by Jerry Dubs
Now, as the tall pylons of the temple of Amun, taller even than the surrounding palms, came into view; as the river grew thick with boats of all sizes; as the sounds of the city bounced across the water; as the fragrance of bread baking, leavened with the wet scent of beer mash and infused with the gentle green cry of papyrus reeds surrendering to the knives of harvesters filled his nostrils, Seni’s anxiety rose.
How could he expect his small seed of revenge to take root here amid the fullness of life in the Two Lands?
I’ve lived too long on the outskirts of the empire, he thought. I’ve forgotten this grandeur.
And then, as his boat began to curl to the right and aim toward a pier, he remembered the love that he and Mut-Nofret had shared and the callous disdain of Thutmose I when he had simply taken Mut-Nofret from Seni.
Seni leaned to spit over the side of the boat as he thought of the dead pharaoh’s name.
Staring at the brown water he remembered the years of plotting to kill Thutmose and his haughty family and how his Medjay assassins had nearly succeeded. He thought of Hatshepsut’s audacity when she became regent for Thutmose II and pushed Mut-Nofret to the background. And he thought of Hatshepsut taking the throne for herself.
And his anxiety turned to anger.
He wanted to leap from the boat, stride down the street to the palace, demand entrance, and then choke to death the usurper who wore a beard like a man.
But, he told himself, quelling his anger, Yuya and his Medjays should already have killed her in Ta-Netjer. I am here to witness the arrival of the sad news. I am here to watch the fall of the false rule of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. I am here to cry mock tears and celebrate my long-awaited revenge.
***
“What do you mean Pharaoh Hatshepsut is here?” Governor Seni sputtered.
Mahu opened his mouth, closed it and shrugged. “She is here. That is what I mean.”
Seni shook his head so violently that he lost his balance and staggered. Mahu grabbed his uncle’s arm and steadied him. He led Seni to a bench and eased him to its padded plank.
“Thuya,” Mahu said over his shoulder, “please get a cup of beer for my uncle.”
Thuya, who had dressed in her fullest wig and her finest gown to welcome the governor of Ta-Seti, frowned and then turned and clapped her hand at Ruyu, startling the young servant girl whose wide eyes were darting from Governor Seni to the waiting litter outside the door of the modest home in the business district of Waset.
As the girl ran to fetch a drink, Thuya turned back to her husband and his “uncle.”
When Mahu had courted her, he had told her that his mother’s sister had been childhood friends with the governor of Ta-Seti and, although Mahu had never seen the man, he had been raised to refer to him as “uncle.”
During the twelve years of their marriage, Thuya had never met this “uncle” who lived far upriver beyond the first cataract. As far as she knew, the letter Mahu had received three weeks earlier informing him that Governor Seni would be staying with him was the first correspondence her husband had ever received from this “uncle.”
Still, having an “uncle” who ruled a province couldn’t be a bad thing, and so she had prepared a room, ordered a banquet and purchased the best beers and wines, for Mahu didn’t know which drink his “uncle” preferred.
“It isn’t possible. I was told ... ” Seni blinked and tried to stand. Mahu helped him to his feet and Ruyu returned with a clay pot of beer.
Thuya gritted her teeth. The beer should have been served in one of the silver cups she had borrowed from her mother.
Seni took the clay pot and drained it. Then he wiped his mouth with his arm and belched loudly. Ruyu took the pot, bowed, and backed away from the governor.
Thuya noticed that Seni never looked at the servant, never acknowledged that the beer had been brought to him by a living person.
He probably didn’t notice the clay pot, she told herself. Still, I must speak to Ruyu.
“When did she return?” Seni asked.
Mahu shook his head. “She has always been here.”
“No, she went to Ta Netjer. I was told that she went to Ta Netjer.”
“No, dear uncle,” Mahu said, trying out the term to see if Seni would object. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut sent an expedition to Ta Netjer. Nehsy went. Admiral Ahmose went. But not Pharaoh Hatshepsut. There was a great celebration when they left.” He turned to Thuya. “Remember the drums?”
