The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  She brushed fingers against his cheek.

  I love him so.

  He turned his head against her touch, his eyes turning from introspection to find hers.

  “I will go to Thutmose. We must save everyone that we can,” he said. Reaching up to hold her wrist, he kissed her open hand, smiled sadly and, gripping his walking staff, he pushed himself to his feet.

  “Perhaps,” he said, pulling his shoulders back into a stretch, “I can find a way to get Neferhotep away from all of this.”

  Safekeeping

  Queen Satiah placed her hands on her tight, swollen belly. The life she carried inside moved, and she smiled as she imagined a leg kicking at her.

  She rubbed her hand over her belly protectively. Her son, for the fortune tellers had assured her that she carried a prince, was safe within her womb. The wasting death that had descended over Waset beat its dark wings against the palace walls, but she was sure that Pharaoh Thutmose would not let it claim their child.

  That was why he had sent the god and his physician hemet who were standing now by her chamber entrance.

  Turning her head, she looked at them with eyes cautious and curious. The late afternoon light slanted through the room, falling on just one side of their faces, hiding the other half.

  They look, she thought, as if they are both of this world and not of it.

  The woman’s skin was the color of the inner bark of palm trees, even lighter than the skin of slaves captured in Canaan. Her face was not as wide, nor her lips as full, but the cheekbones were well placed and her eyes shaped like almonds. And when she turned her head, sunlight caught a tight silver ring that pierced her lower lip.

  Her eyes on the jewelry, Queen Satiah unconsciously touched her lower lip with her tongue, wondering what pain the woman had endured to place the ring.

  Did it imbue her with extra magic? Had she done it to please her husband?

  Queen Satiah’s child kicked again and she frowned, thinking now of the pain of childbirth that she had endured — and would endure again — for her husband.

  What we do for our men. For the Two Lands. For our gods!

  She looked at the god who stood silently beside his exotic woman.

  Smoothly shaved and oiled, his head seemed too large for his narrow shoulders. Dozens of beaded strands pulled at his throat, some of them hanging down on his thin bare chest before disappearing over his shoulders. She knew that if he turned she would see hanging between his shoulder blades the menat that identified him as a royal physician. The flat, bronze symbol, no longer worn by any except priestesses of Hathor, was another reminder that the god was from another world.

  And, if the stories were true, from another time.

  She saw that he was watching her with eyes that spoke of kindness, but also of a lingering pain, as if they saw the shadows of the past and the unborn ghosts of the future.

  She wondered if his great heka — for everyone knew how he had called fire from the sky to kill Pawura — issued from those dark eyes or if it came from the serpent-entwined staff he carried or if it was carried by the strange words he was known to speak.

  Pharaoh Thutmose, intimate with the ways of gods, had assured her that despite his inconspicuous appearance, Imhotep was a powerful god. He would assure the safety of both her and their unborn child.

  “Queen Satiah,” Imhotep said now, stepping forward, his heavy staff landing lightly on the stone floor, his eyes dipping slightly in respect, “long life!”

  Two of her guards stepped forward beside him. Queen Satiah saw the ready tenseness in their arms and shoulders, the uncertainty in their eyes as they watched Imhotep.

  “Forgive me, Queen Satiah, if I do not kneel,” Imhotep said, amusement in his voice. He tapped his walking staff on the floor. “Pharaoh Hatshepsut said that she found it tedious to watch me helped from the floor each time I knelt.”

  She nodded forgiveness.

  Even though her husband had told her that this god appeared humble, she was surprised to hear the self-deprecating tone of his words. Pharaoh Thutmose also had told her to watch the god’s eyes. There were times, he had told her, when those eyes looked beyond the Two Lands. If she caught him in such a moment, she could ask him what he saw and he could foretell her future.

  But there were other times, she had heard, when those eyes turned to stone and strange words came from the god’s mouth. It had been so before the sky fire had taken Pawura.

  The god looked at her now and Queen Satiah felt a strange thrill pass through her. Despite his careful voice, anger lay in his eyes, like a crocodile floating amid lotus. She glanced at the two guards. They were watching Imhotep with quick, careful eyes that betrayed their nervousness.

