"Tomb for a King" by Ben Cameron

      High-Priest Imhotep strode through the sweltering heat to Şaqqārah, his sandals gouging deep impressions into the desert sand.  Heedless of the sun, his flowing garbs and headdress flowed out behind him as he moved forward.  Dreams of power wove themselves in and out of his mind, as much as shimmering mirages danced over the desert.

      Behind him, in a lonely line, stretched his footprints.  In the far distance, the edges of the Nile civilisation was nothing more than a remote green smear in his vision.  On either side, in sweeping fashion, rose and fell the majestic sand dunes.  The constantly moving beasts of the desert, marching slowly across the land.

      In front reared his creation.

~ * ~

       “A pathway to the Gods.”  Imhotep’s voice rose dramatically.  “A tomb for the living body, but once beyond Ma’at, a home in, and a vessel to, the Afterlife.  An eternal monument to your magnificent exploits.”

      An awed silence settled within King Djoser’s throne room.  Immortalisation.  It was the greatest honour imaginable, second only to being deified.  To have ones name forever engraved in people’s minds would ensure perpetual life.

      Imhotep turned and bowed deeply to the King.  “I would hope that this pleases your majesty.”

      The King sat comfortably before those assembled.  He needed little thought to make his decision.  “Indeed it does, High-Priest.  You have pleased me greatly.”  He clapped his hands.  “Scribes, see fit to copy the plans and distribute them to those who believe themselves capable of overseeing such a construction.”

      Imhotep clutched his plans a little more tightly, creasing the papyrus upon which his quill and inks had flowed.  Head still bowed, he spoke.  “Your Majesty, would it not be possible for me to oversee the construction of your pyramid?  After all, the architect must be one familiarly acquainted with the Afterlife in order to create such a pathway to the Gods, as I am.”

      King Djoser contemplated this briefly, toying the bison fur cushioning his marble throne.

      “And where would you find enough time for this, High-Priest?”

      “Sire, the most mundane duties of High-Priest could be relegated to those of Re’s choosing.  The only festivals that demand the High-Priest’s direct attention and involvement, equinox and solstice, take little preparation within the year, leaving enough time to direct the architecture of your mastaba.”

      The King nodded succinctly.  “Very well, High-Priest.  You have yet to fail me.  You can expect a great reward, commensurate to the honour you have done me if you succeed in this accomplishment.”

      Imhotep stood, his muscles flexing as he rolled up the plans.  He bowed once more, fluidly.  “I thank you, Majesty.”  There was of course, the flip-side to the King’s promise.  Fail, and he could expect an equally appropriate punishment.  Still, whilst leaving the chambers, a small smile crept across his visage.  The day had gone well.  Very well.

~ * ~

      In the years that slaves had been crawling across the Şaqqārah sands, buildings had sprung up, radiating out from behind King Djoser’s mastaba.  Wherever one stood, however, the future resting place of the King could be seen, dominating everyone’s thoughts and minds.

      Each morning, Imhotep strode the complex’s pathways.  As he went between the North and South Temples, the Heb-Sed and Jubilee Courts, and the North and South houses, he would check on the progress completed the day prior.  Every day he took the same route and every day he ended up at the base of the pyramid, its red-bricked tiers, growing daily, glowing in the dawn light.

      He stood with the slave-master in the shadow of the pyramid, the shade darkening Imhotep’s features.

      “Why are there so few slaves today?”  His body never moved but his eyes never stopped shifting.

      “There was a recent virus through the slave camp, most are incapable of leaving bed.”  He answered quickly, confident in his abilities of managing the slaves.

      “And who decided they didn’t have to work?”  Imhotep’s voice was quiet, light.

      “It was my decision, High-Priest.  I felt it necessary they recover else we would have no slaves left.”

      “You felt, hmm?”

      “Yes…they were all very sick.  I felt…no…they needed the rest.  Most could barely stand, let alone help carry these bricks...” His words came pouring out.  “They were coughing and retching, they couldn’t work… it was… inhumane to force them outside.”

      Imhotep’s tone was still as quiet as before.  “Since you feel they are in such need of rest, maybe you’d like to help them with their task.”

      “High-Priest…I…”

      “You may sleep in the Slave Quarter tonight.  Now, if I’m not mistaken, there’s a harness and hammer just there.  You have my express permission to use them.”

      Imhotep drew his silk robe around his body and left, moving back to his personal residence.  Glancing back, he drew a long look at the pyramid.  It truly was fit for a king.  The corners of his lips twisted ever so slightly in a perversion of humour.

~ * ~

      Much of the pyramid was complete now.

      Due west from the its structure, both it and the tiled walls of the main Temple blocked the heat of the morning sun.  Imhotep stood there in the shade, cup in hand.  Before him, were two of his subordinates: site manager and his second-in-command, Amenankh.  In the distance, the dim crack of whips sounded pushing the slaves up the sand ramps, sounding more like pebbles dropped on a marble plate than anything else.

