by Jerry Dubs
Imhotep looked at the message. Still tied with a ribbon, the outside of the papyrus carried the cartouche of Pharaoh Thutmose.
“Tjaneni ... ” Imhotep said.
“I am the official scribe,” Tjaneni said. “I read all of the messages that are sent to Pharaoh Thutmose.” He lowered his arm to his side. “And I will read this one to Pharaoh Thutmose as well. It is my duty, Lord Imhotep.
“In the letter,” he continued, “Queen Satiah asks Pharaoh Thutmose what signs Ptah will leave upon the child that Queen Menwi is carrying. She assures him that the priests tell her that there must be a sign, that the god always leaves a sign on his children.”
Imhotep leaned on his staff and sighed.
“There is more,” Tjaneni said, holding out a second letter with his other hand.
“This message arrived from Men-Nefer today from Useramen,” he said, offering another papyrus to Imhotep. “This one is for you,” he said. “The seal is unbroken. I have not read it, Lord Imhotep.”
***
Stopping outside his tent, Imhotep laid the papyrus from Useramen on the dying camp fire. Using the end of his staff he stirred the embers until flames caught on the edges of the dry papyrus.
He stared at the small flames, watching them crawl deeper into the papyrus roll and wishing that he truly had the second sight everyone believed he possessed.
The note from Useramen had told him that his cousin Ahmose had found the lost tomb.
It is possible, Imhotep thought. We might escape. We might survive.
The tomb was still sealed.
A miracle, Imhotep thought. He closed his eyes and pictured the series of false doors in the hallway that led to the tomb chamber.
Now, all we need to do is survive the war with the King of Kadesh, help Queen Menwi give birth in the middle of the desert, find a way to slip away from the army of Pharaoh Thutmose, sneak back to Men-Nefer, open the tomb, paint the hieroglyphs over the false door and hope that it opens into the modern world. To our modern world
The fire flickered as the last curls of papyrus turned black and gave up their meaning.
The smoke carried the essence of the letter into the sky. Closing his eyes Imhotep imagined the vaporous tendrils dispersed through the air, drifting aloft for three thousand years, hovering over the birth of the Roman Empire, alighting on Leonardo da Vinci’s brush as he painted The Last Supper. He pictured them caught in the sails that drove Columbus’ ships westward, smothered by the smoke of cannon fire during the American Civil War, and then finally raining down onto the umbrella he had held overhead while Addy had been lowered into the ground.
The embers turned gray and Imhotep stirred from his thoughts.
Turning away, he felt fate’s hand closing around him.
***
“Queen Satiah has written to Pharaoh Thutmose,” he whispered in English to Akila a few minutes later as he lay beside her and spooned himself against her back. “She insists that Ptah will leave a mark on Queen Menwi’s child, proof that the god planted his seed in her.”
She nestled against him, moaning softly. He decided that meant she was listening.
“I’m sure we can find a mole, the way a toe is bent, the number of creases behind the child’s knee,” he said. “We can always say that a hawk landed by Menwi as she birthed. Or that a clay pot mysteriously fell and shattered.”
Akila turned slowly, pressing herself against him, raising her head and resting it on Imhotep’s proffered arm.
“We could say that the child was born with clay on his fingers,” she said.
“Or green skin,” Imhotep suggested, making a game of it.
“No, I have it,” Akila said. “Doesn’t his cartouche begin with a square over the top of a half circle?”
“Yes,” Imhotep said.
“His fingernails. We’ll say they formed the perfect beginning of the god’s name.”
Imhotep held his hand up in the darkness.
“Don’t all fingernails have a half moon at the bottom?”
“Yes,” Akila said, her hand moving down Imhotep’s side toward his hip. “But you can say that the child’s fingernails are perfect, the very embodiment of the god Ptah.”
Imhotep frowned. “Let’s hope for a birthmark,” he said, turning to kiss Akila, whose hand was now caressing Imhotep’s hip and his own birthmark, shaped like a feather, the first symbol of his ancient name.