  They see the anger, too, she thought.

  “Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!, has asked us to accompany you to Iunet to the Temple of Hathor. Wepwawet will not follow us there. But,” he took another step toward her. She saw the guards hesitate, unwilling to approach too closely to her, unsure if they should let the god get so near, and worried that the god might turn to them and kill them with fire if they attempted to restrain him.

  “You must wear this until we are away from Waset,” Imhotep said, taking another step toward her. “It has charms that will protect you,” he added, his eyes looking away from her as he spoke.

  He extended his free arm and she saw in his hand a swath of linen painted with the spread vulture wings of Nekhbet.

  Turning, Imhotep nodded to Akila.

  “Let me help you, Queen Satiah,” Akila said, coming closer now, a reassuring smile on her face.

  ***

  “Amenhotep, I can’t abandon the maryannu. Not now!” Neferhotep said angrily as he crossed the quartermaster’s room. “There must be others who can guard Pharaoh Thutmose’s wives,” he said as he came to a stop before Amenhotep’s desk.

  Amenhotep pushed himself upright, his restless legs pressing against his wooden stool. Energy bounced through his shoulders as he clasped his hands and reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the stacks of papyrus inventories and letters he had been organizing.

  When he had overseen construction of the mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, Amenhotep had taught himself to imagine a fully carved and painted pillar. Then, closing his eyes, he would picture the stone cutter and artist who would do the work. Trailing from them he would envision the people who would carry tools and paint to them, those who would prepare their food, those who would sail the ships that would bring the stone and food and replacement tools. He saw each worker and artist accompanied by an invisible retinue whose efforts were needed to make sure that a single person could accomplish his job.

  It was Amenhotep’s gift to hold the image of all those people in his mind’s eye and then, with brush and ink, transfer to papyrus how many mallets, chisels, pots of paint, loaves of bread, small cattle, ducks, and cups of beer were needed to maintain the worker and everyone needed to support him.

  There were others who also could calculate the logistics to maintain an army of workers, or of soldiers, but Amenhotep had an additional talent: He understood each man’s capability and limits. The gait and chatter of a team of stone carriers told him when they would reach exhaustion. The height a donkey raised its legs when walking told him when the animal would need to rest or be replaced. The number of rags used to wipe errant paint strokes told him when an artist needed to rest weary eyes and trembling muscles.

  Looking at Neferhotep now, he saw that the charioteer’s anger did not lie only in his voice and eyes; it lived in the knots that huddled on his shoulders, in the tightness of his fists, in the quivering muscles of his thighs.

  This anger was more personal than professional.

  No, he thought, Neferhotep is gripped by something stronger than anger. He was filled with fear.

  Amenhotep bowed his head and closed his eyes; he understood.

  A peerless chariot driver and archer, Neferhotep was brave, animated by confidence in his skill, love of the Two
Lands, and faith in the gods who watched over him. But Seth had touched Neferhotep’s heart with his was-scepter, planting within it a seed of chaos. Amenhotep had seen the evil god’s eyes, lustful and jealous, staring from Neferhotep’s face in the palace garden as he looked upon Menwi.

  The quartermaster had debated what to do.

  If he relayed his suspicions to Pharaoh Thutmose, Neferhotep would be killed. Although his death would harm the army of the Two Lands, he was not irreplaceable; there were others who could train charioteers and archers. But Neferhotep was the grandson of Imhotep and it was Imhotep who had raised Amenhotep from the work gangs, who had given him authority, who had spoken of him to Pharaoh Thutmose.

  He loved Imhotep as his own father. Amenhotep would never speak against Imhotep or his blood.

  Forcing a smile to his face, Amenhotep raised his eyes to Neferhotep’s. He saw how tightly drawn the skin was on the charioteer’s face.

  He keeps a shorter rein on his ka than on his chariot horses, Amenhotep thought. He must continue to do so. But, there is hope here. He knows Menwi is beyond his touch and he is strong. He is the grandson of a god.

