by Jerry Dubs
Reaching up, he slid his fingertips across the small beads, enjoying the smooth, rhythmic feel of the small bumps.
King Djoser turned his head slightly toward Hetephernebti. “He needs a new name, dear sister, a name from The Two Lands. What was it you said about him?”
“His healing?”
“Yes, but there was something else. Ah yes, that you think he came in peace.”
Hetephernebti nodded, not surprised that her brother remembered her exact words.
“Welcome to Kemet, ‘He Who Comes in Peace. We present you with this holy menat of the goddess Hathor as a token of our gratitude, ” King Djoser said formally to Tim.
The weight of the menat’s counterbalance pulled the polished strands of beads against Tim’s neck as he felt himself float away from his body.
In his mind’s eye he rose into a high corner of the stone room and looked down at the assemblage. King Djoser sat on a high-backed wooden chair; its surface gleaming with an overlay of gold. He wore a pleated kilt, its hem embroidered with dark brown designs. In his left hand he held a nekhekh, the short handled flail that symbolized his power. A shepherd’s staff, another symbol of his office, leaned against the back of the chair. He was not wearing a wig today; his wide, full skull seemed to glow in the chamber’s light. A wide, beaded pectoral swept across his bare chest in a colorful arc as it stretched from shoulder to shoulder.
Hetephernebti, her slim dark body a shadow beneath her transparent white robe, stood beside him. Black hair from her wig hung in straight woven strands to her shoulders. Kanakht, erect, but fighting against the stoop of age, stood on the other side of the king. He wore a heavier robe. His hands were clutched in fists by his side.
Young Prince Teti sat in a lower chair beside his father and in front of his aunt. He wore only a short kilt. A white slash of linen - his broken arm’s sling - crossed his bare chest to his shoulder.
And standing in front of them, Tim saw himself as they did: a moderately tall, thin man, a light patina of oil on his shaved head softly reflecting the torch light. Hanging between his shoulder blades was an ancient pendant, larger than a man’s open hand, its surface carved with the protective image of a vulture wearing a headdress and holding a royal flail. From this distance and angle Tim saw that his shaved head looked a little large for his slight shoulders, and his hands, although relaxed, seemed poised and confident.
With a tingling glow of recognition and satisfaction, Tim realized that he looked exactly like the ancient statue of the man who carried the name King Djoser had just spoken, the name that translated as ‘He Who Comes in Peace,’ the name Tim had just wondered about a day earlier: Imhotep.
His consciousness seemed to expand, growing as it had the other morning after he had examined Prince Teti. He saw the people of Kemet walking their fields, bringing in the meager harvest, he saw the reed fishing boats bobbing in the river’s sluggish current, he felt the clouds of dust that rose from the camels and donkeys as they carried bundles of papyrus from the river, or sacks of wheat from the granaries. He could smell the dryness of the land, he could hear the murmurs of the families as they gathered for their evening meal and spoke their misgivings.
He was filled with the mood of the Two Lands, its resignation to the destiny delivered by the gods, its underlying contentment to be living by the flowing source of life, its busyness in the day-to-day gathering of food, weaving of cloth, baking of bread, brewing of beer, building of huts, quarrying of stone.
His heart was filled with the ache King Djoser felt for the hunger of the Two Lands, the desire the king felt for the riches of a heavy harvest and for the gold and precious stones from the land of Kush and for the tall, straight cedar wood from the land of Retenu. He saw a vision of the land as it would be in the years long after King Djoser’s reign: the serene Sphinx rising from plateau near Giza, the forest of pillars in the temples at Karnak, the sandstone beauty of the mortuary temple of Queen Hatshepsut, the hidden riches in the Valley of Kings.
In a spiraling swirl, his thoughts and imaginings swept through the Two Lands, following the river back to Waset, back to King Djoser’s sprawling palace grounds, back to this small stone chamber where he knew that he had been transformed into the man who would forever be remembered as Imhotep.
An offering to Khnum
Kanakht wondered why blood wasn’t dripping from his tightly clenched fists.
