by Jerry Dubs
“I know what I saw, Lord Imhotep. It was not a dream,” Useramen said, his voice hard, ready for a confrontation. “As you have said, Lord Imhotep, I have lived my life in the temple. I have heard First Priest Puimre say what Ptah has told him. It always seems to align with what Puimre himself would say without the god’s guidance. I have often wondered if Puimre speaks for the god or if Puimre has the god speak for him.
“I understand how those in power use words.”
Imhotep allowed himself a light laugh. Reaching out quickly he put his hand on Useramen’s wrist. “I am not laughing at your thoughts, friend. I am just relieved that you are who I hoped you would be.”
Although he couldn’t see Useramen, Imhotep turned on the bench to address him directly. “I am not a god, Useramen. I have never claimed to be a god. I have the same secret thoughts that you have. You and I are brothers. Truly.
“Let me speak honestly, without hiding my thoughts. I do not wish to twist reality with words. But, Useramen, I do want to find a way to mend ma’at.
“Queen Menwi and Neferhotep are in love,” Imhotep said plainly. “If an old man with dimming vision can see it, I am sure that you have seen it, as has Huy. And as you know, Queen Menwi is with child. I have no doubt that the child is my grandson’s.”
Imhotep leaned back against the wall, gently resting his head against the hard stone. He spoke now, as much to himself as to Useramen.
“If the Two Lands was not threatened by the two hundred princes of Canaan, Queen Menwi and Neferhotep would be punished. Even I could not save Neferhotep. The punishment would be done discreetly to avoid staining the pure walls of the House of Thutmose, yet rumors would spread as quickly as the current of the river.
“But now, with war coming, we must think about what consequences would follow the disgrace of one of the queens and the commander of the maryannu.”
He sighed and turned his head in the darkness toward Useramen.
“It is true, Useramen, that Neferhotep is my grandson. I love him and I want to protect him. However, it is also true that he is commander of the maryannu, the fist of our army. I think that my personal desires and the best interests of the Two Lands are aligned.
“At this moment, I believe that overlooking Neferhotep’s indiscretion and allowing him to serve — and perhaps die — on the battlefield disturbs ma’at less than revealing his betrayal.”
Listening closely, Useramen heard honesty and pain in Imhotep’s voice. When Imhotep had asked for this secret meeting, Useramen had expected that he would be threatened and ordered to stay silent. After all, despite what Imhotep said, Useramen knew that the old man was a god who walked the living Two Lands. A god who called fire from the sky.
But instead of attacking with threats, the god was speaking from his heart, letting Useramen see the pain of his ka.
“So, Useramen,” Imhotep said, “let me propose a solution and beg your help.
“I will talk with First Priest Puimre and tell him that Father Ptah spoke to me, that he rose from his potter’s wheel to fashion a child in the womb of the young queen. I don’t know Puimre, but it is in his interest to avoid discrediting the Temple of Ptah so I believe that he will help me persuade Pharaoh Thutmose that Ptah has shown favor to Queen Menwi.”
Imhotep paused a moment waiting for disagreement. Hearing none, he pushed his argument. “Pharaoh Thutmose has two older sons from Queen Satiah. They are heirs to the throne, Useramen. The child Menwi is carrying will be royal, but because the child has an outlander for a mother, he will never sit on the throne.”
“That is true,” Useramen said when Imhotep paused to take a breath.
“I will never ask you to confirm the divine conception of Queen Menwi’s child,” Imhotep said. “I ask only that you allow yourself to believe that what you saw in the garden was a vision, that Ptah masked his appearance from your eyes. It happened during the Days Upon the Year, and we should allow the possibility.”
Imhotep gently squeezed Useramen’s wrist. “It might be a deception, Useramen, but one that allows Neferhotep to serve the Two Lands. And, allows him to live. Can you do this?”
“I can, Lord Imhotep,” Useramen said quietly.
“Thank you,” Imhotep said, then as Useramen began to rise, Imhotep held onto his wrist. “There is one other thing I would ask,” Imhotep said.
Father Ptah
“Over here by the window,” Akila told the servants who were waiting by the entrance of Queen Menwi’s bedchamber.
