At the dawn of Egypt’s pyramid age, innovation met ambition–and history was carved into stone.

The Pyramid Builders series explores the lives of the pharaohs who oversaw the earliest monumental tombs, beginning with Djoser and the revolutionary Step Pyramid at Saqqara. Set during a period of rapid advancement in architecture and statecraft, these books trace the evolution of pyramid construction and the political, religious, and personal forces behind it.

But this is no dry chronicle of engineering. With a focus on the rulers, architects, and advisors who risked everything to shape a legacy of permanence, the series brings to life the human drama at the heart of Ancient Egypt’s golden age. From court intrigue and dynastic struggles to the breakthroughs that allowed stone to defy gravity, each book is grounded in what historians know of the time–presented with compelling, character-driven storytelling.

The Pyramid Builders is historical fiction rooted in reality–an immersive journey into the minds and motivations of the people who raised the world’s first pyramids.

 

 

 

Continue the series:

 

 

Chapter 1

 

King Menkaure of Kemet was not dead–not yet–but many people, at home and abroad, behaved as if he was.

Pigeons–being the fastest means of communication over long distances–regularly took off from Inebu-hedj and Kadesh, carrying the latest information on the king’s health and the state of preparation of the Amurran army. Slower donkey trains made their way north and south, carrying replacements for the pigeons. Many birds were lost to predators, and some to enemy action, though only the most skilled archer–or a lucky one–could hope to bring down a pigeon in flight. By this means, the governments of Kemet and Amurru were kept apprised of developments and made their plans accordingly.

Menkaure was sick with the malady known as ‘shaking fever’, and his health was at a critical stage. Amurran spies within the Kemetu capital knew the king was not yet dead as there were no signs of mourning. People were grim-faced, though, and Crown Prince Shepseskaf was acting as though his elevation to the throne was imminent. The news was enough for the Kemetu king of Amurru, Bauefre, to put his army on full alert.

Bauefre’s father, Bakare, as a son of Djedefre, claimed the Kemetu throne, but had fled when Khafre took power. Living most of his life in exile in Kadesh, he waited for the opportunity to return and reclaim Kemet as his own, amassing power slowly over the years. He now had control of the Amurran army and his son Bauefre had managed to assume the position of, first regent, and then king of Amurru, through acts of violence and judicious marriage. Now, with the imminent death of Menkaure, Bakare felt the time had come to press his claim for the Kemetu throne.

“I sat upon it once when I was a child,” Bakare said. “First Khafre, and then Menkaure robbed me of my rightful inheritance, but I will take back what is mine.”

“I know you will, father,” Bauefre said. “Together, we will conquer Menkaure’s army and create an empire out of the two kingdoms. What do we know of the forces that oppose us?”

“The army in the north of Kemet has been slowly increasing, but it is the commanders who really concern me,” Bakare said. “I would not risk Menkaure facing us in the field after his performance last time I ventured south. That defeat still rankles.”

“You are too hard on yourself, father. General Tahuri had command and he made the mistakes. It will not happen again now that you lead us.”

Bakare nodded thoughtfully. “Our army is better prepared too, but I am thankful we will not be facing Menkaure.”

“Are there any other generals we know?” Bauefre asked.

“No. Menhotep retired and they have not yet replaced him, though they have a commander with some ability. I forget his name.”

“What about the new king? Shepseskaf?”

“He has never served in the military, so he must rely on his commanders.” Bakare smiled. “With Menkaure out of the way, I am confident of our success.”

They set the date for moving south fifteen days hence. Bakare was ready to march before then, but Bauefre wanted to delay a few days as his wife Zaria was expecting their first living child. Neither man commented on the misfortune that had dogged the foreign king since his marriage to the Amurran noblewoman–two daughters born dead, and the previous year a son. Bauefre desperately wanted a son and heir, which would be a wonderful omen for their enterprise. Even a daughter would be acceptable, and a sign of favour from the gods.