He had gotten word from Nimaasted this morning that the outlander Brian had somehow escaped the assassins at Khmunu. It was impossible, he silently fumed. One man against three assassins and Nimaasted, although the priest really couldn’t be counted on for much. And then Nimaasted claimed that a god had materialized in the middle of the night, shouted a warning to Brian and then killed one of the attackers.
If Nimaasted was correct, then the god who had miraculously materialized at Khmunu and thwarted his plans was standing right here in front of him, wearing a sacred menat draped in place by King Djoser’s own hands. And he, Kanakht, vizier to the king, second in power only to the throne, he was standing beside King Djoser, his face set in a practiced mask, smiling falsely while the blood pounded through his brain and a humming sound from inside his own head filled his ears with such a noise that it almost drowned out King Djoser’s voice.
“Imhotep,” the king repeated. “Yes, the name suits you.”
“I am honored, King Djoser,” Tim answered, bowing his head.
“I have been traveling the river from Iunu up to Abu, Imhotep. I have talked with priests and prophets. I have met with seers and fortunetellers. I have looked for magic and miracles. Akhet, the season of the inundation, is drawing near. I have sacrificed to Hapi, Lord of the Fishes and Birds of the Marshes. I have called on him to bring the great waters and the silt to feed my people.
“Has he heard? Will he come?” King Djoser asked the questions softly.
Tim wasn’t sure if King Djoser expected him to answer, or if the king was thinking aloud. His confusion vanished when the king turned his wide head directly toward him and waited.
The night he had met King Djoser, after he had tamped down his desire for Meryt, Tim had sat awake trying to recall everything he had read about the ancient king.
There were two memorable events during the reign of King Djoser: the building of the Step Pyramid at Saqqara and the seven-year famine. From what Meryt and Paneb had told Tim, the famine was now in its seventh year. If the histories of the five-thousand-years-ago period were accurate, then the flood would return to its full strength this year, bringing the rich soil from inner Africa to the sandy riverbanks of the Nile.
The Step Pyramid was remembered because its ancient stones still rose from the plateau at Saqqara. The famine and its length were mentioned in ancient texts, but more visibly, the events were commemorated on a stone monument or stele that described a dream King Djoser had. On the stele he had recorded his anguish over the hunger in Kemet and how the gods spoke to him and told him that they would relieve the famine. The god who spoke to him, Tim remembered, was Khnum, the ram-headed god.
“King Djoser,” Tim answered trying to recall the words that had been carved on the stele, “Hapi will come. The river will swell, the plants will flourish, bending under their fruit, everything will be brought forth.”
King Djoser stared at him, the confident smile unchanging, assessing his words. Tim realized that the king must be surrounded by people who constantly gave him the answers he wanted to hear - or that they wanted him to hear. He wondered how a ruler could ever get honest advice.
“King Djoser,” he began again, hesitantly, hoping that he remembered correctly. “There is more.”
The king gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.
“There is a temple at Abu.”
“To Khnum,” King Djoser answered.
“Yes. Make a gift of land to the temple. Enrich it. Khnum will welcome the gift. He will embrace you. He will come to you in a dream, King Djoser and put your heart at ease.”
The walls of the chamber turned black, curved and began to move toward each other. As they grew closer, all Kanakht could see was a pinpoint of light centered around the face of the man-god Imhotep.
It was a struggle for Kanakht to stay upright and to keep this mask of unconcern on his face. As if from a great distance, he heard King Djoser’s low voice, but the words were indistinct. It didn’t matter. He had heard enough.
Where had this Imhotep come from?
How could he know what he knew?
For a moment Kanakht had thought that the significance of Imhotep’s suggestion would be lost on King Djoser, but he knew that he was grasping at straws. King Djoser was not the warrior his father was, but he was ten times the politician. He knew the birth names of every official and every priest. He knew the names of all their wives and children. He understood every family connection in The Two Lands.
