of the people, taking the pulse of the Two Lands, searching for the truth.
Hetephernebti asked Tama to meet her in Waset. Hetephernebti hoped to hear that Djoser still had the love and support of the people.
Tama wasn’t as optimistic as Hetephernebti. Even in Khmunu she had heard whispers that Djoser had offended the gods by declaring himself one of them. She realized that Waja-Hur was mumbling those very thoughts to anyone who would listen, which was why she needed to travel outside Khmunu and listen to people not poisoned by the thoughts of the bitter priest.
“There was another,” Nimaasted said to Djefi.
Djefi sat beneath the canopy on his boat. He had sent all of the crew on shore to gather provisions for the long trip up river to Kom Ombo. He wanted to rise from his chair and strangle the unapologetic priest. If Siamun were here… he left the thought unfinished.
“You had three embalmers. How could they not take this one man?” Djefi asked, trying to keep his voice calm. “Did you not understand Kanakht’s orders?”
Nimaasted paced in front of Djefi. Kanakht had promised Nimaasted that he would be the one selected to take Waja-Hur’s place when the aged priest journeyed on to Khert-Neter, a trip that looked more and more imminent every day. Old Waja-Hur frequently failed to recognize anyone, even Nimaasted, who had served him for ten years. The old man even forgot to eat sometimes; soon he would have to be hand fed, or else allowed to die, Nimaasted thought.
Kanakht had told Nimaasted that an evil man was traveling with Djefi, a man whose very existence was an affront to the gods, a man who was a threat to the balance of to the Two Lands that Waja-Hur held so dear.
The vizier’s speech, and there had been much, much more to it, had no more substance than the hot winds that blew in from the desert; Nimaasted recognized lies and misdirection. But he also understood the unspoken promise in Kanakht’s words, a promise of power in return for this killing.
But Kanakht had not explained how huge the man would be, or that another god would come to his rescue. Once Nimaasted had seen Brian’s size, he had recruited three embalmers, men who were comfortable with death, men who would not be afraid to kill another.
The embalmers were to come upon Nimaasted and Brian suddenly in the night, to surround them and show that resistance was useless. Then they would take Brian across the river, bound and helpless. Once on the west bank, they would kill him, in whatever fashion they chose.
But someone had materialized in the night and shouted an alarm. Brian had reacted more quickly than Nimaasted thought possible for a human, first shoving him effortlessly to the ground, then running as fast as Horus flies to strike one embalmer, using his shoulder, like the god Apis, the bull, crushing the man to the ground. Then down the dark street to kill the third embalmer and off into the night, vanishing like a spirit.
After Hetephernebti’s visit last week, Nimaasted had heard rumors that strange gods were walking the Two Lands. Was Brian one of them? Was the strange shadow who appeared to help him another? Was the stranger the one who had stayed with Hetephernebti’s ill wbt-priestess? Had he somehow returned to help his fellow god? How else could one explain Brian’s escape and his disappearance?
“Usually when I ask a question, Nimaasted, I get an answer. Did you not understand Kanakht’s orders?”
Waja-Hur was old and growing senile, Nimaasted thought, but he was still a hundred times more priestly than this fat, sweating pig who sat in front of him, demanding answers.
“First Prophet Djefi,” Nimaasted said, controlling his anger, “Kanakht neglected to mention that this man was a god or that another god would come to help him. I cannot battle gods.”
“What gods?”
“I have heard the rumors, First Prophet. Strange gods are in Kemet. If you had seen this Brian last night…No one but a god could move as he did, could have the power he has. No one but a god could know our plan when no one knew it but you, Kanakht and myself. No one but a god could materialize in the street in the middle of the night and shout a warning to this Brian.”
Djefi’s voice rose to an hysterical squeak. ”No, Nimaasted, no. You are making things up to explain your failure! We ask you to do something and you failed. There is no more to it than that.”
Nimaasted was seized with a nearly overwhelming desire to rush at the fat priest and push him off his chair and into the river. Instead he clenched his fists and breathed deeply. He had risen to his position by solving problems, not creating new ones.
“As you say, First Prophet. Yet we have searched all of Khmunu and Brian is not in the town. We have searched every home, every hut, even the temples, yes, even the Temple of Ma’at. Brian is not to be found, neither is his accomplice.”
“He must be here. You must search again.”
As Djefi spoke, a boatman appeared at the edge of the bank carrying a sack. Behind him more of the boatman appeared, returning from the markets of Khmunu.
“I leave shortly,” Djefi said. “Send word to Kanakht when you’ve found and disposed of this Brian.”
Nimaasted bowed his head and withdrew. His appearance was one of acceptance and humility, but in his mind he wondered: If he found this Brian, should he apologize and seek to align himself with the powerful god instead of this fat, quivering priest.
“What do you call your language?” Tama asked Brian.
“English.”
“Teach me,” she said. “You may be a god, you may not. But I cannot know your thoughts if you must talk in my language. So, if I am to know the truth, I must learn your language.”
Brian wondered what he saw in his eyes as he stared at her, unable to look at anything else, wishing he could spend days simply admiring her.
