by Jerry Dubs
With his back to the disappearing light as he approached Neferhotep, Amenhotep’s narrow face was in shadows, his deep-set eyes hidden in the darkness. His mouth was turned downward now and Neferhotep saw that the quartermaster’s head was dotted with dark stubble.
Neferhotep frowned. Amenhotep was always immaculately groomed, his kohl applied with precision, his chest freshly oiled, his head shaved as smooth as polished alabaster.
Joining Neferhotep by the corral, Amenhotep leaned forward as if looking at the horses, but his eyes were restless. “There will not be enough chariots,” Amenhotep said finally, the words clipped and short, leaving his mouth without enthusiasm.
The words drove thoughts of Menwi from Neferhotep’s mind.
***
Neferhotep had not been alive during the time of the Heqa Khaseshet — rulers from another country — who had swept into the Two Lands from the Levant. Guided by Seth, they had arrived on chariots bringing with them greed and death.
Pharaoh Ahmose, grandfather of Pharaoh Hatshepsut, had driven them from the Two Lands long before anyone alive today had been born. Only songs of sorrow and poems of revenge remained.
Pharaoh Thutmose will not allow foreign rulers to return, Neferhotep told himself as he stared at the uneasy stallions.
“There simply is not enough wood to build a hundred thousand chariots, even if we stop cooking and building boats and cutting arrows and bows.” Amenhotep said. He nodded toward the stallions who were standing at opposite sides of the corral, eyeing each other. “Are there enough horses in the Two Lands? It takes almost a year for them to reproduce. Another three years to become strong enough to pull a chariot.”
Neferhotep lowered his eyes. Focusing on the training of men and beasts, he hadn’t calculated the numbers.
“I have taken inventory, Neferhotep, there are not,” Amenhotep said softly, putting a hand on Neferhotep’s arm. “And we do not have time to breed, raise and train them.” He sighed. “And there are not more to be found in Ta-Seti or the lands south of it. I have asked. There is no place, except within the camps of the King of Kadesh, to find more horses.”
Amenhotep withdrew his hand and leaned on the fence, raising a foot to rest on the bottom rail. His jittering leg made the wood shake, sending vibrations up Neferhotep’s leg, filling him with uncertainty.
“I have asked to meet with your grandfather,” Amenhotep said. “I will give him the numbers.” The leg stopped jittering. “He will find a way ... ” he stopped speaking and his leg resumed its worried bounce.
“How many are possible?” Neferhotep asked.
“For every fifty chariots Pharaoh Thutmose wants, I can build him one. Perhaps a few more. But even two thousand chariots, charioteers, and archers will be a challenge.”
Amenhotep pushed himself away from the fence. Frowning, he looked at Neferhotep and spoke softly, “In this matter, Pharaoh Thutmose will not get what he desires.”
***
After Amenhotep left, Neferhotep leaned on the corral fence and watched the two stallions.
Although strangers now, these horses would learn to know each other. They would be trained to run side-by-side, their hooves beating in unison as they pulled a chariot. Heads held down by a short bridle, they would strain against the leather chest straps. Their strength harnessed by leather and wood, they would become an extension of the charioteer, taking him swiftly across the desert and into the heart of the enemy lines. Or sharply turning at the last moment, avoiding contact as an archer fired death at slow moving infantry.
Re slid into Duat, the desert air turned cool, and Neferhotep turned away from the horses.
He trusted Amenhotep. He trusted Imhotep. He trusted the gods.
Perhaps two thousand will be enough. We will train hard; it will be enough.
Entering the palace, he felt exhaustion climb onto his shoulders and his thoughts turned to food and a bath and his bed. But as he passed the hallway that led to the quarters of Pharaoh Thutmose’s minor wives the heat of desire swept over him and he clenched his teeth in shame.
And in anger.
Menwi was a princess from a foreign land. She was wife to Pharaoh Thutmose. He could not allow himself to think of her, to dream of her.
Yet she never left his thoughts.
She was sequestered and safeguarded for Pharaoh Thutmose alone. He himself had been her guard when she first arrived in the Two Lands.
But who, he wondered, guards my heart from her?
He paused in the hallway and placed his hand on the warm stone. Closing his eyes he felt her heartbeat transmitted through the stone to his hand, to his own heart. With each breath he took he could feel the warmth of her breath enter him.
My ka is a flame lit by the fire in her eyes.
My ka is a hawk whose wings are given air by her glance.
His jaw trembled and he took his hand from the stone wall, held the air from his nostrils.
I can never know her touch. She is beyond my reach.
I must learn to live with that truth.
He thought of Amenhotep’s parting words. Twisting them, he thought, in this matter, Neferhotep will not get what he desires.
***
An owl flew through the palace garden on heavy, silent wings as Neferhotep sat against an acacia tree and tore bread from a round loaf. A clay pot of beer sat on the ground beside him in the darkness.
In the month since the training had begun in earnest, the garden had become his night refuge. It was quiet. The floating lilies and the blossoming trees gave the air the scent of life, so different from the harsh desert where he spent his days.
