Imhotep (30 page)

Just
this morning she had seen him stirring, strong and ready beneath his kilt when
he awoke, but he had hidden it, denying his desire.

So
unlike a man - or a god.

Meryt
leaned forward and looked at her reflection in the still water of the
pond.  One eye looked back at her, the other, as it did sometimes, drifted
away.  The cast eye had been the sign that the gods favored her. 

Her
parents had decided to find a way to bring her to Hetephernebti’s attention
even when she was a baby.  When Meryt was five years old, Hetephernebti
passed by her while she was standing at the front of a crowd at a
festival.  The priestess had stopped to touch her, as she often did with
children.  Seeing Meryt’s wandering eye, Hetephernebti had paused a little
longer and spoke with Meryt.

Pleased
with the intelligence in the answers the little girl gave, Hetephernebti had
sought Meryt’s parents and offered to bring Meryt to the Temple of Re for
training.  For Meryt’s parents, it was the answer to years of prayer, for
Meryt it was natural progression.  Her earliest memories were of her
mother telling her that she was special and that the gods would seek her
service.

She
had lived at the Temple of Re for eight years now.  The rhythms of the
festivals, the words of the sacred hymns, the smells of the oils and incense
were part of her.  Hetephernebti had come to depend on Meryt, and Meryt,
in return, gave the priestess her love and loyalty.

But
the years of familiarity with the god Re and his loving priestess had brought a
curious growth in Meryt’s heart.

Hetephernebti
spoke of Re’s blessing, of his desire that people should enjoy their lives,
that they should live fully alive and aware of everything around them. 
Meryt had taken Hetephernebti’s words to heart.

When
the hawk-god Horus flew overhead, she not only saw him, she also heard the
sound of his wings as he climbed higher in the sky.  She even imagined
that she felt the wind as the god felt it as she watched him dive through the
air.

The
water from Iteru was not just a rippling brown surface.  It was something
to be touched and tasted.  She had slapped her hands hard and flat against
its surface, feeling the unseen strength of the water, she had thrown handfuls
of it into the air and felt it rain down on her in light splashes.

Even
the warm fingers of Re were subject to her wondering mind.  She felt the
difference in heat from morning to midday and into the dusk.  She coated
herself with the river’s wet mud and allowed Re to bake it, the sun’s strength
tightening the mud, turning it into crumbling dust.

Surrounded
by a world that delighted and fascinated her with its sound and colors, its
touch and tastes, Meryt began to understand the relationships between the heat
and the wind, currents of the river and the rhythms of the land.  She felt
herself to be an extension of the Two Lands, as much a part of Kemet as the
trees and the sand and the gods themselves.

And
she began to wonder if the gods gave rise to the land or if the land and the
longing hearts of the people of Kemet brought the gods into existence. 
When she held her extended fingers to shield her eyes and looked at the sun,
she saw a fiery disk, not a god.  Watching the flight of a hawk, she was
mesmerized by the beauty of its movement, but she saw a bird, not a god.

Hippos,
crocodiles, ibises, jackals: all were gods and all, in Meryt’s eyes, were deserving
of her wonder, but no more than the workings of her fingers, the flights of her
dreams, the scratchy bark of the date palm tree, the delicious aroma of baking
bread, the juicy delight of a fig.

She
lived in a land of miracles and wonders.  If the hawk was a god, then so
was the sparrow.  If the sun was a god, then why not the stars and the
moon?  If King Djoser was a god, then why not Hetephernebti?  Why not
Tim, and why not her mother, her father, even herself?

T
im looked across the garden, his eyes
unseeing and his mind trying to lock down as he focused on his breath.  He
felt the moist garden air move through his nostrils, swell against the back of
his throat and draw down into his lungs as he pushed his belly out lightly.

