14

HUY DID NOT FALL ASLEEP until the coming dawn was a barely discernible lightening in the gloom around him. He lay on his back in a state of peaceful calm, hands behind his head, eyes open to the invisible ceiling, while he allowed the Book of Thoth to unreel slowly and steadily through his mind. Its elaborate concepts did not distress him, and he was able to form his own thoughts behind the words. If Imhotep is correct, the Book is proof that every Pharaoh who performs the heb sed emerges invisibly transformed, he reflected. We have paid lip service to the idea for so many hentis that the wonder of its implication has become commonplace. The King dies, is beautified, and ascends to ride in the celestial barque among the stars with the other Neteru, who welcome him as an equal. But is he? They are archetypes, but the heb sed metamorphoses him so that he becomes Horus, Ra-Harakhti in his guise as Iuf, the Flesh of Ra. “The soul of the Master of Heaven is born and shall become,” says the Book. Atum-Ra is gestated, cocooned, and born protected by uraei. The Neteru, the divinities, are the hypostases of Atum-Ra. Therefore they participate in this activity. From the rites of the heb sed the King becomes truly holy. “Come then, Ra, in thy name of the living Khepri … that Flesh may live and renew itself.” As a god greater than everyone else but Iuf in the celestial barque, Huy mused. Greater than Wepwawet the Opener of the Ways, who stands in the front, or Sia, Knowledge, or the Lady of the Barque. Only the Great Neter Iuf stands in the central shrine, with Hu, the Word, behind him. Where does the transfigured King stand?

His thoughts remained serene. Tomorrow, Archivist Penbui will acquaint me with the procedures of the heb sed, but I now understand the meaning of the Book from Egypt’s birth, through all the complex modes of material creation infused with magic, to the rituals that make every King unique. The Book is a material and spiritual history of Egypt, clear to me at last, and Atum’s desire for this blessed country is finally revealed. I feel its resolution to the core of my heart. It will be my honour and privilege to tell Amunhotep.

And what of the baby Prince? his mind whispered. The present Horus-in-the-Nest, ten-year-old Prince Thothmes, will die. I have foreseen it. Does Atum want his successor in Egypt to be the creature I saw in my vision? Will he grow up to be worthy of the Double Crown, let alone the awesome gift of true godhead? What am I going to do about him? And what of the hyenas, both ghostly and corporeal, that haunt me? Where in the Book is there an explanation for their repulsive and alarming presence? I’ve always believed that they afflict me for a reason contained within the Book, and they will continue to trouble me until I know why. Yet even the thought of the hyenas did no more than send a mild tremor through Huy, and at last, his eyelids now heavy, he turned on his side and slept.

He woke late, and before he had even opened his eyes he realized that his strong need for poppy had returned. He sat up, and Kenofer mutely handed him the vial, watching as he tipped the contents into his mouth. “Has any word come from the temple?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Master.” Kenofer took the vial and set it aside. “Either Amunmose or Paneb will have that news. I did see Paneb earlier, carrying an armful of scrolls. Will you eat?”

“I suppose I should. Bring me bread, beer, and whatever dried fruits Rakhaka is hoarding, and send Paneb to me. We might as well deal with the business from Weset while I eat, and then I’ll go to the bathhouse.”

Paneb was carrying a reed basket full of scrolls as he bowed himself in. “Do I usually see to such a magnitude of business at home?” Huy said glumly, and Paneb permitted himself a smile.

“Most of these are copies of decisions and directives the Empress has dealt with, Master,” he replied, sinking cross-legged to the floor and setting the load beside him. “She has included a letter asking you to go over them and acquaint her with any changes you want made.”

“Very astute of her.” He waited while Kenofer entered, set his meal on the couch beside his knees, and went quietly away. “Begin reading, Paneb, and do so quickly. I have no doubt that most of Her Majesty’s resolutions will agree with those I would have arrived at myself.” Ignoring the griping of his stomach as he forced down the food, he concentrated on Paneb’s words. Tiye knows that I’ll give every detail of day-to-day government my full attention. Obviously Amunhotep has already grown bored with audiences and receptions and has handed the administration over to her. Where did we go wrong, Mutemwia? Is it my fault or yours that the weaknesses in the King’s character have engulfed the early promise he showed? Where is the intelligent, curious child we were at such pains to guide and instruct towards an enlightened rule? Are you as disappointed as I to see the fruit of all our hopes emptying the wine jug in the middle of the morning? Atum did not show me this. Why not? Because he knew I would become mer kat, and thus Amunhotep’s laziness and licentiousness would not matter? Because he knew how Tiye’s ability to govern would also compensate for her husband’s lack? She will continue to consult with me by letter, making subtle deviations from the directions I would have taken, particularly with regard to foreign policy. If I want to retain control of Egypt, I must be careful to tug on the rope holding us together once in a while. Huy impatiently watched Paneb alternate his attention between his palette and the diminishing pile of curled papyrus, until the scribe put down his brush and flexed his ink-stained fingers.

