by Jerry Dubs
From a distance he heard Queen Satiah speak. “Imhotep arrived from Men-Nefer today. He told my husband ... Thanuny, do you hear me?”
The guard blinked rapidly. The darkness of his vision evaporated, Imhotep’s face replaced with that of Queen Satiah.
“I am sorry, Queen Satiah,” he said softly.
Her eyes opened wide as she studied his face. “You just had a vision.”
He licked his lips, wondering if he should tell her, or if she would laugh at the idea of the gods speaking to a crippled soldier.
“What did you see?” she asked.
“Imhotep,” he said. “I saw him and his snake staff.”
Involuntarily she dropped her head, her eyes looking at his leather-covered foot. Her face hidden, she allowed herself a smile; the guard’s anger lingered.
Planning
Sunlight-soaked alabaster statuettes glowed on a linen map that covered a long table in Amenhotep’s war room. Pausing by the table, Imhotep propped his walking staff against the table and picked up the nearest statuette.
The warm stone was carved as a seated god, his clenched fists resting on shendyt covered thighs. A carved, formal wig fell over the god’s shoulders and around upright ears that framed the heavy horns of the bull-faced god. A tall headdress of two plumes bracing a sun disk rose from the god’s head.
Imhotep pursed his lips as he studied the figure.
“Montu,” Amenhotep said from behind him as he entered the room.
“We gave him the face of a falcon,” Imhotep said. “But I like the bull face. Very imposing.” He placed the statuette back on the map, careful to set it atop the red square that was labelled Tjaru. “Montu was not well known in my youth. If I remember, he is a warrior god.”
Amenhotep joined Imhotep by the map.
“Yes,” he said. “Who was the war god of the ancients?”
Imhotep suppressed a frown. “Neith.”
“Ah,” Amenhotep said, “forgive me, Lord Imhotep.” He knew that the goddess Neith had killed Imhotep’s first born. He also knew that the man-god standing beside him avenged his son’s killing by sealing the goddess alive in a now hidden tomb.
“Well,” Amenhotep said, turning the conversation away from the past, “I chose Montu to mark my supply stops because he is the god of war but, more importantly, I chose him because he is a bull.” Amenhotep smiled mischievously. “So he’s edible.”
Imhotep turned to his friend, surprised to hear him make a joke.
“You see, Lord Imhotep, I think I have solved a supply problem that I worried would either keep our soldiers mired in the delta forever or have them arrive in Canaan too weak to fight anyone.”
He touched a statuette that marked the location of Men-Nefer.
“Much of the army is dispersed now, to help with the planting. But I am sending messages out to have them gather in Men-Nefer. The city has ample food and water, and there is enough shaded area around the city walls for the army to camp comfortably. Then, we send a third of the army — the cooks, carpenters and the infantry — north,” he touched the statuette that marked the town of Avaris. “We will use oxen to carry water and food. They plod along much more slowly than donkeys and horses, but they can carry much more.”
“When the first group leaves Avaris for Tjaru” — he reached for the statuette near the eastern edge of the delta — “again with the slow oxen, we send a second group — the archers, priests, and the camp followers — from Men-Nefer. They will use faster-moving donkeys to carry supplies. When they reach Avaris, the last section of the army — the charioteers and Pharaoh Thutmose — leave Men-Nefer. They use the spare horses for draft animals.”
He looked up at Imhotep. “I saw Neferhotep earlier this morning.”
Imhotep nodded. “Yes, he arrived last night from Men-Nefer for the council.”
“He seemed well,” Amenhotep said, his eyes avoiding Imhotep’s.
“Yes,” Imhotep agreed. “As is Queen Menwi. I think that carrying Ptah’s son agrees with her.” He looked at Amenhotep. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.
Amenhotep nodded acceptance of Imhotep’s thanks. He started to speak, stopped himself and reached for the statuettes that marked Avaris and Tjaru. “So, traveling at their own paces, each third of the army advances from here to here. The second and third group, traveling at faster paces, will overtake the slow moving oxen in Gaza.
