The Deathstalker (6 page)

‘You need to rest,’ said Menna. ‘But tomorrow I want you to come and talk to me. I want to hear what you think is plaguing the young man’s mind. Now, let’s go.’

They took their leave of Anty and headed into the night.

Back at home, Hopi was surprised to discover that the troupe had just returned and was sitting on the roof. It was not very late; usually their performances would keep them out for many hours, sometimes until dawn.

‘Hopi!’ Isis got up and hugged him as he appeared. ‘I need to speak to you,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s go downstairs.’

They took one of the little oil lamps and slipped away down to the courtyard.

‘So what happened?’ asked Hopi. ‘Why are you back so early?’

Isis described the wrestling matches, and how they had been interrupted by the young Libyan trying to escape. ‘I’m sure they’re going to do something horrible to him – really horrible.’

Hopi sighed. ‘They’re prisoners of war, Isis. They are our enemies and are lucky to be alive at all.’ Hopi was still reeling at what had happened with Djeri, and he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. To his astonishment, his sister’s eyes filled with tears.

‘But it’s awful, Hopi! I saw a girl,’ Isis gulped. ‘I saw her yesterday and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.’

‘A girl? You mean, a Libyan girl?’ Hopi was beginning to think that Isis had lost her senses.

She nodded, tears beginning to fall. ‘Yes. And tonight I sneaked away during the wrestling and saw the prisoners’ enclosure. It was dreadful. I saw the same girl again. It was her brother who tried to escape, and now he’s going to be punished.’

It was all too much for Hopi. He thought of Djeri lying in agony on his bed, and of his family gathered around him right now, paying their respects. He thought of Djeri’s disgust at the idea of being a cripple, and felt a strange wave of shame and anger.

‘She is nothing but a Libyan. Men have been killed to protect us from those people,’ he said savagely. ‘Her brother deserves everything he gets.’

Isis stopped crying. She looked up at him with tears still standing on her cheeks. ‘Do you really think that?’

‘Yes, Isis, I do.’ Hopi lowered his voice. ‘And you would be wise not to express these feelings about Libyans. People may think you are disloyal to the king – and the gods.’ He took hold of her hands and squeezed them. ‘Promise me you will not breathe a word to anyone else.’

Now Isis looked full of fear. ‘I won’t,’ she promised. She searched his face, and Hopi knew that she would see the turmoil written there. ‘Are
you
all right, Hopi? How’s your soldier?’

Hopi hesitated. If there was anyone he could talk to, it was Isis. But somehow he still felt too confused and upset to tell her everything. ‘He’s struggling. His injuries . . . they’re a bit like mine, Isis.’

‘Oh, Hopi.’ Isis hugged him. ‘I’m sorry. That must be awful for you.’

‘It’s all right. I think he will live.’

‘Are you going back to see him tomorrow?’ asked Isis.

Hopi nodded. ‘Yes.’

Isis picked at the wall of the courtyard, where a piece of plaster was flaking off. She seemed to be thinking something over. Then she looked at him. ‘Could you ask him something for me?’

Hopi frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’

Isis looked up at him with wide, serious eyes. ‘Ask him what they do in the pit.’

‘The pit? What’s that?’

‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,’ said Isis. She hugged him again. ‘So will you, or not?’

Hopi sighed and extricated himself gently. ‘Yes, Isis. If you insist, I will.’

.

Back up on the roof, Isis lay on her mat and stared at the stars. The whole day had left her head whirling. She tossed and turned, trying to put the prisoners of war out of her mind. Could Hopi be right? Was it really disloyal to the king to worry about the happiness of Libyans?
She
knew she wasn’t disloyal. She felt sorry for the girl, that was all. And now that she knew she had an older brother, she felt it all the more. Weren’t all brothers and sisters the same? She heard a jackal call in the desert, and wondered if the Libyan girl was warm enough in that enclosure. She imagined her shivering, hungry and cold, her brother taken from her.

Sleep came at last. Isis woke early and went down to the courtyard to splash her face with water in the pale light of dawn. Sheri was awake, too, stoking the embers of the bread oven. Isis helped her, passing her little twigs at first, then larger ones as the flames began to grow. Sheri seemed tired and withdrawn, and Isis guessed that going to the army camp hadn’t been easy for her.

‘Sheri,’ she said, ‘what do you think happened to your husbands?’

Sheri turned her head quickly to stare at Isis. For a second, Isis thought she would not reply. Then she said sadly, ‘We don’t know what happened to either of them, Isis.’

‘Why did nobody tell you?’

‘We received a message that they were dead.’ Sheri placed a little extra emphasis on the word
dead
, then turned back to the oven and began poking at the twigs.

‘And they belonged to this company of Amun?’ Isis persisted.

‘Yes –’ Sheri’s voice broke a little, and she cleared her throat. ‘Yes, they did.’

Isis fell silent, thinking it through. Surely there was someone who could give them information, if they asked. ‘Did they know each other – your husband and Kia’s?’

‘They were friends. We met them at the same time, when we were girls.’ The fire was now burning well, and Sheri stood up. She reached for a bowl of flour that had been covered overnight, and poured in some water to make a dough. ‘I know you are curious, Isis, so I shall tell you the truth. Before we became musicians, Kia and I were dancers, like you and Mut. We performed for a platoon of soldiers and we were wooed by two of them. We married them, even though our parents were against the idea, and while the platoon was in Waset, we were happy. Then the men were summoned north, and that was it. We never saw them again.’

Isis listened as Sheri’s long-fingered hands began to pummel the dough. The story filled her with sadness, and she didn’t know what to say.

