by Jerry Dubs
Seni shook his head violently. “No, that isn’t true. Ta-Seti is more than a water carrier for the Two Lands ... ”
“Uncle,” Mahu interrupted, his snake voice striking now. “I know that a letter was sent to you shortly after the expedition to Ta Netjer was gone. I talked with Menna.”
“Menna?” Seni said.
Mahu turned to his wife. “That is what they do, Thuya. When you are on their trail, they repeat what you have said, gathering time to construct a lie.” He turned back to Seni. “When you first came here, you insisted that Pharaoh Hatshepsut had gone on the expedition.”
Seni clamped his jaw tightly and stared at his nephew. He had traveled this far, he had waited so many years.
“Menna admitted to me that he sent word to you that Pharaoh Hatshepsut had gone to Ta Netjer. When you arrived here you were shocked to hear that she had not left Waset. So I ask you uncle, why are you here? You didn’t come to Waset to seek an audience with Pharaoh Hatshepsut if you thought she was in Ta Netjer.” He stood and leaned on the table, lowering his face to Governor Seni’s. “Why are you here?”
Seni closed his eyes.
The headaches and the unruly stomach that had led him to consult the god Hathor about his fate had grown worse. His stomach gave him pain when he ate, and his head felt as if a scorpion was wandering inside it. Without warning, a stinging pain would begin at the base of his skull and crawl up the back of his head, ending behind his eyes. At times, when the ache made his eyes water, he knew that his restless ka was punishing him for remaining in the Two Lands instead of resting from this long, tiring life.
But first he must find a way into the palace, step close to Hatshepsut and drive a knife into her heart. Then he would rest from this life.
He needed his nephew to help him, not delay his revenge. He would never slink back to Ta-Seti while Hatshepsut continued to sit on the throne. No longer would he hide on the outskirts of the empire, nursing his anger and plotting.
It mattered not if he died in his bed or at the end of a palace guard’s spear. Either way death was near.
But so was his revenge.
He opened his eyes and said, as if telling a child a bedtime story, “Mut-Nofret, wife of Pharaoh Thutmose the first, and I were lovers before the pharaoh stole her from me.”
He stood, his legs shaking, but from anger, not weakness. “I swore revenge. After Mut-Nofret gave birth we plotted the death of her arrogant husband. I sent assassins to Abu. Yes, that’s right, close your mouths, I sent Medjay assassins to kill the entire royal family!
“I was not, I am not some menial servant. I am governor of the gateway to the south, where the riches of the Land of God pour into the Two Lands. I am the gatekeeper!”
He wiped spittle from his lips, turned his memory inward and continued. “The Medjay warriors killed Thutmose’s grown sons. They were ordered to kill Hatshepsut, too. But they failed. It shouldn’t have mattered, because Mut-Nofret’s son would become pharaoh when Thutmose died. But after his sons’ deaths, the old man drew Hatshepsut to his side. Perhaps he suspected, I don’t know. But when he died, Hatshepsut married Mut-Nofret’s son.
“The boy should have been my son!” He stopped and shook his head as his mind calculated the distant calendar. “No, he was my son. The timing is right! I’m certain of it!” He smiled at the thought and then the smile disappeared as he remembered the reality that had supplanted his dreams.
“Mut-Nofret was going to bring me back from exile, yes that’s what life in Ta-Seti has been, exile. Exile from my family, exile from the Two Lands. Exile from the one love of my life, your great aunt, Mut-Nofret!
“But the boy she delivered was damaged, cursed by the gods. His head,” Seni waved open fingers at his head, “was weak. His limbs were weak. Yet, when he became a man he managed to sire a son.”
“Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name,” Mahu prompted.
“Yes! Mut-Nofret’s grandson! My grandson! And he should sit on the throne. But Hapuseneb, bastard whelp of Amun, made up that nonsense about Amun fathering Hatshepsut and he raised her to the throne.
“But I know, I know that my Mut-Nofret’s grandson should sit there. The throne should not be held by a woman, especially that bitch.”
Thuya gasped and put a hand on her husband’s arm.
