The Deathstalker (8 page)

‘Enough for now,’ he said, and passed a hand over his forehead, as though the music had wearied him.

Isis eyed the pile of shawls that Hopi had left by the side of the arena. She knew that her bundle of fruit would be tucked in among them. She watched as the officers waited expectantly for the commander to speak.

‘Fetch the prisoner,’ he ordered. ‘The music is giving me a headache. I would rather watch some real entertainment.’

A murmur rippled among the officers. One of them clicked his fingers to a pair of guards, who came running. Then the officer turned to Commander Meref. ‘Should we go to the pit, sir?’

The commander shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no. Bring everything here. Set some soldiers to work. They can dig, can’t they?’

‘But this is the wrestling arena. To dig a pit would ruin it,’ said the officer nervously.

‘If they can dig a hole, they can fill it in again. Get on with it!’ barked Commander Meref.

The officer flinched and immediately sent for more soldiers. The guards disappeared towards another part of the camp. Isis wondered where Hopi could be. He had gone to find out about the pit, but whatever it was, it was about to happen right here! Her eyes roved the shadows, looking for her brother, but there was no sign of him.

Soldiers appeared with tools and began to dig the earth in the centre of the arena. The commander had given the troupe no further orders and the three women were discussing what to do with Paneb. They looked as though they were waiting for a chance to speak to Meref. Perhaps they would be sent home early again! While Mut watched the soldiers digging, Isis slipped away from the troupe and grabbed her bundle from the pile of shawls. Now was her only chance – and she had to be quick.

She ran lightly across the camp, taking less care than she had the night before. All she could think of was that she had to help the Libyan girl before Nefert and Paneb started looking for her – and before the girl’s brother was brought to the pit. Now she was running headlong, ignoring the shadows in her haste.

It was a big mistake. From behind a chariot, a soldier stepped out, barring her path. Isis knew she was fast – she had dodged people before. She ducked down and made to run past him. But this was no ordinary soldier. He grabbed her arm and spun her round so that she was brought up close to him. Gasping with fear, she stared up into his face.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

It was Nes the Lion, the great wrestler they had watched the night before.

.

CHAPTER SIX

Hopi made his way to the edge of the camp. Reappearing at the side of the arena was too risky – he wanted to get the deathstalkers right away, in case someone started asking questions. As he checked the periphery for guards, his heart sank. They were stationed at regular intervals along the boundary. What was worse, the surroundings were flat and featureless, with few rocks and fewer trees. Even if he managed to get out, the guards would see him as he made for Waset. He thought of Isis and her tale of the Libyan’s attempted escape: no wonder he had been caught so easily.

Two chariots stood idle nearby. Hopi crawled between them to watch and wait. At least no one would notice that the scorpions had gone. The officers were watching the performers . . . and then he went still. The music had stopped. There was nothing but the sound of voices in the distance, and the steady rhythm of a horse chewing its fodder somewhere close by.

Hopi listened, straining his ears. Why had the entertainment finished early?
Had
it finished early? He heard shouts. Something was happening at the arena.

The guards were on full alert. News was beginning to buzz among the soldiers sitting by their tents, and the message soon reached the lookouts.

‘They’re digging a pit in the arena!’ came the cry.

A pit. Hopi’s heart thudded. If they were digging a pit, perhaps they were going to use the deathstalkers tonight. He had to get away. It would only be minutes before they realised what they had lost.

The guards near Hopi had left their positions. All their attention was fixed on the centre of the camp. They gathered together, gossiping and forgetting their strict formation. Hopi spotted his opportunity. Keeping as low as he could, he ran for the gap behind the neglectful guards, then half-ran, half-limped for the only cover he could see – an acacia tree near the road back to Waset.

.

Isis tried to wriggle out of the wrestler’s grasp, but he was much too strong for her.

‘You’re coming with me,’ he said in a low voice. He picked her up and tucked her under his arm as though she were just a toy.

Isis wondered whether to scream, but the thought of Commander Meref stopped her. She clutched the bundle of fruit and tried to think of a good excuse, but fear muddled her thoughts.

Nes carried her through the flap of a small, dark tent and dumped her on to a mat.

‘Please, let me go back to the troupe,’ begged Isis. ‘They don’t know where I am.’

The wrestler reached outside for a flaming torch that was stuck into the ground, and the tent filled with flickering light. Isis took in the dagger that lay near her feet and a shield propped against the wall of the tent, splattered with something dark and sticky. She guessed it was blood.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Nes. ‘I can spot a girl who’s up to mischief.’

‘I wasn’t!’ protested Isis.

‘Really?’ Nes gave a slow smile. ‘We’ll soon see about that. Show me what you were carrying.’

Isis looked up at him. His muscles were enormous and his bulk seemed to fill the whole tent. All the same, behind the deep lines and the stern set of his mouth, there was a hint of something softer.

She bowed her head. ‘It’s only fruit,’ she whispered. She bent to undo the bundle. ‘Look. It’s just figs and dates. They can’t do anyone any harm.’

Nes crouched down beside her. His big fingers reached for one of the figs and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Tastiest fig I’ve had in a long time. Did you bring them especially for me?’ He reached for another one.

‘No, I didn’t! Don’t – they’re not for you –’ Isis stopped.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Nes asked.

Isis nodded. ‘Yes. You’re Nes, the Lion. You’re a great wrestler. We saw you last night.’

