by Jerry Dubs
“I’ll take the old one,” Thanuny said to himself.
On his knees, Thanuny reached down and picked up his sword.
Right behind Thanuny now, Imhotep found he was still holding the other half of his broken walking staff. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. Then to his knees.
Staring at the helpless queen, Thanuny raised his sword.
Imhotep raised his staff high, its dirty, broken tip aimed at Thanuny’s back.
No more killing, Imhotep thought as he brought his arms down, throwing his weight behind the blow. He felt the staff hit Thanuny’s back, felt the broken wood pierce his skin, felt it strike a bone and slide free, gaining momentum as it drove into the soldier’s heart.
***
With his chariot rocking over the uneven ground at the base of Megiddo, Neferhotep tied the reins around his waist and began to shoot arrows at the cluster of chariots.
One of his arrows drove into the shoulder of a soldier, another bounced off the armor of a man who was gripping the linen rope to scale the wall. Neferhotep nocked another arrow, drew the string and felt a blow to his shoulder. His hand released the arrow half drawn and it fell in front of his chariot.
Another blow hit his back and he saw a rock bounce on the floor of his chariot.
Another rock hit him and then an alabaster bowl struck his arm. Looking up he saw that the city’s defenders were throwing pots, jars, rocks, and jugs over the wall at him.
He tried to fire another arrow at the climbing figure, heard pottery shatter against the front of his chariot and then heard a heavy whoosh.
***
Kebu saw Neferhotep fall from his chariot under a hail of jars, pots, and rocks.
Drawing his horses to a stop, Kebu jumped from his chariot with his bow and quiver in hand. Shooting arrows toward the top of the wall, he ran to Neferhotep, who had rolled down the embankment from beneath the wall.
Kneeling beside Neferhotep, Kebu saw that blood trickled from one of Neferhotep’s ears and the commander’s eyes were closed.
Ignoring the rocks that fell around them, Kebu picked up Neferhotep and carried him back to his chariot. He laid his unconscious friend on the floor of the chariot, grabbed the reins and turned the chariot back toward the safety of the Egyptian camp.
***
Akila tasted blood as she woke.
Raising a hand to her face, she felt sticky blood on her cheek. She worked her jaw, winced at a bite of pain and then felt relief when the hinge worked.
She pushed herself upright, wondered how she came to be lying on the ground, and then saw a trail of blood and half of Imhotep’s broken staff.
The soldier!
She got to her feet and, following the trail of blood, she saw three bodies.
***
Neferhotep gripped Kebu’s ankle.
Startled, Kebu looked down and saw that the charioteer’s ka had returned to his body. Safely away from the city walls, he stopped his chariot and sat on the floor beside Neferhotep.
“Are they defeated?” Neferhotep asked.
“Yes, commander,” Kebu answered. “The King of Kadesh has fled.”
“Is he captured?”
“He is hidden in his city, but the city will fall.”
Neferhotep worked his mouth, but no words took flight.
“I will get you back to the camp,” Kebu said, shifting his weight to rise.
“Kebu, you must send word to Imhotep. You must go yourself. Tell him what happened. Tell him that I won’t be going with him.”
“We will go together,” Kebu said.
“And tell Queen Menwi ... ” Neferhotep’s mouth continued to move, but only a sigh came out, followed by a trickle of blood. The charioteer’s eyes locked on Kebu’s and then they looked beyond him.
And then they saw no more.
***
“Tim,” Akila said, kneeling beside her husband, who lay in a puddle of cooling blood. She saw his bandaged thigh and half of his walking staff lying beside an undone knot. Realizing that it was a tourniquet she put her hand on the bloody bandage and pressed against the wound.
There was little blood flow. Either the wound was closing, or there was little blood left to leave his body.
Seeing the amount of blood on the sand and the trail that had led to him, she knew the answer. Still she felt his neck for a pulse and imagining that she felt movement beneath her fingers, she leaned down to kiss his cold cheek.