“Yes,” Seni turned to her, his face contorted into an angry mask, “I said ‘bitch.’ And I am still standing here.” He spread his arms and looked skyward. “Her ‘father’ Amun hasn’t struck me down. Because he isn’t her father. That story is nothing but the smoke of temple incense lit to befuddle the cattle. Yet she sits on the throne.”
He turned back to his nephew.
“I came here, Mahu, to celebrate the death of Hatshepsut. Yes, her death! Because, you see, after Menna told me that she was in Ta Netjer, I sent assassins to kill her.”
He breathed deeply and started to cough.
Thuya, in shock at the blasphemy she had heard, stood unmoving as Mahu picked up the beer cup and handed it to Seni.
Seni drank deeply, allowing the beer to overflow and run down his chin. He lowered the cup and, his eyes filled with rage, leaned toward Mahu.
“Now, what are you going to do with me, Mahu? Arrest me? Give me to the palace guards? Have my name chiseled from the columns at Kerma? Have Thoth scratch my name from the scrolls of eternity? You would ruin Mut-Nofret’s name, as well. And in the process you would condemn yourself and your wife to Duat!”
When Mahu failed to respond, Seni grasped his nephew’s arms and said, “Get me close to her, Mahu. I will do what needs to be done. Once it is over, once our Thutmose is on the throne, you’ll see that it was ma’at.
“I will be celebrated. You will be celebrated.”
Thoughts and deeds
Standing on the starboard side of the boat, Imhotep held a hand at his forehead to shield his eyes as he watched a brown whirlwind swirl across the water.
The twisting funnel stirred up choppy waves where it touched the water. Then leaning, it veered to his right, heading south. He watched it jump from the sun-spangled water, touch down again and wobble. Soon it lost strength and the dirt it was carrying sprayed outward and fell into the water.
He smiled, thinking that his oldest friend, Bata, would have seen it as an omen.
Is the whirlwind my ka and the dust it carried was my mortal coil? Is that what Shakespeare called it, mortal coil? He squinted as he tried to remember. Yes, he thought. It was in the ‘To be, or not to be’ speech.
He tried to remember the rest of the monologue, but he hadn’t been a literature major and all he could collect were fragments: perchance to dream, slings and arrows, the undiscovered country.
Lowering his head, he tried to focus his memory, sending his thoughts to sixteenth-century England, almost three thousand years in the future. And, as happened when he tried to unravel the twisted time line that was his life, he became lost amid musing of what was, what would be, and what could have been.
A touch on his arm startled him and, turning, he saw Akila standing beside him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, just thinking,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “How is she?” he asked, looking toward Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s tent.
“Not well, Tim. She is feverish and can barely stay awake. I’m worried.”
“We’re there!” one of the rowers shouted, pointing at the near, western shore of the Great Green. “We made it!”
Akila and Imhotep stepped up on the low platform at the bow of the boat. Looking ahead and to the west they saw a gathering of palm trees, a small collection of low-riding boats, and the mud brick homes of Saww.
Standing side-by-side, they took each other’s hands and held tightly.
***
Pharaoh Thutmose sat on the stone floor of the dark, inner sanctum of the great god Ptah.
Leaning back against the hieroglyph-covered wall, he studied the statue that stood in the center of the windowless room.
It was early morning and Re had been welcomed with prayers of thanksgiving and the fiery god had begun his celestial voyage. But here, in the heart of Ptah’s temple, Re’s light was filtered through the leaves of palm trees that grew beside the god’s shrine, abraded by the stone columns that surrounded the chapel and strained by the hallway that led to the narrow doorway to the god’s sanctuary.
Pharaoh Thutmose rocked forward and came to his feet. Reverently he approached the god, his eyes wide in the dim light.
He knew that the statue was made of gold, but the precious metal was hidden.
The god’s head was capped by a tight-fitting blue leather cap. His body and feet were shrouded in the finest linen, the threads so fine and tight that, here in the depths of the temple, the fabric seemed to be made of silvery shadows. Only his face, neck, and hands were exposed, and they were green, befitting the living mummy.
