Reflections in the Nile (9 page)

The cloying smell made Chloe gag. She hurried down the corridor, following the mental map of the temple she had gotten from the “other.” Soon she should be entering one of the main chambers.

She did.

Chloe felt her heart jump into her throat. The room was so far beyond what she had ever even conceived. Every word in
both
of her vocabularies failed to express the splendor before her. She could only stand in the flickering torchlight and stare.

She was in a hypostyle hall. Not the one she had seen in the twentieth century, however. This hall eclipsed it in grace, in beauty, and in majesty. She passed a shaking hand over her dry lips.

It was true;
my God, she
was
in ancient Egypt.

She leaned against the wall, and slowly slid to the floor, her trembling legs unable to support her. She couldn't take it all in. Total sensory overload. She tried to unscramble the jumble of images, focusing on one thing at a time.

She looked at the floor, tracing the lotus border with one long finger. It seemed to glow and shine simultaneously. It was alabaster! She touched one lotus bud. It was inlaid lapis, held in place with gold. Gold? On the floor? She swallowed.

The rising and falling of voices that was always in the background seemed to be, growing stronger. Straining, she began to make out the words.

“Thou createst the Nile in the otherworld, and bringest it forth to give life to mankind. Even createst thou men for thyself, to serve and worship thee. Lord of them all, who art weary because of them! Lord of all lands, who art weary because of them! Disk of the day and conqueror of the night! How perfect thou counsels are, O Lord of Eternity! Thou art lifetime thyself, and thus we worship thee. Rest in thy barque, O Amun-Ra, ruler of the world. Speakest to the
…” Of course, her “other” mind called out, they were putting the golden god to bed. Chloe hunched closer to the floor.

They would pass through the columned walkway; she could see the light. It licked flame across the chamber, animating the brilliantly painted images that covered every column, every bit of roof. She jumped involuntarily when the grotesquely huge shadows of the priests flickered against the walls. Even the multitudes of torches did not penetrate the dark, oppressive space above her. The columns seemed to reach into the heavens. Chloe craned her neck. She could barely see the glint of gold- and silver-painted stars shooting across the midnight ceiling.

Barefoot and shaven headed, the men progressed through the passage. From her position they walked in a relief, a tomb painting come to life. Their voices rose and fell dissonantly, at once eerie and ecclesiastical.

Another line of priests appeared. The torchlight illuminated their white, stiff kilts and lent an amber sheen to the cloths draped across their bodies. More priests, these covered in leopard-skin badges of office. Still more priests. Their chanting echoed back and forth in the chamber, their hundred voices multiplied into thousands.

Next was a group holding the saffron standard of Amun-Ra, the great golden god of Waset. The incarnation of the sun itself. The heavenly father of Pharaoh. Chloe's breath caught in her throat as her gaze sharpened. These priests carried on their shoulders an ebony-inlaid barque inhabited by a gold-covered statue.

All of this for a statue?

Her Egyptian mind and her Western mind warred. To part of her, this was God. He was offered food, his clothes were changed, he went on visits to other temples and other gods. He was the balance of life and justice embodied in a wooden, gold-covered statue.

To her Western mind this was an exquisite museum piece. The concept of having to care for a “god” as if he were an invalid relative was ludicrous. God, by definition, should be the end-all and be-all. He should not have to be carried from his bath to his sleeping chamber.

To her superstitious mind, the long black eyes of Amun-Ra seemed to wink in the fading torchlight, almost as if he could perceive her unholy thoughts in this most mysterious and sacred of places. Then the linen-clad, gold-covered back was to her, and she slowly let out her breath. The procession was almost finished.

Next came a line of priests swinging incense censors in the already myrrh-filled air. Chloe stifled a cough. She counted another seven lines of priests, singing and praising this gold statue.

Then, just like the red caboose in the children's song, came a solitary priest with a brush and ancient dustpan to clean their tracks from the alabaster floors. He was even wearing a red sash. Chloe smiled broadly into the newfound darkness.

She was alone once more.