As he relaxed his thoughts moved from horses, chariots, and flying arrows to the lips of Menwi. He let his mind’s eye conjure the memory of her face and the delicious softness he imagined his lips would find against hers. Then, when reality intruded, bringing with it sorrow, he drank from the clay pot.
I will wash away my desire, like the river sweeps away ...
But the river nourishes and brings life, his ka whispered.
Neferhotep clenched his jaw and reached for the clay pot again. He knew that he was torturing himself. If he was free, he would leave Waset and wander the hidden lands beyond Ta-Seti. He would put so many footsteps between himself and his desire that his longing would wither.
Then Menwi would be safe.
And my ka would be empty.
He drank again from the pot, knowing that he must find a way to put aside his longing. He was commander of the maryannu and the Two Lands needed him.
Lowering the pot he saw a soft glow of light come to life in one of the windows on the opposite side of the garden. A shadow muted the glow as it approached the window.
He closed his eyes for he knew whose room lay beyond the window and he knew why he had chosen this tree every night.
When he opened his eyes he saw that Khonsu conspired against him. Moving across the belly of Nut, the moon god slid just so and his light angled past the tree that had hidden the window from the god’s view.
Neferhotep watched as the light slid up the wall, kissed small fingers that curled against the window ledge and caressed the tawny arms whose narrow wrists and slight curves of the forearm haunted his dreams.
Khonsu brushed his soft light higher, bathing the figure in a dreamlike glow.
Neferhotep saw a curtain of unbrushed curls fall forward across Menwi’s bare shoulders, the living strands brushing against skin that glowed from within, its luster matching that of Khonsu.
He realized that he had stopped breathing.
The owls had stopped moving.
The garden pond had grown silent.
Time has stopped. This is a magical hour brought by Khonsu, like the five days at the end of the year. A special time outside of time when wonders can happen.
Standing, he stepped from beneath the sheltering branches.
Moving slowly, as a hunter stalking an antelope, he approached the distant window.
She
saw him.
Neferhotep paused.
They stood silent, the empty air between them filled with expectation and desire.
If I step closer she will lean from the window. In this one moment, anything was possible. I will raise my hand to her face. She will nestle her cheek against my palm. My lips will touch hers. The world will be forever changed.
But, waiting, hesitating, they watched each other a moment longer and, as an owl called, Khonsu drifted away, taking his muted light and his great heka with him.
The spell was broken.
Menwi backed away from the window and Neferhotep returned to the shadows.
And from a window at the far end of the garden, deep set eyes that had watched in apprehension, blinked in thanks.
An Unfair Universe
Imhotep tore a swath from a bolt of unbleached linen and handed it to Pentu.
His son-in-law took the strip and raised his eyebrows in question.
“The illness travels through the air,” Imhotep said, his voice flat and lifeless.
Pentu held out the linen. “And this will stop it?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
“That and washing your hands, remembering to not put your fingers near your mouth or eyes. I will talk with the servants.” Imhotep motioned for Pentu to turn his back to him. “Hold the center of the cloth over your mouth and hand the ends back to me.”
He took the offered tails and pulled the cloth taut. “Can you breathe?” he asked. Pentu nodded and Imhotep quickly tied the tails together.
“Can we do this to Maya? Would it prevent her from getting worse?” Pentu asked, his voice muffled by the mask.
Imhotep shook his head as he began to tear another strip.
Although he had learned to read Imhotep’s face and he knew the answer, Pentu asked, “Does Akila have heka to heal her?”
“We have nothing to help those who are already ill. All we can do is try to prevent it from spreading,” Imhotep said, his eyes moving from Pentu to his idle hands.
“Her mother suffered from this. Maya told me that she remembered Meryt coughing blood and waking with damp skin and a fever,” Pentu said. He put a hand on Imhotep’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Lord Imhotep. I know that ... ”
Imhotep waved the pity aside.
“Maya believes that she will join Meryt and Tjau in the Field of Reeds,” Pentu said, his heart aching for the sorrow that had taken root in his father-in-law’s face since Maya had become ill. “Whether it is true or not, it comforts her. And me.”
Imhotep nodded and turned away.
“Go to Maya,” he said gruffly. “I’ll talk with the servants.”
***
Back held stiffly, feet pressed flat on the sandy ground, Imhotep sat on a bench beneath a Tamarisk tree in Pentu’s courtyard garden. His unmoving hands lay on the linen shendyt that covered his thighs, and his eyes stared unseeing at the Tamarisk blossoms, transparently pink in the late morning light.
His heavy walking staff leaned against the tree trunk behind him. Above him, a gray rock dove flapped to rest on a branch. Adjusting its perch, the dove shook its tail and called a long, bubbling song.
The cascading notes fell on unhearing ears, just as the ancient sun beat against unfeeling skin, for Imhotep’s ka had turned inward to wander the tangled hallways of his memory.
He found Addy there.
His first love, she and he had planned a romantic trip to Egypt. Bending over maps, they had plotted how they could stretch their time and their money to see the temples and the markets and the villages and the pyramids. Although it had happened more than thirty years ago in his life, she would not be born for another thirty-five hundred years.
As he recalled her touch, the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand, Imhotep closed his eyes.