The high priest at the temple of Khnum was Sennufer, an unassuming, pious man, perfectly suited for a small temple at the far reaches of Kemet. By itself an offering of land to him would be harmless.
But such an offering would bind the holy man more closely to the throne. More importantly, it would inspire more loyalty in the priest’s son, and that son was Sekhmire, commander of King Djoser’s personal guard.
Assuming that the commander would remain steadfast to King Djoser, Kanakht had not even considered bringing Sekhmire into his plot to kill the king. Instead, Kanakht had recruited Makare in Khmunu and Makare’s brother Nesi, one of Prince Teti’s guards. Kanakht expected that after King Djoser and Teti were killed, Sekhmire would be realistic, realize that the power had shifted and understand that it was in his best interest to align himself with Kanakht as the vizier took over the throne.
But if Sekhmire felt too much loyalty to the dead king, it was possible he would seek revenge for King Djoser. And it was possible that his increased loyalty would lead to heightened vigilance and the plot would be uncovered. Who knew what rumors were leaking from Makare’s mouth or - Kanakht almost passed out at the thought - from the fat lips of the priest Djefi?
Well, Kanakht thought, steeling himself, I knew there were risks. If this Imhotep was not part of my original calculations, then I must change my calculations. Djefi will be here soon. I’ll push him, frighten him. When I’m finished he’ll know that this is no game we are playing. Kemet itself depends on us.
It was with little gestures that Sekhmire was bound to King Djoser: the way the king extended his hand seeking Sekhmire’s help as he disembarked from the royal barge; how the king turned his back to no one but Sekhmire, showing his complete trust; how he listened without interruption to Sekhmire’s reports, acknowledging the commander’s authority over the security of the Two Lands.
Sekhmire was well paid. His spacious home had a beautiful garden and a pond. His wife was supplied with enough servants to make her life agreeable and pleasant. He never wanted for oils or meat or bread.
His life was good. Respect, authority, love and comfort were his.
When he first had heard news that Makare, his commander at Khmunu had met privately with Kanakht, he had taken no action, but remembered the incident. Then word had reached him that Makare had begun to visit a letter-writing scribe to draft private messages rather than using the scribe who was attached to the compound at Khmunu. Sekhmire had hoped that Makare was simply writing love letters to a mistress, but he kept a closer watch on the commander in distant Khmunu.
Then the priest Djefi had suddenly become active, leaving his desert oasis and visiting Waja-Hur, of all people, at the same time Kanakht was there. Makare had been at the meeting also.
While Sekhmire focused on the travels of Kanakht and the suspicious activity of Makare, Prince Teti was injured at the other end of the country. Sekhmire hoped it was an accident, but in his heart, he knew that it was more sinister.
One of Prince Teti’s guards, Bata, had been accused of trying to drown the prince, and so Sekhmire had ordered him arrested. But Sekhmire knew it was no coincidence that Makare’s brother Nesi was with the prince when the ‘accident’ happened.
Sekhmire had dreaded the conversation he knew he needed to have with King Djoser and so he had steeled himself the morning after Prince Teti’s fall when King Djoser had summoned him for a private audience.
“Tell me what you know,” King Djoser had commanded in his quiet way.
He had. He told the king about the travels of Kanakht, the sudden activity of Djefi, the private letters that Makare was having written. “I did not think of Makare’s brother Nesi, King Djoser,” he admitted.
“He was brought to your attention by Kanakht, wasn’t he?” King Djoser had asked, knowing the answer.
Sekhmire had nodded.
“Who is watching Makare?” the king had asked.
“A man named Ankhu,” Sekhmire had said. “He is a member of Makare’s guard and my wife’s cousin.”
“And Nesi?”
“I am not having him watched right now, King Djoser.”
“He is Makare’s brother?” the king had asked.
Sekhmire had wondered how King Djoser kept track of the relationships of an insignificant guard. He knew that the king had other sources of information, but still he was amazed at the king’s wide knowledge.
