The Deathstalker (11 page)

Hopi listened. ‘Many boys do this,’ he commented. ‘You were not unusual.’

‘No,’ agreed Djeri. ‘The difference is that I carried my interest into adulthood. My brothers were my father’s apprentices; they followed in his footsteps to become scribes. I was the third son, with no future, and so the army was the best option. I joined young, and soon found that my fellow soldiers enjoyed my hobby as much as my boyhood friends had done.’

‘But there is nothing wrong in that,’ said Hopi, still hoping that, somehow, Djeri could prove himself innocent.

‘Nothing at all. But I did well in the army. I moved on from the infantry and became a charioteer. My strength and bravery came to the attention of the platoon leader, and soon afterwards, Commander Meref himself began to notice me. He soon heard of my skill with scorpions. It was then that things began to go wrong.’

Djeri’s voice was dry, and Hopi reached for some beer. He helped the soldier to drink, then prompted him again. ‘Go on.’

‘What more can I say?’ demanded Djeri. ‘The commander must be obeyed.’

They lapsed into silence again. Hopi mulled it over, trying to work out what to think. Couldn’t Djeri have refused to catch any more scorpions? Couldn’t he have released them when he knew what they were being used for?

‘You still had a choice,’ he said eventually.

Now Djeri seemed to be getting angry. ‘Yes, soldiers have a choice,’ he responded bitterly. ‘Let me tell you what it is. To obey, or to disobey. To live, or to die. Very simple, isn’t it? What do you know about choices such as those?’

Hopi’s thoughts were reeling. ‘I-I don’t know,’ he stammered. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’ Djeri rested his head on his pillow again, and closed his eyes.

.

The priestess of Hathor led Isis back through the deserted courtyard.

‘What will happen to her?’ demanded Isis.

The priestess shook her head. ‘We do what the army wants of us. What happens after that is not our concern.’ They reached the door and the woman opened it.

‘But can’t you look after the women here?’ Isis asked. ‘You’d look after them properly, wouldn’t you?’

The priestess smiled sadly. ‘They do not belong to us,’ she said. ‘They will go where the army decides
to send them.’ And with that, she ushered Isis out on to the street.

Nes was waiting for her, crouching down on his haunches and whittling a stick with a little knife. ‘All done?’ He stood up. ‘That was quick.’

Isis looked up into his face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Whose slaves are they going to be? Why can’t they stay here with the priestesses?’

Nes gave a lopsided smile. ‘And what use would they be inside there?’ he asked. ‘No, little dancer. These women belong to us – the soldiers. They are our reward for the harsh life we lead. They will be distributed among us, according to how well we have fought. Their fate, and that of the men, will be decided tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh.’ Isis felt helpless and sad. Then a thought occurred to her. Nes was older than most soldiers, and a great warrior. ‘So you must have many slaves already.’

‘That’s right,’ said Nes. ‘They work on my farm while I’m away fighting.’

‘You have a farm?’

Nes spread his hands. ‘I am the Lion,’ he said, as though that explained everything.

They began to walk back along the length of the great temple. Nes took enormous strides and Isis skipped to keep up with him.

‘Please wait,’ she gasped breathlessly.

‘Of course.’ Nes spun round and smiled. ‘Sorry, little dancer.’

But now, Isis stopped in her tracks. She stared. As he had turned, the end of the soldier’s kilt had flapped to one side, revealing a weapon underneath. It had been there before, of course, jutting up, but Nes’s arm had mostly hidden it. Now a memory slotted into place. Isis thought back . . . yes, that was right. She had seen it only the night before – in Nes’s tent. And it was exactly the same as the one that Sheri had shown her.

‘Nes,’ she said slowly, ‘did you ever know a soldier called Henu?’

The soldier’s face went still. Involuntarily, his hand moved to the dagger and rested on the lotus-shaped hilt. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I have seen another dagger just like that one,’ said Isis, pointing. ‘It was carved in exactly the same way. And it belonged to a soldier called Henu.’

‘When? When did you see this?’ Nes dropped to his knees and grasped Isis by the shoulders.

‘Today,’ said Isis. He was now at her level and she could look directly into his eyes. ‘He was the husband of Sheri, one of the musicians I work with.’

Nes’s grip slackened and he gazed over her shoulder. ‘Impossible. It can’t be . . .’ he murmured. ‘Does this Sheri have a sister? A sister whose husband also died?’

‘Yes, yes. So
did
you know Henu?’ Isis was excited now. ‘Was he killed in a big battle?’

Nes let his hands drop. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ He sighed and got to his feet again.

‘But if he didn’t die in battle, what happened to him?’ Isis demanded. She felt a bound of hope. ‘Is he still alive?’

Nes shook his head. ‘No. He is dead.’ His eyes were full of sadness and he placed a hand gently on Isis’s shoulder. ‘Come. We must go to the camp. I have something to show you. These women have waited far too long to hear the truth.’

.

Djeri had drifted off to sleep again. Hopi decided it was time to leave. He needed to think, and besides, he still wanted to talk to Menna. Anty waved him off, thanking him once more, and he headed into the heat of the early afternoon sun.

Hopi wandered back towards his tutor’s house, feeling unhappy. Of course, he had always known that the lives of soldiers were brutal. It was their job to kill and maim others, and to take prisoners, too – all for the protection of Egypt and the glory of their king. And it wasn’t just the enemy that had a hard time; he had once overheard a group of soldiers describing the beatings they had received during training. Thinking about it now, he began to realise that he was lucky. A poor boy such as himself could easily have been conscripted, but his limp meant he was exempt. Then he thought of the terror in the Libyan’s eyes as he had lifted the box containing the deathstalkers, and knew that this punishment was different. It was in a terrible class of its own.

