Imhotep (50 page)

T
he two acolytes who were holding Sobek in
check reached the spots where they were instructed to let go of the ropes tied
to Sobek’s head.  The crowd’s eyes were on the beast so no one noticed the
boys.

Sobek
seemed to crouch low against the stone and then suddenly he raised himself high
on his legs and ran toward the stone chair.

Kanakht
screamed in terror and tried to stand, but Sekhmire, who had moved behind him
pressed down on his shoulders, holding him in place.  Kanakht kicked at
Sobek, but the crocodile’s hunger drove him past the old man’s foot. 

In a
blur its mouth opened and then snapped shut with a loud crunch.  The
crocodile twisted onto its left side and rolled away from the chair ripping
Kanakht’s lower left leg off.

As
Kanakht screamed, the crowd scattered, turning away from the crocodile and
running toward the path that led down from the temple.

Nesi
closed in on Prince Teti and brought his arm back to drive his knife into the
prince’s back.  Someone caught his arm.  He turned to see Meryptah
gripping his arm.  Before he could wrench it free, he felt a pain in his
own back and heard Bata’s grunt as his knife drove into Nesi's side.

Makare
moved more quickly.

He
pushed past Waja-Hur and, as Sekhmire release Kanakht’s shoulders, Makare
slammed his elbow against the back of Sekhmire’s head.  The guard
commander, caught off balance, fell forward against the back of the stone
chair, his ribs cracking hard against the rock.

Makare
moved on, two steps away from King Djoser.

Somehow
the adviser Imhotep had slipped between them.  Makare raised his unarmed
hand to swat the little man away, but Imhotep stepped to the side and raised
his own hand.

“Stop!”
Imhotep shouted and clenched his raised fist awkwardly.

King
Djoser turned toward the sound and saw Makare’s upraised hand, the knife’s edge
gleaming.  As if in slow motion, he saw Sekhmire straighten up from the
stone chair, one hand holding his chest, the other pulling free his own
knife.  He heard a sound like the hiss of a snake coming from Imhotep’s
hand and suddenly Makare’s free hand went to his face and he stumbled.

Imhotep
drove his shoulder against Makare, pushing him out into the center of the
courtyard.

Sekhmire
lurched toward Makare, his knife ready.

Makare
wiped his hand from his tear-streaked face and with his other he desperately
threw his knife at the king.

The
huge Nubian had moved between Imhotep and King Djoser.  Seeing Makare
bring his arm back to throw his knife, he grabbed the king by the shoulders and
pulled him toward himself, turning him away from the knife.  Makare’s
knife, aimed at the king’s chest, buried itself instead in the Nubian’s back.

Sekhmire
caught Makare as he turned to run away.  The assassin, his eyes tearing
from the pepper spray Imhotep had sprayed, blindly swung a fist at the
commander.  Sekhmire ducked under it, pushed his knife into Makare’s
stomach and ripped his belly open.  Makare clutched at his stomach, trying
to keep his guts inside, but the slippery coils fell to the ground. 

Makare
looked at his insides hanging down to the stones and then screamed as Sobek
dropped Kanakht’s leg from his mouth, scuttled over and began to chew on
Makare’s warm intestines.

“H
e is the third stranger from my land,”
Imhotep told King Djoser.

Brian,
hidden within the Nubian robe, was standing between two of the king’s
guards.  They were restraining him and supporting him.  The back of
his robe was red with blood that oozed out from Makare’s knife that was still
stuck there.

“He
saved your life, King Djoser.  The knife in his back was thrown at you by
Makare.”

King
Djoser nodded curtly and the guards released their grip on Brian, then caught
him again as he began to fall.

“Let
me help him” Hesire said, rushing to Brian.  The king’s physician motioned
for the guards to carry Brian to the shade.

Makare
lay dead in the center of the courtyard in a pool of viscera and blood. 
The crocodile was feeding on him, ignoring the few people who hadn’t run away
from the temple.

Men
from the king’s company placed themselves between the crocodile and King
Djoser, their short spears held ready.

Kanakht
lay beside the stone chair, his hands clenched around the remains of his left
leg.  Imhotep tore a strip from his kilt and, kneeling by him, tied a
tourniquet around the bloody stump, using the small pepper spray canister he
had used on Makare to twist the bandage tighter.

As the
bleeding stopped, King Djoser knelt by Imhotep’s side.

“Will
he live?” he asked.

“If he
hasn’t lost too much blood.”

Kanakht
moaned and his eyes fluttered.

“Leave
us,” King Djoser ordered Imhotep.

The
king leaned close to Kanakht’s head.

“I
have served Kemet all my life,” Kanakht said, his eyes unfocused.  “I
thought I was serving it now,” he said.

“Who
else?” King Djoser asked.

“Only
Djefi and Waja-Hur,” Kanakht said.  “It is the truth.  I make my
heart light.”

