The Deathstalker (4 page)

‘Your move again,’ said Mut. ‘Where on earth are you, Isis?’

.

Once Menna had left, a servant brought oil lamps to light the darkening room, and Anty fetched Hopi some bread and beer. Djeri had still not opened his eyes. The moments passed slowly. Anty came in and out, fretting over his son, then at last left Hopi alone. Hopi kept a watchful eye on Djeri, looking for any sign of change.

At last, he stirred and groaned. ‘Father,’ he muttered.

‘He’s not here at the moment. I am caring for you,’ Hopi told him.

Djeri opened his eyes a fraction. He frowned, struggling to recollect. ‘You . . . you are . . .’

‘Hopi. Menna’s apprentice.’ Hopi reached for a beaker of beer. ‘Try to drink. This is good beer. It will nourish you.’ He tipped a little into the side of the soldier’s mouth.

Djeri swallowed, choked and coughed. But most of the beer went down the right way.

‘Thank you.’ Djeri closed his eyes again, but he did not sleep. ‘All I can feel is pain,’ he whispered. ‘It’s like a tomb . . . a dark place from which there is no escape . . .’

‘I know,’ said Hopi quietly. ‘I have been there, too.’

He carried on giving Djeri mouthfuls of the rich beer, waiting each time to check that the soldier was ready for more. Djeri gulped and gasped, as though even drinking was exhausting him. Then, outside the room, they heard voices.

‘He’s in here, sir,’ Hopi heard Anty say, as Djeri’s father hurried in, followed by a tall, imposing man in leather armour. His muscular, broad-shouldered body threw a wide shadow on to the wall; he seemed too big for the room.

Djeri’s eyes fluttered open. A look of shock spread over his face. ‘Commander,’ he managed to say.

The man strode to Djeri’s side. ‘You are still alive, then,’ he commented.

‘Yes, sir.’ Djeri’s voice was faint.

The commander cast a glance at Djeri’s body, his eyes roving over his wounded leg.

‘If I may get you something, sir –’ began Anty.

‘No, no.’ The commander waved him away. ‘You know why I am here, Djeri. You have brought great honour to your platoon.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Djeri weakly. ‘I only did my duty to our god the king.’

The commander nodded. ‘And the king rewards those who serve him loyally.’

He snapped his fingers towards the door. A guard stepped into the room and handed him a wooden box. The commander raised the lid and lifted out a necklace. Hopi stared at it. Dangling at the bottom, threaded between beads of jasper and turquoise, was a little fly made out of pure gold, glinting in the light of the oil lamps.

‘Djeri, son of Anty,’ said the commander. ‘I confer upon you the Order of the Golden Fly.’ And he laid the necklace across Djeri’s chest.

The soldier’s fingers groped feebly for the fly. ‘Thank you, commander,’ he said. ‘I hope I shall soon return to duty.’

The commander gave no reply. He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, then turned and swept out of the room with his guard at his heels. Anty hurried after them to let them out.

Hopi sat still. He could not take his eyes off the golden fly that now lay across the covers. Djeri must have been a true warrior on the battlefield. What an honour! All the same, it seemed strange that there had been so little ceremony, so little fuss. He thought the commander could have waited until Djeri was with his platoon.

And then it occurred to him – Djeri was lucky to be alive. As far as the army doctors were concerned, he was probably dead already. He may never return to his platoon, for even if he survived, he would never be strong enough to stand and fight in a chariot. He would become a cripple, like Hopi. But Djeri was clearly unaware of that. He had talked of returning to duty. And who would be the person to tell him that he would never fight again?

.

Isis watched as Hopi mechanically lifted some bread to his mouth. He looked drained, as though he had hardly slept. He had shown up just as the family were eating breakfast in the courtyard.

‘It’s not like Menna to keep you out all night,’ said Sheri, handing him a beaker of beer. ‘Was it a bite or a scorpion sting?’

Hopi shook his head. ‘Neither.’ He took a swig of the beer. ‘It was an injured soldier. Djeri, son of Anty. A company from the division of Amun is camped outside the –’

‘We know that.’ Mut cut Hopi short. ‘We’re going to perform for them this evening.’

‘Really? You’re going to the camp?’ Hopi looked around at everyone in surprise.

Isis nodded. ‘They’ve taken us on for three evenings. We saw them march through town, on their way to give thanks at the temples.’

‘Well, it was an important victory. I expect they made a lot of offerings,’ said Hopi. He reached for another piece of bread. ‘Djeri received a great honour last night, from the commander himself. He was given the Order of the Golden Fly.’

Isis noticed that suddenly, the women were listening intently.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Mut.

‘It’s a kind of award,’ said Hopi. ‘He was given a necklace with a fly made of gold strung on it.’

‘Who is this man?’ demanded Kia.

‘Djeri? He’s a charioteer.’

‘An officer, or one of the rank and file?’ Now Kia’s voice was sharp and her eyes were flashing. Isis looked at her in astonishment. Why should Hopi’s news make her angry? Hopi seemed equally taken aback.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Not all the charioteers are officers, I don’t think.’

‘So what did he do to receive this great honour?’

‘He fought bravely,’ said Hopi. ‘He was part of an attack against the Libyans and he was knocked from his chariot.’

‘So he was doing his job, and for this he has been richly rewarded.’ Kia’s voice seemed to become ever more bitter.

Isis felt the tension rising in the courtyard. Hopi seemed nonplussed. He didn’t reply for a moment, but took in the expectant faces around him.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘he may have been rewarded, but he may also lose his life.’

