The Field of Reeds (Imhotep Book 4)

by Jerry Dubs

  “Ah, yes,” Bakr said, nodding. Then his eyebrows collided and he said, “I still do not understand.”

  “We think something happened and Imhotep needed Akila’s help, so he hid this note in the Step Pyramid, or some place that Akila knew about so she could check for a message from him,” Brianna said. She shook her head. “It was like a post office box from five thousand years ago.”

  “Oh,” Bakr said. “My letter isn’t as old.”

  Ahmes and Brianna shook their heads.

  “My letter,” Bakr said, picking up the envelope and handing it to Ahmes.

  “What is this?” Brianna asked.

  “An old woman gave me an envelope almost fifty years ago. Today’s date was written on it.” He held up the outer envelope that he had already opened. “She made me promise that I wouldn’t open it until today. So a little while ago I made my tea and sat down to read a mystery, but when I opened it all that I found was this envelope with your names on it.”

  Ahmes carefully opened it and lifted from it a single sheet of paper on which was written:

  Dear Brianna and Ahmes,

  As you have probably discovered by now, I followed Tim to ancient Egypt.

  Shortly after I arrived a civil war erupted. Ahmes, I am sorry, but I do not know what happened to your family. We were separated by the unrest. We fled to Abu where, more sad news, Meryt was killed. Imhotep, Maya, your sister Hapu, Bata and I were able to escape through a time portal. We emerged in the time of Pharaoh Hatshepsut.

  Hapu became a famous physician, Ahmes, You would have been proud of her. We all were. She was so beloved by Pharaoh Hatshepsut that she was buried with her.

  So much happened, Ahmes. Imhotep designed and helped build the mortuary temple of Pharaoh Hatshepsut. Maya had a son. His name was Neferhotep. He commanded the charioteers under Pharaoh Thutmose III at the Battle of Megiddo. He also had a child with Queen Menwi.

  Not just a child ...

  Imhotep and I were with Queen Menwi to help with her delivery. We were attacked, I am sorry, I know I am filling this with horrible news. But please know that we had many wonderful years, Ahmes.

  We were attacked and Imhotep was killed defending us. After he died, I delivered the baby of Neferhotep and Queen Menwi. Brianna can explain this, Ahmes ... I had sequenced Imhotep’s DNA (each of us has unique DNA) and after the baby was born, I sequenced the infant’s. They were identical. The baby IS Imhotep.

  I do not mean that he is a reincarnation of Imhotep.

  He IS Imhotep.

  Knowing this, I created a time portal that brought the infant and myself here in the year 1981, when I am writing this note. You will not be surprised that a couple named James and Julia Hope (Tim’s parents) were staying at the Blue Lotus Guesthouse when we arrived. Julia had just lost a child. She and James are adopting Tim. (They are down the hall from me as I write this.) I am sure that they will take him to the states and raise him.

  I am sure, as well, that he will be fascinated by Egypt and that he will come here when he is twenty-five. He will find the time portal and travel to ancient Egypt — to your time, Ahmes. He will become Imhotep.

  Everything that happened to Imhotep happened thousands of years before the time I am writing this letter. And yet everything that I know happened to Tim has yet to happen, he is just a baby at this moment. His adventures begin twenty-five years in the future from this moment.

  As for me, I am here in the modern world, an old woman, a year before I am to be born. I do not know what will happen to me. Will I die within the year so I can be born? Is my life a never-ending circle, like Tim’s? Or can I travel away from here and live both here in Egypt as a child in a few years and somewhere else as an adult?

  I don’t know.

  I hope that your lives continue in love.

  Akila

  Oh — Bakr. I am sorry that I deceived you when I arrived as an old woman with a child in 1981. You were as kind to me then, when I was a stranger, as you ever were in later years when we became friends. I can’t help but think about how you helped Tim when Ahmes first brought him here after he had been buried in the alabaster sarcophagus. You have helped so many lives now and in the past.

  ***

  They sat silent for a moment and then reread the letter again and again.

