Shadows on the Aegean (15 page)

S
TILL CLAMMY FROM HIS BATH
, Imhotep was ushered into the darkness of the sleeping chamber. Senwosret lay on the couch, his shaved head covered, his
large hands clenched on the linen covers. Ipiankhu, in full court attire, stood by his side, a phalanx of priests to his right.

Imhotep looked at the vizier, and he nodded slightly. Senwosret’s condition had not improved. Pharaoh, living forever!, was
losing his sight. After the appropriate greetings, Imhotep performed the examination he did each morning.

Each day was dimmer for Pharaoh and grimmer for Egypt.

“Can you count my fingers, My Majesty?” Imhotep held his two fingers above Senwosret’s face. The room was silent. “My Majesty?”

“Hold them up and I will count them!”

Imhotep slowly lowered his hand. Pharaoh was blind. Blind Horus. It was not a good omen.

Imhotep turned to Ipiankhu, trying to hide the fear in his expression. The vizier spoke quickly. “Nay, My Majesty, this exam
is unnecessary today. Tomorrow we will do it.” He gestured uselessly to Imhotep.
“Hemu neter
Imhotep has returned from Avaris. Perhaps he has heard of some medicament with which to return My Majesty’s sight?”

It was important that Pharaoh not lose hope. Meanwhile he and Ipiankhu would scour the courts of Egypt and every other land,
searching for some,
any
, remedy. Pharaoh must not grow discouraged. If the
rekkit
knew what was happening, there would be mass hysteria in addition to the famine. A hungry people were an intemperate people.
Add to that the watchful presence of the Aztlantu envoy and military, and Egypt would know the gods were against them.

“How was your trip to Noph?” Senwosret asked. “Did you find a remedy?”

Imhotep ran his tongue over his teeth, rattling the looser ones. “I have a poultice to try on My Majesty?” he said. “To have
its greatest effect, though, it must be taken at the full of the moon.”

“As you know, the last full moon is just past, My Majesty. You have more than a week before the next,” Ipiankhu offered before
Pharaoh asked.

“What of the man you brought back?” Senwosret asked.

Ipiankhu looked at Imhotep, curious. “Merely a patient, My Majesty,” Imhotep hedged. “He was found trampled in the Apis chambers.
I am trying to nurse him to health, though he seems to care not if he lives or dies.”

“Who is he?”

“Aii
… I do not know. Due to the nature of his wounds, My Majesty, he awakened only once while my staff attended him. He fell
back into an unwakable sleep almost instantly. By Isis, I have the smallest hope for his survival.”

“What color are his eyes?”

“His eyes?” Imhotep repeated in surprise, looking to Ipiankhu.

“Pharaoh, living forever! has dreamed a golden-eyed man will restore his sight,” the vizier said. “My Majesty knows no person
with these strange gold eyes.”

“His eyes are bandaged, My Majesty,” Imhotep answered.

“His sight is also damaged?”

“Nay, My Majesty, but you well know that one’s eyes are the windows to one’s
ka
. Consequently, we seek to keep the patient’s eyes closed. If he wakes healthy enough to merit their being unbandaged, I will
check their color.”

Pharaoh beckoned the scribe. “I will offer prayers to Thoth and HatHor for him.”

Imhotep paced impatiently. The man was neither dead nor alive. He might not win the wager from that aged physician in Noph!
The patient lay like a corpse, and Imhotep still hadn’t gotten a glimpse of his eyes to see their color. Would the patient’s
spirit fly away if Imhotep forced his eyes open? It was forbidden in the House of Life. Even if his eyes were the right color,
the man would be dead, useless to Pharaoh, without his
ka
.

A knock heralded the vizier, and Imhotep bowed automatically. “Life, health, and prosperity.”

“Aye, may your gods smile on you.” The words were hurried, and Imhotep dismissed the slaves. Ipiankhu walked to the side of
the couch, looking down on the bandaged man. “How is he?”