Following Akila’s directions, the first servant shifted the stone he cupped in his hands and started walking toward the window. Shaped like a large, round bread loaf, the stone had a wide hole drilled into the domed top. The man placed it on the floor and then turned to help the next servant who carried a knee-high wooden cylinder, its exterior wrapped in leather. Together they carefully inserted the cylinder into the socket of the stone base.
Looking down into the seated cylinder, Akila saw that it was hollow, the opening wider at the top and tapering to a point where the wooden shaft entered the stone base.
Queen Menwi and her sister left the makeup table to join Akila by the window.
Once the wooden cylinder was secure, a servant set a dark, wooden bowl on the floor. “Fat from geese,” the servant said, pointing to the yellow-gray gel that filled the bowl. He scooped up a handful and put it into the wooden cylinder.
Queen Menwi turned to Akila. “Will I need to do that?” she asked worriedly.
“I can do it, Menwi,’ Queen Merti said, kneeling beside the servant. “Is it squishy?”
The servant smiled and nodded. Queen Merti touched the goose fat. Then she leaned over the bottom half of the potter’s wheel and looked into the cylinder. “How much do you put in?” she asked.
“Just enough to allow this to turn freely,” the servant said, nodding to the tapering shaft of the turntable that another servant carried. Merti dipped her hand into the fat, giggled at the feeling and began to smear the inside of the cylinder. Once the servant was satisfied that the opening was adequately lubricated, he inserted the turntable’s shaft into the wooden support.
A small amount of fat pushed out of the cylinder as the shaft was pushed into place. The servant wiped it away with his fingers and then scraped them against the goose fat bowl. Then he knelt and looked across the flat top of the turntable.
Nodding, he stood and smiled at Queen Merti.
“Put your hand here,” he said touching the edge of the wooden table. “Now, spin it. Harder,” he said as the wheel slowed and then stopped. She spun the wheel harder and it turned in a lazy circle.
“Very good,” the servant said as Merti clapped her hands in happiness.
Four more servants entered the room carrying a low, wooden trough filled with damp clay covered with a coarse cloth. As they set it on the floor near the wheel, Akila leaned close to Queen Menwi. “You must learn to do this, Queen Menwi. It means your life.”
***
“This is my cousin Ahmose,” Useramen said, introducing a small, dark-skinned man, his heavily lined eyes squinting even though they were standing in the shadows of Imhotep’s room.
Wearing a new shendyt that Useramen had given him that morning, Ahmose shifted nervously, unsure if he should kneel or prostrate himself before the god Imhotep. His cousin had told him that he only needed to show respect, but Ahmose had been too intimidated to ask what exactly his experienced cousin meant.
Imhotep took a step toward Ahmose. The intertwining serpents on Imhotep’s staff seemed to move with life as the staff rose and fell with each step the god took.
Staring at the approaching serpents, Ahmose felt his knees begin to buckle.
Now Imhotep was reaching for him.
Ahmose thought to back away, but his legs had no strength. Sucking in a final breath, he resigned himself to his fate. His eyes began to close, his legs began to buckle.
“Ahmose?” Useramen said, taking his cousin’s left arm as Imhotep took
his right.
Ahmose’s head lolled as he looked at his right arm, expecting to see fire crawling up his skin. But the god’s hand felt like any other’s hand. He blinked and looked from Useramen’s concerned face to Imhotep’s face where a curious smile curled below questioning eyes.
“Have you eaten?” Imhotep asked, nodding toward a cluster of chairs that surrounded a table near three windows. The table was laden with bowls, cups, and clay pots.
“Ahmose, what is wrong?” Useramen said. “I am sorry, Lord Imhotep.”
Imhotep waved away Useramen’s apology. “This happens, sometimes. It is all the stories people tell. I’ve tried to deny them, but that only seems to give them more life.” He directed Ahmose to a chair and pulled a clay pot across the table to him.
“Here, this is the finest beer in Men-Nefer. Not up to Bata’s standards,” he added to himself. He shook away the memory and said, “Keep your teeth clenched. The brewer adds crushed dates which give it a sweet, earthy flavor, but he doesn’t strain the beer very well.”