Zaria woke from a restless sleep a few days later, overcome with a presentiment of evil, and cried out, saying she could no longer feel the baby moving within her. The physicians and midwives examined her and reported they could find no sign of life within the queen’s body. She went into labour on the fifteenth day, and Bakare delayed the start of the invasion for another few days. Zaria’s labour was short, but the child was delivered dead. This was seen as the most dreadful of omens and Bakare had to delay yet again until the army could be ritually cleansed of the gods’ disfavour.

Priests of both nations made offerings and sacrifices, depending on the nature of the deity approached, but the message was the same–turn away your wrath from King Bauefre and Queen Zaria, and grant them a living child.

Once that had been done, there was no impediment to sending the army south, but then a message arrived that changed everything.

 

 

Court Physician Teti attended upon the king constantly, but he shook his head when asked about his patient’s condition. The ‘shaking fever’ mildly afflicted some people, but for others it was a killer. Menkaure had the form that returned, and Teti knew of no cure for it. He also knew that unless a cure was found quickly, the king would die. The sickness had dragged on, sending the king into paroxysms of fever, trembling, and sweating before receding and providing a brief respite before another bout of pain and uncontrollable shaking.

Now, as the king tossed and muttered, barely conscious on his sweat-soaked bed, the physician and those closest to Menkaure, knew the end was near.

“You are telling me my father will die?” Shepseskaf asked. “You are certain of this?”

“I have never known anyone this firmly gripped by the sickness to recover, my lord,” Teti replied.

The physician looked anxious and not all his concern was for the king. It was not unheard of for a grieving relative to blame the attending physician for the death. Unfair, of course, as there was no cure, but Teti desperately wanted a way out of this trouble.

“There are other things I can try, my lord, but they are extreme treatments and there is no guarantee of success.”

“What sort of things?”

Teti racked his mind for something that might sound reasonable. “The fever is concentrated in the head, my lord. This may be because the seat of the sickness lies therein. I have heard it said that drilling a hole in the skull might let the excess heat out.”

“That sounds extreme. Will it work?”

“As I said, my lord, I cannot guarantee success; otherwise I would have tried it already.”

Tjaty Ankhmare, who was seated close to the king’s bed, shifted painfully and his voice, once strong, came in a hoarse whisper. Almost ready for death himself from the growth in his belly, he had been given permission to sit in the presence of the king and the Crown Prince.

“Sunu Teti,” he whispered. “I have the highest regard for your abilities, but I have heard that while drilling a hole in the skull may relieve pressure, there are other considerations. I must ask….” The Tjaty’s strength failed him, and he breathed deeply for a few moments before continuing. “I must ask, how long does a man live after the drilling?”

Teti looked discomfited. “That depends,” he temporised.

“Do not avoid the question,” Ankhmare said. “Do you mean hours, days, months?”

Teti shrugged. “I have heard of a man who fully recovered and lived for years, but usually… days.”

“Then what is to be gained?” the Tjaty asked. “I say to leave the king to die in peace if that is the fate the gods have for him.”

“I agree,” Shepseskaf said. “I have no wish to inflict further pain on my father’s last days.”

“Then I can do no more for him except watch over him until he dies,” Teti said.

Shepseskaf left his father in the care of the physician and went away to make his plans. He told his close friend Shepses about his father’s situation and asked him what he should do.

“Naturally, I grieve for the imminent demise of your beloved father,” Shepses said, “but this is the moment for which you have been waiting. Today is the day you become king.”

“My father still lives.”

“But not for long. You must make sure there is no one to challenge your claim.”

“Who could possibly do that?” Shepseskaf demanded. “I am the Crown Prince and I have been acting as regent during my father’s sickness.”

“There is always someone who would deprive you of what is yours by right,” Shepses said. “You have many relatives, and while I accuse no one, there must be some who would be king if they could.”

“Such as? I cannot think of anyone with a claim to my father’s throne.”

“I cannot name anyone, but Bakare claims he was once the king in Kemet, and we know he still plans to take it. Perhaps there are others descended from the loins of Khufu, Khafre or Djedefre. Can you trust Hordjedef and Auibra, for example?”