She was so beautiful and graceful, so alive and honest in her movements. Everything she did, walking, sitting, speaking, it all had an economy and a purity that reminded him of what he loved about sports. He thought of video clips he had watched Joe DiMaggio playing the outfield, so graceful and effortless.
It was late afternoon and they were in her chambers. He had been taken to a secluded part of the pond and allowed to bathe. His kilt had been washed and returned to him. As each hour passed, he grew more optimistic that she would help him, that she believed that he was innocent.
Tama walked to a window and beckoned Brian to her. She pointed to the sun as it floated just above the western horizon. She turned to him.
He could smell the perfumes and oils she had used. He fought to keep his eyes from drifting from her face, so perfect in its proportions, so open and honest, to her bare shoulders.
She saw his struggle. Raising her hand, she turned his head firmly toward the window and pointed to the setting sun again.
“Sun,” he said in English.
“Sun,” she repeated.
Then she waved to the sky, pale blue and empty.
“Sky,” he said.
“Sky,” she repeated. “Sun, sky.”
She turned to him and studied him. “Netjer?” she asked.
It was a word he had heard often from Pahket. “God?” he repeated in English. He shook his head. “No, not god.”
It was the answer she hoped for. Turning away from him she walked to the doorway where an attendant waited.
“We will be leaving at sunset. Please have the donkeys ready by the south gate. And spread the word that I will be in seclusion with Ma’at. My trip is to be a secret.”
The attendant nodded and left quietly.
“So, Brian,” she said, approaching him, “we will take a tr
ip together. Hopefully we will discover the truth about Kemet. And the truth about you.”
Prince Teti
Hesire was an old man who hoped to grow older.
But as the doctor looked at Prince Teti’s blackening fingers and thought of the news he would have to give King Djoser, he wondered if he would live to see tomorrow.
Prince Teti’s left forearm had been badly broken, the jagged end of the bone ripping through the flesh and skin when the prince had fallen from a boulder in the river near Abu. The doctor at Abu, a man named Rudamon, whom Hesire had trained himself, had set the arm and encased it in a cast made of palm leaf fiber lint and tree bark. Rudamon had used mud from the River Iteru to pack the ragged gash where the bone had protruded through Prince Teti’s arm.
Hesire had not removed the cast when Prince Teti had arrived in Waset; he wanted to allow the river’s mud to do its work healing the wound. Besides, the only true way to know if the bone had been set properly was to do it yourself, to feel the bones fall snugly together. Hesire trusted that Rudamon had done that. Unwrapping the cast now would serve no purpose, except to cause the prince pain.
But Prince Teti’s fingers had started to turn black, not the dark red and purple from a fall, but something more sinister.
Hesire would watch for red streaks to appear above the cast on Prince Teti’s forearm. If the streaks appeared and grew, then the arm would have to be removed.
Hesire was not optimistic. The darkening fingers were a bad sign.
It was this news that Hesire feared to bring to King Djoser.
A prince with one arm was not a prince, he was a cripple. A king needed strength, but even more so, he needed to project strength.
In a letter Rudamon sent to Hesire, he had described the injury and his treatment.
Unsure who would read the letter before it reached the hands of the royal physician, Rudamon had been careful in his description of the injury and its cause. He had been told that Prince Teti had fallen from a boulder in a rocky stretch of the river near Abu. The prince’s guards had been with him. He had lost consciousness. One guard said his head had been underwater, another said it wasn’t.
The rumor that had reached Hesire’s ears was that a guard named Bata had been found holding Prince Teti’s head under the water at the base of the rock. At least that was what Rensi, the guard who found them claimed. Bata denied it, saying that he was supporting the unconscious prince, waiting for help.
The lack of detail in Rudamon’s terse description made Hesire wonder if there was something more to the accident. Rudamon’s caution itself was a clue that he suspected the injuries had not been accidental and that he didn’t fully believe the allegations made by the guard Rensi.
Hesire decided to keep his comments to King Djoser focused on Prince Teti’s injury and treatment. There were others, Sekhmire for example, whose duty it was to protect the king and his family.
As far as healing the prince, there was little more Hesire could do, except wait. He could offer King Djoser no assurance that the bone would knit back together, or that it would heal straight if it did.
Prince Teti was fifteen years old, strong and sturdy like his father, who had great strength in his hands and powerful legs. King Djoser could lead a march from sunrise to sunset as he had many times under his father’s militant rule. True, the king was shorter than some men and not as fleet as others. But his stamina, Hesire shook his head, his stamina and strength of will were amazing.
Apparently Prince Teti had inherited his father’s iron will.
According to the letter from Rudamon, Prince Teti had bitten completely through a leather strap while Rudamon had pushed the bone back into place, but he had not uttered a single cry.
“Aside from the arm, are there other injuries?” Hesire asked, standing before the seated prince, his brief examination of the arm complete.
Prince Teti took his time responding. He had the same unhurried response of his father, thinking carefully before speaking. Hesire wondered idly if it was a trait that was carried in the royal blood or if the prince was unconsciously emulating his father.
