The Horned Viper Page 2

  The priests stood in a row and lifted the platters from their heads. The chief priest took a chunk of meat. The water in the pond was beginning to churn, and now two enormous heads rose out of it, their jaws opening to reveal rows of terrifying teeth.

  Isis screamed. She couldn’t help it. Hat-Neb’s hand gripped her shoulder, and she gulped for air. Then she put her hands up to her face and peeped at the scene through her fingers. The chief priest threw the chunk of meat, and the jaws opened even wider. Tails thrashed the water as the first crocodile caught the meat and tossed it into its mouth with a few powerful snaps. The priest reached for more meat and threw it to the other crocodile, then kept on throwing until the platters were empty.

  The priests resumed their chanting. Solemnly, they turned away from the pond and passed the spectators to walk slowly back towards the shrine. Isis knew they had to complete the ritual inside, away from public eyes. They would have saved some of the meat to present to the statue of the god, before sharing it among themselves.

  The crocodiles were sinking back into the water. Soon, Isis could see nothing but nostrils and the ridges along their backs. Then the sacred pond was still again.

  ‘There. Sobek is pleased,’ murmured Hat-Neb. ‘We have his blessing, little Isis.’

  Isis let her hands slip down from her face, and took a deep breath. She had not been so close to crocodiles since the day her parents had died. But she had survived. She stared at the still water, and realised that her knees had stopped trembling.

  .

  Hopi trailed after the group as it headed back towards the shrine, dragging his feet. The whole event had upset him deeply, and he wasn’t even sure why. Of course he was happy for Isis to overcome her fear of crocodiles – if, indeed, the sacrifice had worked. But he hated it being because of Hat-Neb. That was all wrong – just because he was rich, and could afford to squander his wealth on lambs like that . . .

  Not squander, he told himself. If it had helped Isis, then it wasn’t squandering. But all the same, Hopi resented it. Their father’s last words had seared themselves on to his mind: Look after Isis . . . And Hopi had hoped to do just that. He’d hoped that one day, he would be the one to help Isis conquer her fears. And now this man Hat-Neb had swept into their lives and tucked his sister under his own big, fat arm.

  What was worse, Hat-Neb seemed to have taken a dislike to Hopi. As they had approached the shrine, Hopi had heard him mutter into his fan-bearer’s ear.

  ‘Keep an eye on that boy,’ he’d said.

  So he, Hopi, was that boy. The fan-bearer had taken his master’s word seriously. It wasn’t just an eye that he was keeping on Hopi – he seemed to have at least four of them. Hopi felt watched the whole time, and he hated it. It gave him the creeps.

  .

  Isis looked up at the beautiful boat. This was not a fragile craft made of papyrus, or even a wobbly ferry. It was a big, solid boat that sat high out of the water.

  ‘You will be safe, Isis.’ It was Sheri who spoke. She pointed up at the boat’s cabin. ‘Look. Hat-Neb is waiting for us. Come.’

  Isis gazed up at the cabin. Hat-Neb was holding something in his arms, something small and furry. It was a cat. The sight of the little creature gave a final boost to her courage. Hat-Neb had done so much to help her, and it filled her with gladness to see him holding and stroking a cat. She took Sheri’s hand on her left and Kia’s hand on her right, and walked up to the boat’s ladder. Bravely, without looking down, she clambered up to the deck.

  ‘Welcome aboard!’ Hat-Neb greeted her. ‘And meet Killer, my most prized hunting cat.’

  Killer was a sleek tabby with clear green eyes. Tentatively, Isis reached out to stroke and tickle him behind the ears, and he purred gratefully.

  She smiled. ‘We’ll be friends,’ she said.

  ‘Better than that,’ said Hat-Neb. ‘We shall take him hunting, and you will see him track down the birds in the marshes.’

  Isis had heard many tales of hunting in the marshes and the cleverness of the hunting cats. But she had never actually seen it for herself.

  ‘May I hold him?’ she asked.

  Hat-Neb placed the cat in her arms. Killer wriggled at first, but Isis held him firmly and carried on stroking him until he relaxed. Together they watched as Mut came aboard, followed by their luggage – Sheri and Kia’s lyres, lutes and flutes, along with their wigs, gowns and make-up, plus mats and covers for the cool nights that they would spend along the riverbank. She buried her cheek in Killer’s soft fur. In spite of everything, the trip would be a success.