Shepseskaf frowned. “My father has never doubted Hordjedef’s loyalty. He is too old to make an attempt on the throne anyway, and his son has no support.”

“There may be others,” Shepses said. “Just because I cannot name them does not mean they do not exist.”

“Be reasonable,” Shepseskaf said. “I cannot oppose an unseen enemy who may not even exist. The only true enemy I have is Bakare, up in Amurru. My spies tell me he has an army ready to march, so I will have to meet him, I suppose.”

“I am sure you will trample him into the ground.”

“Of course, but I will have to let my father’s commander in the north actually lead our army. I have no experience in battle.”

“You do not need it,” Shepses said. “You have merely to appear on the battlefield and your enemies will flee before you.”

Shepseskaf smiled. “One might take you for a flatterer.”

“That is the last thing I am,” Shepses replied. “I tell you the truth because I have known you all my life and we are friends, even though our stations in life are different.”

“Not so different, my friend. I will soon be king and there can be nobody close to him in power except the Tjaty. Will you reconsider my offer and accept the position?”

“I think the present Tjaty might have something to say about that.”

“Ankhmare is a sick man, and as soon as I am king I will replace him. I want you beside me.”

“You know I would do anything for you, Kaffie, but I would not serve you well in that post. Appoint someone who knows what they are doing. My place is in Ptah’s temple.”

“If I must. I suppose you are as much heir to your father’s position as I am to mine. However, you will not lose by it, Sheppie. I will make Ptah pre-eminent among the gods.”

Shepses offered his friend his complete and unfailing support, but he was in a minority in the court. No one disputed Shepseskaf’s position as Crown Prince or as acting regent during his father’s illness, but there was a reluctance to let him exercise greater powers while Menkaure yet lived. Arguments raged throughout the palace.

“Shepseskaf is the Crown Prince. Who else should rule if not him?”

“That is the purview of the Tjaty. He is second to the king, so he should be the one acting for him.”

“And yet even the Tjaty allowed Shepseskaf the rank of regent…”

“Acting regent. The title is not absolute.”

“Even so…”

“Even so, nothing. He is regent only so he can fulfil the priestly duties of the king while he is unable to. Ankhmare’s job is to rule in Menkaure’s stead.”

“The king will probably die soon.”

“Let that day be far removed.”

“Indeed, but what I meant is that when the king dies, the heir’s power as regent becomes absolute. Why not let him exercise it now?”

“Fool. When the king dies there is no need of a regent. Shepseskaf becomes king and can rule by himself.”

“So why not let him do so now?”

“Because that is the way it has always been done.”

 

 

The next day, somewhat to the surprise of Teti, Menkaure rallied, even going so far as to sit up in bed and demand to be helped to bathe, saying he was covered in sweat. Teti managed to dissuade him, but allowed servants to wipe down his sweat-slimed body with damp cloths.

Menkaure called for food and wine, and once more Teti took it upon himself to refuse his king, allowing him only a little milk with bread sopped in it. The news of the king’s recovery spread quickly and brought much rejoicing in its wake, except from those men who sought preferment by battening onto the young heir. Even so, they made a show of joy, praising the physician who had nursed the king through his sickness.

Teti was more sanguine. The king’s urine still displayed the fine black sediment he associated with an inner sickness, and the king was still very weak. He had seen many cases of the ‘shaking fever’ and knew that the king’s life was now in the balance. If the king had the strength within him, he might shake off the illness and get better, but the smallest thing could tip his fate in the other direction.

“We still need that cure,” Teti confided to his assistant, Nakhtmin.

“What cure is that, Sunu?” Nakhtmin asked.

“The one that does not exist,” Teti said morosely.

Nakhtmin looked at the physician uncertainly, wondering if the man was making fun of him. “There is talk in the city of such a cure, Sunu.”

“Rumours and gossip. I do not pay any attention to such ramblings of simple minds. I know what works and what does not.”