Departure
Imhotep rubbed a hand over his face as he leaned to look into the polished bronze mirror. Sighing, he lifted the mirror and turned toward the window so that the morning light caught his face more fully.
He exhaled softly on the bright metal, picked up a linen cloth and wiped the light fog from the mirror. Squinting, he studied himself. He frowned at the image, found the expression awkward and then, happy to see that frowning had not become a habit, he smiled. His face blossomed with lines; deep creases ran from the corners of his nose to the sides of his mouth, more wrinkles radiated from his eyes.
Returning the mirror to the dressing table he wondered how he would appear in a clean glass mirror. Would the clarity make him look older or younger?
Picking up his shendyt, he wrapped the waist bands around his stomach and began to tie the straps. A small belly rose from the kilt, but there were no rolls of flesh hanging from his waist and his chest was still tight, if small. He held his right arm bent in front of his face and flicked at the triceps. The muscle moved, but didn’t wobble.
Suddenly, he realized that he wasn’t alone.
“Planning to enter a beauty contest, Tim?” Akila asked in English.
He blushed.
“I’m not sure how old I am,” he said.
“Ancient,” she deadpanned, walking up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist.
“No, really. I was twenty-five when I came to Egypt as a tourist. Then I had five years with you in modern Egypt. You and I have been here with Hatshepsut and now Thutmose for eight or nine years.”
“Nine,” she whispered into his ear, lingering close to him, breathing softly.
“So that is ... ”
“Thirty-nine,” she said playfully, kissing his neck.
“Right, and I spent seventeen years building the Step Pyramid.”
“Fifty-six,” she said, returning to his ear.
“I am ancient,” he said.
“And that doesn’t take into account the wear and tear from being buried in the alabaster sarcophagus and whatever frequent flier mileage you earned from moving back and forth in time,” she said, kissing his shoulder and then backing away from him.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Akila. There are times when I feel healthy and energetic. I mean, not like a teenager, but good. And then, I look around and everyone looks so young. Thutmose is in his early twenties. Queen Satiah is barely out of her teens. Menwi is still a teenager.
“It will be strange to get back to the modern world and be a real adult, you know, but not look so much older than everyone else. If I didn’t have this limp ... ”
“Your leg was getting better when you were doing the Tai Chi exercises,” Akila said, careful to not sound like a physical therapist.
He nodded. “And when I was doing all that walking in Helwan.” He picked up his staff and turned to her. “I think I’ll go for a walk around the perimeter of the camp. Maybe I can get my leg strong enough that I can quit carrying this.” He raised the smoothly worn staff and looked at it. “But I’ve gotten used to it. Makes me look like Moses,” he said, heading for the doorway.
“Or Gandalf,” she said quietly.
“My hearing is just fine,” he said with false anger and then waved goodbye.
***
The morning air was light despite the heavy load of aromas it carried. Sniffing as he walked east toward the low-hanging sun, Imhotep could smell donkeys, horses, the earthier aroma of oxen, the ash of morning camp fires, and the tangy sweat of soldi
ers.
Walking toward the light, he felt energy and hope wash over him.
If the reports of Pharaoh Thutmose’s spies were accurate, the approaching battle should be one-sided, lowering the risk that Neferhotep would be injured or killed. Queen Menwi was young and energetic; her childbirth should be uneventful. Ahmose had found the tomb; an escape route was available.
The feeling that filled him felt like spring, he realized.
I can rescue my family and we can escape to the modern world. A rebirth for us all.
Word of the spy’s report had spread through the camp, and this morning Imhotep heard cheerfulness in the waking banter of the soldiers.
Amid that banter he also heard the sound of sharpening stones scraping on metal blades. The farmers and laborers, the reed gatherers and quarrymen had become soldiers now. They had been formed into an army.
The fist of Amun.
He reached the edge of the camp and turned right, keeping the sun to his left. The sandy ground gave way to soil here, and ahead he saw the corrals that held the pack donkeys. Near them a man was on his hands and knees, his face pressed close to the ground, his head turned to look off away from the camp.