“Captain Perti received a verbal message from Ptah’s Chief Archivist earlier, and passed it on to me,” he told Huy. “Penbui will greet you in his quarters at any time today.”

“Good.” Huy slid off the couch. “You’ll have to deal with the correspondence for Weset later, Paneb. I’ll need you to come with me to the temple.” He dismissed Paneb, joined Kenofer, who had been waiting just beyond the door, and went to the bathhouse. He did not hurry. A sense of formality moved with him, a calm certainty that before Nut swallowed the dazzling heat of Ra that evening all would be made clear, providing Atum willed it.

Later, he had himself dressed simply in a plain white kilt and shirt, still feeling himself surrounded by an aura of gravity, wondering what changes the knowledge he was about to acquire might bring about in him but not really caring. It was enough that he had accomplished what no man save the great Imhotep had done before him. At twelve years old, standing before Imhotep with the Judgment Hall behind him and Paradise ahead, he had not realized the extent of the privilege being offered. He had chosen to read the Book, and in so doing had determined his fate as a Seer and much later as mer kat, ruler of Egypt with no authority but Pharaoh’s to gainsay him. But will he? Huy dared to ask himself as he began the short walk to the temple with Paneb behind and Perti and his soldiers ahead. The end of the Book sets down the cryptic means whereby a King truly, actually, becomes a god. It’s the climax of Egypt’s journey, the reason why Atum chose to enter the Duat of metamorphosis and so began the process of creation according to his desire. Magic, Huy thought as Perti opened the garden gate and bowed him through. Deep, strong, fierce heka pouring from Atum and carried on the breath of Ra to culminate in a man who is transformed into a god by the ritual of the heb sed. But only one man, only a King? Those who have been correctly beautified may live forever in the Beautiful West, but not as divinities. Is there no avenue to godhead for the rest of us? Imhotep has been worshipped as a god for hentis, but at first he was simply one of the beautified, like my parents, like Ishat, like dearest Heby my brother. Did Imhotep set out to become a god by deliberately, perhaps even secretly, performing the heb sed for himself? But would that not have been a blasphemy against Atum? Imhotep spoke to me kindly and patiently as he sat beneath the Ished Tree with the Book across his knees and a tame hyena with golden eyes beside him. Is it that we Egyptians over many hentis have chosen to see him as a god when he is not? Or does Atum intend godhead by ritual for all of us?

Huy knew, as he and the others turned to walk beside Ptah’s canal, that he was not really engaged in the puzzle. He and the archivist would solve some of the mystery, but not all. And there is still the hyena, he reminded himself as they passed into the afternoon shadow of the entrance pylon. That is another matter entirely.

He left Perti and his men in the outer court, and after asking a passing priest the way to the archivist’s cell, he and Paneb made their way along the side of the House of Life to where a large mud-brick house with a modest garden shared the library’s rear wall. Penbui himself rose from a stool in the shade by the doorway and bowed profoundly. The face he lifted to Huy was alive with curiosity.

“Yes,” Huy said. “The scroll is indeed the final piece of the Book of Thoth. I’m hoping that you will be able to help me make it intelligible. This is my scribe Paneb, who will record our conversation.”

“You will share it with me, Great Seer? I’m honoured. Please enter my home. Refreshments will be provided in due course.” He ushered them into a room that instantly reminded Huy of the cozy cell occupied by Penbui’s brother Khanun at Khmun, although this was larger. Khanun had decorated his walls with bright scenes of everyday life along the river that, though crude, were full of vitality. Penbui’s depictions were more expert but expressed a similarly exuberant joy of living that lifted Huy’s spirits at once. “Khanun and I shared a love of language and a reverence for knowledge,” Penbui said, noting Huy’s glance as he took a chair. “Such interests were unusual in two peasant children raised on a farm. I counted myself most blessed to have finally been appointed caretaker to the precious scrolls in this House of Life after many difficult years. Khanun rejoiced in his success also. But we sometimes missed the simple freedoms of our upbringing.” He waved at his colourful walls.

“My roots are modest also,” Huy told him as Paneb settled at his feet and began to prepare his implements. “Thoth’s priests at Khmun seemed alarmingly refined to the young boy I was. I took refuge with your brother. We had much in common. Please sit, Penbui. The recitation will be long. Paneb, this is not a dictation.”

