Imhotep Read online

  Waja-Hur nodded in agreement. “The balance is disturbed,” he said in the grating whisper that was all he seemed to be able to manage any more.

  Djefi had heard that years and years ago, when Waja-Hur was young, he constantly traveled up and down the river. Whenever he entered a town he would call the villagers together and loudly preach to them for hours, extolling the importance of truth and fairness and balance. Afterward he would sit and record their names on papyrus rolls, taking as much time as was needed to record the name of every man, woman and child who came before him.

  Only royalty and the wealthy could afford embalming to preserve their bodies. For the rest, only their names would survive. Having their names recorded by a priest of the god Thoth was their only path to immortality.

  And now, for more than twice the life spans of most of the people who lived in the Two Lands, Waja-Hur had represented Thoth. In his old age, he had come to be regarded by many as the god himself, aging, but apparently immortal.

  Although Djefi admired the old man’s long dedication to his god, he was glad that age had withered his vocal stamina. Balance and fairness were all well and good, but Djefi was high priest of Sobek, a powerful god of action. Just the idea of listening to the old man’s pious prattle made Djefi tired. And, he thought, looking around the empty room that Waja-Hur called home, he’d probably have to remain standing to do it. Where in Set’s holy name was the furniture? Not even a stool?

  “Waja-Hur,” Djefi said, “I know that you are tireless in your service to Thoth, but surely even you sit sometimes. Can we not get some chairs, and perhaps a jar of beer?”

  “You are not in balance,” Waja-Hur answered.

  “I would like to be balanced on a chair,” Djefi answered in his squeaky voice. “Preferably one with a cushion. Surely . . .”

  The old man frowned at Djefi, but shuffled slowly to the narrow doorway where he called out in a startlingly loud voice. A boy brought a square stool and, following Waja-Hur’s pointed direction, placed it behind Djefi.

  The fat priest gratefully sank onto it. The boy turned to leave, but Djefi caught his arm. “A jar of beer. And not the weak temple beer.”

  Kanakht laughed quietly.

  Djefi returned to the conversation. “You say King Djoser seeks advice from priests, but he wants you, his adviser, to find a miracle. Shouldn’t he be asking the priests for a miracle and seeking advice from you?”

  “And my advice would be for him to perform a miracle. There is nothing I can do to make the water flow. It is in the hands of the gods. And he says he is a god, so . . .”

  “The time is not right for miracles,” Waja-Hur interrupted. “Balance. There is no balance.”

  Djefi ignored the old man. “You told the king to perform a miracle? That was your advice?” he asked Kanakht, stunned at the man’s daring. Without thinking, he added, “And you are still alive?”

  A large shadow moved outside the doorway, larger than one that would be cast by a boy carrying beer. Realizing his vulnerable position, the fat priest broke into a sudden sweat. He had been instructed to leave his bodyguards at his boat. He was here in Waja-Hur’s temple, surrounded only by the royal guards who accompanied Kanakht on his travels.

  Was the shadow outside cast by a guard, ready to arrest him for treason? He had heard that King Djoser was ever alert to words spoken against the Two Lands. Djefi hoped that what he had just said was not treasonous.

  He knew how traitors were treated. He felt his bowels gurgle and had an awful vision of soiling himself in front of these powerful old men. He must be careful not to blurt out anything again.

  Kanakht saw Djefi’s glance at the doorway and the sweat that began to seep through the priest’s robe.

  “Don’t worry, first prophet, he is one of my guards, loyal to me not to King Djoser” he said. “And to answer your questions, I am not an idiot. I advised him to consult with priests to see what the other gods could do.”

  Waja-Hur hawked loudly and spit. “Kanakht has always been able to balance his advice.”

  “I know what you think of politics, old friend.”

  “At To-She, politics is practiced with the jaws of a crocodile,” Djefi said, his squeaky voice rising higher as he tried to impress the two experienced men. “Where is that boy with my beer?”

  Waja-Hur made a soft strangled sound that could have been laughter, but Kanakht nodded his head at Djefi.