As Ahmose drank, Imhotep pulled a chair up and sat beside him. “There’s bread, and fruit. Some ox meat, too.”
“Do you have any onions?” Ahmose asked timidly.
“No, there are no onions,” Imhotep said wearily.
“Should I get some?” Useramen began, starting toward the doorway.
Imhotep quickly waved a hand. “No, we have no need of onions.” He pushed the roasted ox meat closer to Ahmose. “This has some spices in it. It is much better than onions.”
Hearing the disapproval in Imhotep’s voice, Ahmose smiled submissively and reached for a slice of oxen. He bit off a piece, chewed quickly and said, “Yes, Netjer Imhotep, this is much better,” he said without conviction. Then he looked up at Useramen who nodded approval.
“I am told that you know the desert west of Men-Nefer better than anyone,” Imhotep said. “There is a tomb I need to find.”
***
Brown, dried clay flaked Queen Menwi’s forearms. Specks of it splattered her gown, giving her chest the appearance of a sparrow hawk’s mottled feathers. Her brown eyes were narrowed in concentration as her fingers worked a pile of wet clay that sat on the turntable of the potter’s wheel.
It was late afternoon on the third day of Queen Menwi’s attempt to become a potter.
Queen Merti stood beside her sister, both hands on the wooden turntable, spinning it slowly. She was laughing as she watched her sister try to change the clump of clay into a bowl.
“Slower,” Queen Menwi said. “When you turn the wheel too fast the clay slips through my fingers.”
“That’s because you are afraid to grip it,” Merti said, laughing. “Stick your thumbs in it, like the potter showed you. Don’t be afraid of it.”
Intent on the wet, misshapen clay, the girls didn’t hear First Priest Puimre enter the chamber. The priest watched the girls a moment before clearing his throat loudly to announce his presence.
Merti stopped spinning the wheel. Menwi looked at her sister, saw that she was looking toward the doorway. Seeing the priest, Menwi pushed back her stool and stood. Unconsciously she raised her arm and dragged her wrist across her mouth, leaving a smear of clay on her chin.
First Priest Puimre smiled. “So it is true,” he said.
Merti bit her lower lip and looked to her older sister. Akila had told them that this moment would come and she had given them the words to say. Merti hoped Menwi would remember.
“Greetings First Priest Puimre,” Menwi said. Merti quickly repeated the greeting.
First Priest Puimre walked slowly across the room, his wide body swaying like the ship Menwi and Merti had taken to the Two Lands. He paused by the potter’s wheel and looked at the ball of clay, its center pushed in, the walls created by the depression uneven.
“You have taken an interest in making pots?”
Queen Menwi bowed her head. “It was not something I sought, First Priest Puimre,” she said, trying to color her voice with surprise. “But I have been dreaming of clay and of the potter’s wheel. I never made a pot before, but in my dream I feel hands on mine, helping me to form a pot.”
Looking at the awkward attempt to make a pot, she shrugged. “In my dream the hands guided me and instead of a pot, I made a small statue.”
First Priest Puimre studied the misshaped ball of clay, blinking his eyes as he tried to see it as the work of a god.
In a soft voice Queen Menwi said. “I feel those hands each night, First Priest Puimre. I know that it is Ptah. I feel that he is forming my ka anew.”
***
Imhotep paced along the southern wall of the enclosure of King Djoser’s pyramid complex. He wished that he had the drawing he had made so many years ago. Its composition took form in his memory, but he wondered if it was distorted by the more recent sketch he had made.
After four days of working with Imhotep, Ahmose was less nervous accompanying the god. Now he watched him closely, his mouth unconsciously copying Imhotep’s every expression.
Imhotep paused, turning to stare at the Step Pyramid. Ahmose stared with him.
Finally, Imhotep crossed his arms as he tried to align what he saw with what he remembered. Ahmose crossed his. Imhotep sat on the sand and leaned against the low stone wall. Ahmose sat beside him. Imhotep crossed his legs. Ahmose crossed his legs. Imhotep stared at the pyramid and then looked down at his lap, trying to envision the drawing he had made far in the future.