The scribe set his palette on the floor beside him. The archivist settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his folded hands against his white-clad lap. At once a long silence fell. A not unpleasant blend of birdsong wafted through the open door of the house together with a thin shaft of sunlight, but it became muted at once by a weight of stillness that had begun to infuse the dim interior of the reception room. To Huy, with Penbui’s gaze fixed steadily on him, it had the quality of the moment just before dawn when a motionless expectancy invaded the world, when everything, even the river itself, seemed to hold its breath. I have never before recited the Book of Thoth in its entirety, and I do so now, not before kings, nobles, or priests, but before a man as humbly born as myself. Yet it feels right. The flimsy accretions of privilege I have gathered over the years fall away like dead leaves and I am nothing but an instrument of Atum’s will. His voice, when he spoke into that quiet air, was strong and steady. “Up until yesterday it was believed that the Book consisted of five parts, the scrolls divided between the temples at Iunu and Khmun. Now we know that there is a sixth, here in Mennofer. Each part begins with a declaration by Thoth, who took the dictation of the contents from Atum. Thoth lists his own many titles, warns the reader of the dangers to those who dare to study the sacred concepts within, and then proceeds to set down the mysteries. There’s no need to go through his introduction to every scroll. I’ll recount only Atum’s direct words.”

He paused. A sudden greed for the poppy washed over him, drying his throat and spasming in his fingers, and for one desperate moment all he could see was the vial hanging in a linen pouch from his scribe’s belt. But he fought the dismal familiarity of the desire, and gradually it ebbed under the force of his will. Closing his eyes, he began at the beginning of the very first scroll.

“‘The Universe is nothing but consciousness, and in all its appearances reveals nothing but an evolution of consciousness, from its origin to its end, which is a return to its cause.

“‘How to describe the Indescribable? How to show the Unshowable?

“‘How to express the Unutterable?

“‘How to seize the Ungraspable Instant? …’”

The sonorous phrases rolled off Huy’s tongue, filling the room with their mystery and poetry, and as Huy passed slowly from scroll to scroll he felt time itself draw away from him and collapse into insignificance. He was perched on the edge of his cot in the cell he shared with Thothmes at Ra’s temple school at Iunu. It was evening. The fresh smell of rinsing vinegar rose from the clean sheets under him. Pabast had been late bringing the lamp. He had arrived at the same time as Thothmes, who was bleeding from a scratch on his calf. “I got between Menkh and the ball,” he explained while the servant was setting the lamp on the table between the two couches. “I’ll put some honey on it after we’ve been to the bathhouse. Huy, are you all right?”

Huy, sitting in Chief Archivist Penbui’s house reciting the Book of Thoth, could feel again the sore throat that had been a precursor to the fever through which Thothmes had nursed him, could look with an overwhelming love at the features of his friend’s youthful face as it had once been. As the remembered scene was played out, its details became sharper and more immediate, until Huy no longer knew that he himself was an old man. Thothmes’ worried face as it came close was everything, the yellow lamplight was everything, the incomprehensible words of the very first scroll he had read under the Ished Tree in the centre of the temple were everything as he recited them to Thothmes, there in the sweet safety and predictability of a student’s life.

He was plunged into other scenes so vivid and immediate that the self whose words went on effortlessly filling Penbui’s room was forgotten. “Undo your braid,” Henenu the Rekhet said, and he was sitting in her little house, milk and dried figs on the plain table beside him, the cowrie shells hanging from her waist and festooning her ankles clicking as she ordered her servant to bring oil and a comb. The oil, when it came, gave off a sweet, heavy aroma that made him sleepy in body but alert in mind. He had just finished thanking her for the amulet she had made him, and while she loosened his long hair and began to comb it, he was reciting the few incomprehensible sentences of the Book’s fifth part. The odour of the reremet, the mandrake root she had crushed and added to the oil, filled his nostrils as it imbued the comb gliding over his scalp. She was speaking of his youthful rebellion against the gift of Scrying that had accompanied his agreement to read the Book, a gift that had brought with it an unwelcome sexual impotence that he, now fifteen years old, resented with an angry bitterness. He had begun to hate the god who had imposed such an unexpected consequence on him. “It will be better for you if you realize that for you there are no large choices in life,” she told him as her hands moved hypnotically through his hair. “Your journey was chosen for you by the gods and by you when you agreed to read the Book. The sooner you accept that Atum rules your fate, the sooner you will achieve the peace that eludes you.”

Coming suddenly to himself in the archivist’s house, he could still hear the tuneless clacking of the shells she constantly wore to protect herself against the demons she confronted every day in her work. She was old even then, he thought as he struggled to return to the present. She was my touchstone. She loved me, and I, in my selfish, often careless way, loved and trusted both her great spiritual knowledge and her down-to-earth good sense. I miss her. Gods, there are so many people I miss, so many dear ones I’ve seen carried into their tombs! Only Thothmes and Nasha are left to remind me of my youth, and in spite of my power as mer kat and my ability to foresee the future, I am helpless to prevent their dissolution. Take me back to the hovel I shared with Ishat! he begged whatever force was separating his memories from the flow of Atum’s words streaming out of him. Put us face to face, not with the imprecision of common recall but as sharply clear as Thothmes and Henenu were! His sudden need to be with Ishat was a stab of homesickness so violent that it closed his throat, and seeking the next verse of the Book he realized that the narration was over.