“Meryt.” The sound as soft as a whisper.
“Yes,” she said, tears forming and falling.
“I am cold.”
She stroked his head, gently pulled him closer as her other hand pressed against his barely seeping wound.
“I did the best I could,” he said.
“I know, Tim,” she said, leaning to kiss his forehead.
A small smile and his eyes slid open. “Akila,” he said as if waking from a dream.
“Yes, Tim. I am here.”
“You have saved me so many times.” His eyes closed. “Please save the baby now. You know the symbols.”
“We will save the baby together.”
“I’m covered in sand,” he said, rubbing his fingers together. “Don’t bury me in the sand.”
“I won’t, Tim.”
“I wish I believed in the Field of Reeds,” he whispered. “No sand there.”
Akila started to shake.
“Akila,” Tim said, his voice fading to a whisper, “I have loved you forever.”
“I love you, too, Tim,” she said as his eyes closed. “Forever.”
Kebu
As the last of the enemy soldiers disappeared behind the walls of Megiddo, Pharaoh Thutmose jumped from his chariot and climbed atop a large rock that stood by his tent.
His fists clenched as he looked across the plain of Megiddo. The Egyptian army was singing songs of victory, leading captured horses to camp, pulling horseless chariots heaped with plunder. Others had disappeared into the distance searching for the camps and supplies of the defeated army.
Beyond them the gates of Megiddo stood closed and beyond those gates the King of Kadesh and his rebel princes still breathed.
Pharaoh Thutmose understood that the men wanted plunder, that they needed and deserved it. And he understood that the plain had been littered with treasures beyond belief for the soldiers who had by now spent a year from their families.
They would have had it all and more if they had continued to fight.
He felt tears come to his eyes. Total victory had been in their grasp and they had let the enemy run away. While the King of Kadesh lived, Pharaoh Thutmose refused to view this as a victory.
Picturing Ptah in his silent chambers, thinking of Horus soaring skyward, his eyes always searching, Pharaoh Thutmose steeled himself. He blinked away regret, stepped from the rock and shouted, “Bring me my generals!”
***
Laying Tim’s lifeless head on the sand, Akila rolled to her hands and knees and got to her feet.
The soldier who had attacked them lay on his side, the jagged tip of Tim’s walking staff protruding from his chest. His eyes were open, his mouth agape in surprise.
Beside him Menwi lay curled on her side softly moaning.
Squatting beside her Akila saw that blood was seeping now from between her legs.
I have waited too long. Now they will both die.
“Queen Menwi,” she said, leaning forward and touching the girl’s cheek.
“Take my baby,” the girl groaned. “Take him from me.”
“It is too late,” Akila said. “I am sorry. Now we must find a way to save you.”
“No,” Queen Menwi said. “Save my baby!”
Sighing, Akila pushed herself to her feet and was struck by a bout of dizziness. She closed her eyes for a moment as her world swirled in blackness. Focusing on her breathing, she heard Menwi shuffling and then a sharp cry.
She looked down at her. The queen’s eyes were wet with fear and tears. Her hands
were joined over her stomach, just below her rib cage and the handle of Thanuny’s knife was in her grip.
As blood spread from beneath the queen’s hands Akila dropped to her knees beside the girl. She pulled Menwi’s hands away from the knife.
“What did ... ”
“I am freeing my baby,” Menwi cried. Then she screamed again, the fingers of her hands spread in pain. The scream ended abruptly and Akila saw Menwi’s finger’s grow slack as her hand fell.
“Menwi,” Akila said, laying one hand on the queen’s lower stomach, the other hand hovering over the knife, knowing that she should leave it in place to prevent more bleeding, but repelled by its deathly strength.
As she looked at Menwi’s face, the lines of strain gone now, the eyes open, but no longer filled with tears, Akila felt movement inside the dead queen’s belly. Reaching up she pulled the knife from Menwi’s ribs and turned her attention to the infant trapped in her belly.