“No
others?”

“None.”

King
Djoser began to untwist the bandage.  “You have no need to make your heart
light, old friend,” he said.

Kanakht’s
eyes found the king’s face.  “I am not going to die?”

King
Djoser finished unwrapping the leg.  A little blood continued to seep from
the wound.  He massaged Kanakht’s thigh roughly and the blood stream began
to flow more heavily.

“No,
old friend,” King Djoser said.  “You are going to die.  But you will
never come before Ma’at.  I will feed your body to Sobek, piece by piece,
as you were ready to do to mine.  You will die today, Kanakht, and your ka
will have no home.”

The
old man’s eyes closed before King Djoser finished speaking.  He gave a
small shudder and stopped breathing.

“I
s he dead?”

King
Djoser wiped the blood from his hands on Kanakht’s white robe.  Then he
stood and looked at Djefi.

The
fat priest looked down at Kanakht, then past him to the stone well where Sobek
was dragging the remains of Makare’s body down to his lair.  A wide bloody
trail was smeared across the white stones.

“He
protected you, did you see that, King Djoser?  The great Sobek knew there
was evil in Kanakht’s heart and he attacked him.  I saw it all.”

King
Djoser heard murmuring behind him.  He turned and saw the priests and
priestesses who had run away returning now, curious to see what had happened.

He
motioned to one of his guards to hand him his short spear.  He held it
firmly in his hand and stared at Djefi.  King Djoser waited until the
crowd had gathered closer to him.

“This
is what happens to those who oppose the throne.  This is what will ever
happen to traitors.  I am Horus.  I am He Who is Above.  I am
Horus on the Horizon.  I am his Left Eye and his Right Eye.  I
trample my enemies beneath my feet,” King Djoser proclaimed.

He
stared at Djefi, and then he took two steps to stand over Kanakht’s body. 
Putting his right foot on Kanakht’s face, he drove the spear into the dead
man’s body. 

He
pulled the spear out and held it over his head, the red tip dripping blood on
the temple stones.

“I am
Horus, son of Isis and Osiris.  I have contended with Set, I have taken
the throne that was my father’s.  My name is in the mouths of men, I am
the substance of the Two Lands.”

“Life,
prosperity, health!” the gathering answered him as he shook the bloodied spear
over his head.

Now
another voice was heard, one that had been muted so long that only the oldest
of the crowd could remember it.

Waja-Hur,
his frail body seeming to shed its years, stood upright beside King Djoser.

“I am
Thoth, the judge of right and truth in the great company of gods,” he said, his
voice booming across the courtyard with a power he had not felt in years. 
“Hear ye this judgment.  I find no wickedness in the heart of Horus, he
has not wasted the offerings which have been made in the temples; he has not
committed any evil act; and he has not set his mouth in motion with words of
evil.”

“Life,
prosperity, health!” they answered.

King
Djoser brought the spear down and laid it on the ground beside Kanakht’s
body.  “Take him to the well of Sobek,” he ordered the guards.

“I
would have killed Djefi,” Prince Teti
said that night.

Imhotep
looked at King Djoser to see his reaction.  The king lifted a roasted leg
of goose to his mouth and pulled at it with his teeth.

“He
deserved it twice.  The statue was an insult and you know he trained that
crocodile to attack you.  The gods saved you from sitting in that chair,
otherwise, it would have been you instead of Kanakht,” Prince Teti said.

King
Djoser looked across the table at Imhotep, who was suddenly very busy studying
a piece of bread.  When Imhotep had told King Djoser and Sekhmire what he
had learned from Brian about Djefi’s plans, the king had decided that the three
of them would tell no one else.  He would let it seem as if the gods had
favored him.  If Kanakht had not taken ill - perhaps the gods did
save me, King Djoser mused - the king would have feigned a sore back and
asked Kanakht to sit in the chair in his place.

“Yes,
the gods intervened,” King Djoser said finally.  “And yes, Djefi is guilty
of treason.  And yes, Teti, he will be punished.  Do you know why I
did not order him executed today?”

He
smiled to himself, as Teti remained silent.  It was good to see that Teti
had learned that there was a time for listening.

“You
are young and strong, Teti,” King Djoser said.

“You
can teach a donkey by beating it, but it is hard work and you will never be
able to trust it.  But if you train it by rewarding it with food, then you
have spared it and yourself pain and it will be more trustworthy.  You can
lead men by making them fear you.  They will fight for you and obey
you.  But if they love you, then they will die for you.

“When
I saw the statue Djefi had made, I decided to embrace it.  He wanted a
confrontation, which he knew he could not win unless something happened to
me.  Which, of course, he expected.  So, I embraced the statue and
welcomed Sobek as my protector, not an equal, but a protector.  This
eliminated the intended insult and, as you saw, proved to be true.  Sobek
did protect me.  The other priests saw that I was not threatened by
Djefi’s offense.  I was above it, bigger than Djefi, bigger than Sobek.