“There was a bump at the base of my head, in the back near my neck. But it has disappeared. And there is a cut on my back.”
The physician looked at the prince’s back. The cut started below the shoulder blade, a dark, scabbed gash with a wide bruise at the bottom. The gash narrowed as it climbed up his back.
“Where was the bump, Prince Teti?”
He reached behind his head and pointed to a spot at the base of his skull. Hesire saw that the line of the cut pointed directly to the spot Prince Teti was touching.
“Come, sister, walk with me,” King Djoser said to Hetephernebti, repeating the words he always used when he needed to confer privately with the only remaining family member from his childhood.
Kanakht rose to accompany them.
“Kanakht,” Djoser said, “Please send a message to Abu. I want the guard Bata held until I have a chance to talk with him myself. No one is to help him or harm him. I want him unharmed, worried, as he should be, but unharmed.”
Kanakht looked from Djoser to Hetephernebti, but their faces betrayed nothing. He bowed his head and withdrew.
Djoser took his sister’s hand and led her to the doorway that opened to his personal garden behind his palace at Waset.
They walked to a stone bench in the center of the garden by a small pool. The shrubbery around the water was cut low, giving Djoser a place to talk, free of fear that anyone was lurking nearby spying on him. Sekhmire, commander of his personal guard, stood by the doorway, his back discreetly turned to the garden.
Hesire had left immediately after giving his medical report to the king, obviously relieved that he had been allowed to leave unharmed after telling the king that his son could lose an arm.
Hetephernebti waited in silence as her brother digested the awful news. She knew he would speak only when his thoughts were in order.
His face was calm, his lips set in a gentle smile, but she saw that his eyes were unfocused. He was looking within.
Leaning down, he swept his hand through the water in the pool. Still turned away from Hetephernebti he spoke so softly that she wasn’t sure if he was addressing her or just allowing his thoughts to take form in the shade of the garden.
“Water, fire, air. What thought to do they give to their actions?”
Djoser brought his wet hand to his face. He tasted the water, careful as always to not disturb the subtle make-up he wore.
“The river rises, Nebti, or it doesn’t. It floods, washing away houses, or it ignores the Two Lands and denies us the rich earth from Kush. It simply acts, regardless of the consequences. The wind carries the scent of the lotus blossoms to us, or it grabs fistfuls of sand and hurls it in our eyes. Thought? I don’t think so.
“The fire bakes our bread, roasts our oxen, nourishing us, or it destroys, remember the fire in Tahta last year?”
She nodded her head.
“An untended cooking fire, its embers not as cold as the owner thought, stirred back to life at night and spread. How many homes were lost, how many families lamented their losses that season?” he said.
“Am I a god, Nebti, or am I not a god? Is the river a river only when it brings us riches? Is the wind the wind only when it carries a pleasing fragrance? Am I a god only when the land and people flourish, only when I do what others think is right?”
She saw that although his voice remained calm, his fists were clenched.
“Does the river consider its actions? No, Nebti, it acts as a river acts. So with the wind, so with fire. They are and they act. No more than that! If I act as I act, it is all I can do.”
She laid her hand on his arm, caressing the smooth skin.
“The gods did not harm Teti because. . .” she began.
“This is not about Teti,” he said, cutting her off. “Kemet deserves a god to rule it. The people need more than a man as leader. Why does a man follow ano
ther man? Fear, rewards, love? Can fear not be overcome, cannot greater rewards be offered, cannot even love change to hate? Only to a god are we steadfast. You to Re, Waja-Hur to Thoth. Your devotion does not waver.
“But can a god permit his son to be attacked? Yes, Nebti, I know that Teti did not fall from a rock. My son would never fall from a rock. That is why that guard will be kept alive. I will find the truth. But will the people continue to regard me as a god if I allow my son to suffer? Can a god have a crippled son? No, Nebti, I think not. I will have a son who is sound in all respects, or I will have no son.”
Hetephernebti couldn’t stop a small gasp. Djoser chose to ignore it.
She stroked his arm again, absently comforting him as she thought.
“Dear brother,” she said. “I have told you about the strangers.”
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, an unspoken question there.
“The one who was with me, he has healing powers, remember? One of my attendants had the wasting illness. He healed her. He healed a little girl of a scorpion sting.”
She felt the muscles of his arm tighten beneath her hand.
“He will be here tonight.”
Tim was standing by the prow of the boat as it docked at Waset. Meryt stood by his side, supported by his arm around her small waist. As they walked off the narrow gangplank, he walked ahead of her, reaching back to hold her hand. When she entwined her fingers in his, he responded with a gentle squeeze.
During the trip up river from Khmunu, he had continued to boil water before permitting her to drink it. He had prepared her meals himself, not trusting the hygiene of others. Her sense of humor returned first, followed by her inquisitiveness and then, at last, her energy.
As she stepped on land, she felt as if the journey from Khmunu had taken her not only from illness to health, but also from childhood to womanhood. She and Tim were not lovers, but she knew that they would be, if only he would allow it.