***
As Pharaoh Thutmose’s generals left his tent, Tjaneni, his heart racing at the anger that had filled the air, bent over his papyrus.
“Record my words,” Pharaoh Thutmose said, his voice heavy with anger. “Write the truth of this.”
Afraid to look at Pharaoh Thutmose, Tjaneni nodded and began to write.
Now, if only the army of his majesty had not given their heart to plundering the things of the enemy, they would have captured Megiddo at this moment, when the wretched foe of Kadesh and the wretched foe of this city were hauled up in haste to bring them into this city. The fear of his majesty had entered their hearts, their arms were powerless, his serpent diadem was victorious among them.
Tjaneni paused and lifted a second piece of papyrus on which he had recorded the plunder and prisoners reported by the generals.
In addition to the battlefield plunder, the soldiers had ranged beyond the plain to the encampment of the Canaanites to their corrals and pastures.
Tjaneni’s eyes flicked over the list: three hundred and forty prisoners, eighty-three hands taken, two thousand forty one mares, a hundred and ninety-one foals, six stallions, two chariots wrought with gold, another eight hundred ninety-two chariots, two hundred suits of armor, five hundred and two bows, seven silver tent poles, more than four thousand goats, and twenty thousand sheep.
It was difficult to believe that the Egyptian army had captured so much and yet had allowed the enemy to escape.
***
“He was the only one who understood,” Pharaoh Thutmose told Kebu as he stood beside Neferhotep’s body.
“While the rest of the army plundered, he went after the true treasure. Had we captured the King of Kadesh, this rebellion would have died. Now we must stay here and wait for them to surrender.”
He placed a hand on Neferhotep’s unmoving chest and looked on his broken face, discolored and misshapen from the rocks that had killed him.
“Pharaoh Thutmose,” Kebu said, his head bowed. “Commander Neferhotep asked that I take word of his death to his grandfather.”
Pharaoh Thutmose turned his hand to lay the back of his fingers against Neferhotep’s face. It felt as cold as Ptah’s stone face.
He died in battle. Ma’at has already found his heart light and Anubis has escorted him to the Field of Reeds, he thought.
Leaning close, Pharaoh Thutmose placed his ear by Neferhotep’s lips, but the gods chose to hold their answers from the dead man’s lips. Patiently, silently, Pharaoh Thutmose called on the gods. He would have the truth of the baby that his wife carried, the truth known to the gods and to this man.
Yet he heard only silence.
***
Akila held the infant against his dead mother’s breast.
She had counted his fingers and toes, stroked his head, not misshapen by travel through the birth canal, and looked into his eyes. Buoyed by the miracle of a new life, she had put aside the list of tasks that had begun to form in her mind.
She needed to bury Tim, the thought of leaving him lying in the sand, exposed to scavengers, was more than she could bear. The soldier’s sword could be used to loosen the dirt and she could scrape the grave open with her hands. The returning army or villagers would need to care for the bodies of Queen Menwi and the soldier. Akila was unable to imagine herself digging three graves.
She needed to find a wet nurse for the infant.
She needed to find her way back to Men-Nefer.
She needed to find the tomb of Ipy and the false door.
She needed ... sleep.
The baby stopped suckling. Cradling him in her arms, Akila crawled away from the bodies and curled up beneath a tree.
In the morning ...
***
She dreamed of tombs and darkness so heavy that it pressed against her, suffocating her. She dreamed of Imhotep, emaciated and near death when she had first seen him. She dreamed of him holding his daughter, his transparent lies and her hidden amusement and delight in seeing him alive. She dreamed of him coming to her bed in Helwan, the delight of his touch, the intensity of his eyes, the simple truth of his words.
His touch, always sure, always loving.
She felt it now.
His fingers gripped her shoulder. His voice, distant and changed, broke into her dreams.
“Akila, Akila.”
The touch was not a dream. The voice was real.
