The Spitting Cobra Read online

  .

  Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

  Text copyright © Gill Harvey 2009

  Illustrations copyright © Peter Bailey 2009

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  This electronic edition published in July 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  All rights reserved.

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  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 4088 1249 5

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  Also by Gill Harvey

  .

  Egyptian Chronicles series

  The Spitting Cobra

  The Horned Viper

  The Sacred Scarab

  The Deathstalker

  .

  Also available

  Orphan of the Sun

  .

  For Kijana

  .

  .

  .

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  Hopi and Isis can remember the terrible accident on the River Nile, when they lost their parents to crocodiles. Hopi still bears crocodile teethmarks on his leg. But five years have passed, and they’ve been lucky: eleven-year-old Isis is a beautiful dancer, and she’s been spotted by a dance and music troupe in the town of Waset. Now they live with the troupe, and Isis performs regularly. Meanwhile, thirteen-year-old Hopi, marked by the gods, pursues his strange connection with dangerous creatures . . .

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  Join them in the world of ancient Egypt as they uncover the dark deeds happening around them. If there’s anything you don’t understand, you may find an explanation at the back of the book.

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  MAP OF ANCIENT EGYPT

  FASCINATING FACT FILE

  GODS AND GODDESSES

  GLOSSARY

  .

  PROLOGUE

  In the flickering light of the oil lamp, the gold on the lid of the casket gave off a fiery glow. Nakht turned the precious object over in his hands, examining it closely. He opened the lid and peered inside; he ran his finger over the fine inlaid patterns of carnelian, lapis lazuli and gold.

  ‘A very fine copy, don’t you think?’ asked Baki.

  Nakht shook his head. ‘This is no copy. I’d know it anywhere,’ he said. ‘I worked on it myself. And I placed it in the tomb with my own hands.’

  Baki stroked his chin. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘By Horus and all the gods, I couldn’t be more certain.’

  Baki gave a heavy sigh. ‘Then let us await the messenger.’

  The two foremen lapsed into silence. Nakht placed the casket on the floor, and they gazed at it, as though it might be able to give them an answer to the mystery.

  At last, there was a soft knock on the door. Nakht stood, and went to open it. A young man stepped inside, still breathless from running down the mountain.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Baki. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘The tomb has not been touched, sir,’ replied the young man. ‘The door is still in place, with the seals of the Great Place in perfect condition.’

  Nakht sat down heavily, shaking his head. ‘Impossible,’ he murmured.

  ‘You’re sure you checked the right tomb?’ queried Baki.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said the messenger. ‘I checked three times, and all the tombs nearby, just to be sure.’

  The two foremen exchanged glances. The young man stood nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.

  ‘You may go,’ said Baki.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The messenger stepped quickly to the door, and disappeared into the night.

  Nakht stood up again, and started pacing the room. ‘So,’ he said. ‘This casket has been found in our village, but it belongs in a royal tomb. This much is sure. But the robbers are cunning. They did not break into the tomb via the doorway. They must have made another way in. It all points to one thing, Baki. The robbers live among us, here in Set Maat. No one else knows the mountain so well; no one else has the knowledge and skill to create another entrance.’

  Baki ran a hand over his head, then once more stroked his jaw. ‘This cannot be,’ he muttered. ‘I cannot believe that such a terrible thing has come among us.’

  ‘There is no other explanation,’ said Nakht, his face full of sorrow. ‘We cannot hide from the truth. We must find the robbers, even if they are our relatives and friends. It is our sacred duty.’

  ‘But how?’

  Nakht sat down, rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head. ‘Yes, how,’ he murmured.

  The two men were not afraid of silence. They had known each other for many, many years. They sat and stared at the beautiful casket once more, each wondering whether the other would come up with an idea. At last, it was Nakht who spoke.

  ‘The harvest approaches,’ he said. ‘Let us each throw a party. We can afford to be generous; let there be music and dancing and rich food and wine. Indeed, we must make sure the wine flows freely, for that is our key. Wine and good cheer encourage tongues to speak freely. Someone will say something that should have remained a secret.’

  Baki smiled wryly. ‘I am surprised at you, brother,’ he said. ‘I never thought I would live to see you encourage drinking and revelry.’

  But Nakht remained serious. ‘Perhaps so,’ he said. ‘But I never thought I would live to see such things happen in our midst. Do you think it a good idea?’

  Baki spread his hands expressively, and shrugged. ‘I can see nothing wrong with it,’ he said. ‘And vanity may play a part as much as flagons of wine. If a robber’s wife has acquired sumptuous jewellery, she may be tempted to wear it.’

  ‘Then let us go ahead. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Baki frowned. ‘It may not be so easy. There are a few problems.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Our best music troupe cannot perform at the moment. Wab and her family have a sickness, and their finest young dancer has broken her arm.’