“I would not presume to tell you your business, Sunu, but my wife swears she has seen the cure for herself. A friend of hers was sick with the fever and that female physician cured her.”

“If she was cured that easily, it was not the ‘shaking fever’,” Teti said.

“My wife says she displayed all the symptoms.”

“Is your wife trained as a physician? No? Then I think we can safely say she was mistaken.”

“Even so, Sunu, can you afford to ignore the slightest chance of a cure with the king’s life hanging in the balance?” Nakhtmin asked.

Teti frowned, considering his assistant’s words. “Who was this physician that your wife claims performed this miracle?”

“Peseshet, Sunu.”

“A woman? You mean she is a midwife?”

“She is a qualified physician,” Nakhtmin said. “She even graduated from the House of Life.”

Teti snorted derisively. “I find that very hard to believe. If she did graduate, I have no doubt it was in return for her womanly favours. I shall bring Sunu Ankhreshet before the Tjaty’s court and find out the truth of this.”

The court physician reported the conversation to Tjaty Ankhmare, demanding that an investigation be made into the woman calling herself a physician. Ankhmare had troubles of his own, the growth in his belly causing him such pain he found it hard to concentrate on the business of the kingdoms. Taking strong draughts of poppy helped with the pain but made him drowsy and inattentive. Nevertheless, he ordered Ankhreshet into his presence and asked him about the anomalous graduate.

“I take exception to the insinuation there was anything improper in her qualifications, Excellency,” Ankhreshet said, casting a dark look at Teti.

“It is highly unusual though, isn’t it?” Ankhmare said. “What were the circumstances under which you graduated a woman? Did you do so out of pity, or were you taken in by female guile?”

“Again, I resent the insinuation, Excellency. I did not enjoy having Peseshet in my House of Life, but I could not ignore her abilities. In fact, I gave her a more difficult test than usual, but she still succeeded. It pains me to admit it, but Peseshet deserves the title of Sunu.”

“Do you believe these rumours that she has discovered a cure for ‘shaking fever’?” Teti asked.

Ankhreshet looked distastefully at the court physician. “If she had, then everyone would know about it. It is a rumour and no doubt an unsubstantiated one.”

Ankhmare gave the House of Life physician an unreserved exoneration from any hint of scandal or impropriety about graduating a female physician and thanked him for his help. He then asked Teti if he was satisfied.

“I must accept that Peseshet graduated as a physician, but I still find it difficult to understand how she did so,” Teti said.

“Understanding I will leave to you, Sunu,” the Tjaty said. “Now, if there is nothing else…”

The only thing that had been decided was that Peseshet was a credentialed physician. Teti was none the wiser about the efficacy of Peseshet’s supposed cure, but at least if he interviewed her he could not be accused of utter credulity.

“Bring Peseshet to me,” Teti instructed his assistant.

“Sunu, I can only ask her to come. I have no authority to compel her.”

Teti grimaced at his own choice of words. He could not compel, but he hoped the woman would have sufficient regard for the office of court physician to make the journey up to the palace.

“Then request her attendance and tell her it pertains to the king.”

Nakhtmin hurried off to look for Peseshet, and Teti went back to check on the king’s condition. Menkaure was still awake, but complaining of a headache and joint pains. Teti felt the king’s head and decided he was slightly feverish. It was not a good sign as fever would be followed by chills and only a few cycles more would bring death.

His assistant had not returned an hour later and Teti was starting to wonder if he could ask the Tjaty to compel Peseshet’s attendance. If she did own a cure, every hour she delayed made the situation worse. He was on the point of sending a servant to look for them when Nakhtmin arrived with a middle-aged woman.

“Sunu Teti, this is Peseshet.”

“What took you so long?” Teti snapped.

“Do not blame him,” Peseshet said. “He found me quickly enough, but I would not come until I had finished treating my patient.”

“He told you it concerned the king?”

“He did, but a physician’s first duty is to the patient. I had mine, and I knew that you, Sunu Teti, had the king as your patient.”

“Well, you are here now. My assistant told you why you are needed?”

“He said the king has the ‘shaking fever’.”