He opened his eyes. Small sounds began to take the place of the profound silence that had seemed to seal the room. Intermittent birdsong, the drowsy rustle of leaves stirring in hot puffs of breeze, the brief cough of the servant waiting in the shade outside, began to return Huy and the others to a welcome normality. Paneb stood, stretched, and then resumed his position on the floor beside Huy. Penbui left his chair with some difficulty, walked to the table, poured two cups of water, and offered one to Huy. Both his hands were shaking. Huy drank eagerly.

Penbui went to the door. “We need food,” he said hoarsely to the servant who had scrambled up. “See what you can find. There should be roasted gazelle left over from last night’s meal, as well as bread, cheese, and plenty of raisins. Don’t forget a large jug of barley beer.” Resuming his seat, he folded his arms, hunching his shoulders as if in defence, but Huy recognized the gesture as one of supreme awe. “Today I am the most privileged citizen in Egypt,” he half whispered. “Today I have heard the words of the great creator-god himself.”

Huy did not answer. Drinking more water, he set an elbow on one knee and, resting his forehead on his open palm, closed his eyes again. He was very tired. No one spoke. Before I give the archivist the words of Imhotep’s summary, I want to hear his assessment of the Book. He said that he’d read the last scroll, or parts of it. Did he unroll it far enough to find the great man’s conclusion? And shall I tell him about the hyena that haunts me?

He woke startled from a doze some time later to find Paneb’s hand on his arm. “The food is here, Master,” he was saying quietly. “The temple kitchens have provided onion and garlic soup. I know that it’s probably not as hot as the air outside, but please try to eat it. You need to renew your strength.”

Huy looked at his scribe with bleary astonishment. The only conversations he and Paneb had held in all the years of Paneb’s service had concerned matters of palace business or Huy’s investments in the poppy fields and trading caravans. Paneb, sober, punctilious, and excellent at his profession, had never before stepped beyond the bounds of his responsibility.

“Paneb, you made a joke!” Huy exclaimed.

Paneb moved to the table and, picking up a tray from which an appetizing aroma was wafting, brought it to Huy, setting it carefully across his linen-clad thighs and then shaking out a square of napkin. “Kenofer is not here. Therefore it is my privilege to perform his duties.” He draped the napkin carefully between the tray’s edge and Huy’s crumpled shirt and stood back, obviously waiting to serve.

Huy waved him away. “You are not to take over the obligations of my body servant, although you have my gratitude, Paneb. I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, and I shall indeed eat this wonderful soup. You must eat as much as possible yourself—your task today is about to begin.” Lifting the beer mug to his mouth, he glanced across the room at Penbui.

“We could have gone to the priests’ dining hall, mer kat,” the archivist explained. “After all, the sun is setting and Ptah’s servants break their fast early so as to see to the needs of the god at nightfall. But I assumed that you would not welcome the attentions of my fellows. Not today.”

Huy took a mouthful of the rich, dark beer. This is reality, he told himself as he put it down on the tray and began to tear apart a large piece of flatbread. These pleasant odours and the clink of Penbui’s spoon against his bowl and the murmurs of idle servants’ conversation drifting through the door with the shaft of golden evening light imperceptibly lengthening across the tiled floor and being lost in the cool dimness. These things are sanity. These things are everything. “Thank you, Penbui,” he replied. “If you have formed an opinion of all that you’ve heard, are you willing to discuss it after our meal, or shall we resume this meeting tomorrow?”

The archivist nodded. “I’m eager to proceed with the matter, Seer Huy. We must pray to Thoth and to Atum himself for enlightenment, and believe as we speak that we are correctly stripping the protective concealment from the kernel of an immeasurable and very sacred truth. I am most honoured by your trust.”

I feel the weight of this in a way you cannot possibly understand, Penbui, although I wish with all my heart that I could share it with you, Huy mutely addressed the man sitting opposite. My prayer will not be to either Thoth or Atum. It’s Anubis, my guide, my tormentor, from whom I shall beg both his pity and his enlightenment. Surely I deserve a reprieve from a lifetime of his taunts and condescension.