  “Pharaoh Thutmose trusts you above all others, Neferhotep,” he said slowly. “The army is vital and the maryannu are the beating heart ... ”

  “He calls us the Fist of Amun,” Neferhotep interrupted. “And I am needed to make the fist strong. Otherwise ... ”

  Amenhotep held up a hand to stop Neferhotep.

  “We are in agreement, Neferhotep. But think, what good comes from our army defeating the King of Kadesh if the House of Thutmose is not preserved? If your maryannu are the fist of the army, are not the wives of Pharaoh Thutmose the heart of the Two Lands?”

  Neferhotep clenched his jaw and shifted his weight, his forehead knotted in thought as he tried to find words to change his fate.

  Picking up a tightly rolled papyrus, Amenhotep walked from behind his desk. He placed a hand on Neferhotep’s shoulders and said, “It was your grandfather who suggested to Pharaoh Thutmose that you should protect the queens of the Two Lands and their unborn princes. He believes and trusts in you. He would not ask of you what cannot be done. And Pharaoh Thutmose believes and trusts in you.

  “If two gods believe that this is proper, then, surely, Neferhotep, you must accept that there is wisdom here, wisdom that we cannot fathom. They trust you. And you, Neferhotep, are strong. You must trust yourself.”

  He felt the muscles of Neferhotep’s shoulders twitch. The charioteer looked quickly at Amenhotep, his eyes worried, wondering if his secret desires were so plainly read.

  “I trust in you, as well,” Amenhotep said reassuringly, turning aside the unspoken question.

  He squeezed Neferhotep’s shoulder and then offered him the papyrus.

  “This is the edict of Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name. You are now Commander of the Double House of Thutmose. With this he gives into your care the lives of his wives, their unborn children and the future of his house. All men are to obey your word, as if it came from his mouth.”

  Neferhotep took the papyrus, holding it as if it were a live snake.

  “I have arranged for three boats,” Amenhotep said softly. “They will carry you down the river to the delta to the temple of Ptah at Men-Nefer. Pharaoh Thutmose trusts the god, and you, to protect his wives and his unborn children.”

  He returned to his desk and lowered himself to his stool.

  “Pharaoh Thutmose, Golden Horus, orders this, Neferhotep. It is therefore the will of the gods. We must trust in them.”

  ***

  Where Re touched the folds of Menhet’s gown, his light gained strength and the linen glowed. But between the long, draping folds, transparent shadows hinted at the lines of her legs, the curve of her hips and the round softness of her stomach.

  Standing in front of a long, polished mirror, Menhet admired the way the white gown draped over her body. She brushed her hand against the thin linen and watched the material sway and then settle once more.

  Thutmose will be pleased, she thought.

  Tonight she would join him, taking the place of Queen Satiah who would be sequestered at the Temple of Hathor until she gave birth.

  Menhet arched her back and watched the dark tips of her breasts press against the linen.

  Queen Satiah’s breasts are larger, but they hang like cow udders, she told herself. Then she had a moment of panic as she wondered which Pharaoh Thutmose preferred. Her eyebrows, freshly plucked to look more like Queen Satiah’s, lowered as she thought. She pursed her lips and considered what she could do to distract him.

  Perfume!

  Queen Satiah always smelled of jasmine.

  Nodding to herself, Menhet walked to one of the three dressing tables in her room. She lifted a long-necked bottle made of alabaster and sniffed at it. Crinkling her nose in distaste, she turned angrily and threw the bottle at a startled servant.

  “This is rose,” she shouted. The gold-colored jar bounced off the girl’s fumbling hands and fell, landing with a splintering crack on the stone floor.

  Raising her shoulders in anger, Menhet whirled toward a second girl. “I told you he likes jasmine. Bring me jasmine!”

  As the first servant apologized and bent to pick up the pieces of the broken bottle, the second girl ran to the table to show Menhet which bottle contained the scent she wanted.

  While Menhet glared at the servant, Menwi entered the room. She paused by the kneeling servant and then looked about the chamber before approaching her sister,

  “You haven’t packed?” she asked.