“Deaf to our words,” Imhotep said. “What did the envoy say?”

Ipiankhu sighed and swallowed his cup of beer in one gulp. He’d forsaken a wig today and instead wore a headcloth. He pinched
the bridge of his nose and sighed again. “Envoy Nestor seems sympathetic that we cannot pay the fifty percent tribute. After
much haggling, he said that less grain is acceptable, but the Aztlantu want hostages and twice as many Apis bulls.”

“Hostages?”

“Aye, though of course they were called ‘guests for the goodwill of our empires.’ ” Ipiankhu quoted bitterly.

“Rekkit?”

The vizier snorted. “Nay. Our finest. Magi and noblemen.”

“So how many
kur
of grain is a nobleman worth?”

He smiled, a curious, rare curving of his thick lips. “Seven.”

“Seven
kur?”

“Nay, seven hostages. Three children, preferably.”

Imhotep rose and stomped to the balcony, where the huge carcass of the Aztlantu ship floated. “If only we could just destroy
the ship and the envoy, then maybe—”

“You know better. They would send a dozen more. Every day Nestor releases birds.” Ipiankhu shrugged. “Presumably they report
on his day’s work.”

“Aye.” Imhotep sighed. “Aztlantu train birds as couriers. The empire’s spies from around the nations keep the clan chieftains
aware of events. It is an unbeatable form of communication. They know the spy’s thoughts within days of his thinking them.”

“It is very nearly magic,” Ipiankhu muttered.

“So we give them the bulls, the grain, and the hostages?” Imhotep asked.

“What choice have we?” Ipiankhu asked. “Though the bulls are quite sickly, I fear.”

“If the Apis bulls are not on Egypt’s shore, we will not be held responsible for their starvation,” Imhotep said.

“If they demand twice as many bulls, they will get some that are sick,” Ipiankhu said. “Livestock are victims of the famine,
just as the
rekkit
are.”

“When does the envoy plan on leaving?” Imhotep asked.

“He needs to have the bulls in Aztlan shortly. If he sets sail at week’s end, all should be well.”

Imhotep sat down. “Who goes as hostages?”

Ipiankhu joined him. “I will ask the Unknown to show me.”

Imhotep sighed, weary. “I was born in Aztlan,” he mused. “A more beautiful land, a more industrious people, you cannot imagine.
Justice, honor, discipline, such were the standards of the day.” He shook his head.
“Haii
, apparently no more.”

“Will you send greetings to your father?”

Imhotep stiffened. Ipiankhu knew his father was the Grand Spiralmaster of Aztlan, even though Imhotep never mentioned him.
Imhotep’s gray eyes narrowed. “I have no father. Only sons.”

It was dark and late; wine and curiosity were flaying Imhotep. With a decisive motion he ripped the bandage off the victim’s
eyes. If the man died, it would be his secret. If he lived and his eyes were golden, Imhotep would forever after be known
as the
neter
who gave Senwosret his sight. If they were not, then Imhotep would sell the man and make quite a profit.

Either that, or the man could be one of the four adults required by the Aztlantu. Imhotep ran his tongue over his loose teeth,
thinking. The man had been bitten, possibly by one of the bulls. It would be Ma’at if one of the Aztlantu hostages sickened
and died from blood poisoning, stolen, as they were, from their homeland.

The man inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Breath caught in Imhotep’s throat. The man’s eyes were gold, like a cat’s. He
blinked, focused, and raised himself up, wincing slightly. “Where am I?”

His Egyptian was perfect, his gaze clear.

“Noph.”

The man glanced around, his gaze going from the woven mats on the floor to the low tables and chairs scattered throughout
the room. “Egypt, again.
Haii
, what time?”

Imhotep glanced up at the clerestory window. “Nearly dawn.”

“Nay…” A tone of impatient command crept into his voice. “Who is on the throne?”

“Pharaoh Senwosret, living forever!”