“And not even that knowledge hastened your footsteps?”

“Sunu Teti, I am sure that the king receives the best care from you.”

“Do not be obtuse,” Teti snapped. “You know there is no cure for the ‘shaking fever’–unless you have one.” He stared at the woman. “Do you?”

“I have a treatment,” Peseshet said carefully, “for which I have had some success.”

“What do you call success?”

Peseshet shrugged. “I have treated seventeen people with ‘shaking fever’ and fifteen are still alive.”

“And the other two?”

“Died of unrelated causes. One from a fall and the other drowned.”

Teti grimaced. “What is this treatment? Do you have it with you?”

“It is a powder, but I cannot prescribe its use unseen, Sunu Teti. I need to examine the patient for myself and confirm the diagnosis.”

“Only the court physician examines the king,” Teti said. “You may trust my diagnosis. You may show me the powder and I will decide whether to treat the king with it.”

“I am sure you are right,” Peseshet said, “but I have my own procedures. The powder is too new to be thoroughly tested and I do not know what effect it might have on other sicknesses. I would hate to make the king’s condition worse.”

“You could hardly do that; he is near death.”

“Then it is imperative that I see him at once,” Peseshet declared. Seeing the stubborn look on the physician’s face, she added, “Let me make myself clear, Sunu Teti. I will not prescribe my powder without first examining the patient. If it will be more acceptable, you may remain with me.”

Teti scowled, but could see no way of refusing if he wanted to avail himself of this supposed cure. “Very well. I will petition the king to receive you.”

Menkaure was starting to feel feverish once more and welcomed the presence of Teti and anyone else who might be able to alleviate the aches and pains afflicting him. Teti brought Peseshet into the king’s bedchamber and introduced her.

“A female physician?” Menkaure asked weakly. “Remarkable. What is your proper form of address? Should I call you Sunu, or is it something else?”

“Son of Re, you may call me anything you wish, but I have earned the title of Sunut.”

“Sunut it shall be then. Now, Teti tells me you have a cure for my sickness. If you do, please do so.” Menkaure leaned back and closed his eyes, breathing hard from the effort of speaking. He waved one hand vaguely in her direction. “Carry on,” he whispered.

“Son of Re, I hope Sunu Teti has also told you that the treatment is specific for the ‘shaking fever’. I must be sure that is what you have before I can treat you.”

A look of pain crossed the king’s face and he groaned slightly. “You will forgive me if I vomit, Sunut. The sickness is once more upon me and I…” He leaned to one side and gestured, a servant hurrying over with a bowl and a cloth. The king retched and spat, wiping his lips. “Examine me if you must, Sunut, but do not delay too long or I will die.”

“As quickly as I can, Son of Re… do I have permission to lay hands on you?”

Menkaure nodded and Peseshet got to work. She had no means of making an objective measurement of the king’s fever, but gauged the heat in his body by resting the inside of her wrists on him. Putting an ear to the royal chest, she listened to his heartbeat and breathing, examined the whites of his eyes and the inside of his mouth. Laying hands on the king’s belly, she pressed lightly, eliciting fresh groans as her fingers pushed against his enlarged liver. She stood back and observed the king’s pallor, his swollen belly, and the gaunt look that was starting to mask his fine features.

“Do you have a recent sample of the king’s urine?” she asked Teti.

“He passes very little water now, but this is the latest, from only an hour ago.”

Peseshet looked into the bowl, frowning at the colour of the urine. Not only were tiny black particles floating in it, but there were traces of fresh blood.

“Well?” Teti asked. “What is your diagnosis?”

“The king has the ‘shaking fever’,” Peseshet said.

“As I said,” Teti snapped. “If you had listened to me, we could have saved time. Where is your treatment?”

“I have it with me. It will only take moments to prepare, but I need strong wine heated until uncomfortable to a finger immersed in it, and honey.” Peseshet unpacked her small medical kit while a servant ran to fetch the other ingredients, and unstoppered a small flask of the fever powder.