The three men finished their meal without conversation. Any polite talk would be frivolous now, even blasphemous, Huy reflected. I’d like to go away and be alone, immerse myself in the heka that has always isolated the Book’s contents from the ravages of passing time, but magic will not confirm the conclusion Imhotep came to regarding its ultimate meaning. Archivists are steeped in many areas of knowledge. They are expected to understand the value of the information stored in their care. Every citizen is familiar with the ceremony of the heb sed. It usually accompanies a King’s jubilee when he celebrates his first thirty years on the Horus Throne and is meant to renew his potency. A fortunate King might celebrate two or even three jubilees. Often the necessity might arise for him to prepare a jubilee long before the stipulated thirty years have passed if there is unrest in Egypt or a dispute to do with the legitimacy of his right to rule. Atum chose to dictate an account of his divine actions from the moment when he metamorphosed himself from the nothingness of the Nun and began the intricate process of creation. Would he have done so for no other reason than to end it with a commonplace ceremony to return full might to whichever Horus is at the pinnacle of Egypt’s ongoing existence? Only priests and Pharaoh himself take part in the heb sed. The rest of us cheer an occasion to hold feasts, get happily drunk, and complain about the temporary absence of servants who are also taking the chance to carouse. Imhotep knew better, and the knowing turned him into a god.

A word of command from Penbui roused Huy and he watched as two servants obediently cleared away the meal’s debris. The door closed behind them. Penbui looked across at Huy. There was a pause during which Huy could hear the small sounds of Paneb mixing his ink and applying his scraper to the papyrus. At last Penbui said hesitantly, “Great Seer, what do you want of me?”

“I want us to discuss any passages neither you nor I understand,” Huy replied. “They will differ, of course. For example, when I first read the second part of the Book, containing the lines

I am One that transforms into Two,

I am Two that transforms into Four,

I am Four that transforms into Eight,

After this I am One,

I was too ignorant to know that Atum was speaking of bringing order to the chaos of his shadow by means of the pairing of male and female archetypes before he embarked upon the creation of the material world.” As Huy spoke of the shadow, he was aware of a growing uneasiness. Imhotep’s commentary on Atum’s state when he became Light and thus cast the first shadow had always filled Huy with a rootless anxiety that returned each time the words formed in his mind, and today was no different.

Yet the Light cast a shadow,

grim and terrible,

which, passing downwards,

became like restless water,

chaotically casting forth spume like smoke.

He did not utter them aloud.

“Water, endless space, darkness, and what is hidden,” Penbui said. “The archetypes coming together in pairs to form the foundation upon which Atum made everything that is. I heard a wealth of similar beauty in the Book as you recited it, and many pronouncements I only partly grasped before you moved on. The rudiments of the creation account are usually taught to our children before they enter the schoolroom.”

“Unless one’s parents have no particular interest in such esoteric things,” Huy said. “I loved Hapu and Itu, my parents, but like many peasants too occupied with the necessities of survival, they had no time for the luxury of religious edification.”

Penbui nodded. “One cannot blame them. Khanun and I were born with a desire for such knowledge and we spent most of our meagre leisure time in the company of our local totem’s priest. Fortunately, he did not dismiss us as the children of Pharaoh’s cattle!”

Huy smiled across at the old archivist. “Over the years, I’ve been able to interpret each section of the Book to my satisfaction, but the suspicion that it lacked a final chapter grew in me because its meaning as a whole continued to escape me. Now that you’ve heard it all, can you hazard a guess as to its ultimate conclusion? Why did Atum trouble himself to dictate it all to Thoth for our benefit? Is it more than a marvellous account of Egypt’s formation? Does it describe a journey to be taken, a formula of hitherto unknown heka to be followed, a set of arcane laws, a series of images showing us the Beautiful West? What?” His smile disappeared. He was aware that his voice had risen, his body had become taut; the urgency slowly fermenting in him was at last spilling over, and he could not control it. “I don’t want to fill my mind with these things,” he went on loudly. “My days and too often my nights also are crammed so full of governmental responsibilities that I fear I will wake some morning and find myself unable to face them. Yet the obligation to grasp the Book’s conclusion, to see the purpose of Atum made clear, has oppressed me since I was twelve years old. Fate has led me here, to you,” he managed more calmly. “Surely now I may hear a new source of wisdom and so resolve this dire predicament. I am in the Second Duat, trying to keep my head above water, and the darkness around me seems absolute!”

Penbui’s look of alarm had gradually given way to one of cautious sympathy under Huy’s vehemence. He set his beer down on the table beside him and sat back. “I think you should take the risk of confiding in me completely, Great Seer. If we have come together through the hand of fate, then the result of our meeting must be foreordained. I am only Ptah’s archivist. You are Pharaoh’s mer kat and I am well aware that your word is law throughout Egypt, yet the gods have laid a burden on you much greater than the weight of the King’s cloak around your shoulders. I ask in all humility—let me help you if I can.”