‘We thought . . . we thought there might be some compensation,’ Sheri carried on. ‘We had heard that soldiers were rewarded well for their valour. Land, gold, slaves . . .’ She shook her head. ‘But we received nothing. And we heard nothing more. We returned here, to the house of our parents, and here we have remained. We are only grateful that Nefert found a good husband, to make up for our mistakes.’ Sheri kept her head bent as she kneaded away. Then she looked at Isis and smiled. ‘So let that be a lesson to you, Isis,’ she said, and now her tone was playful. ‘Be very careful who you choose to marry.’

Isis smiled back, relieved that Sheri could still be cheerful. ‘I don’t think I’ll marry
anyone
,’ she declared. ‘Anyway, I won’t just yet.’ Then she had another thought. ‘Sheri, did losing your husband make you hate the Libyans?’

Sheri looked startled. ‘Hate them?’ She thought for a moment. ‘We don’t know how our men died. It could have been at the hands of Hittites, or the Sea People, or any of Egypt’s enemies. In any case, the army is full of foreigners. My husband would have had some as friends.’

‘Really?’ Isis was intrigued. ‘So it’s not wrong to care about them, is it?’

‘You do ask some strange questions.’

‘But
is
it wrong?’ Isis was desperate to know.

Sheri rubbed her cheek with a floury hand. ‘Well, no, I don’t suppose it is.’

.

When Hopi arrived at Anty’s house, he found Djeri fast asleep. To Hopi’s relief, the soldier’s breathing was deeper, more regular, and his forehead was cool – the fever had subsided. He began the laborious job of undressing his wounds to check on their progress. As he began to unwrap the bandages, the soldier woke up.

‘Argh, don’t,’ he muttered through gritted teeth.

‘I have to. I’m sorry,’ said Hopi. He surveyed his work from the day before. The wounds still had a long, long way to go before they would heal properly, but there was some improvement.

‘Where is everyone?’ demanded Djeri.

‘Your family is in the courtyard,’ said Hopi. ‘Your father told me you’re better, but I wanted to see it for myself.’

‘Is that what I am? Better?’ Djeri sounded unconvinced.

Hopi nodded. ‘Yes. Your fever has gone.’ He decided to say no more about the soldier’s future. Instead, he remembered what Menna had said, about finding out what was on his mind. ‘But last night you were very upset. You seemed convinced that the gods are punishing you.’ He paused. ‘No one else thinks this, Djeri.’

A frown appeared on the soldier’s brow. ‘They do not know what I know.’ Djeri spoke clearly, quietly. He was certainly not raving now.

‘Tell me,’ prompted Hopi. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

But the soldier shook his head, mute.

Seconds passed as Hopi tried to think of a way forward. ‘When the gods injured me, it wasn’t a punishment,’ he said eventually. ‘It was then that they gave me my gift.’

‘And what is that?’

‘My understanding of feared creatures,’ said Hopi. ‘Snakes, scorpions, lizards and the great crocodiles that live in the Nile.’

For the first time, the hint of a smile appeared on Djeri’s face. ‘You believe that this was a gift?’

‘Of course,’ said Hopi.

Djeri’s eyes met Hopi’s. ‘I, too, have a love of these creatures.’

Hopi stared at him. So that was it! He had sensed that they had more in common: this must be what he had felt, a kinship that went beyond words. ‘Then we are brothers,’ he said. ‘I am glad.’

‘Brothers.’ Djeri nodded faintly and closed his eyes; it seemed that talking had tired him. But now, the silence in the room was comfortable. After that awful moment when Djeri had demanded to see his limp, Hopi felt that they understood each other once more.

He must be leaving; the family would soon be returning to visit the invalid. But he had not forgotten his promise to Isis. He placed a hand on Djeri’s arm, and the soldier opened his eyes again.

‘I must go,’ he said. ‘But before I do, I have something to ask you about the army camp. Djeri, what is the pit?’

The soldier’s response took Hopi by surprise. His body went rigid and he gasped for breath. ‘Wha-what do you know about the pit?’

Hopi watched him in alarm. ‘Nothing! That’s why I’m asking.’

Djeri’s hands clutched the covers on the bed. His whole body began to tremble. ‘They have sent
you . . .’ he gulped. ‘It’s a plot! The gods will have their revenge!’

Hopi was now thoroughly frightened. He stood and grasped Djeri by the shoulder. ‘Djeri. Djeri! Stop it!’ he begged.

Anty appeared in the doorway. ‘What is happening?’ he cried. ‘Is he worse?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hopi. ‘I don’t think he is dying. I think he is losing his mind.’

.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hopi’s chest was heaving by the time he reached Menna’s house. The old priest let him in and saw at once that something was wrong.

‘Hopi. I was expecting you. Is it Djeri?’

Hopi nodded. ‘Yes. He is raving, Menna, and yet he is also sane . . .’ He spilled out everything that had happened. ‘So the pit has something to do with it all,’ he finished. ‘But I still have no idea what that could be.’

Menna had listened intently. ‘You have done well to come straight to me,’ he said. ‘For we are servants of the goddess Serqet. I fear that if any of the gods has been angered, it is she.’

‘Serqet?’ Hopi was puzzled.

‘Follow me.’

Menna led Hopi into his sanctuary, where a statue of the goddess sat, along with Menna’s cures and potions. It was peaceful there, but Hopi found that he was unwilling to look too hard at the statue. Any god being angry was bad enough, but their own patron? The thought was terrifying.

The old man went over to a section of the wall where three niches had been cut out of the mud brick. In between the niches hung the shed skins of different types of snake; inside the niches there were more, coiled up, but something else also. Menna reached in and carefully lifted out the dried carcasses of two scorpions.