Pharaoh Thutmose slowly extended his hand and touched the god’s face.
It was cool and smooth. His fingers reverently traced the wide cheekbone, sliding gently across the god’s face. He wondered how it had been made. He had pectoral necklaces that contained emeralds. Had the craftsmen crushed them and used their heka to turn them into a paste to re-create the god’s skin?
He brushed his fingertips to the god’s chin beard, found himself surprised that it was solid and not the false hair that he wore when he sat in court. Smiling, he thought of his stepmother who also wore the ceremonial beard.
“What do you say, Lord of Eternity? Will you someday visit the priests and tell them that you are my father?” he asked the silent god.
“I know the young heroes follow me. I know that General Pen-Nebheket would rather follow a man than a woman, even if that woman wears a beard. But what do the gods want?”
He turned his head and put his ear to the god’s lifeless lips.
“You will not speak to me, will you?” he said.
Bowing his head, Pharaoh Thutmose smiled a secret smile. “I know you speak to my heart. I know that my ka mingles with yours. I will wait, Great Ptah, He who Listens to Prayers. I will wait for a sign.”
***
While Pharaoh Hatshepsut lay sleeping in her tent, Imhotep and Nehsy, accompanied by six guards, went ashore and hurried to the stables.
“We should get six chariots,” Nehsy said as they crossed the dusty crossroads at the edge of the settlement.
“Six?” Imhotep said, limping slightly and leaning on his walking staff as his legs got used to the land.
“Yes,” Nehsy said, his breathing growing heavier. He paused and placed a hand on his side. The guards stopped beside them and looked expectantly at Imhotep.
“I haven’t walked this far or fast for months,” Nehsy said, grimacing in pain and bending forward.
“There is no place to go on a boat,” Imhotep agreed. He touched Nehsy’s side just below his ribs. “The pain is here?”
Nehsy nodded.
“A sharp, sudden pain?”
Nehsy nodded again.
“In my land we call it a ‘stitch.’ When the pain comes again, take a deep breath,” Imhotep said. He waited until he saw Nehsy frown and then draw air in through his mouth.
“Breathe deeply and hold it,” Imhotep said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Now blow through your mouth, lean forward. Yes, yes, Nehsy.” He watched Nehsy for a moment. “We’ll wait here, Nehsy. When the pain comes again, breathe deeply until it passes, then blow out the air.”
Nehsy put his hand on his side, rose on his toes and gulped air.
“There is a muscle here,” Imhotep pointed to his diaphragm. “It cramps.” He held out his hand and clenched it tightly. “The breathing exercise will relax the muscle.”
Nehsy exhaled and, his face red, looked at Imhotep.
“It feels as if a viper ... ” he paused and started to breathe deeply. Then, his face relaxing, he looked at Imhotep in surprise. “It is gone! Your heka is very strong.”
When he had first arrived in the Two Lands and discovered that basic first aid appeared magical to the ancient Egyptians, Imhotep had tried to explain his actions. But he had soon discovered they preferred to believe he had magical powers they called heka.
“Yes, Nehsy.” He looked toward the stables. “But I need amulets and herbs for Pharaoh Hatshepsut that are in Waset.” he looked again at Nehsy, saw him breathing freely and turned to continue toward the stables.
After a few steps, he turned to Nehsy and asked, “Why six chariots?”
“One for Pharaoh Hatshepsut, one for you and one for Akila. Then a backup for each.” He paused to catch his breath and then continued, “It has been my experience that chariots are very fragile. One rock and ... ” he clapped his hands, “the chariot flies into the air, lands off balance and a wheel cracks.” He offered Imhotep a strained smile. “I much prefer a litter.”
***
Secured with lines at the stern and bow, the boat rode the low, irrepressible waves that lifted and shifted the ship, sliding the wide wooden gangplank across the stony shore.
Akila and Imhotep stood behind a sling stretcher that held Pharaoh Hatshepsut. The ruler of the Two Lands had sunk into a delirious fever while the chariots were being arranged. Four soldiers carried her now, glancing nervously as they stepped carefully onto the gangplank.