“That
will raise me in their eyes.”

“But
the attack, father,” Teti said.

“When
I saw the statue I knew Djefi was part of the plot.”

“You
knew?  Did you know about the crocodile?” Teti asked eagerly.

King
Djoser saw the excitement in his son’s eyes.  He smiled in return. 
“Yes, Teti,” he said.

“How?”

King
Djoser looked off in the distance.  Should he bring Teti into his
confidence or keep him at arm’s length a little longer?  Would the boy be
suspicious that his father was treating him like a child?

“Do
you think that I am what I say I am, the living Horus?”

“Yes,”
Teti answered without hesitation.

“You
are sure?” King Djoser asked.

Teti
nodded his head with certainty.  “Yes, father.  I am certain. 
If you are a god, then I am the son of a god, someday to be a god myself.”

Imhotep
stopped eating and held his breath, waiting to see King Djoser's reaction.

King
Djoser threw his head back and laughed, openly and loudly.  He leaned
forward and clapped his son on the back.  “The answer I would have given,”
he said, still laughing.

Teti
beamed at his father’s open show of affection.

“Sometimes,
Teti, I know things, things I have no reason to know.  This is the
truth.  Last week when we were sailing downriver, I was happy that the
land would be replenished, I was filled with joy that my offering to Khnum had
been accepted.  I felt as if my body could no longer contain my spirit and
it seemed to soar above and beyond me.  I saw all the Two Lands, the
river, the fields, the people, the temples, the markets, the brewing houses and
bakeries, I saw the fishermen on the river and the fish and crocodiles and
snakes and hippos beneath it.  I saw the desert and the mountains, the
hawks and vultures and songbirds that fly above it and the lions and deer that
live below them.

“My
heart was lighter than the air and I knew that I was blessed and the gods would
embrace me and protect me.

“So
when I learned about the plans Djefi and Kanakht had made I was unafraid.”

Teti
nodded.  “Did you know about Nesi also?”

King
Djoser’s face lost its humor.  “Yes, Teti.  That was why Bata and
Meryptah were there.  They were watching him, protecting you.”

“I
could have protected myself if I had known,” Teti said softly.

“I
know.  But you know that I would not allow anyone to harm you.  I
needed you to act unconcerned so that I could learn who all the plotters
were.  I asked no more of you than I did of myself.” He leaned toward Teti
as he saw questions hanging behind his eyes.

“I am
a god, Teti.  Make no mistake about it.  I knew that I would not be
harmed.  I knew that you would not be harmed.  You may think I was
taking a chance, putting you at risk.  But I tell you, as Horus, as the
Eye of Re himself, I had no doubts.”

Father
and son looked into each other’s eyes for several heartbeats and then Teti
lowered his eyes.

King
Djoser watched him, looking for signs of rebellion, a hint of sulking, but it
seemed that Teti was digesting the information, not questioning it.

“What
will happen to Djefi now?” he asked, turning the conversation to the future.

King
Djoser took a long drink of wine. 

“This
is very good,” he said to Imhotep.

“I
like the wine, King Djoser, but your beer makers are fantastic.  I have
never had better beer.” He looked down at his small belly.  “It is easy to
drink too much of it.”

“I
sent him back to To-She, Teti,” King Djoser said turning back to his son. 
“He protested that he had no part in Kanakht’s plans and that Sobek had saved
me, not attacked me.  I answered that the temple had been desecrated by
the spilling of blood and could not be used for three years.  He can
return then to try again to dedicate it.”

“Then
what is his punishment?” Prince Teti asked.

“Death. 
But not here in front of everyone.  I want Sobek to be a protector, not an
adversary.  I would not have the god lose face by killing his First Prophet. 
No, Djefi will return to To-She, thinking and planning for his return to
power.  I will continue my journey down river, following the flood and
celebrating with the people.

“Teti,
you will take half the king’s company with you, under your command, to Ineb-Hedj
and wait there for me.  When I arrive we will go together to To-She. 
We will visit Djefi and take him on a hunting trip to the western mountains
where we will use him as bait for desert lions, as he wished to use me for the
crocodile.”

They
were quiet for a moment, and then Imhotep spoke.  “What if he tries to
flee?”

Father
and son looked at him as if he had just suggested a hippopotamus might grow
wings.

“Where
would he go?” King Djoser asked.  “There is only Kemet.  There is a
desert to the east and to the west.  The sea lies to the north and hostile
Nubia to the south, along with my army.  I control the River Iteru.”

Imhotep
nodded in agreement, but he thought of one way out of Kemet that King Djoser
didn’t know about - the unfinished tomb at Saqqara.  It was where he
would flee if he were Djefi.