“What is that?” Teti asked. “What is it made from? Where does it come from?”

“From Pwenet,” Peseshet said. “That is all I know.”

Teti frowned. “You intend letting the king eat that?”

“You are concerned it may harm him? Try it yourself if you like, but be warned; it is extremely bitter.”

Teti scowled and dipped a fingertip in the flask, picking up a few grains of the greyish powder, and then hesitantly touching it to his tongue. Immediately, he grimaced and spat, rubbing the sleeve of his tunic against his tongue.

“You expect the king to swallow that? He will vomit it all up.”

“I think that is why she asked for wine and honey,” Menkaure whispered, “though I am not sure I can keep anything down, Sunut.”

“We must find a way to get it into you, Son of Re.”

The servant returned with the warmed wine in a cup, and a pot of honey. Peseshet measured out a small amount of the powder, stirring it vigorously into the wine and adding the honey. She tasted the mixture, screwing up her face at the taste, and added a little more honey.

“Nothing will make it taste pleasant, Son of Re, but that is the nature of medicines.”

“Give it to me,” Menkaure whispered. “And bring me a fleece, I am feeling cold again.”

The king tasted the mixture and fought back the nausea that threatened to overcome him. He swallowed a small amount, groaned, and sipped again.

“Why are medicines so dreadful?” he murmured. “I would sooner eat crocodile dung.”

“I would not recommend it for a fever,” Peseshet said with a smile. “Drink a bit more if you can, Son of Re.”

The king sipped again, and fell asleep, spilling some liquid down his chest. Peseshet checked him again and made up a fresh brew, instructing his servants to make sure the king drank it all when he woke.

“That is it?” Teti asked. “That is your treatment?”

“Keep him comfortable, treat his symptoms as you have been doing, and make sure he drinks as much of the medicine as he can. I will return tomorrow.”

Early next morning, Peseshet was met at the palace steps by Teti. The physician shook his head and gave her a grudging smile when she asked after the king.

“I would not believe it had I not seen it myself. He drank all the prepared medicine and slept peacefully, waking this morning complaining of hunger.”

“I hope you limited his meal.”

“I have been a physician longer than you and know what I am doing,” Teti said stiffly. “He has had only bread and milk.”

Peseshet examined the king and found him weak but bright-eyed, complaining that his servants were starving him.

“Are you the reason I am feeling so much better?” he asked.

“I believe so, Son of Re.” Peseshet made up another batch of medicine, carefully measuring out the powder and watched as Menkaure drank it down.

“It tastes foul, despite the wine and honey. Do I have to drink it every day?”

“I do not think so,” Peseshet said. “You understand this is a new medicine? I have not been prescribing it long enough to be sure of dosages and length of treatment, but from past cases, I think you have had enough to banish the fever… for now, at least.”

“It will return?” Teti asked.

“The ‘shaking fever’ comes and goes, as you know, and if it does we will use the powder again, but for now I think it has passed. Build up the king’s strength and give thanks to the gods.”

“Thank the gods by all means,” Menkaure said, “but I will not neglect giving thanks to you too, Sunut Peseshet.”

 

 

A few days later, Menkaure was out in public, the people of the city wild with joy at the recovery of their king. Shepseskaf fell on his knees before his father, giving thanks for the miraculous cure, and it was only those closest to him, like Shepses, that saw the Crown Prince was disgruntled at having to give up the regency.

Pigeons winged their way north carrying the news, and Bakare shouted with anger when he found out. He had been defeated before by Menkaure at the start of his reign, and felt an almost superstitious fear about facing him again. Bakare denied this to his son, finding others to take the blame.

“I would be happy to lead the army against Kemet,” he declared, “but there are many in the ranks that fear to face Menkaure in battle. It was one thing to move against Shepseskaf, but quite another to face the old king in his fury.”

“We are not going to march?” Bauefre asked.

“Not until we have sacrificed even more to the gods, my son. The loss of your heir and now the recovery of Menkaure mean the gods look upon us with disfavour. We must avert this bad luck first.”