‘Such is the soldier’s lot,’ said Sheri softly. ‘To fight, to die for Egypt. We knew that, Kia, did we not?’

‘We
know
very little,’ retorted Kia.

‘And now is our chance to find out more.’ Sheri placed a hand on Kia’s arm.

Kia pulled her arm away. ‘No, Sheri. It is too late for that.’

‘It is never too late, sister. We could talk to them. The company is here, on our doorstep. We are even going to visit them. We can find out –’

‘No!’ Kia almost shouted. Her chest was heaving. ‘No, sister. It is too long ago. The lives of soldiers are short. It may be the same company, but it will not be the same men. Any inquiry is bound to fail. My suffering is buried deep inside me. I cannot bear to unearth it again now.’

The sisters stared at each other. Nefert leaned forward and placed a comforting arm around each of them.

‘As you wish, sister,’ said Sheri eventually, her voice soft and sad. ‘I would not wish to do anything that might cause you further pain.’

.

CHAPTER THREE

Paneb and Nefert led the way out to the fringes of the desert. Isis was feeling nervous, but she wasn’t sure why. Of course she was always a little bit nervous before performing, but this was different. She had never been inside an army camp before. As they approached, a shiver ran down her spine. Guards loomed up holding flaming torches, and escorted them past rows of simple tents stretching out into the darkness. Isis glimpsed shields and daggers propped up against the tents, and saw a group of dozing horses tethered near a row of chariots. Then she peered into the gloom, wondering where the prisoners were kept. She could see no sign of them.

The troupe was taken to the centre of the camp. Here, the atmosphere was livelier, with soldiers laughing and joking around a wide open area. It was circular, a kind of arena, lit by a larger fire and more guards holding torches. At one end, seated on an elegant wooden chair, sat the man who had led the company through Waset, Commander Meref. A fan-bearer stood behind his shoulder and officers at either side. He got to his feet as the troupe walked towards him.

‘Ah, the entertainers!’ Meref beckoned them. ‘Let us see what you’re made of before the wrestling begins.’

Wrestling! So
that
was what the arena was for. Isis sized up the soldiers gathering to watch. Their faces were young, but they seemed hardened, their eyes glittering in the leaping light of the fire and the torches. She stood close to Mut, holding her hand as they waited for the musicians to get ready.

Nefert began plucking her lute. Sheri and Kia joined in on the lyre and the flute, while Paneb kept time with the clappers. Isis and Mut began to dance, bowing and swaying, then moving on to energetic somersaults and pirouettes. The soldiers applauded and cheered, their voices raucous, and Isis tried not to hear what they were saying. Some of the men were rude.

The first routine over, the women laid down their instruments while Isis and Mut slipped into the shadows. They found a place near the commander’s chair to see what would happen next. The atmosphere around the arena was building, and the men startwere posteded calling out names.

‘Bring on Nes, the Lion!’ some cried.

‘No, no! Let us see Mose, the Great Bull!’

Then there was a loud cheer as the first two wrestlers stepped into the arena wearing nothing but rough linen loincloths, their bodies shining with oil. They prowled around, waiting for the right moment, and then one of them pounced. The two men clung on to each other, breathing hard, both trying to get a grip on the other’s slippery skin. The soldiers surrounding them took sides, urging on their comrades, until one of them rolled his opponent on to his back and pinned him to the ground in the dust.

The soldiers bellowed their approval, pumping their fists into the air. They were much more excited about the wrestling than they’d been about the music and dancing. The troupe was sidelined; it wasn’t even clear if they would perform a second routine. Isis realised this was her chance to explore.

‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ she whispered to Mut.

Her dance partner’s eyes were transfixed by the wrestlers. She didn’t even seem to hear.

Isis slipped away from the crowded area and melted into the darkness. Away from the arena, the night was quiet, the sky studded with stars. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, nervous and shallow. Isis surveyed the camp with its rows of tents, thinking that the prisoners must be somewhere close by. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way to the far end of the camp.

By the light of the moon, she spotted a row of stakes that formed a kind of enclosure. Guards were posted around it at regular intervals. Isis crept closer, then ducked behind a chariot and dropped down to lie on her belly. Now, she could just about see inside.

Peeping between the stakes, she saw people. The prisoners of war were there, huddled together on the bare sand. Isis took in their limp bodies and haggard faces. Their hands were no longer tied behind their backs, but Isis could see lengths of rope entwined around their ankles. It was a very different scene from the one she’d witnessed at the arena. Dragging herself a little closer, she peered beyond rows of men, looking for the women. And then a movement caught her eye.

Two of the prisoners were talking to each other. One was the girl she had seen before, sitting next to a young man. Isis shifted around beneath the chariot, trying to get a better view of their faces. She studied them, fascinated. In spite of the man’s beard, it was easy to see that they were from the same family. Isis guessed that they were brother and sister.

The girl seemed very upset. She gripped the man’s arm and shook her head. Isis thought that she could see the glimmer of tears on her cheeks. The man seemed to be remonstrating, trying to convince her of something. Then Isis saw what it was. The man put his hand to his ankle. The rope that encircled it looked secure enough but, with a deft movement, the man slipped it off his foot. He had managed to free himself.

Isis felt her heart beating faster. From her hiding place, she looked up and down the line of guards. There were two quite close by and it would be madness to try to get past them. Dangling from each of the guards’ waists was a little trumpet – they could draw the attention of the whole company in no time. The young Libyan looked tired and weak. He couldn’t run far, surely?