“Now,” he said, his words gaining speed with his excitement, “With the entire army assembled in the fortress at Gaza, it will be difficult to feed everyone. The animals, of course, can graze, and I have ordered the fortress to stockpile grain and fish, but it will still be difficult to feed ten thousand men.”
“So you slaughter the oxen,” Imhotep said with admiration.
“Exactly,” Amenhotep said.
“Ingenious,” Imhotep said.
Amenhotep rocked on his toes, happy to hear his mentor praise his plan. “The idea came to me in a dream.” He glanced at Imhotep. “If I told this to a priest he would assure me that the vision was sent by a god. But, when we were building Pharaoh Hatshepsut’s temple, I remember you telling me that my sleeping mind, I forget the foreign word you used ... ”
“Subconscious,” Imhotep said in English.
“Yes, that one,” Amenhotep said, “the sleeping mind. I remember you said that it never rests and that it can solve problems while our waking mind is busy with other things.”
Imhotep leaned toward his friend and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Hugging Amenhotep, he said, “Whether it was your sleeping mind or if it was Thoth whispering in your sleep, either way, the idea was given to you.”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If you are talking with a priest or with our Pharaoh Thutmose, I would suggest that you give Thoth credit. It will please them, it will give more credibility to the idea and it will increase their esteem for you because the god found you a worthy messenger. However,” he added, releasing Amenhotep after giving him a final squeeze, “I choose to believe that it was your keen mind that found this elegant solution.”
Imhotep leaned over the table and studied the route the army of the Two Lands would take to Megiddo to destroy the King of Kadesh.
“There is a council this afternoon,” Amenhotep said.
Imhotep nodded, his thoughts on finding a route that would take Neferhotep, Menwi, Akila, and himself away from the army and to the Tomb of Ipy.
***
Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name, wore the blue leather cap of war. Tight golden armbands glowed against his lightly oiled skin and the strands of turquoise beads that formed a wide pectoral necklace across his bare chest devoured the window’s sunlight, turning the stringed beads into blue waves that shimmered like the river’s surface.
Despite himself, Imhotep felt a surge of pride; Pharaoh Thutmose looked like a god. His face was serene, his eyes commanding, his hands calm, yet an unmistakable power emanated from him.
Lowering his head, Imhotep imagined the ruler as a modern day politician. He would have made an outstanding neo-conservative or a pop-star liberal — unshakable and confident in whatever he chose to believe.
Here and now, four thousand years before flattering lighting, makeup, and image consultants, his natural physical presence was powerfully charismatic. Imhotep knew that his own experiences, his knowledge of the future, the myths that had grown around him — all of these gave him an aura, but Pharaoh Thutmose’s charisma was natural.
Pharaoh Thutmose believed that he was a god.
Glancing at the other men gathered for the war council, Imhotep saw that they shared Pharaoh Thutmose’s belief that he was a god and they were eager to please this god. He had seen the same light in the eyes of those who served King Djoser a thousand years ago.
Amenhotep’s war map was spread on a table by a window near Pharaoh Thutmose’s throne. The statuettes that marked the supply stops held the linen in place. Imhotep saw that additional figures stood on the map. A dark
statuette of the Seth animal sat on the plains north of the Dead Sea. A golden statuette of Amun, accompanied by three smaller statuettes of Sekhmet, Sobek, and Horus, occupied Men-Nefer.
As the other men crowded around the table, Imhotep looked off to his side, where Tjaneni sat behind a smaller table. The scribe smiled at Imhotep and then turned his attention to Pharaoh Thutmose, who had walked to the far side of the table and stood there with his arms held unnaturally stiff at his side.
His god pose, Imhotep thought.
“General Djehuty,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, opening the meeting.
Djehuty was no longer the young soldier who had accompanied Imhotep and Pharaoh Hatshepsut to the Land of Punt. Now commander of the armies of the Two Lands, Djehuty had kept his slight build, although his thin face was fuller now than it had been seven years ago, and his shaved skull showed less darkness as his hairline had receded.