Curious, Imhotep walked faster, trying to carry the walking staff rather than lean on it.
The man heard him coming and turned his head. Then, ignoring Imhotep’s approach, he looked back across the ground.
A few donkeys began to bray. The calls were answered by neighs coming from a horse corral that lay beyond them. The man pushed himself to his knees, bounced to his feet and began to clap dirt from his hands.
“Lord Imhotep, good morning,” he said.
“Amenhotep?” Imhotep said, his ears identifying the voice before his eyes could blink the face into recognition.
“You are walking briskly,” Amenhotep said. “The good news seems to have put a bounce in all of our steps.”
“Yes,” Imhotep agreed. “What were you doing?”
“Oh,” Amenhotep said. “I was measuring the grass.”
“Measuring the grass?” Imhotep repeated.
Amenhotep nodded. “When we first got here the ground was covered with grass. If I pressed the side of my face to Geb my vision was blocked by the grass. Each day, the green curtain thins and shortens.” He held a hand toward the open field. “Now it is brown. There is very little here for the donkeys and horses.”
He clapped his hands together once more, then inspected them for dirt.
“We must move. The army, that is,” he said. “Pharaoh is eager to fight. The enemy is waiting and,” he motioned again to the brown pasture, “we have outstayed our welcome.”
***
The next morning Neferhotep wheeled his chariot to the front of the double line of chariots aligned on the road outside Gaza. Reining his horses to a stop, he twisted and looked back over the line of chariots.
Amenhotep had told him that there were two thousand chariots, each carrying a driver and an archer. Behind the line of chariots followed six thousand infantrymen. Behind them two thousand archers were arrayed.
Far behind them, not even formed up for travel, were the donkeys and oxen that would carry water, bread, beer, tents, and extra weapons.
Looking back over the line, Neferhotep saw a flash of light, Re reflecting from the electrum plating of the chariot of Pharaoh Thutmose, who had finished exhorting the infantry and was taking his place now at the head of the army of the Two Lands.
A chanted chorus, muffled by distance, grew louder as the charioteers began to call the ruler’s name when he passed. The chants, excited and proud, filled the air, swept across the plains and rolled up the Way of Horus, preceding the might of the Two Lands, announcing the arrival of the fist of Amun aimed at Megiddo to rebalance ma’at.
Neferhotep realized that he was shouting now. His love of the Two Lands filled his heart and overflowed from his ka. It poured from his throat as he screamed the name of the living god Horus who was approaching.
Pharaoh Thutmose wore the blue war crown. His kohl was artfully applied, giving his eyes the appearance of the Eyes of Horus. His full lips carried the serene smile of victory, his arms gleamed with oil and golden arm bands, the wide tail of his shendyt kilt hung directly in front of him, the edge of it threaded with gold.
A quiver, its casing sheathed in linen, hung from the left side of his chariot, the fletching of the arrows that rose from it was dyed blue, the notched tips painted gold. The bow that was strapped to the inside of the chariot cab had a center section of ivory to give it beauty and strength.
Pharaoh Thutmose guided his horses toward Neferhotep and then slid the reins across their backs to make them sidestep until they came to a stop beside Neferhotep.
Slowly, Pharaoh Thutmose turned his head to the commander of the maryannu. He smiled briefly, his eyes afire with excitement. Then he raised his whip hand and shouted, “For the Two Lands!”
Neferhotep echoed his call and, as the battle cry rose behind them, Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name, and Neferhotep, grandson of the living god Imhotep, urged their chariots forward to destroy the wretched King of Kadesh.
This Minute
Before the army left Gaza, Imhotep had insisted that he could not leave Queen Menwi’s side; Pharaoh Thutmose had insisted that Imhotep would accompany the army to Yehem, ten days distant and less than a day’s walk from Megiddo.
