Shadows on the Aegean (21 page)

“Where did you get this?”

“It was a gift,” or a curse, he thought. “My wife, the woman found with me, received it before we arrived here.” Some crazed
witch in the market of Noph placed it in Chloe’s hands, he thought. She never even had time to open it. Perhaps that was an
omen?

Ipiankhu looked at him through narrowed eyes. He rose and walked to a tiny balcony overlooking Avaris’s harbor. Cheftu followed
him.

“Behold the purple-sailed ships.” Ipiankhu said, pointing to the enormous vessels Cheftu had seen sail in yesterday. “They
are Aztlantu.” Ipiankhu returned to his chair.

“What has that to do with my ring?”

“Your ring is Aztlantu,” Ipiankhu said. “Now would you care to tell me how you came to have it?”

Was this a sign? Cheftu wondered. “Does Egypt trade with Aztlan?”

Ipiankhu’s gaze grew more intent. “We supply their Apis bulls for rituals. Now they are demanding more from us.”

“Demanding what?”

“Political prisoners. ‘Guests of the empire,’ the envoy calls them. But in this time of hardship I find it even harder to
ask an Egyptian to forsake family and friends and go to live in a strange culture.”

Cheftu’s stomach tightened, and he felt a tinge of excitement. Was this his destiny? The reason for his being in this time
and place? “I will go.”

The vizier said nothing, watching. Cheftu picked up the ring—it slid perfectly on his finger. “I have no wife,” he said coolly.
“I have no position, no fields, no home. There is nothing for me on these shores.” He glanced into Ipiankhu’s hazel eyes.
“Indeed, it is an agony to see Egypt this way and know I cannot heal her.” He shifted his hand, watching as the strange symbols
took fire when the sun hit them. “You need Egyptians, you said.”

Ipiankhu templed his fingers. “You are loyal to Egypt, are you not?”

“I have given my life in her service,” he said.
In more ways than you can know
.

“How is your shoulder?”

Cheftu touched his left shoulder. He could move his arm with no difficulty, merely the occasional twinge. His left hand concerned
him most. It would take practice for him to fully regain his dexterity. “It is well enough.”

The vizier opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. “I will inform Pharaoh, living forever! and Imhotep that this is your
wish.”

Cheftu rose at the dismissal and walked back to his apartments. Feeling disoriented, he lay down on the couch, enjoying the
warm sunlight falling across his legs.

“My lord?” A slave shook him awake. “The vizier asks for you.”

Hurriedly Cheftu donned kilt and collar, repaired his kohl, and tucked his stubby hair beneath a headcloth.

Imhotep and Ipiankhu were seated on a back balcony. Mosquitoes clambered along the edge, but slaves with fans and switches
kept them away. Cheftu hadn’t seen Imhotep since Pharaoh’s surgery. A slave brought a chair, and Cheftu sat opposite them.

“Do you know the Aztlantu?” Imhotep asked.

Cheftu shook his head.

“Well, that is one of the most annoying things about them,” Imhotep said.

Cheftu frowned. “What is, my lord?”

“Every other people shake their head negatively and nod in agreement. The reverse is true in Aztlan.”

“They nod in disagreement?”

“Aye.” Imhotep rubbed his bulbous nose. “It is disagreeable.”

Cheftu smiled politely.

“So why do you seek to abandon Egypt?”

“It is not abandonment, my lord, I merely seek to aid Egypt.”

“Why?”

Cheftu took a deep breath, sending a prayer to
le bon Dieu
for assistance. “My lords, I tell you a grave secret. For reasons I do not understand, I am a tool, or was a tool, for the
most high God.” Imhotep blanched, but Ipiankhu watched him knowingly. “The woman found dead at my side was my wife.” He swallowed
his tears. “We married four hundred years hence. Let me tell you of the chamber we knew….”

The lords’ faces took on the smooth facades of those who are dealing with a madman, yet they nodded politely, not quite meeting
his
eyes
. “You found us in the Apis bull run, but in the time we left, it was a secret chamber with painted walls portraying the story.”

“What story?” Imhotep asked.

“How we came to be there, what our destiny was while we were there.” Cheftu focused on Imhotep. “A man, an old man named Imhotep,
found us in the desert, four hundred years hence, and saved our lives. He had a scroll with our tale, a prediction of the
exact day we would be rescued. You must have written it, passed it down to him. The family resemblance is unmistakable. He
was your blood.”

Their attention was piqued. Cheftu laid his hand, with the Aztlantu ring, on the table between the two cups of beer. “Send
me to Aztlan. Let me serve Egypt this way.”

“Senwosret has welcomed you to court,” Ipiankhu said.

“My skill as a physician would make me a better marker with which to barter,
haii?”

Reluctantly both men nodded. “We must seek approval from Pharaoh, living forever! but I think My Majesty will embrace this
solution.”

Would the Aztlantu bring him back? Cheftu wondered. He crossed his chest and made his way back to his apartments. He was doing
as destiny bade, following the sparse clues he’d been given. Aii,
Chloe, if you are watching, if you can see me, tell me what to do
.