  “I’ve heard of the strength of your convictions, first prophet. We believe in your willingness to protect the Two Lands. We respect Sobek’s power and strength. He is a great god, unafraid of action.”

  The words were spoken as a compliment and Djefi felt that they should have put him at ease, but instead they brought another gush of sweat. Djefi was sure that he was missing something obvious to Kanakht and Waja-Hur. There was a message under Kanakht’s words.

  Waja-Hur broke the silence that followed. “Balance, first prophet. Gods walk the green lands of Khert-Neter, not the Two Lands. Restore the balance.”

  Djefi looked from the old priest to Kanakht. He was surprised to see sadness and resignation chase each other quickly across the adviser’s face.

  Suddenly Djefi had a frightening thought: Were these two old men plotting to kill King Djoser? Was that how the balance was to be restored? Was Kanakht telling him that they were too weak to do it themselves and that Djefi, priest of Sobek, was strong so he should do their work for them?

  How was he supposed to respond? He was unknown at the royal court and could never denounce Kanakht as a plotter against the king’s life. However his silence now would be interpreted by the men as agreement to their plot.

  His stomach felt as if it were full of curdled beer as he realized that he was being brought into a treasonous plot against his will.

  Kanakht misunderstood Djefi’s confused silence “Ahh, Djefi. You see the problem. There are hard decisions to be made. Sacrifices are needed for the Two Lands.”

  Djefi’s mind raced. Perhaps they were testing his loyalty. It was possible that Kanakht had been sent by King Djoser to see if he would agree to a revolt. But what if they were sincere and he refused? Would he live to walk away from this or would the guard waiting outside the door take him? If he agreed and the coup failed, then the king would have him killed. But if it succeeded, how much would he gain? What would be expected? Surely they didn’t expect him to actually kill the king himself.

  “A lot to think about, eh, Djefi,” Kanakht said when the priest remained silent. “We are talking here, alone, just the three of us. We are men of honor who, in this long time of suffering, have the interest in the Two Lands in our hearts. That is all.

  “Our duty is to Kemet, Djefi. And, of course, to Thoth,” he said, nodding to Waja-Hur who seemed to be holding his breath.

  “And to Sobek,” he said, nodding to Djefi. “And to King Djoser. Our duty, Djefi, as you well know, is to think about what is best for the Two Lands and to make that happen, no matter how difficult, or unusual it might seem.”

  Djefi opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

  “We are men of power and purpose, you and I and my old friend Waja-Hur,” Kanakht said intently. “Our words, Djefi, are the breath, the tjaw, from which the Two Lands draws its life. Our ideas and thoughts, first prophet, are the very soul, the ba, of Kemet.

  “You are First Prophet of Sobek, the Rager, whose sweat created the River Iteru, you understand these things. You know that when the Two Lands is threatened, it is we who must defend it. I can only imagine what the great Sobek would do.

  “Ah, well, I go on and on, as always, eh, Waja-Hur? And you, Djefi, you have a festival to prepare. I look forward to visiting you at To-She for The Cutting Out of Sobek’s Tongue. Unfortunately, King Djoser will not be there. He is preoccupied with the coming flood season. I hope you won’t take his absence as a slight against the great god Sobek.”

  Djefi marveled at how the man could so easily use words to mean what they did not
.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Djefi. Your litter is waiting to take you back to your boat.”

  Djefi realized that the meeting was abruptly over, that he had been dismissed. They weren’t even interested in his response. Such arrogance! But, he thought, such power and confidence. This is what it is like to live so close to the throne, to be at the very center of power.

  The boy reappeared, empty-handed but followed by two sedan carriers. They approached Djefi and each offered him a hand to help him rise from the low stool.

  “Balance, First Prophet, balance,” Waja-Hur whispered.

  Djefi grasped the hands of the carriers to pull himself up.

  “I like your ideas, Djefi,” Kanakht said. “We will consider your plan carefully.”