  .

  But for Hopi, the trip had not yet begun. He was still ten paces away from the boat, out of sight of the deck, with the fan-bearer leaning over him.

  ‘Empty it. Everything,’ ordered the fan-bearer. He was Nubian, with a heavy southern accent.

  Silently, Hopi took the last items out of his linen bag, then shook it upside down to show that there was nothing left. The fan-bearer fingered his belongings, examining each of them closely.

  ‘What is this?’ The man held up a flat piece of limestone with hieroglyphs scribbled over it.

  ‘What d’you think it is?’ asked Hopi impatiently. It was perfectly obvious.

  The man towered over Hopi menacingly. ‘It is a rock. A rock is dangerous,’ he said.

  Hopi refused to be intimidated. ‘Can’t you see it’s for writing on?’

  ‘All I see is that it is dangerous,’ repeated the fan-bearer. ‘This does not come on the boat.’ And he threw the ostracon into a pile of dried-out palm fronds along the shore.

  ‘Hey!’ Hopi was furious, but the fan-bearer ignored him, and bent down to sift through the rest of Hopi’s belongings.

  ‘This,’ said the man, picking up a papyrus basket. He pulled off the closely fitting lid, and peered inside. The basket was empty. ‘Why you need this?’

  Hopi was silent. The basket was one of his most treasured possessions, for he used it to house any snakes or scorpions that he caught. But he knew he mustn’t say so.

  ‘Well?’ The fan-bearer was staring at him.

  ‘It’s my basket,’ muttered Hopi.

  ‘I see it is basket.’

  ‘I . . . I put flowers in it. Flowers, reeds – stuff from the fields.’ Hopi met the fan-bearer’s gaze defiantly.

  The man shrugged and gave a pitying smile. He put the basket down. It was the last item, and he waved his arm, indicating that Hopi could repack his linen bag. But then he caught sight of the stick in Hopi’s right hand.

  ‘Stick. This is dangerous,’ he exclaimed, and reached out for it.

  ‘No!’ Hopi snatched it out of his way. ‘I need it.’

  ‘This is boat trip. No need for stick,’ scoffed the fan-bearer.

  But Hopi was determined. The stick had a fork at one end, which was essential for catching and handling snakes. He wasn’t going anywhere without it. He thought quickly, then pointed down at his leg with its deep, jagged scars.

  ‘Look at my leg. I can’t manage without my stick,’ he insisted. The row of crocodile scars was impressive.

  The fan-bearer narrowed his eyes, then nodded. ‘You pack your bag. Hurry. We are very soon leaving.’

  Hopi bent to do as he said, placing his belongings one by one into his bag. He kept his features still, so that the fan-bearer could not see what he was feeling. But in his heart a cold fury was building.

  .

  CHAPTER TWO

  With the wind in its sails, the boat sailed south, against the flow of the Nile. Isis settled into the central cabin, where there were lots of comfortable cushions to sit on. It was cool, too, the wooden sides providing constant shade from the sun. While Sheri and Kia tuned their instruments and began to play some gentle melodies for Hat-Neb, a thin, serious-looking man appeared with some bottles of ointment to apply to his master’s back.

  Isis and Mut played with Killer, teasing him with a piece of cloth. Time and time again the cat pounced, his eyes wild, until at last he grew
bored. He sat and licked his paws, then sauntered off to stretch out on a cushion. As the afternoon wore on, everyone became drowsy. The ointment man went out on to the deck. Hat-Neb fell asleep and began snoring in one corner, so Sheri and Kia laid down their instruments. Soon they were dozing, too. Only Mut and Isis remained awake, under the watchful gaze of the fan-bearer. Mut curled up on a cushion next to Killer and stroked him.

  Isis sidled over to the fan-bearer. He shifted, but said nothing. Isis took in his enormous muscles and big, wide shoulders.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she whispered.

  The fan-bearer still said nothing.

  Hat-Neb gave a particularly long, burbling snore, and Isis giggled. She was feeling mischievous. She put her face close to the Nubian’s, and looked into his dark eyes.

  ‘Are you allowed to laugh?’ she enquired. She scrunched up her nose with her finger. Then she put her two little fingers in her mouth and stretched it wide. The Nubian’s eyes slid away from hers, refusing to watch.