Nehsy paced by the other end of the gangplank, his gaunt frame moving jerkily in the moonlight.
The chancellor had overruled Imhotep’s demand that they begin the journey earlier in the day. “No one can know that Pharaoh Hatshepsut is here, much less that she is ill,” he had explained. “And when you get to Waset, enter at night.”
“Step ... step ... step,” the leader of the soldiers commanded quietly as the men carried Pharaoh Hatshepsut to land.
Once the gangplank was clear, Imhotep and Akila hurried down and joined the litter bearers by a chariot that had been modified to carry Pharaoh Hatshepsut. They rearranged the cushions that covered the floor of the small chariot and stood back as the soldiers gently transferred the ruler of the Two Lands to the makeshift bed.
Then they tied three wide leather straps across the open back of the chariot and stood aside while Akila and Imhotep inspected the work.
“Water?” Akila asked.
Imhotep showed her the water skins that were stacked and secured on the beds of the three extra chariots.
Crossing her arms, Akila looked at Pharaoh Hatshepsut. “There is nothing more we can do for her here. I know that once we get to Waset there are herbs ... ”
“And other doctors,” Imhotep said quickly. “I know you have the expertise, Akila. But remember where we are. She, and the officials in her court, will have more confidence in her own physicians.”
“In Sitre? And Pentu? You trained Sitre and she trained Pentu,” Akila said.
“I know, but Pharaoh Hatshepsut believes in them. You know belief trumps logic.”
“Tell that to the bacteria that are feeding on her,” Akila muttered in English.
Imhotep sighed and stepped close to Akila. “We’ll do everything that we can, Akila. I just don’t want you to take the blame for whatever happens.”
“Belladonna!” Akila said suddenly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to remember. Belladonna! And they’ll have that in Waset. I remember cataloging the pharmacy at the palace with Pentu. They use a mild dosage of it for menstrual cramps. But it will help this. I’m sure of it.” She grabbed Imhotep’s arms and said, “It will work.”
Imhotep smiled and pulled her close.
It has to, he thought.
***
Puimre, Prophet of Ptah, had thick shoulders and a thicker waist. When he raised his hands in greeting, loose flesh swung from his upper arms. When he smiled, hanging jowls wobbled beneath his jaw.
After a year among the soldiers of the Two Lands, men who traveled hard and ate little, Pharaoh Thutmose found the soft weight of the priest odd and offensive.
The soldiers lived a brutal life an
d yet they sang raucously as they sat around their evening campfires. They carefully sharpened their spears, unstrung and oiled their bows, groomed and wiped the sweat from their horses, yet they went days without bathing and they often stank. They ate too fast and they belched and farted without restraint. They drank themselves into a stupor and yet woke before Re appeared. They sweated as they marched, but had energy to scream as they charged the enemy.
Looking at Puimre’s self-satisfied face, Thutmose suppressed a frown.
If he were somehow able to look at his own innocent face from a year ago when he lived in the Temple of Amun, if he could somehow stand before still water and see his own previously soft body wavering before him, he would be disgusted.
A year with the army had changed him.
It had changed the way he thought of the priests, the hunters, the merchants, the scribes, the fishermen, and the farmers.
He forced a smile as Puimre bowed and said, “Greetings Pharaoh Thutmose, long life! I understand you have been with Ptah.”
“I do enjoy the quiet of the temple,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, sitting on an ebony stool, the square legs painted with columns of the ankhs, the loop-headed cross that represented eternal life.
Puimre nodded knowingly and then glanced at the low table beside them that held platters of salted fish and roasted duck, two loaves of heavy bread, and jars of wine and beer. Pointing an open hand at the table, he nodded into the shadows of the dining room and four servants ran to him.
The boys ran to either side of the priest and waited stiffly.
Pharaoh Thutmose glanced at the table and, struck by an alien notion, he stood. He reached past the boys and picked up a golden plate. The boys threw wide eyes at Puimre and then at each other. They had never seen a priest or court official wait on themselves.
Puimre started to stammer, caught himself and then tilted his head at the servants who shuffled in confusion before running ran back into the shadows.