He
concentrated on the temperature of the air, picturing it as a healthy blue as
it entered him and a darker shade as he expelled it, taking with it his anxiety
and confusion.  What was left was calmness, not an answer yet, but a
placidity that would allow him to slowly re-enter his consciousness through the
smells, sounds and sights that surrounded him.  He would allow his
sensations to unfold, embracing his environment and bringing an openness that
would allow him to re-center himself.

He had
never taken lessons in meditation, instead teaching himself a way to settle
himself as an experiment, looking for new ways to experience his sensations.

In his
mind’s eye he pictured his breath, but his concentration wavered.

His
awareness bounced in splintered thoughts from the living face of King Djoser,
to the three syllables of the name Imhotep, to the harsh shadows that marked
the angry face of Kanakht, to the strange out-of-the-body experience he had
undergone in the king’s chamber. 

He
closed his eyes to block the distraction of the colors of the garden and the
lithe form of Meryt sitting by the pond.  He heard the slight rustle of
the leaves of the tree above him, the liquid murmur of the water where Meryt
stirred the pond with her smooth, brown legs.

He
wanted to fall backward on the ground, open his arms to the sky and split open,
freeing his spirit to fly across this strange land.

Refocusing
part of his mind on his breathing, he allowed his thoughts to stream
undirected, overwhelming and exhausting themselves until finally his attention
turned wholly back to his breathing.  One … two … three breaths without
thought.  He felt the slow, rhythmic throb of his heartbeat.  Moving
outward, he sensed warmth on his left arm, unprotected from the sun by the
uneven shade of the small carob tree.  He opened his eyes, his mind still
and clear.

Meryt’s
narrow back was turned to him, her head bent slightly as she looked down at the
water of the pond.  The soft curve of her right breast came into view as
she reached down to trail her fingers through the water.

She
felt him watching and turned her head, her shoulder swiveling around toward
him.  The sunlight highlighted the fragile line of her collarbone and
swept across the smooth skin of her chest.  He saw the darker circles at
the tips of her small breasts, the small points, tight and erect.  Her
skin was drawn tight against her ribs as she twisted in place to look at
him.  The tender curve of her lower stomach arced downward toward soft,
dark tufts of hair, just hidden by her slender legs.

A flush
of desire swept through him.  Looking up at her face, he saw that she was
watching his eyes, had seen where he looked. She was waiting, open, willing,
and patient.

For
the first time he was not embarrassed by his desire.  Here, now, this time
and place, it felt right and natural.  He had changed from Tim, lost and
wandering, to Imhotep, as much a part of this ancient land as the carob tree
behind him or the warm desert air that carried the lotus blossom’s fragrance.

He
stood, his eyes never leaving her face.  She turned away from the pond and
stood also, her arms at her side brushing against the narrow linen belt she
wore around her naked waist.  Slowly he stepped toward her, certain of his
desire, feeling that he had been reborn when King Djoser renamed him, that he
was truly a part of this ancient land now and that touching her and holding her
was exactly what he was meant to do.

When
she was within reach, he lifted a hand to her face and brushed his thumb
tenderly across her cheek.  Her eyes were bright with happiness, a smile
played on her lips.  He put his hands on her shoulders, slid his fingers
down her arms and took her hands, interlocking his fingers with hers.

Bending
his head down to hers, he lightly kissed her forehead and her temples. 
She turned her face up to his and their mouths met.  As they kissed, he
felt her press closer to him, her bare skin touching him softly, then
pressing harder, generating heat, making him feel reborn and alive.

She
broke away from their kiss and holding his hand, led him through the garden;
down the hallway of the palace to the room they shared.  At the entrance,
they hesitated as they heard a sound within.

Hetephernebti
was standing inside.  On the bed lay new linen kilts.

“Good
afternoon, dear Meryt, Lord Imhotep,” she said, her voice and ever-present
smile not betraying her happiness at seeing them flushed with desire for each
other.  She had noticed the attraction they held for each other when she
first saw them together.  Through the weeks she had avoided asking Meryt
about it, but it had been obvious to her that the fondness the two felt for
each other had been growing.