  Djefi realized that although Kanakht’s words were said to him, they were intended for the ears of the carriers. With those few words, Kanakht had planted false ideas in the carriers heads, ideas that could later incriminate Djefi and make him the author of whatever plot Kanakht and Waja-Hur were scheming, if their plans failed.

  A cold wave of fear passed through Djefi as he grunted himself to his feet, clenching his ass cheeks to keep from breaking wind, or worse, in front of Kanakht and Waja-Hur.

  “Stay the night, Djefi,” Kanakht said quietly as the priest reached the doorway. “I’ll visit you at your boat in the morning. I need your help at the tomb I am having built at Saqqara. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  And so, Djefi, thought, he had been summoned to Khmunu only to be entangled in Kanakht’s plot to overthrow Djoser. Well, it was done. Waja-Hur would side with Kanakht if the plot came to light and he, Djefi, would be blamed.

  Rousing himself from his thoughts, Djefi looked at the passing canal bank to get his bearings. They were passing a sharp turn in the canal, where a crooked tree leaned out over the water. He recognized the spot. They were almost home, almost back at To-She.

  The Temple of Sobek at To-She

  “I can’t believe I fell off twice and you didn’t fall once,” Brian said as he and Diane followed Bakr up another dune.

  “Don’t even fucking talk to me.”

  “C’mon, babe, how was I supposed to know we’d be riding camels for three days.”

  Diane kept her eyes focused on the short hairy ears that bobbed up and down far in front of her as she swayed sideways on the camel. Three days, and she hated the desert more each day, the stinking, plodding camel more every hour and her former boyfriend more every minute.

  In her mind, he had become her ‘former’ boyfriend the first time he had challenged Bakr to a race and the two of them had disappeared yelling and cheering over a sand dune and she had found herself utterly alone in the middle of the desert.

  When they had left the tomb atop the camels, all her attention had been directed at staying on top the shifting animal.

  She had to admit that it had been sort of fun.

  But after she had settled into the swaying motion of the camel, she had started to feel seasick. She had gulped air and fought the queasiness by telling herself they would soon be back at the Mena House bar where she would put any other tourist’s story to shame with this adventure.

  When she had realized that the camel was going in a straight line and not circling back to the tomb as she had expected it would, she had screamed hysterically at Brian to make the driver turn around.

  “I’m not sure we didn’t turn around, babe,” Brian had said. “No land marks, and the camels really don’t leave much in the way of footprints in the sand. That might be the hill over there that we went over when we left Boss Hogg.

  “Anyhow, you gotta admit, babe, this really is cool. I feel like Lawrence of Arabia.”

  He had taken to camel riding as quickly as he took to every other physical activity. And he and Bakr had already forged the kind of ‘jock’ bond she had seen Brian make with everyone he met: man, woman or child.

  He was in love with action. He didn’t care if someone was male or female, black or white, straight or gay. All he cared about was how they ‘worked.’ She had been worried when she took him for the first time to meet her parents and her grandfather, who was confined to a wheelchair after losing both legs to diabetes.

  But Brian and her grandfather had quickly become best friends. Instead of shying away from the man’s disability, Brian wanted to know how he did everything, if he felt phantom movement in his lost legs, how he exercised his arms, if he preferred to be pushed or to move himself.

  They had talked about things that everyone in her family had been embarrassed to ask, and her grandfather loved him for that acceptance.

  But as endearing as he was, it was tiring trying to keep up with him all day, every day. Especially when he was giving all his attention to Bakr and being such an asshole.

  “Look, babe,” he was saying now, “I know you’re pissed at me, and I understand that, but I think we’re almost at this ‘Toasty’ place Bakr keeping mentioning.”

  “He’s saying To-She, not ‘Toasty’ and I went past being pissed at you the first time I had to go to the bathroom out in the middle of the desert.”

  “To-She, huh? Well, whatever he’s saying, I think we’re getting close, ’cause the last time I challenged him to a race, he shook his head and pointed over the next hill . . .”

  “Dune, they’re fucking sand DUNES! We’re in the middle of the goddamn desert and we’re going to die.”