A shiver of fear went through her as she opened her eyes and saw a face hovering over her in the night.
“It is Kebu,” he said, and she began to cry.
***
“We can travel to Gaza in five days,” Kebu said the next morning as Akila dipped a folded linen cloth into honey and offered it to the baby.
“The baby needs a wet nurse,” she said.
“Perhaps we will find a goat,” he said. “And there are villages along the route. I am sure we will find someone.”
“Yes,” she said. She was sitting on the floor of Kebu’s chariot. He had moved it away from the campsite after waking her last night. Then he had disappeared, returning hours later, arms and shendyt covered with dirt.
He squatted by the chariot, a water skin in his hands.
“I am sorry, Akila,” he said, hoping to comfort her. “Lord Imhotep saved my life. His ka has rested from this life, but ... ”
“I know,” she interrupted him. “You don’t need to tell me, Kebu.”
Kebu nodded. He had known many strong women, but this hemet of the god Imhotep was the strongest. She had wept last night, but the tears were not weakness. He knew that she had helped to defeat the giant Yuya and now she had battled the warrior with the deformed foot. He saw the lump and dark bruise over her eye, but he also saw the set of her jaw and the determination in her eyes.
Now, although she tenderly cradled the baby like any other mother, her voice told Kebu that there was iron in her ba and that she would kill to protect the child.
She put the cloth aside now and stood.
“Let me wash him and then we will leave,” she said.
***
Kneeling by the chariot, she unwrapped the linen from the baby and began to clean him. As she turned him she saw a mark on his right hip. It didn’t wash away when she dabbed at it with her cloth.
She lifted him to look at it closer.
It was a birthmark.
It was the shape of a feather, the same birthmark that Imhotep had carried.
A thrill ran through her.
Clutching the baby to her chest, she twisted toward the chariot and retrieved her medical sack. She rooted through it to find the DNA sequencer she had brought with her from the modern world.
A weapon of the gods? Kebu wondered as he watched her take a narrow, silver tube from her bag.
She laid the child on his back and, holding his mouth open with two fingers of her left hand, she inserted the tip of the silver tube into his mouth. Her thumb tapped the end of the tube and then she retracted it.
She held it close to her eyes and watched the symbols that danced
across the flat bevel.
“Where is Imhotep?” she asked Kebu, shaking her head as she looked at the instrument. The DNA sequence was complete and it showed an identical match.
“He is buried, Akila.”
“It isn’t possible,” she said to herself in English. She thought for a moment and then put the silver tube back into her sack.
“It was, so it will be,” she whispered to herself, tracing a finger across the infant’s face. She stared at the boy, knowing what he would look like when he became a man.
“Hello, Tim,” she whispered.
The False Doorway
Akila handed the infant to Kebu and picked up a pot of paint and a brush.
Suckled by a wet nurse Akila had hired in Gaza three weeks earlier, the baby had thrived. Black, curly hair covered his wide head like onion sprouts. His arms had become chubby, creating deep creases at his elbows, and fat wrinkled across the tops of his knees. His cheeks had acquired a ruddy glow and his tiny fingers had the grasping strength of all infants.
Kebu, who had survived the battle of Megiddo, the massacre in Ta Netjer, the birth of spiders in his leg and the long trek through the jungle, seemed frightened of the infant. He held the child as if he were a sleeping snake whose awakening would be terrible.
“Ahmose,” Akila said, “move the torch closer. And the bench, too, please.”
Useramen’s cousin picked up the small, low bench with one hand and, careful to keep his torch from the eyes of Akila and Kebu, he set the bench beside Akila.
Stepping onto the bench, Akila dipped the brush into the paint and began to draw hieroglyphs above the false door in Ipy’s tomb.
She had subtracted the years she had invoked on the false door in the temple of Abu eight years earlier. She had subtracted twenty five more years for the age Tim had been when he arrived in ancient Egypt and then estimated how many lifetimes the remaining years represented.