      “And construction, are we on plan?  It must be completed by the equinox.”  Imhotep’s gestured slowly, gracefully, at the pyramid which had been peaking over the compound’s walls for some few weeks now.

      “It will be done as you plan, High-Priest.”  The slave-master was careful to bow.

      “Is it still aligned with the stars?”

      The site-manager answered.  “We cannot know till the night, but it was last night and there is no reason to suspect otherwise.  Forgive my asking, High-Priest, but why is it necessary?”

      Imhotep straightened immediately.  “Never ask of things that don’t concern you.”

      The man prostrated himself on the ground, grovelling at Imhotep’s feet in the sand.  “Accept my apologies, oh gracious Sage.  I meant nothing by it.”

      Without deigning to glance down at the desperate man, Imhotep spoke to Amenankh.  “Make sure he receives twenty lashes by the end of the day, or you’ll join him on the morrow.”  He turned and headed into the shadows of the Temple, then stopped.  “Still, since you asked, it must be aligned to ensure the proper pathway is opened for the King.”  He waved the two away with one hand.  “Be gone, I have work that has been sitting idle.”

      It was not out of idle talk that Imhotep had replied to the site-manager.  Never did he do work purely for other’s gain.  Imhotep laughed inaudibly to himself.  Let the tales spread.  He could almost see their casual talk spreading from ear to mouth as it passed from overseer to overseen, from slave to merchant, and from them to all.

      For now, though, the men scuttled backwards out of the compound, bowing as they went, thankful for their lives.  High-Priest Imhotep was just as dangerous, and in many ways as powerful, as the King.

      As the two men crossed into the Jubilee Court, they separated.  The site-manager, tools clinking gently at his side, made his way up the sanded slopes to the working site, thinking ahead to his whipping.  Amenankh, however, moved inside the pyramid itself.

      It was still light inside, the sunlight filtering down through an ingenious set of tunnels delving from the pyramid’s surface into the chambers and connecting corridors and Amenankh climbed easily down into the Tomb Chamber.  Imhotep had been most exact about the specifications for this, the most important of chambers.  Twenty-eight metres beneath the surface, it was exactly cubic, and covered in blue, reflective tiles.

      In the centre, over where the tomb would be, stood a statue of the King Djoser, crafted out of the finest stone, standing at two-times life-size.  Even now, after seeing it so many times, Amenankh still stopped in awe each time he saw it.

      Shaking his head slowly, Amenankh moved slowly around the room taking various measurements to ensure the room’s accuracy.  Everything was perfect; it would suit the King perfectly.

      All that remained now was to finish the tip, and then cover the surface in limestone, such that the light would reflect off all four sides.  This was a tomb for the King.  It would be a beacon to all of those in Egypt, an eternal monument to King Djoser and its creator, High-Priest Imhotep.

~ * ~

      The equinox was approaching within the fortnight and Imhotep’s temper and patience grew ever more frayed.  Things were on target, but it would only take one mistake, one dropped sandstone block, or shattered limestone plating and the pyramid’s completion would be pushed back another week - a week too long.

      He rarely went outside these days, instead, he stayed in the Main Temple or the Heb-Sed courtyard.  His spent his waking hours alternating between pouring over blueprints and staring at the peak of pyramid.  It’s walls were now mostly covered in the lustrous limestone, and in the reflection of the sun it blinded those who looked it at too long.

      From longer working hours to worse punishments for lesser crimes, all felt Imhotep’s increasing anxiety.  Even without these additional reminders, it would have been impossible to forget the overshadowing goliath.  It stood sixty metres high, enough that through dawn to dusk, its shadow covered every corner of the surrounding complex.

      With the final carvings of hieroglyphics into the tombs walls, Imhotep had expressly forbidden anyone, including Amenankh, from entering.  It was too dangerous, something could go wrong.

      As the slaves toiled in the heat, Imhotep luxuriated in the waters of his pool.  He needed to conserve his energy for the necessary duties involved within the consecration.  The soft sound of rippling waves echoed soothingly in the darkened chamber.  He stared at the mosaic-covered walls as he thought to the days ahead.

      He mind drifted, barely awake yet not asleep, and his thoughts revolved around the Djoser’s pyramid.  The fool.

      Stepping out of the cool waters, he held his arms out for the slave to drape his robe over his naked body.  Seeing her nubile figure, and shy embarrassment at his exposed form, he realised she was a new slave, still unmarried if her clothing and jewellery were to suggest anything.

       He gestured, and moved out of the bathing chamber.

~ * ~

      The final cap had been placed.

      Imhotep strode through the sweltering heat to Şaqqārah, his sandals leaving deep impressions in the desert sand.  Heedless of the sun, his flowing garbs and headdress flowed out behind him as he made his way forward.  Dreams of power wove themselves in and out of his mind, as much as shimmering mirages danced over the desert’s surface.

      Behind him stretched his footprints.  In the far distance, the edges of the civilisation bordering the Nile showed up as nothing more than a remote green smear in his vision.  On either side, in sweeping fashion, rose and fell the majestic sand dunes.  The constantly moving beasts of the desert, marching slowly across the land.

