Every man is condemned to be alone in his life-and in his death.
Oedipus
Imhotep squinted at burning pale sky to see Aton, the radiant sun disk,
climbing up to the zenith of midday. He thought that
could discern the luminous crown and the gracious outline of golden
bark, but perhaps it was no more than delusion of
feverish mind. It was time to rest, and he slumped wearily on the hot
sand in the shadow of sloping dune, placing the
motioness body of Lateef next to himself.
He was carrying the boy all the morning and now the ache in his shoulders
and forearms made the further progress
impossible. He looked at the face of the youth. Lateef moaned something
from the depth of his unconsciousness and smiled.
Imhotep frowned, because this helpless smile reminded him about another
young face, burning in fever, three years ago. He
hadn't been going to deceive himself-the chance to leave this desert
on the mortal side of the river was infinitesimal for both
of them. And now, facing inevitable death, he had realized at last
how foolish he was. Why handn't he say her anything? He
always lowered his gaze when it met her searching eyes, her questioning
eyes, her demanding eyes…
…The carnage in the village ended almost as abruptly as it had started.
Hideous bloodthirsty ghost was gone, leaving strong
pain in Imhotep's temples and sickness. The soldiers had been killed,
and he was afraid to confess even to himself that he
wasn't sure by whom. Lateef had been wounded in the thigh by the poisoned
dart as they fled through the grove of wilted
palm-trees. During first two-three miles he bravely tried to walk by
himself, limping and moaning in pain, but then it became
clear that at such a rate they wouldn't come anywhere and the rest
of the night Imhotep nearly dragged the youth on his
shoulders. He still felt dizzy and nauseated after the potion, but
stubbornly struggled through the endless sands of desert.
Where? He lost the track hours ago, only the dim impression that they
are going to the east, facing the furious raising sun,
remained. It wasn't the right way, because the river, with water and
life, was left behind, but there was also the savages'
village, too. Initial Imhotep's plan was to skirt the village from
the north, closer to Egypt border, and then return to the
river, but now it seemed impossible. He was too exhausted, too drained
to continue the way.
He leaned against the sand hillock and looked again at his young fellow.
The boy was dying. He needed antidote or at least
water to wash the wound, but he had nothing, and also nothing to ease
the pain. So may be it was better that he had fainted on
the break of the day, and now had a very trifling chance to come in
before death. Imhotep slumped on the sand, face up,
gazing at the pale azure dome overhead. The thought, which crept in
his mind, obviously wasn't noble, but he had never
considered himself as the example of nobility. The boy was dying, and
he thought that might be without this burden he would
be still able to reach the salutary waters of Nile. And if he would
… at this point the boy near him moaned, stirred
impatiently and his eyes flung wide open. His dried lips parted, he
was trying to say something.
*******
High Priest bent over the boy, striving to comprehend his words. Youth gulped convulsively, then muttered "You…"
"What?" asked Imhotep, feeling the sharp pang of guilt rushing through him. "What do you want?"
"I want you die", croaked the boy, with look of utmost hatred in his dark brown eyes.
Imhotep staggered back, perplexed.
"It's all you fault", continued Lateef, breathing shallowly and paling
more and more with every word. "You'd lead us in the
desert, and- look -all of us are dead, except of you. And you are just
fine. Like bewitched. People around you die, and you
just go over them, feeling nothing."
Bewilderment faded away, giving up its place for the glowing rage. He
dragged this idiot all the way on his back, instead of
leaving him die in the damned village, and now he got in response insults
in his face. But then the fury was gone, too, leaving
nothing but weariness. But the boy continued:
"When I was thirteen, my father promised to build a pool in our garden,
full of water-lilies. Seven days after he was dead.
Black pest had taken him. I've heard it was you who unleashed the curse."
Imhotep shrugged. He felt too weary to object or apologize. He only
thought that if it had been his last hour, he wouldn't been
wasting it away on stupid accusations. And IT WAS stupid. He had healed
hundreds of miserable men in the Temple of
Osiris, had attended their death-beds and had helped their families…But
then, instantly, something like freezing breath
touched his face, prickled hairs on the back of his neck. Yes, but
he wasn't the only one priest who had been attending the sick
people, and most of his fellows had die, contaminated. And he was…just
fine. Then he remembered the battle with Sherden,
sea-peoples, pirates who tried to capture their crop of slaves near
the river-mouth. The trained warriors around were falling
like the palm-trees in the heart of tempest, but he was again…just
fine. As if somebody invisible but immensely powerful
raised his shield, protecting High Priest under the shower of arrows
and darts. His mind raced back, back in the time, and
then…He clenched his fists, trying to banish the unwanted memory…
**********
He was five years old when his father, Sekhemib, Commander of Pharaoh's
Charioteers Troops and the third division of Seti's
army, Suteh, returned home after the successful Canaan campaign in
Northern Palestine. His second wife, Imhotep's mother
(Imhotep's two elder brothers were the sons of Sekhimib's deceased
first wife), cried in delight, his sons war-whooped,
fighting for the right to touch their father's scimitar and play with
his helmet.
Early in the morning the family bark cast off from the wharf of their
palace in Memphis and floated down the river, towards
Heliopolis, to take part in the celebration of Pharoah's victory. Imhotep
awakened with the first beams of sun, which
penetrated the gray mist swirling over the river surface and stroked
his face through the yellow canopy overhead. He jumped
happily from his bed and ran to the ship's prow to gaze at the delicate
straps of foam and small villages on the river' banks.
Then…he didn't remember it quite well. May be, the ship pitched, when
curious crocodile pocked it with its ugly head, or
may be the wind played a little joke with the water below, or he was
blinded by the sun blinks or white surf…next moment he
had found himself in the cold spring water of Nile, beating desperately
against minute waves, choking with water. He heard
the cries from above, then something heavy splashed behind …water covered
his face, filled his lungs…an then was darkness.
As he had learned afterwards, it was his mother, who jumped after him.
Rowers pulled him out of the water, unconscious but
unharmed, but she had drowned almost immediately, sunk under the silent
surface without struggle or cry.
Several days after his father summoned him and announced evenly that
he didn't consider Imhotep as his son anymore. The
murderer of Lateema, it was how he had called him. It was the last
words he had heard from his no-father, because several
months later Sekhemib, famous warrior and commander, had been killed
in the stupid border conflict. Imhotep didn't cry
when he had heard about it. Then and now, he wasn't able to forgive
and forget.
*******
Shadow fell on Imhotep's face, snapping the thread of his thoughts.
He raised his eyes to see a vulture, slowly circling in the
sky over his head. He lowered his gaze, and it fell on the face of
Lateef, slack and expressionless. He touched the neck of the
boy, but couldn't find a pulse. Young priest was dead, leaving Imhotep
alone in the vast yellow bowl of burning desert.