Turning his head he pretended to follow Brian and Diane as they walked past him toward the mudbrick guardhouse that stood over the spiral staircase that descended to the tomb. The guardhouse would not be built for more than two thousand years. Brian and Diane would not be born until even more time had passed.
Yet Imhotep saw them clearly. Diane had worn a tee shirt decorated with a cat. Brian had been chewing gum. He had lowered his sunglasses and winked at Imhotep. A few months later, bleeding to death, he would drag himself across the sand and save Imhotep’s life.
A tear rolled down Imhotep’s cheek as he thought of Brian. They had known each other for only a few weeks, yet Imhotep had come to love him like a brother.
He was the first, Imhotep thought now, whose death stains my ka.
Wiping his face, Imhotep turned to Ahmose. “I think this is the spot.”
Ahmose looked around him. There were fallen pillars in the distance, their presence hinted at by the lines of the mounds of sand that covered them. There was the pyramid in front of them and the wall behind them.
What spot? he wondered. What do his eyes see that mine do not?
Imhotep rolled onto his hands and knees. Using his walking staff he struggled to his feet. Then he turned to his left and, eyes closed as he traveled in his memory, he walked across the desert. When he stopped, he looked back at the pyramid and then off to the east toward the distant trees that marked the edge of Men-Nefer.
“What I want to find, Ahmose, is a gully that, a thousand years ago, led from the edge of Men-Nefer to the bottom of the plateau in that direction. The gully led to a tomb. Then I want to secretly open the tomb.”
“The sand moves, Netjer Imhotep,” Ahmose said. “Shu blows hard at times and dunes roll across the desert.”
Imhotep nodded.
“But,” Ahmose said, warming to the subject, “there are different sands.” He stopped and scooped up a double-handful of sand. He held the sand out for Imhotep’s inspection. “Some sand is coarser. Some is darker. Some even tastes different,” Ahmose said, making Imhotep secretly shiver.
“And beneath the sand there is rock. The rocks do not move. Only the sand moves.” Ahmose smiled. He dropped the sand and wiped his hands on his shendyt.
“I can find this ancient wadi.”
***
“So?” Imhotep said that night as he stood beside Akila seated by a small table in the room they shared in the Temple of Ptah. He poured wine into an alabaster cup for her. Then he poured a cup for himself.
He
sipped at the wine. It was young, the fruit flavor strong and sweet.
Sitting on a stool beside Akila, he picked up a platter of roasted goose and sniffed at it. Satisfied that it was seasoned without onion, he slid a piece onto a plate and then offered the platter to Akila.
He watched Akila take some of the meat onto her plate and then waited as she picked up a sliver of the goose and tasted it.
As she chewed, Imhotep waited for her to organize her thoughts. Unlike most people Imhotep knew, Akila always examined her words before releasing them.
“I don’t think that she is fooling Puimre,” she said after a moment.
“She says the words, but there is no sincerity in them. Even poor Merti sees it and she wants to believe her sister even though she doesn’t understand why Menwi is professing this obsession with Ptah.”
Imhotep swallowed a sip of wine. “I used to wonder about movies,” he said. “Action movies, science fiction movies. I mean, they are unbelievable, but people love them. They, we — I liked them, too — are willing to suspend disbelief so that we can be entertained. It’s fun to lose yourself in an adventure. The thrill of a roller coaster is the speed and the perception of danger. We know that a roller coaster really isn’t dangerous. Insurance companies would never allow them to operate. But we like to pretend they are because it is fun. It makes us feel like we’ve survived something.
“So I don’t think it matters if Puimre believes Menwi,” he said. “We just have to give him a reason to pretend to believe it. Pharaoh Thutmose, too. We have to give them enough reality to allow themselves to persuade themselves that Ptah did impregnate Menwi.
“Puimre will lose face if he allowed Queen Menwi to betray Pharaoh Thutmose in Puimre’s own temple. And he’ll gain respect if they all pretend that Ptah fathered a royal child. Pharaoh Thutmose doesn’t want anyone to think that a commoner was with his wife, and having a god for a child, well, that’s a good thing, right?”