In the gray darkness, a different smile arose. He found his own lips curling upward as he recognized the mouth of his beloved Meryt. A wave of joy enveloped him as he remembered their lifetime together. They had laughed and sung and danced. They had made love and made children and they had cherished each moment. Even the pain of their separation, when he had been entombed in the alabaster sarcophagus, was precious to him; as he had lain in the unfeeling stone, it had been memories of her that kept his flickering life alive.
Then, eight years ago, he had watched her die, a spear driven into her chest.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to drive the memory away.
The dark spear refused to leave, but the body it pierced now was his son’s. Gasping, Imhotep saw Tjau’s young eyes widen in shock as the spears of the blood-crazed followers of the priestess of Neith stabbed him over and over again.
Tears wet Imhotep’s hands, and he rocked forward on the bench, shoulders shaking.
The freshest memory took hold and he sobbed, his chest heaving as he saw the sweat-beaded face of his daughter Maya, her eyes rolled back as she twisted in pain as she coughed. He saw his useless hands holding her shoulders and saw his tears fall onto her feverish skin.
Not again. I can’t lose another person I love.
Yet the memories roiled in his mind like billows of smoke, filling him with the stink of death. He clenched his hands, driving his fingers into his legs. His body yielded to his anger, but there was no pain.
And he wanted pain now.
Physical pain to drive away the dread that flooded his heart.
***
Drying her hands on a cloth, the unbleached linen tainted by a stain of pink, Akila cocked her head in apprehension as she crossed the garden to her husband.
She stopped herself from trying to reassure him, to deny what they had both seen. Sitting beside him, she placed a hand atop his.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He nodded slightly, his chest swelling as he drew a deep breath.
“We have this illusion,” he said, his voice trembling, “that things, that this universe should be fair.”
Beneath her hand, his fingers curled into a fist.
“We should send Pentu to a safe house,” Akila said, trying to move ahead, “and the servants, too. We can’t depend on the masks to protect them. I can stay with Maya.”
Imhotep nodded, his voice untrustworthy.
Akila leaned away from Imhotep so she could drape a comforting arm across his shoulders. She pulled him close and leaned toward him until their heads gently touched.
“We are vaccinated, so we can’t be carriers. But, even so, we have to be careful. Anything that the ill have worn, whatever they have touched ... ”
“Meryt was dying of it. I knew that even her spirit couldn’t bear it much longer,” Imhotep said, giving voice to the haunting memory they shared.
Akila kissed the side of his forehead.
“Now Maya.” He breathed deeply again. “Neferhotep is the last of my family, the last of my family,” he continued, his voice distant. He was silent a moment and then, struck by a sudden thought, he turned to Akila and said, “He won’t have any children, will he? That was why you were so curious about my genes, when you checked my DNA years ago. My modern genes don’t ‘pollute’ the ancient gene pool. They don’t mix modern DNA with ancient DNA because none of my descendants pass it along.”
She shook her head. “No, Tim,” she said, slipping into English, “I didn’t see or know that your line doesn’t continue. It was more that your genes aren’t what ... ”
He held up his hand. “I’m not angry, Akila.” He turned and kissed her mouth, a short, reassuring gesture of trust and love. “Not at you. Not at anyone. I just, well, I’ve lost hope. And I’m angry at myself for feeling hope, for foolishly thinking that the universe would ignore me for a little and let me enjoy my daughter and grandson and you. When life is good you begin to dream that it will always be that way. You hope that nothing will change. When life turns sour, you hope that it will change.
“Either way, hope destroys you. It masks reality while it robs your strength or it eats your soul.”
/> She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“I think,” she said softly, “we see a beautiful sunset and we enjoy it and we look forward to seeing another. We drink a delicious beer and we enjoy it and we anticipate drinking another.”
“That’s different,” he said.
She nestled against him, waiting for the tightness in his shoulders to begin to surrender.
“We make a friend and we want to talk to him again,” she murmured, her tone drawing the poison from his heart. “We have a child and we want to see her grow. We take a lover and we look forward to his touch. These are not unreasonable hopes. And they give us a reason to wake each day. They drive us to hunt or gather, to build homes, to create societies.
“As much as we would like to be ‘natural,’ like animals, we are different. Our consciousness is a taskmaster. It requires hope.” She kissed his temple. “I think that hope gives us an edge in survival because with it we are driven to sustain and to improve the lives of our families and friends. Without hope we cannot dream.”
She raised a hand to trace the line of his jaw.
“Yes,” she said, addressing his argument, “these desires, or hopes, might go unrealized. They might lead to pain. But I think that without them our life would be bleak.” She tilted her head to kiss his neck. “As much as joy, our pain tells us that we are alive. You know that, Tim. Let it sweep through you; you cannot stop it.
“But you have been here before, my love. I will wait for your return.”
Leaning back, she looked at his profile.
The years had tugged on his skin, dragging it from the strong bones beneath, but she had seen him when he had been rescued from the alabaster sarcophagus. He had looked much worse then, yet he had recovered.
His eyes, glistening now with tears, had dimmed — he complained about his vision at times — but they still looked fearlessly at reality. Although he was willing to accept what he saw, he was unafraid to try to change the course of history.