  ‘Oh come on,’ protested Isis. ‘It’s perfectly safe. You can talk to me.’ She glanced at Mut, but she wasn’t listening. Isis stuck her tongue out, then looped it right around until it touched the tip of her nose. ‘I bet you can’t do that,’ she said. ‘Not many people can.’

  The faintest glimmer of a smile appeared on the fan-bearer’s face. Isis grinned. She was getting through to him!

  ‘My name’s Isis,’ she told him. ‘Go on, tell me yours.’

  The muscles of the Nubian’s cheeks began to move. Isis saw his hesitation and naughtily pinched his arm. His eyes flew wide open in protest.

  ‘My name is Nebo,’ he said in a deep voice. He rubbed his arm. ‘And you are very bad girl.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Isis giggled again. ‘It didn’t really hurt, though, did it?’

  Nebo shook his head, the faint smile quivering again. ‘You are cheeky. Just like –’ he began.

  ‘Like who?’

  The smile disappeared. Nebo looked away. ‘No one,’ he said.

  But Isis was curious. ‘Tell me,’ she said. She decided to guess. ‘Do you have a little girl somewhere? I bet you do.’

  The fan-bearer stiffened. He was silent for a moment.

  ‘Did something happen to her?’ Isis knew she should leave it, but she couldn’t resist.

  Then Nebo looked directly at her and said, very quietly, ‘This not something to talk about, Isis.’

  Isis looked back at him, and saw the suffering deep in his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. And this time, she meant it.

  .

  Hopi sat at the prow of the boat in the open-sided shelter. He had no desire to sit in the cabin with everyone else, especially after being so humiliated by the fan-bearer. Besides, it was much better out on the deck, where he could watch the crew and see the view to the riverbanks.

  The crew made him curious. He would have expected an important man like Hat-Neb to employ Egypt’s best sailors, but these men looked very rough and ready. They were not even Egyptian. They were all foreigners – hired sailors from somewhere far to the north. And they clearly hadn’t been in the country long, because only their captain, Kerem, could speak Egyptian. The rest spoke a strange language that Hopi had never heard before.

  The boat was gliding slowly up the river, passing palm trees and open fields, where the barley and flax swayed in the breeze. Hopi waved to farm labourers and children, laundrymen pounding linen on the rocks, and fishermen in their little papyrus boats. Sometimes, he saw evidence of crocodiles: the ripple of a snout in the shallows, or a grey-brown body basking in the sun.

  ‘Young Hopi! You’re sitting comfortably, I see,’ said Tutmose, appearing from across the deck. He sat down cross-legged in the shelter, wiping his hands on a piece of linen.

  ‘I like it better here than in the cabin.’

  ‘You avoid the company of others?’

  Hopi hesitated. He wanted Tutmose to think well of him. ‘Not always. There is a right time for everything.’

  ‘Wise words,’ said Tutmose. ‘But then, you’re obviously a very wise young man.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Hopi.

  ‘A trainee priest of Serqet? Don’t be modest,’ said Tutmose. ‘Only a few are chosen for such a role. You’re one of a small elite, you must know that!’

  Hopi felt a flush of pride, mixed with embarrassment. He had received very little praise in his life. Only a few weeks ago, he had been a nobody.

  ‘But I know very little,’ he said. ‘I am only at the beginning of my apprenticeship.’

  ‘But you know a fair bit about snakes, I suppose? You’ve handled them, and so on?’

  ‘Oh yes! Of course.’ That was the one thing that Hopi knew he was good at.

  ‘So, there you are!’ exclaimed Tutmose. ‘A special gift indeed. Most people shrink in terror from doing such a thing.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Hopi had to agree. ‘But you’re a doctor. You must know a lot about them, too.’

  Tutmose shook his head. ‘I spend all my time flattering men like Hat-Neb. I offered my services because I heard that he suffers with his back. Today I have been applying ointments to it, but there is really nothing wrong. He is the sort of man who creates imaginary ailments, but chooses to ignore any real ones.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘I have little opportunity to learn new things. I would be glad to discover anything that you can teach me.’

  Hopi could hardly believe it. A royal doctor, wanting to learn from him! It certainly made up for being treated like a criminal by Hat-Neb and his guard.