  Menhet smiled in answer.

  It was a new kind of smile, one she had acquired since arriving in the palace at Waset to find riches waiting for her. This smile didn’t reach her eyes, but it opened a window that revealed a ka that hungered for more. Menhet considered the Two Lands a banquet of riches. She wanted to taste and savor each.

  Menwi understood.

  During the slow journey upriver, Menhet had caressed the linen of the gowns they had been given, marveling at the delicate touch of the cloth. Menwi had dreamed of touching the smooth, tight skin that hugged the muscles in Neferhotep’s shoulders. Menhet had lost herself admiring the deep blues of lapis lazuli and ocean green malachite necklace stones. Menwi’s heart had dwelled on the kindness of Neferhotep’s brown eyes and the gentle touch of his hand when he helped her from the boat.

  And so, before even reaching the heart of the Two Lands, the two sisters had given their hearts, one to the wealth and promise of the richest empire in the world, the other to the shy glances and awkward smiles of a man who embodied that world.

  “I am not leaving,” Menhet said now, her voice filled with satisfaction.

  “But the wasting sickness ... ” Menwi began.

  Menhet fluttered her fingers at the disease.

  “The priests are sacrificing oxen. They are cutting branches from Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s myrrh trees and bringing them here to burn. One of the priests, the one for the god that looks like a strange animal ... ”

  “Seth,” Menwi prompted.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Menhet said dismissively. “They have so many here. The priest of this Seth, he suggested sacrificing some of the prisoners. He said that their blood was impure and was causing the illness. But the old man, the one with the walking stick ... ”

  “Imhotep,” Menwi said, annoyed that her sister who knew the names of all the perfume scents and how to find the smallest imperfection in a gem, couldn’t be bothered to learn the names of the gods or the members of the royal court.

  “Yes, he’s so dour. He said that sacrificing prisoners would feed the illness.”

  “Imhotep is leaving,” Menwi said, the mention of his name bringing the face of his grandson to her mind.

  “Yes, with Queen Satiah. And you two are leaving so I will be alone with Pharaoh Thutmose.”

  Menwi went to her sister and put a hand on her arm. She felt cold metal, not warm skin. Eyes darti
ng downward, Menwi saw that her sister’s entire forearm was covered with bracelets. She stifled a sigh.

  “You are favored,” Menwi said graciously.

  “I am favored,” Menhet whispered, leaning close to her sister. Then her voice turned cold. “I am favored, Menwi, because I want to please my lord, not a common soldier.”

  Menwi straightened as if she had been slapped.

  “I have seen your eyes, little sister. I know that you think that your heart has chosen him. But what your heart tells you doesn’t matter.” Menhet backed away and swept her hand in an angry arc. “Leave us!” she said to the servants.

  The girls quickly ran from the room.

  Menwi clasped her hands and stood with head bowed. There was anger in Menhet’s voice, harsher than Menwi had ever heard.

  As the servants ran from the room, Menhet turned to Menwi, her face a hard mask of barely contained fury. Jewelry rattled as she raised a hand to grip her younger sister’s arm.

  “We are wives of the ruler of the Two Lands.” She moved her hand from Menwi’s arm to her stomach. “This belongs to him, not to a charioteer. Neferhotep is going with you to Iunet.” She glared at Menwi and slid her hand from her sister’s stomach to the soft curve that disappeared between her loins. “You will keep this pure. If you let him touch you, if you let him ride you, if you allow him to plant his seed, then, Menwi, you destroy us all. Pharaoh Thutmose will not trust us if you break faith.”

  She stepped back and studied Menwi.

  “You would put Merti in danger, too,” Menhet said. “Is your desire more important than the lives of your sisters?”

  What the heart allows

  Akila and Imhotep walked along a torchlit pathway to the docks of Waset. In the quiet before dawn they could hear the river sough as it swept through straggling reeds, tugging at floating lotus blossoms, and brushing against the wooden piers where a flotilla waited.

  “How is your leg?” Akila asked, trying to redirect Imhotep’s thoughts.