by Jerry Dubs
And his ka sang.
***
A boy was waiting for Neferhotep at the gates of the House of the Soul of Ptah. Sitting slouched against the wide wooden doors of the temple entrance, the boy was asleep, his head hanging loosely, his chin touching his chest.
Smiling to himself, Neferhotep knelt beside the boy. He thought of startling the boy awake and scolding him for falling asleep, but this was the Temple of Ptah, not an army encampment.
So Neferhotep coughed lightly.
The boy slept on.
Neferhotep’s smile widened. When did I last sleep so soundly?
Gently, he shook the boy’s arm. The boy’s head jerked upright. His eyes shot open when he saw a dust-covered soldier’s face near his.
“It is late,” Neferhotep said in the calm voice he used to quiet his horses. “I am Neferhotep and I believe that Useramen sent you to wait for me.”
The boy pushed his back against the door frame and wiggled to his feet. Then he bowed his head. “Good evening, Commander Neferhotep. What do you need?” he said, reciting the greeting he had memorized.
Rising, Neferhotep felt his smile turn wry. “A good question, son. What do I need?”
The boy looked confused.
“I think I would like a jar of beer and a loaf of bread. I wouldn’t mind some meat. Ox if there is any. Then goose. Then duck.”
The boy nodded vigorously.
“Not all of them,” Neferhotep added, realizing that his cloudy thoughts had made his words unclear. “What I mean is bring me roasted duck if there is no goose. Bring me goose if there is no ox. Understand?”
“We have dried fish,” the boy said helpfully.
“Just bread and beer then,” Neferhotep said, happy to hear amusement rather than anger in his voice. “I’m going to bathe. You can leave the food in my quarters. My room hasn’t been changed, has it?”
The boy shook his head.
“Good. After you’ve brought the food to my room, you can go to sleep. I won’t be needing anything else.”
***
Lying on the eastern horizon just above the curved fronds of palm trees, Khonsu painted himself with wavering light on the black water of the garden pond as Neferhotep untied his shendyt.
Feeling tight muscles in his back and shoulders, Neferhotep stretched, raising himself on his toes. Holding his arms overhead, he breathed deeply and pushed his arms closer to Nut. Once the muscles surrendered, he lowered his arms and stepped into the water.
Steeped through the long, hot day, the water held more heat than the night air. Neferhotep waded deeper into the warmth until it reached his waist. Then he lowered himself until he was sitting on the stone bottom of the shallow pond.
The warm water welcomed him, washing over his legs, back, and shoulders.
Tilting his head back, he looked into the night sky. He found Thuban, the star that never moved, and the imperishable ones that circled it, never disappearing below the horizon. All the uncountable stars lived here in the belly of Nut and also in Duat, filling the sky above those who had rested from life.
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the gods.
He felt Geb supporting him while Nut shielded him. Khonsu watched from behind the palms. Father Ptah slept steps away in his sealed, sacred chamber.
Maya taught me that the gods watch over me, but that I must care for myself. Pentu believes that the gods are magical kas that sometimes inhabit a hawk or a crocodile or a scarab beetle. He says that with the proper prayers and incantation, the gods can be persuaded to lend their power to charms and medicines.
They taught me that Ptah created me and that the gods are ever watchful. I can take comfort in them and I can invoke their help.
But Imhotep, a god himself, says that it is not the gods, but our actions, that shape our lives. One who draws becomes an artist, one who bakes becomes a baker. Imhotep doesn’t rely on the gods for help. Of course not, Neferhotep mused, he can call fire from the sky.
He opened his eyes to the night sky.
I draw the bowstring and I drive the chariot. I am an archer and a charioteer.
And a man, his ka whispered, drawing his thoughts back to the dangerous depths of Menwi’s eyes, to the seductive softness of her skin and the gentleness of her mouth.
He pushed himself out of the water and walked to the edge of the pond. The god Min had invaded him, making him erect. Standing in the cooling night air, he stretched his arms away from his body. Arching his back, he looked up at the million uncaring stars.