He reached the far end of Menna’s street. To his astonishment, he saw someone hammering on the priest’s door. So Menna
still
wasn’t back. And then he realised that the man was not a man of the town. His hair was cut in the style of a soldier and he was holding a spear like a staff.

Hopi quickened his pace. In frustration, the soldier gave the door a kick, then turned on his heel and began to run in the opposite direction.

‘Wait!’ he called, but the soldier was already turning the corner.

Looking around wildly, Hopi spotted a group of boys playing catch with a leather ball. ‘Which of you can run fast?’ he demanded.

‘I can! I can!’ chorused the boys.

‘Then run,’ ordered Hopi. ‘Catch the soldier who was banging on Menna’s door. Go, now! As fast as you can!’

The boys set off in a cloud of dust, their bare feet thundering. Hopi limped as far as his tutor’s door and crouched against the wall to wait. Where was Menna? He wondered. And what did the soldier want?

A jabber of voices soon heralded the boys’ return. They turned the corner, the soldier in their midst clearly angry and confused.

‘Who ordered my return?’ demanded the soldier. ‘I have not a minute to lose!’

Hopi stood to greet him. ‘I did. Who are you seeking?’ he asked.

‘Menna, the priest of Serqet,’ the soldier replied. ‘We were told that he is the greatest in the town. Has he returned? It’s urgent – desperate!’

‘No,’ Hopi told him. ‘But I am his apprentice. What’s happened?’

‘It’s the commander. He’s been stung by a scorpion – a deathstalker! His cries have filled the camp with terror, his shrieks are like those of an animal, a jackal.’

Hopi’s mouth dropped open.

‘I cannot wait any longer – I must find another priest.’ The soldier was already pulling away from the boys, distracted and sweaty.

‘I will come.’ Hopi’s mind was working fast. ‘I know the spells. But I must somehow enter Menna’s house for some herbs. This is the quickest solution, I can assure you.’

‘But the house is shut,’ objected the soldier. ‘I can’t waste any more time.’

Hopi looked up at the walls. ‘I know how to enter,’ he said. ‘Menna will understand. Wait here.’

Around the side of the house were steps leading up to the roof. They were rarely used, as the mud brick was crumbling. Hopi limped up them, hopping over the broken brickwork, and clambered on to the roof. From there, he jumped awkwardly down the steps that led into the courtyard. Hopi tried the house door. Menna hadn’t bothered to bar it, and so he half-ran, half-limped to the sanctuary where Menna kept his supply of herbs.

This was where they had sat chanting the night before. Hopi reached for the herbs that Menna had shown him and went to stuff them into his bag. Then he slapped his forehead – but of course, he didn’t have his bag! It hadn’t been in the sanctuary when he had woken up that morning. Hopi dashed to the door. Menna must have put it in the front room, where he had slept. But then he stopped in his tracks. There was the bag, sitting by the doorway with the papyrus basket inside. He frowned. He was
sure
it hadn’t been there when he had woken up.

There was no time to puzzle over it now. He grabbed the bag and shoved the herbs inside, then slung it over his shoulder and made his way out of the house the way he’d come. The soldier was waiting impatiently, shifting from one foot to another.

‘Come on,’ said Hopi. ‘Let’s go. I’ll walk as fast as I can.’

.

CHAPTER NINE

Isis trotted after the great wrestler. She was bursting with questions, but it was all she could do to keep up with him. They hurried through the streets of Waset and beyond, to the area of parched desert that separated the town from the camp. The sun was fierce, but Nes did not slow down. He marched across the sea of sand and pebbles with his eyes fixed on the canvas of the camp, just visible in the shimmering haze.

Up ahead, the ground seemed to shift, blurring into the blue of a mirage. Isis was used to such tricks of the desert and ignored it at first. But then, emerging from the patch of reflected sky, she saw a figure. He was not on the track, but to one side of it, as though coming from the desert itself.

She stopped for a moment, shielding her eyes. All she could make out were swathes of linen, wrapped around the figure to protect him from the sun. He carried a spear. No, not a spear . . . Isis squinted in the harsh light. There was no bronze at the tip. It was simply a staff.

In alarm, she realised that Nes had not faltered.
He was already well ahead, and Isis turned to run after him. ‘Nes! Wait!’ she cried, sprinting forward again.

The wrestler only turned one shoulder to beckon her. ‘It’s not far now!’ he called. ‘We shall soon be there!’

Isis threw one last glance at the stranger, who seemed to be making for Waset. Then she obeyed and ran at full tilt to catch up with the wrestler, keeping at his heels until they reached the boundary of the camp.

Something had happened. Isis sensed it at once. The soldiers were crowded together in groups, gossiping. It looked as though they had stopped mid-training; charioteers stood at their horses’ heads, trying to calm them, as infantrymen stood idle with their bows and spears.

‘Where are the officers?’ demanded Nes, as they passed the first group. ‘Why aren’t you training?’

‘They are all in the commander’s tent!’ a young soldier told him, pointing, his face alight with fear. ‘Nes, have you not heard the news?’

‘What news?’

‘Meref has been attacked. A scorpion stung him. The men are saying that the gods are avenging themselves.’

Nes stopped in his tracks. ‘Is this true?’

‘Yes! Yes! They say he won’t live, they say there is no cure.’

Isis was agog. ‘A scorpion! We must fetch Menna at once – or even Hopi . . .’