Nes held the second fig up to the light and rolled it around with his rough, calloused fingers. ‘So who in this camp deserves figs and dates more than me? He must be very important.’

‘It’s not a he.’

Now Nes looked genuinely surprised. ‘But we are all men.’

‘They are for one of the Libyan girls,’ confessed Isis. ‘One of the prisoners of war.’

Nes frowned. ‘You have taken this risk for a prisoner?’

Bravely, Isis raised her eyes to his. ‘I wanted to help her, that’s all. Is that really so wicked?’

The wrestler regarded Isis with a troubled expression. ‘Well, no, it’s not
wicked
.’

Isis felt a bound of hope. Perhaps it would all work out. Perhaps Nes would let her get away with her escapade. ‘There, I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘And you can keep some of the figs. But, please, will you let me go now? They’re digging a pit in the arena and –’

‘They are doing
what
?’ Nes pounced on her words and Isis cowered back.

‘They’ve just started,’ she squeaked. ‘Commander Meref stopped the dancing . . .’ She trailed off.

The enormous wrestler was listening to the sounds of the camp. He reminded Isis of a wild animal, his senses tuned to the slightest movement. Voices and the faint clank of bronze tools drifted across from the arena. Nes sat perfectly still for a moment. Then his great body sprang into action.

‘Come. I shall take you back there,’ he said, grabbing Isis by the hand. ‘And we shall see about this
pit-digging!’

.

Hopi had a stitch in his side by the time he reached the outskirts of Waset, and his lungs were bursting. But he had done it: he had managed to get away without any of the soldiers chasing him. He slowed to a walk and painfully made his way to Menna’s house. It was late now, but he knew that his tutor would want to hear the news.

Menna came to the door holding an oil lamp. ‘Come in, come in. I was hoping you would report back quickly,’ he said, and led the way into his sanctuary. He placed the lamp in one of the wall niches and indicated the mats. ‘Sit down. What have you discovered?’

Hopi flopped on to the mats, wincing as he manoeuvred his bad leg underneath him. He reached for his bag and opened it. ‘You were right, Menna. I found deathstalkers – three.’

Menna’s forehead creased into a frown as his apprentice brought out his basket. ‘You took them?’

‘Yes.’ Hopi looked up at his tutor nervously. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t have, but the prisoner was there, all tied up. I couldn’t just leave him to be tortured, could I?’

Menna shook his head approvingly. ‘No. You were absolutely right. But it raises the stakes. We now have the wrath of the army to deal with.’

‘They don’t know it was me,’ said Hopi. ‘I managed to get out of the camp without anyone noticing.’

The old man stroked his chin. ‘Hmm. Yes, perhaps. But it will not take a genius to work it out.’ He waved a hand at the basket. ‘Come, then. Show me.’

Carefully, Hopi took off the lid of the basket. Menna reached for the oil lamp, and together they peered inside. The three scorpions were piled on top of each other at the bottom of the basket and began scrabbling around as the light fell on them.

‘Such amazing creatures,’ murmured Menna. ‘You see how their pincers are quite small, smaller than those of other scorpions? This is because the deathstalker’s sting is the most powerful of all. It does not need large pincers to subdue its prey.’

Hopi watched one of the scorpions curl its tail over its head – the tail with the deadly sting at its tip. ‘Is there a cure for such a sting?’ he asked.

‘There are some herbs,’ said Menna. ‘But for a severe sting, the only cure is magic. There is a series of spells. Once they have been spoken, the fate of the victim lies with Serqet herself.’

‘You haven’t taught me these spells, Menna.’

The old priest looked thoughtful. ‘No, I haven’t. They are the most powerful of all the spells of Serqet.’

Hopi had now spent many, many hours mashing herbs, onions and minerals together to make cures for snake bites. He had been out collecting everything from carob to terebinth to add to them. But of all the cures he had mastered in his time with Menna, Hopi loved learning spells best. He badly wanted to learn these powerful ones.

‘Am I ready?’ he asked quietly.

One of the deathstalkers was trying to creep up the sides of the basket and make its escape. Its yellowish pincers groped the air. With a small wooden stick, Menna pushed it back to join its fellows in the depths of the container.

‘Yes, Hopi,’ he said. ‘I think you are.’

‘Thank you,’ breathed Hopi. ‘Can we start now?’

It was late. Menna looked tired and Hopi expected him to defer the training until the morning. But to his surprise, the old priest nodded. ‘Yes. Then you can meditate upon the incantations through the night. Something tells me that you may need this knowledge before long. Let us begin at once.’

And to Hopi’s fascination and delight, he reached for a scroll of well-worn papyrus.

.

Back at the arena, pandemonium had broken out. Guards had brought the prisoner of war before Commander Meref, but the Libyan was not all they had brought. They had come with shocking news, too. It spread among the soldiers like wildfire and they milled around, talking in excited voices.

‘The scorpions have gone!’ Isis heard one of them shout.

‘The gods have spoken!’ cried another.

Isis looked up at Nes. ‘What scorpions are they talking about?’ she asked, thinking at once of Hopi. If scorpions had disappeared, he would be the first person she’d suspect.

The great wrestler looked down at her and shook his head grimly. ‘This is army business. It is not something that a girl should know about.’

‘Does it have anything to do with the pit?’ Isis insisted.