“I am an archer and a charioteer. My heart is pure. I will not take what is not mine,” he told the gods.
Still, Min dwelt within him and he ached with desire.
Eyes watering with tears, Neferhotep staggered from the sacred pond and awkwardly picked up his shendyt. Fists clenched, he stood in the darkness, head bowed as he prayed and waited for Min to release his hold.
After a moment he began to tie his kilt, using the material to hide the excitement that refused to fade.
Feeling eyes on him, he turned. A fluid shadow shifted within the window of the chambers where the three sisters were housed.
He imagined it was Menwi who stood in the darkness within the window.
She saw me, saw my desire. With a few steps I can be by her window. I could whisper her name. She will whisper mine. I can lift her from the room, bring her to the garden.
Staring at the window, he waited for a sign, but there was no movement.
Turning away, he saw that Khonsu had moved. Blood red now, the night god had lowered himself between two arching palm tree trunks.
With a start, Neferhotep realized that Khonsu and the trees formed the sun-disk headdress worn by the goddess Hathor.
The goddess of love.
Hearts lost
Hekaemsaf’s hands were covered with calluses that felt like small stones when he gripped Neferhotep’s forearms in greeting.
“Three boats, each of the most beautiful cedar,” he said, relinquishing one of Neferhotep’s arms, but tugging on the other to lead him along the docks. “Each has a central cabin, small, true, but beautiful. And,” he looked skyward, “there is no shade on the river, so the shelter will be appreciated. Oh, and each cabin has windows on each side and at the back. The breeze flows right through it.”
Smiling at Neferhotep, he made a motion with his hand as if fanning himself.
He stopped before a high-riding boat, the reddish wood rich with morning sunlight, extended his hand to the ship and said, “Beautiful, yes?”
Neferhotep appreciated the withers of horses, the tight weave of the leather floor of a chariot, the tight tension of a bow. He knew nothing of ships. However, the curve of the ship’s prow, the sharp, straight edge of the midship cabin, the startling white of the single sail, the aligned, angled lines of the eight tall oars, rising from the side of the boat like slender trees ... he saw beauty here.
“Yes, Hekaemsaf, it is beautiful. Worthy to carry the wives of Pharaoh Thutmose.”
Hekaemsaf nodded rapidly. “And look at the figurehead, here on the prow. See? This is, of course, Hathor. And the others carry Horus — we were given permission by Pharaoh Thutmose himself to use the falcon — and Sobek.” He shrugged, pointing the third ship whose prow was capped with the open-jawed head of a crocodile. “A little frightening perhaps, but protective, yes?”
He pulled on Neferhotep’s arm. “Here, see for yourself. What do you think?” he asked.
Standing by the ship, Hekaemsaf released Neferhotep’s arm and crossed his own arms. Leaning back to admire the ship, he shook his head in pleasure. “Beautiful, is it not?”
“Beautiful,” Neferhotep agreed and found that at the thought of beauty, his thoughts turned to the face that had visited his dreams, bringing both desire and shame.
***
“I want the crocodile ship,” Merti said, surprising her older sisters as they gathered by the boats after arriving in separate covered litters from the temple.
Menhet
jutted out her chin and asked, “Which one will lead the others?”
“Horus leads, Lady Menhet,” Neferhotep said.
“I will ride Horus,” Menhet said, raising her head and pointing her chin at the ship.
Two of the litter bearers exchanged glances, suppressing smiles. Neferhotep saw them, but decided that disciplining them would only draw attention to Menhet’s unintended double entendre.
“The goddess Hathor is the goddess of love?” Menwi asked Neferhotep, her voice innocent.
Neferhotep thought of Khonsu lowering himself between two trees last night, creating the headdress of Hathor. He wondered if Menwi had seen it from the window.
“Yes, Lady Menwi. The goddess Hathor, whom we call Mistress of the West, radiates love. She also comes to the aid of birthing mothers, inspires musicians and dancers, and welcomes the kas of those who rest from life.” He stopped, realizing that nervousness was making him ramble.