Imhotep had argued that Queen Menwi and the future prince of the Two Lands she carried would be safer in Gaza; Pharaoh Thutmose had countered that there could be no safer place for the Queen than at her husband’s side, surrounded by ten thousand warriors.
As Imhotep had opened his mouth to describe the benefits of Queen Menwi not bouncing along the road in a chariot, he saw the light of amusement dim in Pharaoh Thutmose’s eyes. Imhotep had bowed as low as his age allowed, thanked Pharaoh Thutmose — long life! — for his patience and said that he looked forward to being reunited with his ruler in Yehem.
And so, escorted by Pharaoh Thutmose’s personal guards and accompanied by three priests sent by First Priest Puimre to assure the god’s continued blessing, and by five donkeys that carried water and food, Imhotep, Akila, and Queen Menwi slowly trailed the army of the Two Lands north through Canaan.
***
They followed the tail of the army, taking to the road once the dust had settled from the hourlong line of supply donkeys.
Two guarding chariots rolled on either side of them and two more rolled ahead of them. The priests traveled behind the queen, loudly chanting the praises of Pharaoh Thutmose and calling on Amun to bless him, to give the soldiers everlasting strength, and to fill the hearts of the rebellious Canaanites with fear and their legs with water.
Imhotep, who held the reins of the four horses of the large, four-wheeled chariot that carried them northward, kept their pace slow to minimize the bouncing inflicted on Queen Menwi. Traveling at Imhotep’s measured pace, they lost sight of the main body of the army after three days.
On the fourth day, worn by the journey and deprived of the generous meals of the temple, the priests grew silent.
With a smile emerging on his dust-covered face, Imhotep turned to Akila and tilted his head toward the trailing priests. “Hear that?” he asked in English.
She nodded. “They’re tired,” she said, raising a hand to wipe sweat from her forehead. “Or worried.” She looked off to their right. Mountains ranged along the eastern horizon and the road they were following had become uneven. Bouncing around hillocks the road was rising as it turned away from the sea.
She shook her head wishing that she knew more about ancient Canaan. Were there lions running wild here? Were there venomous snakes?
She frowned; it didn’t matter.
There were no telephones, no police patrols, no medical helicopters to rescue them.
The army of the Two Lands, commanded by an overconfident twenty-five-year-old man who believes he is a god, lies ahead. An army of rebels, led by a different megaloman
iac, eager to prove they can defeat the army of the Two Lands, waits somewhere beyond the mountains.
Tim and I are unarmed, traveling across a desolate wilderness at the mercy of the wind, the shifting of rocks, the instincts of snakes and scorpions, the stealth of lions, the anger of foreign warriors.
And we are protected by a few young soldiers and the chants of priests.
She glanced at Tim, both hands on the reins, his walking staff lashed to the chariot cab. He felt her looking, turned to her and smiled.
“I know,” he said in English. “It is surreal. All of this emptiness. No planes overhead, no satellites circling above the sky. The mountains are younger, the air is fresher. The creak of the wheels and the concatenated clops of the horses, the caw of a crow, they all sound like they have never been heard before.”
He shook his head in wonder.
“I want to stop the chariot and sit down and draw everything. Capture it. I don’t trust my memory to hold it all.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked, incredulous that the empty wilderness filled them with opposite emotions.
He frowned at the question. “I was afraid when the rebel army was chasing us and when you found me in the embalming temple. But that was different. I didn’t know what had happened to you, and Meryt was somewhere upriver. And I was afraid in Ta Netjer when the Medjay attacked and I couldn’t find you.”
He watched the shoulders of the horses moving in rhythm for a moment as he thought.
“I think my greatest fear is when the people I should be protecting are in danger and I can’t help them. I get frightened for myself, of course, but that feels different. There’s a resignation there. We all die. I’m OK with that. I’m in no hurry, but it is inevitable.
“But I don’t want to stay alive while I lose any more of my family. I can’t do that again. I won’t lose you or Neferhotep.” He nodded at Queen Menwi who was slumped sleeping against pillows, “or Menwi or their child. That would kill me.”