  “I don’t understand,” Bakr said. “How could the old woman, I barely remember her, but I know that she was old. How could that have been Akila?”

  “She was a time traveler, Bakr,” Brianna said, putting her hand on his arm. “You had not met her yet. You couldn’t have known her.”

  “But when I did meet her, why didn’t I remember?”

  “She was younger when you met her as Akila. And you didn’t know about time travel then, Bakr. You couldn’t have known.”

  “And the baby she carried, that was Imhotep?” he asked.

  Brianna nodded.

  He looked at the young couple.

  “And now Akila is gone and Imhotep is gone.”

  They nodded, their minds still digesting the letter and the papyrus note Imhotep had hidden for Akila to find.

  “But she says they were together,” Bakr said.

  “Yes,” Brianna said.

  “And for them, in that time, they are still together?” he said.

  Brianna thought of the circles of time travel, of the anticipation she and Akila had felt when they were expecting a younger Imhotep to arrive with Maya. She didn’t understand, but suddenly she felt better.

  “Yes, Bakr,” she said. “I think they were together and will be together again. Forever.”

  Bakr lifted his cup. “Forever,” he repeated, toasting Akila and Imhotep.

  “For all time,” Ahmes said, lifting his cup, his other hand resting on the ancient papyrus.

  What is real

  There is much more information available about the rulers and events of the 18th dynasty, when Pharaoh Hatshepsut and Pharaoh Thutmose III ruled, than is available for the world of King Djoser in the Third Dynasty.

  I am not an Egyptologist; however, I tried to place my fictional account within the historical facts. For example, Pharaoh Thutmose III did co-rule with his stepmother until her death. Almost immediately after her death, the King of Kadesh did lead a revolt and Pharaoh Thutmose III did launch an expedition to subdue the rebellious Canaanites.

  A court scribe named Tjaneni did record the events. The journal entries I attribute to him are taken from translations of his account. There is debate over whether Tjaneni’s account is accurate, but then victors do write history.

  There was a debate over which route to take to the battle and Pharaoh Thutmose did order the army to take the pass through Aruna, forcing the charioteers to lead their horses through the narrow pass single file and to carry the chariots. The daring movement allowed the Egyptians to arrive on the battlefield intact while the Canaanites had split their army to guard the northern and southern routes.

  There is modern debate over the size of the Egyptian and Canaanite armies. However, the description of the plunder that I used is what Tjaneni listed. The battle itself is recorded as a quick rout by the Egyptians and the fleeing Canaanites did climb into the fortress of Megiddo to avoid destruction. After a siege, the city eventually fell to Pharaoh Thutmose.

  The Egyptians did take hands to prove that they had killed enemy soldiers. And the Egyptian forces at Megiddo did stop fighting to plunder the dead and fleeing soldiers, incurring the anger of Pharaoh Thutmose III, who is regarded as the Napoleon of ancient Egypt.

  Lastly, there is, as far as I know, absolutely no historical record of Imhotep being at the Battle of Megiddo or of him being a modern time traveler named Tim Hope.

  However, I hope that you enjoyed Tim’s journey of self-discovery as much as I enjoyed envisioning it.

  Cheers!

  Jerry Dubs, August 4, 2015

  Addendum: In the months following publication of this novel, many reviewers lamented the end of the Imhotep novels. At
the same time, I was curious about what would have happened when PharaohThutmose discovered that his wife had disappeared. I envisioned a search for the missing queen. Caught up in imagining what might have happened, I began to take notes. And so, a young scribe named Suti came to life. Following is the beginning of Suti’s adventures.

  I hope you enjoy it.

  Jerry Dubs, December, 2016

  SUTI

  AND

  THE BROKEN STAFF

  Hear me!

  They call me Scribe.

  I am Suti, Keeper of the Words of Thoth.

  Keeper, not speaker; I am no priest.

  The words I speak are my own.

  Thoth’s words I keep hidden.

  ***

  Lord Imhotep once told me about a priest of Thoth whom he had known many ages ago. It was in another time, before the red sands of Saqqara had given birth to the great pyramids.