  Nakht slapped his thigh impatiently. ‘But there are others!’

  ‘They are priestesses, brother,’ Baki pointed out. ‘Can we really call on them for such a purpose?’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait awhile.’

  ‘No.’ Nakht was determined. ‘We have to carry out our plan now. Rumours are already spreading. If we cannot use our own troupe, we can hire another. Let us send messengers to Waset; there are plenty of performers there. I will pay for them out of my own pocket if I have to.’

  Baki cou
ld find no other objections. He nodded slowly. ‘You speak wisely,’ he said. ‘We cannot delay. Let us send messengers first thing tomorrow.’

  .

  CHAPTER ONE

  The woman was hysterical. With a trembling finger, she pointed to the corner of the storeroom, where the water jars were kept. Hopi approached quietly, and peered behind them. A snake lay coiled there, perfectly still.

  Hopi recognised its blotchy brown and orange markings at once. ‘It’s not dangerous,’ he said. ‘If you leave it alone, it won’t bite you. And even if it did, you would live.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ the woman shrieked. ‘I don’t want that thing in my house!’

  ‘It’s only interested in mice,’ Hopi pointed out. ‘The mice that eat your stores of grain . . .’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Kill it! Just get rid of it!’

  Hopi sighed. ‘I’ll take it away.’

  Carefully, he moved one of the water jars so that the snake was in full view. Then, with a flick of his stick, he reached underneath and whipped it into a round papyrus basket. He fitted a lid on top and put the basket into a linen bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Now get it out of here,’ the woman demanded.

  Hopi looked at her calmly. ‘It’s harmless,’ he told her. ‘But as you fear it so much, perhaps you could offer some thanks.’

  The woman frowned, and muttered under her breath. She reached for a wooden box by the doorway and rummaged inside.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take this. It’s a lucky amulet. I suppose a cripple needs all the luck he can get.’

  Hopi felt stung. This woman was cruel, and not only to snakes. He took the charm and put it into his bag. ‘Thank you, madam,’ he said quietly.

  He set off out of the house and up the street, trying his best not to limp. But the woman was right. He was a cripple. He would never be able to run and walk the way he once had. He was thirteen now. Five years ago, when he was eight, there had been a day that had scarred him for ever. It had left him and his sister Isis without parents, and had given him a terrible wound on his right leg. It had healed, slowly. But the marks would never fade, and the leg would always be weak.

  As he made his way along the narrow, higgledy-piggledy streets of Waset, younger children recognised him and ran up, tugging his arm.

  ‘Hopi! Hopi!’ they cried. ‘What have you caught? Is it a scorpion?’

  Hopi shook his head.

  ‘A lizard!’ shouted the children. ‘A snake!’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hopi couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Can we see it?’

  ‘Not this time. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh please, please!’

  Hopi gently pulled his arm free. ‘Not today,’ he said. ‘This snake needs some peace.’ And leaving the children behind, he headed out into the fields.

  .

  The music troupe’s big costume box was almost empty. Pretty bracelets, collared necklaces, anklets and wigs lay neatly on the floor, and linen gowns were stacked in a pile. Mut and Isis had spent all morning sorting them out, and now Mut bent over the box to fish out the last few items.

  ‘We’ve nearly finished,’ she said. She held up a beautiful collar made of row after row of blue beads, with the occasional row of red. ‘This is one of Mother’s favourites. Oh – wait a minute. Something’s tangled up in it.’

  Isis looked up from teasing a knot out of a long black wig. ‘That’s my cowrie waistband!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ll wear that for the parties in Set Maat.’

  Mut examined the waistband. ‘I don’t think it’s yours,’ she said. ‘I think it’s one of mine.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Isis leaned forward and reached for the waistband. Most of it was strung with cowrie shells, but there was a little amulet right in the middle. ‘It is mine, look. I know it is, because Hopi gave me that scarab.’ She fingered the amulet, turning it over so that the scarab shape could be seen clearly.

  Mut pulled a face. ‘My waistbands have scarabs on them, too.’

  ‘But not this scarab,’ insisted Isis, feeling annoyed. She knew exactly why Mut was being difficult – it was because she’d mentioned Hopi. It happened every single time. ‘This one belonged to my father. Look, it’s got a little hieroglyph on the side.’

  Mut stared at it, then frowned and snatched the waistband away.

  Isis tried to grab it back, but Mut wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Careful!’ cried Isis.

  Too late. The band was still tangled up with the collar, and it caught on the collar’s fine threads. One of the threads broke. Blue and red beads scattered everywhere, all across the floor. The two girls gazed at them in horror.

  Mut was the first to speak. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’

  ‘What I’ve done?’ Isis was furious. ‘You did it as much as me – you snatched –’

  ‘It was your fault for grabbing! I’ll tell Mother.’