Thuya nodded.
“But Pharaoh Hatshepsut was watching while the ships departed. Later she returned to the palace in a chariot. I saw it.”
“Yes, dear uncle,” Thuya added, trying out the endearment, “I saw her leave on her chariot, driven by Neferhotep, captain of her guards.”
Seni clenched his teeth. Menna’s letter had clearly said that Pharaoh Hatshepsut had accompanied the expedition. Either Menna had been mistaken or Pharaoh Hatshepsut had tricked everyone.
Just as she had tricked death so many years ago.
“You are sure that she is here?” Seni said looking first at Mahu and then Thuya. They both nodded, their faces showing confusion, not deceit.
“I am a policeman, uncle. We are told when Pharaoh Hatshepsut or Pharaoh Thutmose leave, when they are in town, when they are planning to visit the temples. I would know if she had gone. And, I assure you, she has not left Waset. Pharaoh Thutmose, as I’m sure you know, is in Sinai with General Ahmose Pen-Nebheket, where they are fighting the Shasu.
“We did receive word that they have secured the trade routes. So they should be returning soon.” He smiled. “It may take a year. General Pen-Nebheket protects the army of the Two Lands like Mehen protects Re.”
Unconsciously, Seni clutched the fabric of his linen gown as he thought. He had depended on the Medjay and they had failed him. He had depended on Thutmose II and the gods, and they had failed him. He had depended on Yuya and the Medjay assassins and they had failed him.
“I will do it myself,” he said softly.
“Uncle?” Mahu said. “Do what?”
Seni shook his head. He would depend on no one again.
Pharaoh Hatshepsut was here.
He was here.
Wepwawet was approaching and the Field of Reeds was near. His time in the Two Lands was drawing to an end and he had nothing to lose.
He would kill her himself.
Kebu and the Bushbaby
Kebu dreamed that he was home in his small village on the outskirts of Kerma.
His little brother, still wearing a sidelock, was squatted on the dry, dirt floor of their hut, his face wet with tears. As Kebu raised himself up on his elbows a series of shadows ran past the opening of the hut. The dark shapes moved too quickly to be recognized, but Kebu knew that they were his companions, the men who had died during the raid in Tadjoura.
Yellow light jumped through the archway. Flames.
Kebu was running now as fire noisily ate the huts of his friends and family. Arrows whispered through the air and spears stabbed the ground as he ran. Men ran past him, clutching their weapons as they raced toward the sound of fighting. A woman hobbled past him, one hand dragging a crying child, the other arm curled across her chest, holding an infant.
When the woman looked over her shoulder, Kebu saw that it was his mother. He stopped moving and began to turn in a slow, tight circle.
Naked and unarmed, he stood in confusion as the huts gave themselves to the flames, the women cried in terror and the shouting men ran to their deaths. Blinking back tears, his attention was drawn to a black space between two huts.
A baby was crying.
As he stared into the darkness the heat of the flames disappeared, the sounds of fighting slipped away and the village dissolved into a ghost.
Still, the baby cried.
Again, Kebu pushed himself up on his elbows.
He blinked awake, found his eyes were damp with tears from the nightmare and rubbed the moisture away.
He was lying on the gr
ound by the edge of the forest. Khonsu was a sliver in a star-filled sky. He sniffed. He smelled the desert and the green of the jungle, but there were no flames.
The dream memory was strong and, coming awake now, he realized that the boy had been him and the nightmare had been the night raid in which his father had died. Kebu had been eight years old. He looked at his fingers as he counted. He was sixteen now. His father had died half a lifetime ago.
I should be a father, Kebu thought. When I reach Kerma I will tell Governor Seni about the fight and then I will go to our home and I will learn to fish or to farm or to weave baskets. I will fight no more.
The baby cried again.
Kebu squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. The dream of fighting and dying was gone. He was sitting alone in the jungle.
The baby cried once more and Kebu came to his feet.