S
ENWOSRET TURNED IN THE ROOM
. He stood in a painted alcove, a sandstone lintel above him, a tale painted on the back wall in brilliant colors. Amid finely
rendered hieroglyphs was the figure of a woman, surely a goddess or priestess from the size of the picture. He saw her long,
turned fingers and straight-nosed profile, her skintight sheath and ankle bracelets—and her green eyes
.

Her green eyes seemed to burn with an unearthly fire. Senwosret’s gaze dropped to the words “a priestess of an unknown god,
sent to be a scribe to his wonder and then returned to the Otherworld.”

Pharaoh’s skin prickled and he turned away. To his right the wall was black, carefully covered with stars in an uneven pattern.
To his left he saw a phrase, the hieroglyphs seemingly formed of fire
.

Then the wall melted and he saw destruction, the terror of which he’d never known existed: blood-filled lakes; fire falling
from the sky; a cloying darkness that seemed to have fangs and reach into his throat; then a specter so fierce, he screamed,
and screamed…

He awoke, shaking, sweating, and gasping for breath. Slaves stood in an anxious semicircle around his couch. “Water,” he croaked,
and put the cup to his lips, feeling it soothe his throat, dribble down his chin and chest. He was panting as though he’d
run through the marshes. “Ipiankhu,” he said. “And Imhotep!” The slaves stared, their black eyes full of fear. “At once!”

Both men stood before him in a matter of moments. Ipiankhu’s chin glinted ruddy in the light of the torches, and Imhotep winced
when one of the slaves dropped a flagon. They listened as Senwosret related his dream. He noticed them exchanging glances
and finally burst out, “What? What have I said that makes you look at each other with understanding?”

Ipiankhu spoke, his voice trembling. “My Majesty, living forever! You have just told the same tale the mage Necht-mer,
aii
, Cheftu did.” He looked at Imhotep. “This green-eyed woman was his wife. She died in the Apis bull run. Cheftu told us of
these plagues that you saw.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means the words the man spoke, for all their incomprehensibility, are the truth.”

Senwosret smiled wistfully. “What is truth?”

Assuming the question was rhetorical, the vizier and the mage were silent. Senwosret twisted his earlobe with his fingers.
“Where is this room supposed to be?”

“In the bowels of the Apis chambers.”

“Move the bulls.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf? Remove the bulls to another area, make a new temple for Apis. Then build this chamber, exactly.”

“My Majesty,” Imhotep sputtered, “that means transporting thousands of bulls to a yet unknown location and rebuilding the
temple, the priests’ rooms. Egypt cannot afford this extravagance.”

Senwosret stood, his large, bony body covered only by a flimsy kilt. “Egypt can afford to thank this physician for restoring
my sight, and Egypt can afford to make this small room as a thanks to this unknown god. What Egypt
cannot
afford are disobedient, questioning courtiers.” He turned to Ipiankhu. “What say you?”

The vizier looked away. “I am still seeking wisdom, My Majesty.”

“Let me know when you find it. Begone.”

T
AKING HIS NEWFOUND PLACE OF HONOR
at the right of Pharaoh, Cheftu stared blankly at the court. Blazing white shifts and kilts clothed the women and men standing
about. The audience chamber was wide and long, with Senwosret on a raised dais at the end. Pharaoh’s enormous ears stuck out
from the red-and-white crown of upper and lower Egypt, and loose skin sagged over his golden sash. But his eyes were kind.

More important, he could see.

Nestor, the Aztlantu envoy, stood next to the nobles. Today he wore a purple kilt that wrapped tightly around his body and
fell below his knees in front. Feathers stuck out of the knot of blond hair twisted atop his head, and gold—pendants, armbands,
and anklets—made him blinding. He looked like a peacock among swallows.

The envoy’s blue gaze met Cheftu’s, and he inclined his head slightly, then focused on the doors at the end of the chamber.

The chamberlain admitted a group of men. Judging from their clothing, a variety of kilts and collars, Cheftu guessed they
were merchants. The formal Egyptian dialect was difficult to follow, but Cheftu was intrigued.

“My Majesty,” one of the men said, “we, the elders of Gebtu, have come to ask for your mercy.”

Cheftu watched Ipiankhu’s eyes narrow.

“My Majesty is all that is merciful,” Senwosret answered.

“Aye, and for this we are grateful to Amun-Ra.” The man twisted his hands before him. “However, we cannot pay our taxes this
year. The Inundation flooded us, and in our whole village we have barely enough to feed our children, much less to pay thy
noble self.”

Senwosret pulled at one of his large ears. “How am I to feed the priesthood without the people’s support?”

The elder drew up. “Amun-Ra will take care of his own. As men, we must provide for our families. It is the way of Ma’at.”

Ipiankhu leaned forward and whispered to Pharaoh. The royal brows rose, then Senwosret looked meditatively over the group
of men. Pharaoh narrowed his eyes and crossed his chest with the crook and flail. “The way of Ma’at is to do as Pharaoh, living
forever! commands.”

The elder stepped back and swallowed. “Aye, My Majesty.”

“Pharaoh is merciful, however. I offer you this penalty in exchange for not paying your taxes. The lands you own will become
the property of the double crown. You will live there, till the land, and bring it to fruition once the gods see fit to send
us a healthy Inundation. For the remainder of the famine, you will pay no taxes. However, once the river returns to normal,
forty percent of all your harvest shall come to me. In perpetuity.”