  ‘It was both of us,’ said Isis. ‘You know it was. Don’t you dare tell Nefert I did it.’

  Mut smirked. ‘And what if I do?’ she asked coolly.

  Isis was enraged. ‘I’ll tell Hopi to put a snake in your bed!’

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Mut’s face tightened with fear. Recently, Hopi had brought a snake home, and shown it to Mut. She had almost screamed the house down. He had said it wouldn’t hurt her, but Mut was inconsolable, and didn’t want anything to do with Hopi any more. She said he was creepy.

  It made life very difficult for Isis. She loved her brother Hopi more than anyone else in the world, and she was used to his love of lizards and snakes and scorpions. Other people didn’t seem to feel the same way, and she often had to spring to his defence. Mut was particularly hard work. Whenever Hopi came into the conversation, they almost always started arguing.

  Still, it was much better than the life she’d had before. Two seasons ago, when the River Nile was just starting its annual flood, Isis had been spotted on the street by Paneb, the head of a dance and music troupe. He was looking for a dance partner for his daughter Mut, and Isis was perfect; the two girls were both eleven years old, small, supple and slender. But she wouldn’t go anywhere without Hopi, so Paneb had taken them both into the family. It had seemed like a miracle. After the death of their parents, Hopi and Isis had been forced to live with an old, poverty-stricken uncle out on the fringes of Waset. Too sick to work, he had relied on his niece and nephew to beg for an income. The uncle had since died, and his mud-brick house was slowly returning to the earth from which it was made.

  So Isis just had to live with the squabbles. Mut turned away, and began to pick up the beads from her mother’s broken collar. Isis bent down to help her, her thoughts seething.

  .

  Hopi slowed down as he left the town behind him. The great River Nile glinted in the sunlight to his right, while fields of flax and wheat waved gently in the breeze to his left. He sat down by an irrigation ditch, opened his bag and lifted the lid off the basket.

  ‘There’ll be plenty to eat out here,’ he told the snake. ‘Lots of mice and frogs and maybe some rats, if you’re lucky.’

  This time, he didn’t use his stick, but reached for the snake with his bare hands. It was perfectly true that it was harmless. It curled itself around his fingers, then, as he placed it near the ground, it slithered off between the lush plants that grew along the ditch.

  Hopi watched it go, rubbing his injured leg where it ached from walking. It made him think about the day when the crocodile god Sobek had taken his parents to the next world. They were now hesyu, or blessed drowned ones. A crocodile had seized Hopi, too, but the effect it had had was strange. It was as though Sobek had touched him in some special way, and he had developed an affinity with all feared creatures. His favourites were snakes and scorpions. He spent his time hunting them out and learning their ways; he knew their habits and what they ate, he knew which ones could kill and which could not.

  It was frustrating when peopl
e didn’t trust his knowledge. Of course they were scared, but why couldn’t they see simple differences? Not every snake was a cobra. Many snakes did more good than harm, eating the vermin that lived around people’s houses. Of course, they might believe him if he were an adult, but he was just a poor boy with a limp. The only person who understood was Isis.

  He fished around in his bag for the woman’s amulet. It was a roughly glazed piece of faience with the shape of a scorpion moulded on to the top. Hopi examined it carefully, disappointment welling up inside. The amulet was scuffed and chipped. It wasn’t even something he could sell in the market in exchange for a few pieces of fruit. He’d have to return home empty-handed, as he did nearly every day, with nothing to contribute to the family income. He was just a burden, dependent on the work of his little sister.

  .

  Isis and Mut were still picking up blue and red beads when Mut’s mother Nefert walked in. They looked up guiltily.

  ‘My best collar!’ she exclaimed. ‘What happened?’

  The two girls spoke at once.

  ‘Isis did it.’

  ‘It was an accident!’

  Isis glared at Mut, whose eyes flashed in defiance.

  Nefert folded her arms. ‘What happened?’ she repeated.

  ‘It was both of us,’ said Isis. ‘It was tangled in my old waistband –’

  ‘My waistband!’ cried Mut.

  ‘Mine,’ said Isis, raising her voice, ‘and it wasn’t just my fault, Mut grabbed it back –’

  ‘That’s not true, you snatched it!’ shouted Mut.

  ‘STOP it, both of you!’ Nefert’s voice silenced them.

  Isis felt her heart beating hard inside her chest, her anger fighting to get out. Mut couldn’t get away with this, she just couldn’t. It was too unfair.

  Nefert’s mouth was tight with annoyance. She looked from one girl to the other and back again, letting them see just how cross she was. Isis waited, dread slowly replacing her anger. She began to wonder what the punishment would be.

  Then Mut spoke, her voice soft and pitiful. ‘Isis said that if I told you, she’d get Hopi to put a snake in my bed.’