Djehuty lowered his head. “Pharaoh Thutmose, long life!” he said. Amenmuse, commander of the infantry; Amenhotep, quartermaster of the Two Lands; Neferhotep, commander of the charioteers known as the maryannu; Admiral Ahmose, commander of the royal fleet; and Imhotep echoed the salute.
Stepping closer to the table, Djehuty touched the gathering of statuettes placed on the map at Men-Nefer. “Our army is already moving from the distant nomes, gathering here in Men-Nefer,” he began.
As Djehuty described the plan Amenhotep had explained to Imhotep earlier, Tjaneni’s brush swept across his papyrus, recording the planning.
The sound of Djehuty’s voice turned to a distant drone as Imhotep’s thoughts wandered to the fateful wadi outside Men-Nefer and the false doorway that had brought him to the Two Lands a lifetime ago.
As the generals of Pharaoh Thutmose planned the destruction of the King of Kadesh, Imhotep silently plotted the escape of his family.
Section Three
1457 BCE
The first month of Shemu
In the 23rd year of the reign
Of Pharaoh Thutmose III
Men-Nefer: Belief
Sand shifted beneath the worn leather sandals strapped to Imhotep’s feet. The sand tugged at the heavy walking staff every time he lifted it to step deeper into the wadi that ran west from the edge of Men-Nefer.
Pausing to get his bearings, he looked at the sides of the narrow gully. They sloped away from him, rising high enough to hide the surrounding desert. The path through the wadi had turned several times, and he was unsure whether Men-Nefer lay directly behind him or off to his right.
Straightening, he strained to catch a glimpse of the top of the Step Pyramid. He raised himself onto his toes and immediately felt the sand below spread away from his shifting weight.
I’m lower now, he thought, shaking his head.
Still, he twisted, trying to catch sight of something other than sand or sky. Laughing at the futility of his effort, he felt Ahmose looking at him.
“I don’t know where I am,” he said.
Nodding, Ahmose ran through the sand to him.
Why don’t his feet sink into the sand? Imhotep wondered.
The guide stopped in front of Imhotep and pointed off to their right. “Men-Nefer lies there. See the smoke rising into the sky?”
Imhotep stared into the bright blue sky. Perhaps there were wavy smudges, but his aging eyes didn’t see them. “I believe you,” he said.
He tilted his head to his left. “So the tomb is that way?”
Ahmose nodded eagerly. He picked up a handful of sand and held it out for Imhotep’s inspection.
“See how light the sand is,” he said. Then he dropped it and ran to the southern edge of the wadi. Some of the fallen sand landed on Imhotep’s feet. He took turns shaking his feet clean and then Ahmose was back with another handful of sand.
“This is darker, see the difference?”
Imhotep nodded, pretending that he saw a difference in the sand.
Ahmose dropped the sand and clapped his hands to clean them. The shower of sand fell on Imhotep’s momentarily sandless feet. Swallowing a rebuke, he waited for Ahmose to explain the importance of the dirty sand.
“Re bleaches the sand. Like old bones. The lighter the sand, the longer it has been exposed to Re. The darker sand tells me that Shu has blown the sand from south to north, moving the wadi like a palm branch floating on the river.”
“How long ago?” Imhotep asked.
Ahmose shrugged.
“You said the tomb was dug a million floods ago. I have not yet seen thirty floods. I don’t know how fast Shu moved this wadi. And it is possible that he blew southward for ten floods and then blew north. But,” he added, seeing Imhotep’s disappointment, “the dark sand suggests he is uncovering the southern wall.”
Imhotep shook his head. He had told Ahmose the tomb had been dug a thousand years ago, but every number larger than a hundred turned into a million for the Egyptians.
And, he thought, Ahmose is right. Who knows which way the wadi has shifted?
This is useless.
He closed his eyes, trying to picture how long it had taken him to walk from Paneb’s home in Ineb-Hedj to the tomb when he had first arrived in the Two Lands, a million years ago. But he didn’t know how much the city had spread. The sand moved, the city grew.
The pyramid hasn’t moved!
“Where can we climb out of here?” Imhotep asked excitedly. “I have an idea.”
