The Sacred Scarab (4 page)

‘You’re buying bread?’ Meryt-Amun’s wife laughed. ‘At this hour? Can’t your guest wait for the evening meal?’

‘He’s too hungry, I think,’ Hopi said, then instantly regretted it. The women pounced on his words.

‘Too
hungry
! Whoever is
it?’ quizzed Yuya.

‘A relative . . . a cousin . . . I’ve never seen him before.’ Hopi tried to keep it vague, but there was no stopping the women now.

‘Whose relative? Paneb’s? Where has he come from? What does he want?’

The questions came thick and fast, the women all speaking at once, and before he knew it, Hopi had spilled the whole story.

‘How terrible,’ said the younger daughter. ‘Mice.’ She shuddered.

But Meryt-Amun’s wife had a curious gleam in her eyes. ‘I always wondered where Paneb came from,’ she said. ‘We know all about Nefert, of course. Her family has lived around here for generations. But Paneb . . . hmm. Very interesting, Hopi. Now, let’s see about that bread.’

With two flat loaves tucked under his arm, Hopi hurried home again, chiding himself for letting so much slip. But it had made him think, too. Perhaps Isis was right. Everyone seemed to find Sinuhe’s appearance intriguing . . . maybe there was more to it, after all.

.

‘I want to speak to everyone.’ Paneb’s voice was low. ‘We shall all go up on to the roof, so we can be sure that Sinuhe doesn’t hear.’

‘He’s sound asleep,’ Sheri assured him. ‘I laid a sheet over him. He didn’t stir.’

‘Even so,’ said Paneb. ‘This is a serious matter.’ He looked around the courtyard. ‘Follow me when the chores are done.’

The family was sitting outside in the moonlight, finishing the last of their meal. Ramose and Kha were sleepy, cuddled up to Nefert and Sheri. Isis mopped up the last scraping of lentil stew with some bread and popped it into her mouth. She thought of how Sinuhe had gobbled the bread they’d given him, eating it so fast he’d almost choked.

Paneb lifted Mut into his arms and carried her up the stairs while Isis helped Kia clear the pots and dishes away. Then she headed up to the roof, where Paneb was already sitting, cross-legged, with Mut propped up beside him. The family gathered around.

‘What a day,’ sighed Nefert. ‘First Mut’s ankle, and then this . . . cousin.’ She hesitated over the word
cousin
, glancing at Sheri and Kia.

Sheri addressed her brother-in-law with gentle curiosity. ‘Paneb,’ she said, ‘you are not a peasant. You have been a man of the town for as long as we have all known you. You have never even visited the fields. How can this man claim to be kin?’

Paneb looked flustered. ‘Everyone has relatives, Sheri.’

‘Why, yes, but –’

‘A family tree can sprout in many directions.’ There was a hint of anger in Paneb’s voice now.

Kia frowned. ‘But that’s not common. And the thought of a mere
peasant
–’ She broke off, clearly appalled.

‘He’s a relative, and that’s that,’ said Paneb coldly. ‘I’m sorry the thought is so distasteful to you.’

‘We weren’t saying that,’ said Sheri gently. ‘It’s just . . . surprising, that’s all. And of course we must help him. I’m sure we can spare a sack of grain.’

‘One sack of grain will hardly solve his problems.’ Paneb gazed out towards the river, then turned back to his family and took a deep breath. ‘There’s something else that I must tell you. We’ve received another request to perform – at a harvest celebration party tomorrow night.’

Isis felt a pang of alarm. She exchanged a worried look with Mut.

‘Tomorrow! But Mut is injured –’ began Nefert.

‘The request is from Abana, the head of the tax collectors.’

Everyone was shocked into silence for a second.

Then Kia spoke. ‘Surely that’s out of the question.’

‘Is it?’ Paneb looked around. ‘Why?’

‘Paneb, don’t be absurd,’ said Nefert. ‘For one thing, Mut can’t dance for several days. The doctor has totally forbidden it. And for another, whoever Sinuhe may be, he has recently suffered at the hands of this man. How could you think of entering the house of one who has inflicted such pain?’

Isis let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t mind being watched when Mut was close to her, but the thought of dancing alone was awful.

Paneb’s face was grave. ‘I understand the difficulties,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else all evening. But we can still offer music, and Isis can perform the girls’ old routine. Besides, this may be our opportunity to make contact with Abana. Perhaps we can make him see reason. Perhaps . . . perhaps the gods have willed it this way.’

This was dreadful. Isis looked beseechingly at Nefert. ‘But I can’t dance on my own!’ she burst out.

‘He will pay us handsomely,’ Paneb carried on, almost as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘It will surely be worth our while.’

‘But we all know that this tax collector is a cheat and a swindler.’ Sheri’s voice was hot with indignation.

‘We’ve worked for such people before.’

‘Not when we
know
those who’ve suffered –’

‘Enough, Sheri. This may help Sinuhe, too.’

Isis couldn’t bear it. ‘But I
can’t
!’ she wailed.

‘I’m afraid, Isis, that you have little choice.’

When Paneb spoke in that tone of voice, Isis knew that his mind was made up. He had brought them up to the roof to tell them, not to consult them. How could he do this to her? And why was he bending over backwards for this so-called cousin when he’d just appeared out of the blue?

.

CHAPTER THREE

Hopi left the house early the next morning. He wanted to tell Menna about Sinuhe and the mice, because his tutor was fascinated by all living creatures. Menna made his living from treating snake bites and scorpion stings, but his knowledge stretched much further. Hopi was sure that he would have plenty to say about a plague of mice. He might even be able to interpret it as a sign from the gods.