He turned toward the dark forest, turned his face toward the sound and listened intently.
When the cry came again he began to run to rescue the infant.
***
Tree limbs swished above Kebu, leaves slapped against each other and heavy shadows jumped in the canopy. Looking upward, Kebu heard heavy breathing and an excited chatter from the treetops.
Stumbling in the dark, his hands found tangled vines and wet tree trunks. Kebu staggered through the dark, following the troop of chimpanzees as they leaped and swung through the forest.
The baby cried again.
The chimps changed direction abruptly and, looking up, Kebu saw smaller shapes in the trees ahead. The baby’s cry, a long, wailing call, cut through the air, and Kebu understood now that it was the terrified screams of bushbabies fleeing the larger chimps.
The eerily humanlike scream came again and Kebu began to run again. The sounds tangled with his dream, driving him forward; he needed to save those babies.
A louder screech came from the treetop and, looking skyward, Kebu saw that one of the bushbabies had been caught by a chimp. He ran to the tree by the chimp and looked for a foothold. Above him the bushbaby’s scream became louder while the shuffling sound from the canopy faded as the other chimps continued the chase.
Kebu grabbed a thick vine with both hands and braced his weight as he put one foot, then another on the slippery tree trunk. Above him the chimp, its heavy yellow teeth bared in rage, screamed at the squirming bushbaby it held in one hand.
The baby cried and twisted, Kebu pulled himself upward and the chimp wrapped one long-fingered hand around the bushbaby’s head.
Kebu swung his right hand higher on the vine, felt his fingers slip and tried to find purchase with his feet. Above him the chimp screamed as the bushbaby bit it and, shaking its hand, the chimp dropped the smaller monkey.
The bushbaby swung its thin arms as it fell through the air and Kebu, falling backward toward the ground, watched the small shadow cartwheel through the air above him.
Kebu landed on his back, felt the air rush from his chest, but kept his eyes on the bushbaby’s falling figure.
“No, no,” Kebu said, wrenching himself to his knees and reaching skyward.
The tumbling bushbaby’s arm slapped against a low limb. It twisted trying to grasp it, missed, and continued its fall.
Now Kebu saw a heavier shape swinging downward as the chimp chased the bushbaby, racing gravity for the prize.
Kebu glanced at the forest floor for a fallen branch to use as a weapon. As he did, he heard a soft rustling. His eyes searched the darkness. Above him the bushbaby brushed past a final branch. Kebu looked up at the sound, raised his arms and caught the tiny monkey.
It immediately bit him and, as he fought the impulse to release it, he saw that the chimp had been joined by others and a half dozen of the angry chimps were chattering and screaming as they descended.
Twisting and clawing at Kebu, the bushbaby squirmed free and fell to the jungle floor. As it began to run away, Kebu saw a flash of dark brown and black and heard the chuffing of heavy panting. Above him the chimps were calling a different sound now, their long arms pointing toward the jungle floor near Kebu.
Suddenly the bushes around him shook and he heard the sound of the bushbaby screaming.
The bushbaby’s screaming suddenly ended and as Kebu ran toward it he saw a jackal run away, its jaws firmly holding the limp bushbaby.
Lightning rods of history
A lone seagull spread its wings and swung its feet forward.
Landing on the smooth wood of the raised platform at the stern of the boat, the seagull started to slide. It leaned backward and flapped its wings to arrest its movement. Shaking its head as it stumbled to a stop, it folded its wings, ducked its head under a wing to pick at a misaligned feather and then stared at Imhotep, who was sitting on the deck just below the platform, one arm lying across a coil of rope.
The seagull stepped to the edge of the platform, pushed its hooked, yellow beak toward Imhotep’s face, and squawked loudly.
Blinking awake at the sound, Imhotep squinted at the bird, backlit by the low-slung morning sun.
He had come out on the deck before sunrise to relieve himself. Then, lulled by the light splashing sound of oars digging into water as the sailors pulled the boat north toward Saww, he had settled on the deck and leaned back against the gunwale to watch the stars.