She
felt guilty that she was interrupting them now, but there was nothing she could
do.

“King
Djoser has sent you new clothing and has invited you to accompany him on his
trip to Abu to survey the island and banks of the river for an appropriate gift
for the Temple of Khnum.”

“Thank
you, High Priestess,” Tim answered, aware that his voice was husky with
desire.  “When will we be leaving?”

Hetephernebti
frowned a little as she looked to Meryt.

“I am
sorry, little sister,” she began, then seeing Meryt’s stunned face, she added
quickly, “no, no, you are going also.  I am sorry for the timing.” She
turned back to Tim.  “When my brother is seized with an idea, he
acts.  I am to bring you to King Djoser now.  His barge is
waiting.  I am sorry, but you must leave now.”

B
rian saw the two men waiting to ambush
them.

He was
walking between the two donkeys, holding the short ropes that looped around
their necks.  Tama rode on the donkey to his right, her body rocking
lightly with the donkey’s plodding gait. 

The
donkey to Brian’s left carried their supplies: flat round loaves of bread,
skins filled with water, a fresh robe and ostrich feather for Tama to wear once
they reached Waset, and trade goods: rolls of linen, small ceramic bottles,
some filled with cooking oils others with massage oils, cones of salt and a few
pieces of jewelry.

The
road they were walking was winding south, an hour’s walk below the town of
Tahta on the west bank of the river.  They had crossed the River Iteru as
soon as they left Khmunu, boarding their skittish donkeys onto a wooden raft
that was poled across the slow-moving river.  The ferryman, recognizing
Tama, refused her offering of a small bottle of perfumed oil until she
explained it was for his wife and daughters to enjoy.

The
men Brian saw now were hiding behind a cluster of three palm trees up along the
sandy road.  The tall date palms, shorter carob trees and thorny acacia
trees grew beside the road; greener sycamore trees grew closer to the
riverbank.  All of the trees were dusty, their leaves curled up as evening
fell.

Brian
had watched the men move from tree to tree, trying to find a hiding place
closer to the road.  One of them carried a short, thick club, the other
might have had a knife, Brian wasn’t sure; unpolished stone didn’t glitter like
a metal knife would.

“I see
them, Brian.”

Tama’s
voice was calm and even. 

It was
always calm and even, he’d learned.

“I
won’t let them hurt you,” he said, trying to match her calm voice.

“I
know,” she answered.

T
hey had been traveling for five days,
following the river upstream; slowly heading south to Waset where Tama planned
to meet Hetephernebti, and where Brian hoped to find Tim. 

Their
destination lay another nine days ahead.

Travel
was at a slow walking pace.  Although Tama sometimes rode one of the
donkeys, Brian always walked, happy for the exercise.  They rested when
they were hungry, tired or sleepy.  They stopped and talked at each small
village, some as small as three or four mud huts grouped around a stone circle
that marked a common cooking fire.

There
was no wealth here. 

The
men and children wore no clothing, some of the women wore a short kilt, others
just a rough linen belt.  Their hands were callused and dirty; their skin
was weathered by the sun and the sand. 

Their
expressions when they saw Brian and Tama approaching were eager with
anticipation of news. 

By the
second encounter, Brian began to understand: He was traveling among the people
of a stone-age culture.  Although the great river united them, making
long-distance travel feasible, most of the population worked, loved, gave birth
to their children and died within sight of the mud hut in which they were born.

Brian
soon realized that Tama saw the world differently than he did.  Although
they shared the same sense of observation and evaluation that he used when he
played baseball, she extended it to everything and she didn’t draw the conclusions
he naturally made.

In
high school Brian had been stronger, faster and simply more athletic than most
of the other players.  As the competition evened out in college, he had
learned that he couldn’t just hope that he could throw faster than a batter
could swing.  He had learned that on some days his fastball wasn’t fast
enough so he had to depend more on a curveball or placement of a change-up,
tantalizingly just out of reach.  If he saw that the outfielders were
shading to left field, he couldn’t hope that he could pull the ball past them,
he had to shorten his swing and punch the ball the other way.