He found the old man sitting in his courtyard, staring at a little casket that lay at his feet. He barely looked up as Hopi approached.

‘Hopi,’ he murmured, ‘may the gods be with you.’

‘And also with you, Menna,’ said Hopi, sitting down beside his master. ‘I hope you are well.’

‘Well enough, well enough,’ said the old man, but his voice was weary.

Hopi hesitated. He wanted to blurt out his story, but something stopped him. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Menna? Have you eaten today?’

‘Food . . .’ Menna shook his head, as though the mere thought of it was off-putting.

It frightened Hopi a little. ‘Master, I know you are grieving,’ he said. ‘But the body cannot survive on sorrow alone. You will grow weak. Let me prepare a meal for you.’

Menna lifted his head and studied Hopi with calm, soft eyes. He reached out with his thin hand and touched Hopi’s arm. ‘These times will pass,’ he said. ‘I understand your concern better than you think. I want you to do something for me.’

‘Anything.’ Hopi was relieved to hear more strength in the old priest’s voice.

Menna reached for the casket and lifted the lid. He fished around inside and brought out a small object. ‘Open your hand.’

Hopi did as he said. Menna dropped the object into his palm and Hopi looked down. All that sat there was a simple scarab amulet made out of blue faience, like the ones worn by thousands of Egyptians every day.

‘What is it?’ asked Menna.

Hopi frowned. ‘It’s just a scarab,’ he said.

‘A sacred scarab,’ agreed Menna.

‘What should I do with it?’

Menna smiled. ‘You can give it back, for now.’ He held out his hand and Hopi returned the amulet. ‘This is only a model of the real thing. It’s the real thing that I want you to seek. Go into the fields, and observe the life of the scarab.’

‘Observe the . . .’ Hopi stared. ‘What, you mean, now?’

The old man nodded. ‘Why not? The morning is a good time to walk out to the fields. And don’t fret about me – I need very little to eat. I will take care of that later.’

Bewildered, Hopi got to his feet. ‘But what if someone comes for treatment?’

‘I’ve managed to treat patients on my own for many years, Hopi.’ Menna looked at him wryly.

Hopi flushed. Menna could make him feel very foolish sometimes, although he knew he didn’t mean to. ‘Very well. I will go straight away. What do I do when I’ve finished?’

‘Come and tell me what you’ve seen,’ said Menna.

Hopi left the priest sitting there, and let himself out on to the street. It was only when he had set off along the winding streets leading south that he remembered – he hadn’t told Menna about Sinuhe, or his tale of the plague of mice.

.

Ramose and Kha ran into the courtyard and rushed up to Isis and Mut.

‘We saw him eat his breakfast!’ squealed Kha. ‘He ate it fast. Like this.’ He opened his mouth wide and pretended to stuff food into it.

Isis tried to keep a straight face. But then she caught Mut’s eye and they both snorted with laughter.

‘He’s dirty,’ said Ramose. ‘I don’t think he knows how to wash.’

‘Yes,’ said Kha, his eyes wide with glee. ‘He
smells
!’

Isis sucked in her cheeks, trying to make her face serious. She and Mut shouldn’t encourage the boys to make fun of Sinuhe. But she couldn’t blame them, either. Sinuhe was very different from any visitor they’d ever seen, and what they said was true. He
did
smell.

‘You two should try to fix the toy that Kia gave you,’ she said, pointing to a little wooden dog in the corner of the courtyard. Its legs were supposed to move, but they’d been stuck ever since the boys had used it in a tug of war. ‘Does she know it’s broken?’

Guilt spread over the boys’ faces, and they rushed to pick up the toy. Isis bent over her work again, half-heartedly grinding a batch of grain. Mut watched her for a moment, looking bored, then struggled to her feet and hopped to the courtyard door.

‘Careful, Mut!’ exclaimed Isis. ‘Don’t you dare hurt your ankle again. You’ve got to get better quickly.’

Mut wasn’t listening to her. She was craning her neck, trying to hear what was going on inside. ‘I haven’t even
seen
him,’ she complained. ‘All this fuss about someone I haven’t even met!’

‘He’s just a peasant,’ said Isis. ‘I’ve got to dance alone, thanks to him.’

Mut hopped back across the courtyard and flopped down. ‘I bet Father would have made you dance anyway, even if he hadn’t shown up.’

Isis shook her head, pushing the grain back and forth on the grinding stone. ‘I’m not so sure. We have enough work at the moment.’ Then she looked at her dance partner curiously. ‘Do
you
know where your father came from?’

‘What d’you mean?’ Mut’s face was sharp.

Isis hesitated. She had always taken Mut’s family for granted. She and Hopi were the ones with all the problems: their parents had died a horrible death, pulled underwater by crocodiles, and then they had begged on the streets until Paneb had taken them in. It had never occurred to her that Mut’s family might have its own stories to tell.

‘Well, Nefert and Sheri and Kia . . . they grew up as dancers, didn’t they?’ she said slowly. ‘Their mother taught them to play music.’

‘Yes. My grandmother taught them everything,’ said Mut proudly. ‘It runs in the family.’

‘But not in your father’s family,’ suggested Isis. ‘Paneb doesn’t play music, does he? Well, he only keeps time, with the clappers.’

Mut clearly didn’t like this line of thinking. ‘So what?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t have a father at all.’

‘I know that. I wasn’t saying –’

‘What
are
you saying?’

Isis knew better than to push it. ‘Nothing,’ she sighed, and scooped up a handful of flour from the grinder. ‘Come and look at this flour. Do you think it’s fine enough yet?’