***
Pharaoh Thutmose waved his attendants away. Bowing, they scuffled back to the stone hallway of Hut-ka-Ptah, leaving him alone in the doorway of Queen Menwi’s chambers.
He frowned, worried that the sound of their feet would interrupt Queen Menwi’s concentration. But the creak of the potter’s wheel didn’t stop and, lost in concentration, she remained bent over her work.
She wore only a kilt. Her wavy brown hair, still uncut, was braided into a ball that sat atop her head. He cocked his head and smiled; he had never seen hair so arranged. Her smooth neck sloped to narrow shoulders, where flecks of clay were nestled in the hollows of her collarbone.
Pharaoh Thutmose smiled, his heart taking flight at the sight of his virgin wife.
Her small breasts had dark tips, darker than Queen Satiah’s, he thought. They reminded him of her older sister, Queen Menhet.
But the sisters are so different; Menhet has a restless, boundless appetite; this one cares only for the gods, he thought.
Although Menhet was willing to accommodate him, her every action seemed to be grasping, as if she had fallen into water and was fighting to save herself. She had quickly become pregnant and begged absence from his bed.
It was just as well.
His thoughts were preoccupied by the upcoming war and with the gods. Always the gods. He sat with Amun and with Re and with Hathor, opening himself to their wishes, eager for their guidance.
This morning he had bathed and fed Ptah, but the creator had kept his silence.
The creaking of the potter’s wheel stopped and, abandoning his thoughts, Pharaoh Thutmose looked at Queen Menwi. She was bent over the wheel. One hand, a finger extended, was smoothing the side of the pot she had made. The other hand reached by the wheel to retrieve a damp cloth.
Concentrating on keeping her eyes on the clay pot instead of the man she had noticed in her doorway minutes ago, Queen Menwi wondered, will he speak? Akila had told her that Pharaoh Thutmose was intrigued by her love of the god Ptah and she had instructed Queen Menwi to display all of the devotion that she could manage.
Should I look up and act surprised? Perhaps gasp slightly? No, I must be calm and queenly. I am the mother of a god.
She squinted at the pot. Squinting shows attention, she told herself.
Pharaoh Thutmose stepped into the room and Queen Menwi looked up from her work and smiled serenely.
“Dear husband,” she said, rising from her stool. “Long life!”
He saw her stomach now, the sacred sanctuary where Ptah’s child was growing. It was round, protruding s
lightly above the clay-splashed linen of her kilt. So small. He wondered if the god would grow to the same size as an infant or if it would emerge larger.
I must ask Imhotep, he told himself.
“Queen Menwi,” he said, approaching her, his arms outstretched.
She brushed her hands on her kilt, saw that even though they left behind wet stains, her hands remained covered in clay.
Looking up, she saw that he was by her now, his arms encircling her. She felt the cold of his golden necklace press against her bare chest. Neferhotep never wore a necklace, although he had an amulet of the goddess Sekhmet that he tied around his neck before he rode into battle.
His arms pulled her close now. They feel heavier than Neferhotep’s, but not as strong. Neferhotep carries little on his body except muscle. He is always training and working, she thought, as her husband laid his head on hers.
“You may return my embrace,” Pharaoh Thutmose said softly in her ear.
His breath smells of meat and beer. Neferhotep’s breath is always light and fresh, his lips warm and soft.
She wrapped her clay-splattered arms around Pharaoh Thutmose.
“I don’t mind if the mud of father Ptah falls on me. After all, it has fallen within you,” Pharaoh Thutmose said.
Concentrating on his voice, Queen Menwi closed her eyes. Is he sincere? Is he laying a trap for me?
She felt him pull away. Looking up, she saw a curious smile on his lips. Then he began to kneel, his face passing hers, his breath on her neck, now her chest. She felt his lips brush against her nipples and then his mouth touched her small, swollen stomach with a gentle kiss.
Looking down on his closely shaved scalp, she saw him turn his head and press his ear against her womb.
She put her hands on his shoulders, softly kneading the muscles as she looked down on the ruler of the Two Lands.