He had
learned to observe himself and other athletes honestly and to use his knowledge
to give him an edge, or in those rare cases where the others were simply better
than he was, he learned to play his hardest and to graciously acknowledge
defeat. 

There
was always tomorrow and another game, another chance.

Tama
had the same honest way of viewing everything, but she didn’t filter the world
through her expectations.

When
Brian saw a man running or throwing he evaluated the man’s speed and strength
and compared it to his, determining whether he could beat him.  Tama made
no comparisons, instead accepting each man’s speed or strength as an expression
of the man.  For Tama, faster or stronger didn’t mean ‘better.’ It just
meant faster or stronger.  She didn’t hope that on another day he would be
faster or slower, she accepted what he was when she saw him and refused to
extend the observation to ‘what might be’ or ‘what could be.’

While
one sunset could be redder than another, or filtered through a distant haze of
clouds, it didn’t make it more ‘beautiful’ to Tama. 

An ox
was different from a donkey, not better.  It might be stronger for plowing
but it wasn’t as suited for riding.  How could one call one better than
the other?  A hawk had more speed and was more deadly than a goose, but a
goose could feed a hungry family.  Which was better?

When
Brian had come to understand her views, his first thought was that she wouldn’t
be much fun at a sports bar arguing whether Willie Mays was better than Joe
DiMaggio, or settling the dispute over whether Muhammad Ali was truly ‘The
Greatest.’

He
tried to see what the world would look like through her eyes.  But he had
spent too many years watching television advertisements, answering which was
his favorite color, his favorite zodiac sign or baseball player or ice cream
flavor or hair color.  Was he a leg man or a breast man?  Blondes or
brunettes?  Yankees or Red Sox?

As
they learned each other’s languages better, Brian found that Tama’s way of
viewing the world went far beyond her reluctance to draw conclusions or
comparisons.  Counting, organizing, and grouping were concepts she
disliked.  He sometimes caught a glimpse of the depth of her views, but
never fully understood them.

“Tree,”
she repeated in English one day as they rested in the shade of a grove of date
palm trees.

Brian
nodded.  “Tree,” he said, touching the trunk.  Then he repeated the
word in Egyptian.

“Yes,”
Tama said.  “But this,” she knocked her fist against the trunk of the
tree, “this is not a tree.  ‘Tree’ is the word we use, but this,” she
knocked on it again, “this is real, Brian, not just the wind and the sounds we
use to name it, not just the picture we have in our heads.  Do you see
there is a difference between our name for something and the thing?”

Brian
nodded, although he wasn’t sure why this was important.

“The
words, Brian, they separate us from the world.  When we name something we
think we understand it.  But the words divide us from what is real. 
‘Tree’ is not real.  This,” she touched the tree again, “this is real.”

T
he sun was down and only a leftover
reddish glow seeped out of the western sky. 

As
Tama and Brian neared the palm grove two men separated themselves from the
trees and blocked the narrow dusty trail.

“What’s
in the packs?” asked the taller man, who was holding the club.  Brian saw
that the ‘knife’ in the other man’s hand was just a short, pointed stick, sharp
enough to stab with, but not edged for slicing.

“Greetings,”
Tama said, ignoring the question.  She slid from the donkey on Brian’s
side. “Don’t hurt them,” she whispered from behind him. 

She
opened the sack on the near side of the donkey. “I’ll show you,” she said
louder to the two men.

Brian
felt her push some linen into the waist of his kilt at the small of his
back.  “Keep your front to them,” she whispered.

She
slid between Brian and the pack donkey, taking the lead rope from Brian. 
She walked up the path where the two men waited, pulling the donkey behind her.