Relying again on RaEm's memory, she slipped through the multitudes of towering columns and magnificent halls until she reached the small chamber set aside for HatHor. She was not the main goddess at Karnak, but the HatHor chamber had been built by a royal consort who had tried for many Inundations to get pregnant. When she finally gave birth, the child was stillborn, rumor said. Nevertheless she claimed to have had a son, one of the many offspring of Thutmosis I.

Years later that son had killed one of Pharaoh's viziers while he was overseeing a building project. Thutmosis I's anger had known no restraint. He had searched in vain for his son, finally giving up and striking his name from all official records.

Chloe reached the metal-plated doors that led to HatHor's Silver Chamber and slowly pushed one open. The room was as she remembered it … sort of. The walls were painted with stories about helping the queen to conceive and give birth to a healthy male child.

Blood pounded through her head with the dual excitement of being able to read the hieroglyphs on the walls as if they were yesterday's
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and the anticipation of returning home.

She had no watch, but it seemed to be late. She would recreate the situation that brought her here, as best she could, in hopes that it would return her. Cammy hadn't forced her to watch
Star Trek
for nothing! Chloe approached the altar with its elegant silver-and-electrum statue of HatHor in her most bovine form. She turned toward the window, its clerestory gap showing sky as dark as ink. Slowly, so slowly, she knelt down.

Nothing.

She tried kneeling quickly.

Nothing.

After an hour of different configurations, different speeds, different mind-sets, she was still here. Ancient Egypt. With black hair and brown skin.

Alone.

So hideously, frighteningly, alone.

Even more alone than standing in that graveyard six months ago, the loneliest she thought she'd ever be. Oh, Mimi! she cried in her heart, aching for the comforting softness of her family. But they were not here.

Exhausted, she stood up, glanced wearily at the brightening sky, and began to make her way to her room.

The sun god Ra was approaching, and a trace of light could be seen everywhere, giving a startling life to the colored paintings, warming the alabaster and gold beneath her feet, reflecting off the enormous gold-and-silver doors that hung everywhere, blinding her with the light. Marking her an alien.

Discouraged and more than a little sick to her stomach, Chloe lay down in the simple whitewashed room on the hard wooden couch and stared up at the ceiling blankly.

What to do?

C
HEFTU RECLINED,
enjoying Ehuru's expert shave. Birdsong wafted in through the clerestory windows, easing his mind as he lay beneath steaming linen facecloths. The day was free—only a report to make to Pharaoh about the bewildered priestess, then glorious decans to himself. He had traded his instruction time at the House of Life with another physician and could go hunting, or taste his newest wines while he read, or even go visit the wealthy Kallistaen widow.

Ehuru removed the linens. The morning breeze cooled Cheftu's smooth cheeks and jaw. His manservant plucked Cheftu's brows, then drew heavy kohl across his eyelids and extended his brows. Cheftu sat up. “Do you go to court this morning, my lord?”

“Only for a brief time, Ehuru.”

“Haii!
Is this to be a fortunate day for the yellow-haired widow?”

Cheftu looked into the older man's snapping black scrutiny. “I have not seen her horoscope, so I do not know how the gods will treat her today,” he said dryly.

Ehuru's gaze fell, and he exhaled loudly. “My lord, who is going to take care of your House of Eternity unless you beget children? All of these travels are well and good, but they will not warm a man in the night! If you had a woman, your belly would not trouble you so!”

Cheftu waved him away. “I know, Ehuru, I know. If I do not have a son, I will starve forever after, and if I do not have a daughter, the priests will inherit my lands. Without a wife, you say, I am likely to lose my member to the freezing Egyptian nights!” He laughed. “I am yet unwilling to give up my comfortable life at this point. I have enjoyed my travels. Only for the past season have I been back in Egypt.” Cheftu arched a brow. “And, old father, as I am a
hemu neter,
I can medicate my belly,
haii?
”

Ehuru shuffled out “Very well, my lord. However, even your friends will marry and you will be alone, drinking and gaming your life away, inflaming your innards because you have no wife.” Cheftu smiled at Ehuru's back. He was like a father, servant, scribe, and housekeeper in one person, and as illogical as the four combined.