      In front reared his creation.

      As he crossed through beneath the main entrance into the pyramid’s complex, he neither acknowledged, nor recognised those standing beneath it’s shadow, lining the path to its entrance.  His was the job of hallowing the King’s dwelling for the Afterlife, and it would be done alone.

      With the sun nearing it’s peak, the chambers were flooded with blue light, so intense that the ground he walked bore neither shadow nor reflection of his feet.

      Down the shaft to the burial chamber, and Imhotep felt the innate power resonating inside the tomb.  Standing in its current, everything seemed brighter, somehow clearer.  Inside the chamber, he opened his arms wide, muscles tightening as he revelled in the flowing energy.  Even his communications with the Gods felt meek when compared to this – this was pure, unadulterated, elemental.  And it was his.

      The sun reached its peak, and light flooded down the central shaft.  Imhotep felt a intense vertigo; the power that flowed down from the stars spiralling his mind upwards to their giddying heights.  The sides of the chamber became intense walls of blue light and the hieroglyphics, carved through the reflective sapphire tiling into to red sandstone glowed crimson.

      Imhotep battled the pure energy, channelling it to the statue standing still.  His cries echoed around the room as he accepted more and more energy, and he felt his insides quiver as they began to burn.

      The statue slowly began to receive the energy, siphoning it off Imhotep.  He visibly straightened in relief as the power transferred out from him.

      Then the sun moved on, passing from directly overhead in its continuous journey.  The whole process had taken around a minute, but Imhotep stood unsteadily, wearily, physically drained.

      “I’m hungry.”  The statue spoke, its voice resonating powerfully around the room, the walls pulsing with each syllable spoken.

      Those outside felt, rather than heard the words.  The ground trembled beneath their feet, and though there was no noticeable change, for many of those present, the pyramid abruptly seemed to be too big, too impossible, malevolent, hungry.

      Cautiously, Imhotep connected his thoughts to the statues, tentatively feeling its mind, then more boldly as he greedily felt the power that would be his to control.  He guided the statue’s thoughts to the slave quarters nearby.  There was little other purpose for them now they’d finished building the pyramid.

      Waiting beneath the sun, outside the pyramid, King Djoser, the nobles and other priests heard the shrieks of the slaves clearly, despite the distance separating them.  They rang clearly over the desert sands, each a singular voice of torment and torture amalgamating into one fearsome, soul-piercing scream.

      Imhotep spun excitedly.  This was power!  He felt as though he were drunk with it, as though the power were running through his veins, a part of him as much as his lungs or blood.

      “I’m still hungry.”  The statue’s voice held no trace of flexibility.

      “Haven’t you had enough?”  He stopped moving suddenly.

      “I’m still hungry.”  The statues eyes sought out Imhotep’s, and Imhotep found it impossible to break its gaze.

      Feeling tendrils of power creeping into his mind, Imhotep hastily sent the statue’s thoughts outside, to those waiting for the conclusion of the ceremony.  This would be one consecration they’d never forget.

      From within, he heard the screams filter down into the tomb, harsh, unfinished screams that choked on themselves.

      In another instant, it was silent.  So profound the difference, Imhotep glanced around uncertainly.

      Not a sound disturbed the sanctitude of the chamber.

      Nothing sounded.

      Nothing moved.

      The silence continued for antagonising seconds before Imhotep ventured to move.  He took a step towards the exit, and waited, feeling nothing but the ambivalent throbbing power of the sentient statue.  Eventually even this faded as he reached the exit.

      “I’m still hungry.”

      Imhotep felt its voice echo chillingly off the blue-glass walls and shoot up his spine.

      Sweat started to bead on his forehead and he glanced around, nervous.

      “Can you not wait?  Only a day, then I will have all you want.”  He felt those same probing tendrils as before.  They grasped indelicately for his mind.

      “I want it now.”

      He battled against it, desperate to survive, yet for all his efforts the statue stood there calmly, its eyes locked onto his, never moving.

      “I want it now.”

      Imhotep dropped to his knees as all his energy went into repelling the invader.  There was another option left, but it would mean death if he failed.

      He groped blindly with his mind towards the surface of the pyramid, feeling for the entrances the light poured in from.  In an instant, he switched his thoughts entirely to the pyramid and expended everything he had in destroying the light channels.

      An instant was all that was needed, though.  Imhotep felt the statue’s eyes bore into his as his lungs were crushed by the physical force of its power and blood gurgled up out of his throat.

      The conduits smashed, limestone and rock sliding downwards in sharp slivers, choking the tunnels and plunging the tomb into darkness.

      There, in the tomb of his creation, at the hands of his own creation, Imhotep took his last, choking breath.

      Outside, beside the blazingly white, dormant behemoth, lay the bodies of those who had come to celebrate the king’s pyramid and those forced into its construction.

      It truly was the tomb for a king.