Brian
tensed as he saw shadows move ahead of them in the grove; there were more than
just the two men in front of him.  He knew he could rush the two men on
the road and knock them down before they could do any harm.  The taller
man barely came up to Brian’s shoulder and they both looked weak and
undernourished.  But he didn’t know how many more were lurking in the
shadows.

He
looked from the grove to Tama who had stopped just in front of the men.

“Here,”
she said.  “There is some bread and some salt cones, some linen, which
your wife might like, and some oils.  The plain bottles are cooking oils,
the others are oils for your skin.  In the small roll of linen there are a
few pieces of silver jewelry.”

Brian
couldn’t believe that she was telling them about the jewelry, but he trusted
her.  She had much more knowledge of the people.

As the
taller man approached the donkey, Tama dropped the rope and stepped back to
give him room.  He dug into the pack, lifting a roll of linen out into the
fading light.  He pushed it back into the bag and dug around for a moment
before bringing out a ceramic oil bottle.  He pulled out the stopper and
sniffed at it.

He
returned the bottle to the sack and bent over to pick up the rope, his back to
Brian and Tama.  As if she knew what Brian was thinking, Tama held her
right hand behind her back, motioning for Brian to stay where he was.

“We’ll
be taking this and the donkeys, too,” the man said.

Tama
nodded as if he had made a reasonable request.

“I
understand,” she said.  “Will you leave us a skin of water?  The road
is long and dry.”

The
man started to walk away with the donkey.  “The river is right over
there.  There’s plenty of water there,” he said without turning back to look
at Tama and Brian.  “Go get the other donkey,” he said to his partner.

The
small man walked cautiously toward Brian, he fist tight around the short wooden
knife.  Brian let go of the rope as the man got nearer, careful to keep
his back turned away from him.

When
he got closer, Brian could see that he was young, no more than fifteen,
possibly the taller man’s son.  He looked frightened, but whether it was
of Brian or the taller bandit, Brian couldn’t tell.

When
the boy hesitated to lean down to pick up the rope, Brian thought of what Tama
had said. He smiled at the boy and said, “I won’t hurt you.”

Brian
saw that the boy was shaking as he picked up the rope and turned to
leave.  The donkey balked at moving, so Brian reached out and swatted it
lightly.  It lurched forward.

Tama
waited motionlessly in the path, her arms hanging at her side.  “I’m
sorry,” she said softly to the boy as he passed. 

He
turned his head away from her and led the donkey to the older man.  As the
darkness fell, they disappeared into the trees.

“T
here were others in the trees,” Brian said
to Tama as he joined her on the path.

She
nodded.  “I saw them.”

“I
would have fought them.  All of them.”

Tama
studied him for a moment.  “You would have won,” she said.  Then she
added, “Do you know who they were?”

Brian
was puzzled by the question.  He didn’t know anybody here in ancient
Egypt.  “No,” he answered.

“I
think they were the rest of his family.  They must be very needy.”

“How
can you know that?”

“If
they had been other bandits they would have come out into the open.  A
show of force would be more effective.  If the people hiding in the trees
were not other bandits, then they were either friends or family of the bandits
or else they were strangers.  If they were strangers, then they would have
helped us, or at least come out to see what was going on.  And it would be
very unusual for all of these people to just happen to be at the same place at
the same time.

“So,”
she continued, “the people in the trees had to know the two who were on the
road, but they couldn’t have been accomplices.  They must have been
children, wives and perhaps a grandparent or two.  I’m sure you would have
defeated them.”

Brian
looked down at the road, embarrassed.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I
didn’t figure that out.  I wouldn’t hit children or women.”

Caught
up in understanding the encounter, Tama spoke without thinking of Brian’s
feelings.  She heard the hurt in his voice and saw his shoulders
slump.  She didn’t understand why Brian depended so much on her approval,
but she knew that he did.  He was so strong, so physically imposing and
secure in his strength and his movements, yet he seemed fragile at times.

She
touched his shoulder with her fingertips and felt the muscles twitch as he
looked up at her suddenly.