He raced up to the second floor, calling for servants, then stood as they wrapped him in a heavily pleated kilt and fastened the long, fringed sash of the Oryx Nome, his family's district, around his trim waist. They settled an ibis-headed pectoral of lapis and tiger's eye on his chest. He added a simple red leather collar and headcloth, strapped on sandals, and sent them to prepare his horses and chariot.

Exiting his house through the side garden, he strode through the sweet-smelling flowers just beginning to bud, predicting a return of life to the red and black lands of Kemt. He took the reins, turned his chariot onto the wide, sycamore-shaded avenue, and headed up Nobleman's Way to the palace and Karnak complex.

Hatshepsut's antechamber was full of petitioners, so Cheftu stepped into one of the long, dark hallways leading to the resting room of Pharaoh. The guards nodded to him, several flashing smiles when they recognized their fellow veteran of the Punt trip and other expeditions. The red wood doors were closed and Nehesi, Hatshepsut's trusted Leader of Ten of Ten Thousand, announced him. Cheftu entered, bowing immediately.

Hatshepsut was to one side, Senmut the other, but even her heady myrrh perfume could not cover the musky scent of the room; they had not been resting. He hid a smile, waiting to be acknowledged.
“Hemu neter,
” she said, her voice rigidly controlled.

“Pharaoh, living forever! Life! Health! Prosperity!”

“How is my priestess? I have received disturbing reports from the Sisterhood, reports of incidents even before this last. Seat yourself.”

Cheftu sat on one of the leopard-covered stools in the room and looked fully at his pharaoh and friend. She was dressed for the archery range in white kilt and blue leather collar, shin guards, sandals, helmet, and gloves. Her gem-studded flail and crook lay on another stool, her white-and-gold-embroidered cloak cushioning them. He met her lapis-circled gaze and, as always, was slightly stunned by her personal power and almost masculine command.

“There is no physical reason she cannot speak. For four days she has been administered the waters of Anubis by
w'rer
Batu and servant Basha. I will examine her again tomorrow, see if there is improvement.”

Hat looked away from him, her gaze meeting Senmut's across the room. “What will be your next prescription?”

“The spittle of HatHor's
ka.
”

Hatshepsut nodded.

“If that is unsuccessful,” Cheftu continued, “I suggest either the sacred baths of Isis or Ptah. My only other consideration is that sometimes when a person sees something so far beyond their normal experiences, it steals his voice.” Hatshepsut glanced at Senmut, and Cheftu explained. “I was treating a slave some years ago who was unable to speak. After countless and pointless treatments we took him back to where he had lost his voice.” He licked his lips as his stomach clenched.

“Hemu neter?
” Senmut inquired a moment later.

Cheftu shrugged. “It was a slave that one of my students was treating. Suffice it to say he had seen the death of his son, and once we took him to the place where it happened, he regained his voice.” Cheftu could still hear the old man. He and his son had been fishing in the deep water of the Great Green. They had been teasing and drinking when the son fell overboard. The man had laughed; his son was as agile as a fish. Suddenly the waters stirred, violently, and he heard the stricken cries of his son as he was torn apart by creatures he swore were half man and half fish. Cheftu restrained a shudder.

“Did he recover?” Senmut asked, his modulated tone unable to hide his
rekkit
roots.

“Aye, my lord,” Cheftu said. “He was able to speak.” Cheftu did not add that the man's grief had led to self-destruction.

“So there is a possibility that RaEm has seen something so magnificent or so horrible that she cannot speak of it?” Senmut clarified.

“A possibility.”

“Could Set's magic be at work here?” Hat asked.

Cheftu looked down at his kilt, straightening the folds. Should he share what he knew of RaEm? Her strange proclivities, the people with whom she associated?

Hat took his lack of response for an affirmative answer. “We have some problems, magus.” His gaze met hers. “RaEm is our most powerful defensive priestess. Just recently has one been weaned to take her place.” Hat snorted in derision. “In this country filled with children there is not one female chosen by her birth of the twenty-third power in all its degrees who is now old enough to embrace the full priestesshood. RaEm must be healed! There are no alternatives at present.” Hat's voice was strong. “We have also heard other rumors, ones that chill my
ab
when I consider the level of betrayal they insist upon.”