“Then tell me what you think.” There was a moment of silence during which the man’s head went down, and Huy realized that he was praying. Huy waited. I will not call upon you for enlightenment or anything else, Anubis, he said mutely to the god who had often taken a malicious delight in answering his questions with riddles. If he was Scrying to determine a cure for some illness or the result of some horrible accident, Anubis would immediately provide a medical procedure, but any other inquiry Huy had would be met with an insult to his intelligence or an even more complicated enigma. I owe you nothing, Huy’s sour thoughts ran on. Time and again you have left me desperate for answers, expecting me to reason through to conclusions only a god might understand. I am not your toy. And if this good man and I are able to succeed in our task, I shall take great pleasure in telling you so.

Penbui looked up, cleared his throat, and settled himself further into his chair. “With respect to your own great erudition, mer kat, I can say that I am more familiar with the rites and origins of the heb sed festival than any other temple official in Egypt. After all, by custom those rites must be enacted here, in Mennofer. Our kings have almost always ruled from the ancient palace close by, and Mennofer’s founding as the country’s sacred capital took place so long ago that very few scrolls from that age survive. One of them contains the oldest instructions in existence for the procedure of the festival. The information is here in Ptah’s House of Life, but no minister of protocol has asked to study it since the time of the Osiris-one Hatshepsut, she who usurped the Horus Throne from her ultimate successor, our mighty Thothmes the Third, grandfather of our present King. It was after her Myriad of Years, a jubilee celebration she had commanded far in advance of the customary thirty years of rule, that she caused these words to be inscribed on the walls of her admittedly beautiful temple on the west bank opposite Weset: ‘I am God, the Beginning of Existence.’”

“What are you saying?” Huy demanded sharply. “That in your opinion a King’s transmutation into godhead doesn’t truly take place until he performs the rites of the heb sed? That without ever reading the Book, Hatshepsut’s minister of protocol deduced as much from the earliest account of the heb sed we have, and that his belief somehow allowed her to have such an unequivocal declaration of her own godhead chiselled on her temple?” A fume of excitement began to uncurl inside him. He felt it as a heat in his belly not unlike the first welcome indication that the poppy had begun its blessed journey through his body.

“We Egyptians are unique in the unquestioned belief that our kings are not only men but gods,” Penbui replied. “That through their divinity Egypt continues fertile and prosperous, and that the heb sed renews their divine power to maintain our country’s strength. Since the beginning this has been so, and we take every ruler’s dual nature for granted—we don’t even think about it. But truthfully, mer kat, how many of us really believe in such a thing?” He leaned forward. “We accept the omnipotence of the gods without thought. We pay respectful lip service to Pharaoh as Horus, as Amun, but the usage of hentis has rendered his uniqueness commonplace. If we are naive enough to raise the subject seriously in aristocratic company, we create a moment of mild embarrassment and our fellows politely turn to other subjects of conversation. Do succeeding kings themselves truly believe in their divinity as something other than a nod to Ma’at at best and a foundation for their sense of superiority at the least? The Queen Hatshepsut came to truly believe.” He had grown progressively more hoarse with the intensity of his words. Pausing, he quickly drained his beer, dabbed his mouth on the linen laid ready by his now empty plate, pursed his lips in a gesture of apology, and gazed across at Huy. “I’m close to blasphemy, I know, but you asked me for my honesty.”

“Yes, I did. The great Imhotep agrees with you. I’m assuming by your answer that you didn’t unroll the scroll to its end.”

Penbui’s eyebrows rose. “No. The script remained consistent for as far as I tried to read it. Are you implying that Imhotep added something to it in his own hand?”

“Someone of erudition added an explanation to almost every chapter of the Book, and I believe that person to have been Imhotep. See for yourself. He writes, ‘The heb sed not only renews the King’s strength, it transmutes him … This is the way the King truly becomes a god.’” They stared at one another in a silence that seemed to reverberate with Huy’s last few words. The King truly becomes a god … a god … a god …

At last Penbui stirred. “This gives the rites of the heb sed a new interpretation,” he mused aloud. “Already I see them differently in my mind. I shall give you the ancient scroll I mentioned earlier to take back to your quarters and study, and if you agree with me that its contents support Imhotep’s conclusion, then we Egyptians are uniquely blessed. How Khanun would have loved to discuss these things with us!” He rose with difficulty and bowed. “Be pleased to dismiss me, mer kat. My joints are a little stiff and I need to rest.”

Huy also stood and Paneb rose from the floor, sliding the lid of his palette closed with a click as he did so. Huy bowed back. “Thank you for this enlightenment, Penbui. The scroll you lend me will be returned as soon as possible.”

“And perhaps you might require my presence again once you have read its contents?”