  This priest had become old. His body had outlived his mind. He could no longer recall even the simplest hieroglyphs.

  So said Lord Imhotep.

  (I did not know this priest.)

  Now I have become ancient.

  I need to make my heart light before my memories dissipate like smoke rising from incense.

  I must reveal my great secret.

  ***

  I declare:

  What I say is true.

  These things I witnessed with my eyes.

  Or I was told of them by others.

  Or I believe they happened.

  Hear me!

  ***

  It matters not if my memories are phantoms!

  I have watched friends die. I have killed enemies. I have contested with Seth.

  I have learned that when we rest from life it is only our phantom thoughts that survive to enter the Field of Reeds. That eternally green paradise is a land inhabited by wishes and desires and hopes.

  That is why your heart must be light.

  (These are my words, not the words of Thoth.)

  ***

  My words wander.

  No more!

  I will lay my whip on them, and they will fly as true as an arrow from Kebu’s bow, as powerful as the horses driven by dear Pairy, my ever-loyal charioteer.

  What I say is true!

  The twenty-second day of the first month

  of the third season of the twenty-third year

  of the rule of Pharaoh Thutmose, third of the name,

  Long life!

  I Climb Geb’s Back

  It was early morning when I climbed the mountain for the second time.

  I had first climbed it the previous morning as our charioteers and archers mounted their war chariots, and as our foot soldiers gathered their shields and short spears to prepare for battle. I climbed so I could watch from on high as our glorious army attacked the Canaanites, the Hittites, the Mitanni, and the rest of the hundred allies of the king of Kadesh.

  I had seen fourteen floods. I was old enough to fight, but I had not worked in the fields when I was a child. Nor had I labored in the quarries. Nor had I netted fish or carried bundles of reeds. My arms were weak, my legs thin as those of a colt.

  The army did not want me.

  Instead of being taught to drive a chariot or to thrust a spear or to draw a bowstring, I was trained to wrestle with numbers, to close my eyes and calculate the number of donkeys needed to transport sufficient mudbricks to build a wall, to ensnare the sound of words with reed and ink.

  I was a scribe.

  I also had studied under Nakht, the royal astronomer. I could read the slow march of decans in the stars. I could anticipate the flood season. I could forecast what face Khonsu would reveal and even if he chose to hide.

  But I was no fighter.

  And so yesterday, as pennants waved over racing chariots, as warriors screamed their battle cries, as horses chuffed and galloped across the plain, as arrows feathered their way across Nut’s blue belly, as our foot soldiers ran across the valley, as the Hittites and Canaanites and other allies of the King of Kadesh beat their chests and drove their horses to join battle, I stood on this distant mountain and watched in wonder and in pride.

  I heard the shouts of courage and the pounding of drums and the scream of horses, and then, suddenly, it ended.

  I watched enemy soldiers race to the walls of Megiddo, where they took turns climbing makeshift ropes of linen rags and clothing to escape the battle. Others, waiting their turn at the base of the walls, stood unarmed, their weapons having been thrown aside to lighten their load when they ran. They were sheep awaiting slaughter and — beyond belief — instead of killing or capturing the cowards, our soldiers turned to plundering.

  In shame, I turned my back on the wasted opportunity.

  Then, as if Re and Geb conspired to distract me, I saw spread before me a scattering of glittering rocks.

  I bent to gather samples. Then I stopped myself; I would not turn to plunder as the soldiers had. No! Lord Amenhotep would want a list of the men killed or wounded, and a list of the plunder taken. I looked at the dazzling, beckoning rocks for a long moment and then turned to run down Geb’s back to camp.

  That was yesterday.

  Now I had returned to the mountainside.

  I glanced at the camp to reassure myself that I would not be missed.

  Men walked toward the corrals to harness horses to chariots. Soldiers gathered their shields and spears and formed into companies along the western edge of the camp, but the drummers were not preparing to pound the drumbeat of war from skins stretched across hollowed logs.

  There would be no battle today.