W
aja-Hur knew he was going to die.

He
looked across the length of the boat and saw the fat priest sitting under his
awning, eating and drinking, always eating and drinking.  He looked to
Waja-Hur like a petulant little boy, withdrawn from his friends, turning inward
and finding only an empty shell that he forever tried to fill.

There
was madness about him. 

Waja-Hur
had seen Djefi’s face when the crocodile was eating the living entrails of
Makare.  His eyes had been wide and gleaming, his lips moving
softly.  He had almost quivered with excitement, like some animal in heat.

The
old man sighed softly, the air rattling through his small, withering
chest.  He lifted his eyes across the rising level of the river to the
green trees that lined the banks. 

Such a
soothing color.  The color of Khert-Neter.

He
turned to the fat priest, almost started to walk toward him to ask about
Kanakht:  Why wasn’t he on the boat, where was his old friend?  Then,
like a desert mirage shimmering into focus, a memory returned of Kanakht
writhing in a pool of blood, a huge crocodile standing beside him with a bloody
stump of flesh protruding from its snout.

Waja-Hur
cried out in fear, his hands gripped the boat railing.  Was it a memory or
a premonition?  There was a scent of incense, a smell of sweat and fear
with the memory, a clue Waja-Hur recognized now that this was a memory, not a
vision.  So Kanakht was dead.  As the words ran through his mind, he
recognized that they had been there before.  Tagging along behind them was
guilt: He had done something wrong.  Fear lingered there, too, and it took
the shape of the fat priest.

B
rian was sitting up and his color had
already begun to return.

It was
three days since the assassination attempt.  Hesire had tended the knife
wound which had hit high enough to miss Brian’s kidneys, glancing off the back
of his rib cage, cracking a rib, but missing his lungs.

“Ipy,”
Imhotep said in English.  “King Djoser insists on calling you Ipy. 
So, how are you, Ipy?”

“Ipy?”
Brian shook his head.

“Ipy
is a strong goddess, she is magical protection.  It is an honor,
Brian.  She is a hippopotamus, strong, powerful,” said Pahket, who was
sitting beside him.  She leaned her head against Brian’s shoulder. 

Brian
started to laugh, then groaned suddenly as the movement tugged at his wound.

Imhotep
and Pahket looked at him strangely.

He
spoke to Imhotep in English.  “Ell him my mahical ame ih Oode.”

“Oode?”
Imhotep repeated.

Brian
rolled his eyes.  “Ig ebowki.  Remember?” He cocked his head.

Tim
shook his head.  Brian was amazing.  He had been tortured, almost fed
to a crocodile, knifed in the back and still his spirits remained high. 
He hugged Brian.  “Dude, you are something else,” he told him in English.

Brian
nodded his head excitedly and pointed to Imhotep.  “Yeah, yeah, Oode!”

Imhotep
laughed now.  “Got it, you want the king to call you Dude.”

Brian
beamed.

W
hat he wanted to do was wrap his hands
around the old man’s throat and choke him until he turned blue.

Djefi
emptied his cup of beer and stared out across the water.  In another two
weeks they would be at Khmunu and he would put Waja-Hur ashore.  He
couldn’t be trusted.  The old man had lost his mind.  Three times in
six days he’d asked Djefi where Kanakht was, why wasn’t he on the boat with
them.

“He’s
crocodile shit by now.  Stinking turds sinking to the muck at the bottom
of the river,” Djefi had told the old man the last time he’d asked.  The
old priest had looked at him like he didn’t understand and then suddenly his
eyes had misted over and tears ran down his cheeks.

Too
late for that, Djefi had thought. 

He
couldn’t believe that Waja-Hur had walked up beside King Djoser and pronounced
him pure of heart, like he really was the god Thoth and not some raggedy old
man who had lived too long, his body an empty shell, his mind gone.

Djefi
stared across the water, but he saw nothing.

He had
been banished to To-She.  The king hadn’t used those words, but that was
what had happened.  It was only a matter of time now.  In a few
weeks, a few months - what did it matter to the king - someone
would come to To-She and they would kill him.  Djefi knew it.  It’s
what he would do; it’s what any man of power would do.

There
was no place to run and he knew that he couldn’t hope to fight the king. 
I have Siamun, the king has an army.

He
threw his beer cup over the side of the boat and watched it bob and tilt along
the surface.  He saw himself as the cup, floating along, driven by the
currents.  His face set in grim concentration.

In his
heart he knew that he was lost.  He had clung to the hope that having
Diane in his possession would somehow give him bargaining power with the
king.  But after seeing the king drive his spear through the body of his
vizier, after seeing the blood lust in the king’s eyes, Djefi knew that Diane
wouldn’t make a difference.

He
couldn’t barter, he couldn’t fight.  His only chance was to flee. 

But
where?