“Perhaps.” The archivist’s eyes were shining with anticipation. How many scholars come to Ptah’s House of Life in order to study the vast wisdom accumulated here? Huy wondered, touched by the man’s eagerness. Surely Penbui doesn’t lack for stimulation! But of course this situation is different—a scroll worth more than every other scroll stored in the library, and we two following in the steps of the greatest architect, physician, and magician this country has ever seen. Son of Ptah, Imhotep is often called. Son of Atum also? Is he worshipped as a god because he became one? Did he use the heb sed for himself? Is such a thing even possible for anyone but an anointed King?

“Master?” Paneb said softly at his elbow, and Huy came to himself, following Penbui out into the last ephemeral vestiges of twilight. He felt suddenly drained and thin, as though some invisible bau had been sent to weaken him, and although the distance to his quarters in the palace was short, he wished that he had asked Perti to have his litter brought. He waited outside the library while Penbui went inside to fetch the document. Perti and the accompanying soldiers waited with him quietly. To Huy it seemed that he, Paneb, Perti, all of them, had battled some mighty storm together and had emerged safe but exhausted.

Responding to Penbui as he returned clutching a cedar box took all the strength Huy could muster. He held out a hand and, after an instant of reluctance immediately quelled, Penbui passed it to him. “Of course, I have made several copies of it,” the archivist said hopefully.

Huy shook his head. “I need the original hieroglyphs. Mistakes can creep in by accident and the concepts conveyed be misinterpreted.”

Penbui smiled briefly. “Of course. If I were in your place, I’d make the same decision. May Thoth guide your thoughts as you read, mer kat, and I thank you for the many pleasures of this day.”

With an inward sigh of relief, Huy turned towards the now dark passage that would return him to his apartment.

He had thought that once the door closed behind him he would be keen to acquaint himself with the rituals concealed within the box, but examining his inner self he found that his curiosity had temporarily subsided, replaced by thirst and an awakening need for poppy. Laying his precious burden on the bedside table, he beckoned a waiting Kenofer. “Undress me. I’m too tired to bother with the bathhouse this evening, but bring hot water and wash me here. Bring a jug of water and a dose of poppy.”

When the servant’s tasks were complete, Huy dismissed him and composed himself for sleep. The opium, obedient as ever, coursed slowly and langorously through his veins. The lamp by his couch cast warm shadows that merged with the heavier darkness beyond the flame’s reach. Yet Huy did not fall asleep for a long time. He was not anxious or troubled. Relaxed in body, he had no particular thoughts as the events of the day passed slowly and peacefully through his mind. Even the sense of supreme accomplishment he had expected to feel after a lifetime of pondering the enigmas of the Book was absent. It was as though the joys and griefs of the past and the hidden life of the future did not exist. There was only a calm present, and Huy was profoundly grateful.

He and Paneb spent the whole of the following day dealing with a welter of letters from the officials and administrators he had left behind in Weset. Many of them contained additional comments in a hand Huy recognized as that of the Empress’s Chief Scribe. “I approved this, but I don’t want you coming back and countermanding my decision, so confirm it,” was one such waspish remark. “I’m told that you worked on these negotiations for half a year, but I don’t like the concessions you have agreed to make,” was another, longer harangue.

The ambassador insists that by your own word Egypt promises to provide not only the protection of his border with our troops but also supplies for the creation of three thousand compound bows and the artisans necessary to instruct the foreigners in their construction. I do not approve of arming those who may one day turn against us. Is he or is he not taking advantage of your absence to extract more from us than you promised to his King? Nothing of this matter has yet been put to papyrus, an omission that I find entirely frustrating. If you do not return to Weset soon, I intend to begin the negotiations over again from the start and more realistically, unless you can give me good reasons for the offer you presented. When will you come back? In my opinion you have left me with several administrative problems that are unnecessarily complicated.

Huy answered every query as tactfully as he could without surrendering any of his authority. There was no message from the King.

By sunset, he and Paneb had dealt with the last of the correspondence and Paneb had given Chief Herald Ba-en-Ra a full bag for delivery to the palace at Weset. Ba-en-Ra would hand it to one of the heralds under him. Once Huy had read the scroll regarding the rites of the heb sed and had dictated his own account of its contents to Paneb, he would be free to leave Mennofer, but he was in no hurry to acquaint Their Majesties with the details of his vision regarding the newly born Prince and perhaps be forced to confront them with a solution they would not like. I’ll go north to Iunu, spend time with Thothmes and Nasha, perhaps even go farther and watch the final work being done on Khenti-kheti’s temple at Hut-herib. I thank the gods that I’m answerable to Amunhotep and not to Tiye!