  Raising a hand to protect myself, I raised my eyes to the eastern sky. Re’s solar barque was just clearing the eastern mountains.

  Lord Amenhotep would be at prayers with Pharaoh Thutmose. I had an hour before my master would need me.

  Smiling in anticipation, I untied the straps that secured the mouth of the leather bag I had carried from camp. I shook the mouth of the empty bag open, and, stepping onto the loose stones, I bent to examine the rocks. I saw glimmering stones the color of goat’s milk and others the shade of green one sees on the dusty underside of palm leaves.

  I shook my head; these were rocks I had seen before.

  I was in a foreign land; I wanted to find something new.

  Brushing aside a cluster of red sandstone rocks, I gasped at the sight of a black, granular rock. I had seen similar rocks in the quarries near Swenett. But this one was speckled with red droplets. I touched one of the crimson crystals, pushing gently to test whether it was part of the rock or some strange growth.

  Although it was the color of raw meat, it did not yield to my touch.

  I raised it to my face. Sniffing, I smelled only earth and heat.

  Then I thought: The red droplets are sharp-edged like a salt crystal.

  I licked it. Closing my eyes, I listened to my tongue. There was no tang of salt, nor taste of iron or fish.

  I placed the edge of a fingernail where the crystal met the black rock. Flicking my finger, I tried to pry it free. It stayed fast.

  Frowning, I tossed the rock from one hand to the other, assessing its weight. I had found a black rock once that felt so light that I mistakenly thought it would float. This rock was heavy, perhaps heavier than sandstone, but not as heavy as iron.

  I thought: I should break it open.

  As I looked around the scree for a sharp-edged rock, I realized what I was doing. I began to laugh as I thought: I’ll spend my hour examining this rock and return to camp with nothing else in my bag.

  I dropped the rock into my leather bag and turned my attention back to the beguiling banquet of stones.

  ***

  Oh, those rocks were distracting.

  Perhaps I wanted to be distracted, to forget yesterday’s disgrace.

  Pharaoh Thutmose — long life! — had been furious after the battle.

  “If we had not turned to plunder, if we had seized the King of Kadesh, th
e war would be over,” he had told his generals with seething anger.

  I did not hear the words nor did I feel the anger myself; I had not been invited to the council. But my friend Tjaneni, royal scribe, told me the words after the meeting had ended and Pharaoh Thutmose had withdrawn to his private tent.

  Tjaneni told me that he had never seen his master so angry. Hearing the rage in his master’s words, Tjaneni had expected Pharaoh Thutmose’s ba to emerge from his mouth and, taking the form of a hawk, attack the generals, plucking their eyes from their heads, tearing their lips from their quivering mouths.

  Tjaneni is a marvelous scribe. His hand is sure and fast. He never blotches the papyrus with ink. The lines of his hieroglyphs are straight or curved just so to make the rounded shoulder of an owl or small hands raised in prayer. If you compare one line of symbols to another, they match with perfection.

  Many scribes use a piece of wood to help them draw straight lines. Some have stones, cut and smoothed, around which they trace the divine shenu which encircles the symbols, binding them for eternity.

  Tjaneni draws with a free hand, guided, obviously, by Thoth himself. (I also draw without aid, but my lines are not consistent; my curves sometimes wobble.)

  But more important than the beauty of the symbols Tjaneni draws is the accuracy of his words. I have never known his work to require correction. His words are true.

  And last night, the words he spoke were colored with sadness.

  Pharaoh Thutmose was angry that the King of Kadesh had escaped. But, Tjaneni explained, that anger was only the flickering tip of his rage. The enemy was hiding behind the walls of Megiddo. They had demonstrated their cowardice. We would soon surround them. We would build a wall. We would dig a moat. They would surrender. Their defeat was so certain that Tjaneni created a new title for our ruler: Surrounder-of-the-Asiatic!

  “No,” Tjaneni said, leaning close to whisper, “his sadness springs from his decision to allow Queen Menwi to return to Gaza with Lord Imhotep and his hemet Akila.