The man blanched, falling back on his elbows. Suddenly his skin was gray and his eyes looked hollow. He muttered the pharaoh’s
name like an incantation, and Imhotep straightened his amulet against the Evil Eye. “How long have I been ill?”

Watching the man, Imhotep calculated the time. “Slightly less than two weeks.” He smiled as he called for a scribe. “Send
to Noph, one User-Amun. Tell him the patient lives and he owes me our agreed stakes.” The young scribe sleepily marked a piece
of
ostraca
and stumbled from the room. Imhotep turned back to the patient. “You were found in the Apis chamber. Do you remember anything?”

The man laughed, a raspy sound tinged with despair and a little madness. He looked at his still bandaged hand and quickly
stripped away the linen. Using his teeth to rip off the restraints and splint, he held up his hand, looking at it fearfully,
touching the tips of his fingers. They remained immobile and awkward. “My hand,” he said softly.

“It still needs a bit more time. It was broken in several places.”

“I know, I got caught and the bull drag—” He swallowed and exhaled. “It is not perfect, but I can still use it. Thank you,
God,” he said in an undertone, and Imhotep wondered which god he was thanking. Apis? Ptah?

“Who are you, my lord?”

“Cheftu
sa’a
Khamese.”

Imhotep frowned. “Which Khamese? Where are you from? How did you come to be in the chamber of the Apis bull?”

The man stared at him, silent. Imhotep waited: silence often produced the most truthful of truths. Nervous sweat beaded Cheftu’s
brow and upper lip and he looked fearful again.

Imhotep turned at a slave’s quiet cough. “The vizier awaits you, my lord.”

Imhotep hid his surprise. How had Ipiankhu known? He glanced at the nervous Egyptian Cheftu. “Bring the vizier here,” he commanded.
“Bring us beer and the patient some mashed grain.” The servant bowed, and Imhotep turned to Cheftu. “What ailment clouds a
man’s vision more each day, like a disturbed pond, until finally he is blind?”

The man blinked, his expression blank, and Imhotep almost laughed. Pharaoh’s dream!
Haii!
Twice he had foretold accurately, but this time it was nothing more than the wishes of an aging ruler! Imhotep should have
wagered on it! He heard Ipiankhu’s steps, yet he could not take his eyes off the sweating Egyptian. For once, Ipiankhu was
wrong! Imhotep rattled his teeth in joy and began to turn—

“Cataracts, my lord, though I would need to examine the patient,” Cheftu said.

Ipiankhu stepped closer and looked intently into the patient’s face as Imhotep stared, motionless as a granite
ushebti
funeral statue.

“The only cataracts I know are rough spots in the Nile,” Ipiankhu said.

The patient smiled, and suddenly Imhotep sensed in his bones that Ipiankhu and his god had won again. Somehow, birthed by
the Apis bull himself, perhaps, this man with the manners of a courtier had been created to heal Pharaoh’s eyesight. “A cataract
is also the cloud you are describing,” he said. “It layers day after day until the patient can see nothing except gray.”

Ipiankhu gasped, and Imhotep met his questioning glance. Still, Imhotep wanted to be sure. “Is there any remedy?”

Cheftu chewed on his upper lip with strong teeth that Imhotep instantly envied. “Surgery.”

Ipiankhu recoiled. “You would cut Pharaoh, living forever’s! eyes?” He looked at Imhotep, the message clear. Not possible!

The patient nodded. “Without cutting there is no way to remove the cataracts.”

“Have you done this before?”

He hesitated a moment. “Dozens of times.”

“My lord,” Ipiankhu said politely. “A moment of your time, please?”

Imhotep bowed slightly to Cheftu and joined Ipiankhu in the adjacent room. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” the vizier
hissed.

“Pharaoh’s dream said a man with golden eyes! The man has golden eyes!”

“Aye, he does! But does he know what he’s doing? To let him cut Senwosret? How can you even consider it?”