He ate the evening meal in his bedchamber with very little appetite, a tray across his thighs, his attention now fixed on the cedar box, and when he had eaten and drunk what he could he sent once again for Paneb, had Kenofer bring more lamps, and was finally ready to see what the ancient and anonymous author of the heb sed festival had created.

He saw at once that the papyrus was very brittle. Tiny pieces of its edges had broken off and lay on the bottom of the cedar box, and he would have to unroll the thick scroll on a firm surface. Reluctantly he carried it to the room that had been set aside for his office. He had not used that area since his arrival in the palace. It represented the affairs of government from which he had managed partially to withdraw, and he approached it unwillingly, Paneb following. Kenofer brought the lamps, setting two of them on the desk and one on the floor to illuminate Paneb’s work before closing the door behind him. Gingerly Huy began to open out the scroll.

The hieroglyphs were in a hand he did not recognize. Tiny and neat, they flowed pleasantly under Huy’s gaze, unfolding in a version of dialect less ancient than that of the Book, Huy surmised, and easier to read. “An account of the ceremonies and secret rites composing the sacred progression of the heb sed festival whereby the land is rejuvenated and the King’s transmutation affirmed,” the opening sentence proclaimed. “It is Thoth who gives the words. It is Wepwawet who ensures the correct performance of every ritual. Thus may His Majesty’s mouth be opened to eternity.”

Wepwawet, Huy repeated to himself. A lesser wolf god with a shrine in the town of Aswat. If I remember my lessons correctly, he bears two titles: Lord of War and Opener of the Ways. He stands in the celestial barque with other gods as they convey the King through the Duat and do battle with Apep the serpent and the demons of the dark. We think of him as opening a way in the night, but what if he does a great deal more? He is one of the earliest of our deities, the origin of his powers lost in the past. What if he presides over the heb sed because without him the King’s transformation into a god could not take place? Rejuvenation of King and land, yes, but what if Wepwawet in his guise as Opener of the Ways is the only one commanded to form a path along which Atum’s transforming magic may travel? Putting aside conjectures that were futile at present, Huy returned his attention to the scroll.

There were seven solemn rites making up the days of the festival, and as the details of each one unfolded, Huy sank more deeply into the anonymous scribe’s descriptions. Every stage of the King’s progress towards rebirth had been set out with a clarity and precision that enabled Huy not only to understand and visualize each phase but also to link it directly to passages from the Book of Thoth. One such segment that had always puzzled Huy, coming as it did at the end of what he used to believe was the last portion of the Book, said, “… he has gone around the entire two skies, he has circumnambulated the two banks …” Now it was set firmly into the third stage, when the King lies curled in a small chamber especially erected to be both a tomb and a womb from which he will be reborn. The tiles decorating the space are blue-green. The King is wrapped in a cow’s skin representing the womb of the sky goddess Nut, who swallows Ra every evening and expels him each morning. An Opener of the Mouth, a funerary priest, enfolds the King and watches as he crawls into the place where he symbolically dies and from which he will emerge transmuted. Inside the tomb two paired glyphs are depicted representing both halves of the sky, east and west, and both banks that make up Egypt herself on either side of the river. The same passage from the Book goes on to speak of the resurrected King’s triumphant flight once his assimilation with Horus is complete, Huy realized. The King is reborn. He has died, and now he emerges from the womb of Nut as Horus himself. The waiting funerary priest performs the Opening of the Mouth ceremony with the Pesesh-kef knife, giving new senses to the young Horus. The King then suckles, eats, and teethes as spells are said to render those activities authentic, but he is still both living and dead until the assembled officials privileged to attend his emergence from the tomb—the priests, sem priests, magicians, and archivists from Ptah’s House of Life—shout, “Awake! Awake! Awake!”

There was more, much more. Some of the rites had to do with a rejuvenation of Egypt herself as the King was reborn, but to Huy, utterly engrossed in the ancient text, the ones carried out in strict privacy were plainly intended to metamorphose a mortal King into an immortal god. Wepwawet, Opener of the Ways, presided over it all from the first solemn procession to the raising of a djed column and the unveiling of new statues of the King scattered throughout Egypt, announcing a renewal of both the ruler and the land.

As the scroll rolled up, Huy finally came to himself. Paneb still sat cross-legged on the floor beside the desk, but his chin rested on his breast. He was asleep. The alabaster lamps were burning brightly. Someone had refilled their oil without Huy’s being aware of it. He leaned back, all at once conscious of an ache at the base of his spine, stiff shoulders, and a difficulty in focusing as he scanned the room. The apartment lay resting in a deep silence Huy was loath to disturb, but reaching down, he touched Paneb. Immediately the scribe was awake. “Go to bed,” Huy told him. “Tomorrow I’ll dictate my thoughts on this matter. Kenofer will be snoring outside the door. Send him in to me as you go.”