  He smiled. ‘I’d be happy to, sir.’

  ‘And you must let me know if there is anything I can do in return.’

  It was a generous offer, but Hopi could think of nothing, for the moment. ‘I certainly will do that, sir.’

  They lapsed into silence. Hopi blessed his good fortune – this trip would be insufferable without Tutmose. He flushed with anger once more as he thought of how the fan-bearer had gone through his things. He wondered what the doctor would say, if he knew.

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me,’ he said, ‘the name of Hat-Neb’s fan-bearer?’

  Tutmose looked at him quickly. ‘Hat-Neb’s . . . you mean the Nubian? Nebo?’

  ‘Yes. You say Nebo is his name?’

  Tutmose nodded, then glanced over his shoulder to check that no one was listening. He moved a little closer. ‘Take care, young Hopi,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That guard is a dangerous man.’

  ‘I know,’ said Hopi.

  Tutmose shuffled closer and placed a hand on Hopi’s arm. ‘Let me give you some advice, my young friend,’ he said.

  Hopi nodded. ‘I’ll be happy to hear it.’

  ‘Make sure you keep your knowledge to yourself. The Nubian says little, but hears much. He hunts out the slightest threat to his master and squashes it like a mosquito under his thumb. Do not raise suspicion by revealing your skills.’

  So Tutmose didn’t trust him, either. Hopi was glad. ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he said. ‘I’ll avoid him as much as I can.’

  Tutmose sat back again, and nodded. ‘Very wise.’

  .

  Isis poked her head out of the cabin. She was beginning to wonder what had become of Hopi; he hadn’t joined them once since boarding the boat. In fact, he’d looked gloomy ever since Hat-Neb had first come to visit. It was time to investigate. Outside on the deck, the afternoon sunlight was becoming golden and mellow. Isis found Hopi in the shelter at the front of the boat, deep in conversation with the ointment man. He looked up as she approached.

  ‘Isis, have you met Tutmose?’ he asked her. ‘He’s a doctor. A royal doctor. He has worked in the king’s court.’

  ‘I’ve just seen him treating Hat-Neb.’ Isis sat down next to her brother to study the doctor more closely. He was thin, with long, nervous hands; his small, beady eyes were set deep into their sockets, and darted to and fro as he spoke. ‘What were you putting on Hat-Neb’s back?’ she asked. ‘Is he
sick?’

  Tutmose smiled – a cold, humourless smile. ‘You might say that he brings sickness on himself,’ he said.

  Isis was alarmed. ‘How? What’s wrong with him?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘This is not your concern,’ he said.

  ‘But it is! I mean – I’d hate to think he was sick! He’s being so kind to us,’ insisted Isis. ‘Can you cure him?’

  The humourless smile appeared again. ‘Of course.’

  Isis stared at him. Something told her that he didn’t care whether he cured Hat-Neb or not. It made her angry. ‘So, can you cure Hopi’s limp?’ she challenged him.

  Tutmose looked affronted. ‘I do not give cures for wounds that have already healed,’ he said.

  ‘But it hasn’t healed. Not completely,’ Isis goaded him. ‘It still hurts sometimes, doesn’t it, Hopi? And you still limp.’

  Hopi glared at her. ‘My leg’s as good as it will ever get. You know that, Isis.’

  Isis shrugged. ‘I would have thought a royal doctor could cure anything.’

  ‘I’m sure he can cure most things,’ said Hopi.

  Isis met his gaze, and saw that her brother’s eyes were flashing. He was annoyed with her and she felt indignant. Hopi was supposed to be on her side. She wanted to talk to him on his own, but Tutmose showed no sign of moving. Instead, the doctor leaned forward and smiled.

  ‘Is that the first time you have seen a doctor at work, Isis?’ he asked, placing a bony finger on her hand.

  Isis snatched her hand away. ‘Of course it isn’t,’ she said. ‘Who do you think treated Hopi?’ She had been young at the time, but she had a very clear memory of the doctors who had tended Hopi’s leg. They had been kind to treat him at all, for there had been little inheritance to pay them with.

  ‘Not a good memory, perhaps,’ said Tutmose.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Isis. She wished she’d never started talking about it.

  ‘It was a difficult time for us both. Isis has been terrified of crocodiles ever since,’ put in Hopi.