Menhet saw his confusion and looked from him to Menwi. Her younger sister was watching the charioteer hungrily, her eyes caressing his face. The man, she saw, was embarrassed, color rising in his face.
Neferhotep bowed his head and backed away from the women. “If we could board the ships?” he said, motioning to the attendants to escort the wives of Pharaoh Thutmose to their ships.
***
In the early afternoon, with Re looking over his shoulder, Neferhotep appeared as a shadow when he paused before the open doorway of Menhet’s cabin.
“Lady Menhet,” he said, his head bowed. “We are approaching Henen-Nesut, our first rest stop. We will take shelter there until late afternoon. You will have time to dine and bathe.”
Unsure how a princess should address a soldier, even this soldier who commanded the ships and was charged with protecting them, Menhet silently nodded approval.
Neferhotep hesitated a moment. He wanted to ask if she was comfortable, if she desired a special meal, if she had a preference for oils and perfumes, but she seemed distant. As she looked at him through narrowed eyes, Neferhotep bowed and backed away from the cabin.
Watching the charioteer lower his eyes as he withdrew, Menhet thought of how he had looked at her sister before they boarded.
And how Menwi had returned his look.
She shook her head. She could read her sister’s thoughts, even if her sister could not.
What is she thinking?
We have left behind the dust and dirt of Alalakh, traded our dark rooms covered with the pelts of wolves for spacious, windowed rooms where light shines on carvings of gods and strange symbols, where pillars, walls, and ceilings were painted in colors that don’t even exist in dirty Alalakh.
We are promised to the ruler of an empire. Slaves will bring us food, bathe us and feed us. How can Menwi endanger that by looking longingly at a soldier?
As the sailors turned the boat toward the eastern bank of the river, Menhet saw Neferhotep return to the bow. Resting one hand on the curving prow that ended in the head of a hawk, he twisted to look behind them.
He seeks Menwi, Menhet thought.
He will endanger Menwi’s future. And mine! Just to satisfy his lust.
She crossed her arms and knitted her brow.
She had never been with a man, but she had seen the fever and recklessness that seized a man when he was in heat. She wondered if this charioteer was the same. He seemed civilized and had been polite and humble.
But he was a man.
She would watch him closely.
***
Sitting on the low platform at the stern of the second ship, Menwi leaned to one side to look ahead to Menhet’s boat where Neferhotep was riding.
She saw the sailor who stood by the long tiller at the stern of the leading ship and beyond him the four rowers who stood on the starboard side of the boat, working their oars: lifting, dipping, pulling. To the left of the sailors the sharp edge of the wooden cabin where Menhet hid from the sun blocked Menwi’s view of the prow of the boat.
The lead boat started to angle to shore and she caught a glimpse of a bare shoulder beyond Menhet’s cabin. The boat continued its arcing turn and the prow came into view.
At that moment, Neferhotep turned.
She saw his eyes seeking her.
She leaned forward. Even though she was in her cabin, hidden by shadows, she knew that he saw her. If not with his eyes, with his heart. As he had seen her last night as she hid in the shadow of her room and watched him bathe in the temple lake.
His skin had glistened beneath the blood light of the moon god Yarikh as if he himself was radiant. And when he turned she had seen that Ba’al Hammon had enlivened Neferhotep’s loins.
Yet he had denied himself.
Saving his seed for me, she had thought.
The night air had whispered to her as she watched him, but the murmur had been in the voice of the gods of this land. The sounds had been foreign but their meaning became clear as Yarikh lowered himself between twin, arching palm trees, creating the symbol of Qetesh, goddess of sacred ecstasy.
Menwi had seen the god’s message.
She was sure that Neferhotep had seen it, too.
***
Late that afternoon as Re began to shed his angry heat, the three sisters left Henen-Nesut to resume the southern journey.
Neferhotep lingered on shore as Menhet boarded the Horus boat. Standing silently, he smiled at Menwi as she was escorted past him to the Hathor ship. Once she was settled in her cabin, he leaped onboard the ship, landing lightly, one hand reaching out to steady himself on the center mast.