  “…next dune and said ‘Toasty.’ So I think we’re close.”

  He reined his camel lightly and using his foot, nudged the camel’s neck away from Diane.

  Bakr was riding ahead of them, so Brian pushed his hips forward on the camel, and said “hup,” as Bakr had taught him. The camel broke into a light jog.

  He caught Bakr before they crested the dune.

  “To-She is just over this dune. We’ll soon have cool, fresh water and hot food. I can smell the bread baking and the fish roasting, Brian, can’t you?” he said.

  Brian understood ‘To-She,’ ‘water,’ and ‘food,’ but the rest was lost to him.

  When they camped at night, he had tried to learn the language, just to make conversation because Diane wasn’t talking to him anymore. But it was hard. He had never been good with foreign languages, and the words of this one sounded extra harsh to his ears, but Bakr had been patient and now some of the words were starting to sound familiar.

  Food and water sounded good to him.

  So did ‘To-She’ whatever it was.

  Although he tried to keep a happy face in front of Diane to keep her spirits up, Brian was worried.

  He had tried to check the internet for baseball news the first evening they were out, but his cell phone wasn’t picking up any signal. Not even a roaming signal. That had never happened before.

  He had noticed that there had not been any airplanes flying overhead and when he was riding with Bakr, he had tried out every famous name he thought Bakr might know. Not one brought even a glimmer of recognition from Bakr. He hadn’t recognized the names of Omar Sharif, or Yasir Arafat, or even Muhammad Ali, which really worried Brian because he had read that everyone, actually everyone on the planet knew Ali’s name.

  They reached the top of the dune and Brian reined his camel to a stop.

  “We’re there!” he shouted back at Diane. “We’re at Toasty!”

  After three days of empty, endless blue skies above him and continuous, identical waves of sand at his feet, Brian thought the jagged green leaves and rough shaggy bark of the palm trees at the oasis were unbelievably beautiful.

  “They’d better have a fucking bathroom,” Diane said when she’d caught up with him at the top of the dune and could see the oasis.

  He’d never heard her swear before, but it was all she’d done during the last two days.

  “Look, babe, I’m sorry I got us in to this. But there’s bound to be someone here who speaks English and we’ll get everything straightened out. You’ll be soaking in a hot tub with a
cool drink tonight.”

  Diane looked directly into his face and Brian realized for the first time that she was not just uncomfortable with the heat and the bouncing camel ride, but that she was terrified.

  “Brian, look at me. I’m sunburned; my lips are cracked and bleeding. My ass and back hurt from riding this goddamn camel for three days. I haven’t had any real food since we left the hotel three days ago and we have no idea, no fucking glimmer of a clue about what’s up there. There are slave traders in Africa, Brian. Fucking slave traders! They kidnap women and sell them to oil sheiks!”

  “Babe, no, no, that’s not going to happen. Bakr here, he’s a good guy. He’s not some slave trader.”

  “What about the fat guy? Did you see him, Brian? Did he look like a happy old tour guide to you?”

  “It’ll be all right, Diane. I promise.”

  “You promise? You have no idea either, Brian. You can’t promise anything. Whatever happens up there is out of our control.” She glared at Brian and then kicked her camel to make it trot. “It’s every woman for herself now, Brian. You’re on your fucking own.”

  When they reached the shade at the edge of the oasis, Bakr slid off his camel without waiting for it to kneel. Released, the camel wandered off toward the water. Then Bakr helped Diane dismount and then led the couple into the grove of trees.

  As they got closer to the lake at the heart of To-She, they heard voices. Bakr motioned for them to wait and he jogged off toward a cluster of mud brick huts. He returned a minute later with a jar of cool beer and a large round loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. He handed it to Brian and told them to wait a little longer. Then he turned and walked toward a stone building with painted columns that stood away from the huts.

  Brian tore off some bread and ate it and then sniffed the beer before taking a deep drink from the jar.

  “Hey, babe, this beer is really good. And the bread is still warm.” He tore off a chunk and ate it. “Mmmmm, fantastic, come on, have some.”