“Nesi and the other guard, a man named Rensi, returned here with Prince Teti. They are away from the palace visiting their families. The third guard, Bata, is under arrest at Abu. I have assigned two of my men, Katep and Bai, to accompany the prince while he is with us.”
Djoser waited patiently. Sekhmire reviewed his answer, knowing that something was missing, something that the king wanted to hear.
“Nesi is Makare’s brother, your lord, yes.”
“And you suspect Makare and Kanakht are plotting against me?”
Sekhmire closed his eyes, ashamed of his failure. It was so obvious to him now.
“I will have Nesi arrested immediately,” Sekhmire said.
Afraid of the king’s anger and embarrassed by his failure to anticipate Nesi’s action, Sekhmire was stunned when King Djoser spoke gently, with approval.
“You have done well, Sekhmire, anticipating my desire as always. Do not arrest Nesi. Instead, we will watch him and see who meets with him. The same with Kanakht and this priest Djefi. See who they meet, watch where they travel. It is better, Sekhmire, to have a known enemy, than to be surprised. We will let them plot and see who else is drawn to them.”
Sekhmire had nodded his understanding, amazed again at King Djoser’s knowledge and planning.
King Djoser stood, indicating that the interview was over. He stepped to Sekhmire and placed a hand on the commander’s arm. His face lit up as he smiled, the troubles of a brewing revolt forgotten for the moment. “What of your son, Sekhmire? Tell me, do you still plan to turn little Siptah into a warrior like yourself?”
And now Sekhmire had learned that King Djoser was about to honor the god Khnum with a grant of land. His father’s temple would grow in importance.
He stood outside the royal chambers and breathed deeply, his heart filled with love for King Djoser. He would never let anyone harm the king.
A cluster of blue water lilies floated along the edge of the small pond in the walled garden. Tim leaned against the rough trunk of a carob tree. Meryt sat along the edge of the pond, her legs half immersed in the water.
His backpack with his sketchbook and first aid kit lay untouched on the grass beside him.
Meryt had led him to the garden after his audience with King Djoser. She had sensed that he needed a quiet place to think and to digest what had happened. She had given him the time and space, sitting quietly, enjoying the shade and solitude. Her mind also was filled with questions, but she saw that Tim, or Imhotep as King Djoser had re-named him, had questions he needed to answer for himself.
And so she waited, content to be with him but growing eager to resolve the questions about them, about his feelings for her. He was so different from her brother an
d from the boys she had known growing up. He was hesitant about some things, yet direct and confident about others. She sensed that he wanted to be with her, but he never approached her and she wasn’t sure what he would do if she approached him. He enjoyed touching stones, trees, leaves, and fabric everything they encountered, but he stayed his hand from touching her. He looked at her hungrily at times, but never gave voice to his desire.
Just this morning she had seen him stirring, strong and ready beneath his kilt when he awoke, but he had hidden it, denying his desire.
So unlike a man - or a god.
Meryt leaned forward and looked at her reflection in the still water of the pond. One eye looked back at her, the other, as it did sometimes, drifted away. The cast eye had been the sign that the gods favored her.
Her parents had decided to find a way to bring her to Hetephernebti’s attention even when she was a baby. When Meryt was five years old, Hetephernebti, passed by her while she was standing at the front of a crowd at a festival. The priestess had stopped to touch her, as she often did with children. Seeing Meryt’s wandering eye, Hetephernebti had paused a little longer and spoke with Meryt.
Pleased with the intelligence in the answers the little girl gave, Hetephernebti had sought Meryt’s parents and offered to bring Meryt to the Temple of Re for training. For Meryt’s parents, it was the answer to years of prayer, for Meryt it was natural progression. Her earliest memories were of her mother telling her that she was special and that the gods would seek her service.
She had lived at the Temple of Re for eight years now. The rhythms of the festivals, the words of the sacred hymns, the smells of the oils and incense were part of her. Hetephernebti had come to depend on Meryt and Meryt, in return, gave the priestess her love and loyalty.
But the years of familiarity with the god Re and his loving priestess had brought a curious growth in Meryt’s heart.