He glanced in her direction and then took a position on the low platform at the ship’s prow.
“I’ll rotate among the three ships,” he explained to Nebamen, who captained the boat.
Nebamen shrugged and motioned to one of the sailors to loosen the ropes that held the ship to the wooden pier. The boat rocked slightly as the sailors picked up their long-handled oars and took their positions along the sides of the boat.
Neferhotep walked to the stern of the boat and nimbly stepped onto the platform where a sailor held the handle on the long, graceful tiller. The sailor nodded, his attention on the movement of the eight rowers.
The sailors looked at each other and, at an unspoken command, they pulled the handles of the oars downward and to their chests. Then they lowered the oar blades into the water and pushed away from their chests, moving the boat clear of the pier.
Once they were out in the river, the rowers on one side of the boat reversed the motion, turning the boat. With the boat centered between the wide river banks, the men began to row in unison, dragging the boat smoothly up river.
As the boat moved, Neferhotep watched off the stern, his attention on the boat of Sobek, which carried the youngest sister. Once it cleared the pier and fell in behind the other boats, Neferhotep allowed himself to breathe freely.
Stepping off the stern platform he adjusted to the swaying rhythm of the boat and walked toward the prow of the ship. Reaching the central cabin, he put a hand on the cedar wood and paused.
If the oars are the legs of the boat, and if the carved bust of Hathor is the head, then this small, wooden cabin is the heart, he thought, caressing the wood.
And the heart of my heart lies within.
Leaning his head against the cabin he closed his eyes and imagined Menwi on the other side of the wooden wall.
This is as close as we can ever be, he told himself.
“Neferhotep!” Nebamen called.
Neferhotep straightened, pushed himself away from the cabin, and looked to the prow of the boat where Nebamen was watching him.
“Are you ill?” the captain asked, a note of amusement in his voice as he saw water in the soldier’s eyes.
Neferhotep shook his head. “Do you think we’ll reach Khmun before nightfall?” he asked, redirecting the conversation.
Nebamen raised a hand as if calling on Shu to fill the sail. “A little wind would help,” he called to the sky. T
hen he lowered his hand and shrugged. “Shu can rest all he wants. My men will get us to Khmun before Re has entered Duat.”
Neferhotep scuttled between the cabin and the side of the ship. Reaching the prow, he stepped up on the platform beside Nebamen. He turned his head to glance into the cabin. Menwi was watching him, her eyes smiling above soft lips.
Neferhotep felt Shu’s breath now. His skin turned cold at the thrill, his heart beat faster, and his thoughts wrapped themselves into a fiery arrow that soared off into the sky.
Tears of the gods
Small-leafed sprigs of chickpea plants, ruffly lettuce leaves and smooth onion stalks scattered greens of malachite, jade, and emerald over the black soil of the Two Lands.
The harvest season, Shemu, was at hand and soon an army of farmers, reed cutters, butchers, bakers, young boys, merchants and even soldiers would come together to gather the gifts of Re and the river Iteru. In another month the tall stalks of emmer wheat would lose their color, the heavy spikes of grain would bend earthward, and another round of harvest would begin.
But now, as if taking a breath, the Two Lands paused to celebrate the rebirth of Pharaoh Hatshepsut into the eternally green Field of Reeds.
Priests and priestesses from the length of the Two Lands gathered in Waset for the celebration. Tents crowded the trees that lined the river, and relatives and guests filled every corner and room in the houses of the wealthy and the poor.
Ferrymen daydreamed of the silver that would flow to them as they carried the worshipers from the eastern shore to the western bank. Beer brewers, bread bakers, butchers, dancers, and musicians flooded into the capital to add their prayers to aid Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s rebirth and to fill sacks with the silver deben that would flood the city like the river after the Festival of Anuket.
***
“It’s like Mardi Gras and the running of the bulls combined with the election of a new pope,” Akila said in English as she and Imhotep dressed for Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s funeral.