Soon he was tangled in a dream that the seagull had just chased away, leaving behind a feeling of unease.
The bird shifted its weight from one foot to another and squawked again.
“I don’t have any food,” Imhotep said grumpily as he pushed himself to a more upright seated position against the gunwale. He rubbed his eyes and caught a glimpse of the disconcerting dream: the broad, bare back of a man hunched over something unseen, muted cries and a sharp feeling of pain.
Without thinking, Imhotep put his hand on his right hip. He looked down and saw that he was covering the feather-shaped birthmark on his hip. There was no pain there now, but in the dream ...
The seagull squawked again. He waved a hand at the bird, which took a step back, but stayed on deck. Frowning, Imhotep found his staff by his feet, gripped it with one hand, rested the other on the gunwale, and pushed himself upright.
Looking down at the deck, he tried to recapture the dream, but it had turned to smoke.
Yawning, Imhotep looked midship where the steady morning breeze pushed against the square sail. Six men sat on low benches on each side of the boat. Although they faced him, their eyes were unfocused as they rhythmically worked the oars, pulling the ship through the swaying waters of the Great Green.
Taking two of the five ships, they had left Admiral Ahmose three days ago to hurry back to the Two Lands with Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Captain Djehuty commanded the other ship. Nehsy, chancellor of the Two Lands, commanded the ship that carried Pharaoh Hatshepsut, Akila, and Imhotep.
They had stocked two weeks’ supply of food and water and enough sailors to pull at the oars in three shifts each day. To Djehuty’s delight, Imhotep had insisted that they take nothing that would slow their return to the doctors of the Two Lands. And so they had left behind all the livestock, including the pair of baboons.
At the far end of the boat, on a platform by the bow, the flap curled open at the front of the linen tent and Akila stepped into the morning light. Imhotep saw her take a deep breath, and then she began to pick her way past the boxes and baskets, the potted myrrh trees, the bundles of wood and ivory and other treasures that filled every space of the deck.
The seagull squawked as Akila came to a stop by Imhotep. “Shoo,” she said absently and the bird silently turned and heaved itself into the air.
“She is worse,” Akila said, her eyes worried as she crossed her arms and stared at Imhotep.
He nodded in response, watching her adjust her stance to ride the slow, swaying rhythm of the boat.
“The swelling?” he asked. In the three days since they had stanched the open sore in her gum, a second swelling had grown by the infected tooth.
“Fi
lled with pus,” Akila said.
“Do we need to drain it or should we wait for it to break as the other did?”
Akila shook her head angrily. “We should drain it because it’s infected, but we don’t have a sterile place to work, we don’t have instruments, we don’t have any way to close an incision and we don’t have any meds.”
Imhotep pulled her into a hug.
“I’m sorry, Akila.” He turned his head and kissed the back of her neck, inhaling the scent of lavender from the oil she used to keep her skin from burning.
“It’s been a harrowing trip,” he whispered.
“It just doesn’t end, Tim,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I mean, Hatshepsut is wonderful and so are Pentu and Sitre, of course. But this world, this life is feeling more and more alien.” She shook her head. “I don’t just mean the violence at Tadjoura, although that alone ... But it is just every day. There is no plumbing, there is no air conditioning, there are no antibiotics.”
“And there’s sand everywhere,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.
She pulled back and smiled.
“There are things to like,” she said, shifting into diagnosis mode. “I like that we live in the moment.”
“It’s hard not to, there aren’t any distractions,” Imhotep said.
“And I like the immediacy.”
“Immediacy?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know if that is the right word. But there are no supermarkets, no fast foods. You grind fresh wheat to make flour. You don’t turn a knob or push a button, you gather wood to make a fire to cook. There is a hands-on reward, a clear connection between the outside world — the farms, the river and fishermen, the herdsmen, and the inner world — our cook fire, our bellies.”
“No plastic, no aluminum foil,” he said.
“No oil spills, no nuclear plants,” she said.
