The Deathstalker Page 7

  He reached the old priest’s house. He usually knocked, then let himself in; it was the pattern they had established, for Menna often had his hands full. But now he pushed the door and nothing happened. It stayed firmly shut. Hopi was puzzled. Menna had said nothing about going out visiting. He knocked again, hammering harder this time. All was silent. Hopi banged and shoved on the door, but there was no doubt about it. It was firmly barred, and Menna wasn’t in.

  .

  Isis made quick work of buying the oil in the market. After driving a hard bargain, she asked the vendor

  if she could leave her purchase with him and pick it up later. Then she hurried off towards the temple of Ipet-Resyt.

  The sun was almost directly overhead now. She was worried that she might miss Nes altogether, and broke into a jog as she approached the great temple, its vast walls and gates brilliant white in the sun. Nes had said to meet him on the town side, which meant the back of the temple, but the building was enormous. She started at the south end and made her way up, her heart thudding with nerves. Now that she was here, she couldn’t imagine why he had arranged to meet her.

  He was already there waiting. Isis spotted him halfway along the temple wall. Somehow, set against the normal people of the town who bustled past him, he seemed even bigger and more muscle-bound than he had in the camp. Isis swallowed. Was it really wise to trust him?

  It was too late for thoughts like that. Nes had seen her. He raised his hand and waved. Pushing her fear aside, Isis went towards him.

  He chuckled as she drew close. ‘You’re brave for a little dancer,’ he said. ‘I reckoned I’d seen the last of you.’

  Isis watched him warily. ‘I hope you didn’t eat all the fruit,’ she said.

  From behind his back, Nes produced the bundle that she’d given him the night before. ‘Would I do something like that?’

  Isis stared at the fruit in dismay. ‘But you said you’d give them to her!’

  Nes grinned easily. ‘Don’t fret, little one,’ he said. ‘I thought you might like to give them to her yourself.’ And with that, he began to stride off in the direction of the great avenue.

  Isis trotted after him, dumbfounded. How could she give the girl the fruit? Wasn’t she still imprisoned in the army camp? Where was he taking her? Clutching the bundle tightly, she struggled to keep up with his massive strides.

  Nes reached the front of the temple where the great avenue began, stretching out towards the even greater temple complex of Ipet-Isut. He checked that Isis was still with him, then turned to the right and led her to a walled enclosure. It was made of mud brick and wasn’t part of the temple itself, but it was similarly painted, and Isis got the sense that it had something to do with temple worship. They reached an imposing door, and Nes knocked. A beautiful girl answered. She seemed to be expecting them.

  ‘Is this the one you spoke of?’ she asked Nes.

  ‘That’s right,’ the wrestler replied. He turned to Isis. ‘Go on in.’ Nes gestured towards the door, but stayed where he was.

  Isis was perplexed and rather scared. ‘But aren’t you coming?’ she asked.

  Nes smiled and shook his head. ‘Only women are allowed,’ he said. ‘They’ll look after you in there. Don’t be afraid.’

  Isis looked at the girl, who smiled back at her. ‘He’s right. You can trust us. Come.’

  There didn’t seem to be much option. Isis took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. The girl led her across a deserted courtyard, then along a dim corridor. Somewhere up ahead, Isis heard the sound of sweet singing.

  ‘What is this place?’ she whispered to the girl.

  The girl turned, her smile soft and tranquil. ‘We are priestesses of Hathor,’ she replied.

  ‘Hathor?’ As far as Isis was concerned, the great temples of Waset were dedicated to Amun-Re, Mut and Khonsu.

  ‘There is a small shrine to Hathor deep inside the temple,’ explained the girl. ‘But this is where we purify foreigners, for of course, they cannot enter the temple itself.’

  Isis was still completely lost. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

  The young priestess was very patient. ‘No Egyptian man wants a dirty, bedraggled slave,’ she explained. ‘Here they are washed and shaved. We oil their skin and dress them in clean linen. You have come to see one of them, haven’t you?’

  So that was it. They came out into another, smaller courtyard, and Isis gasped. It was a hive of activity. Priestesses padded to and fro carrying bowls of scented water; others carried piles of fresh linen; three sang hymns in a corner. And there, in the centre of the courtyard, sat all the female prisoners of war.

  .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Come,’ said the young priestess. ‘I will take you to the girl you seek.’

  Isis had been eyeing the group of women, trying to spot the Libyan girl. The priestess led her across the courtyard and, all at once, Isis was standing in front of her. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The girl was almost unrecognisable. Her long, tangled hair was gone and she wore a neat black Egyptian wig. The torn stripy dress that she had worn had been replaced with a gown of simple white linen. Instead of being covered in dust, her skin was clean and shining with oil, and her eyes had been outlined in black kohl. Isis was astonished. She would easily pass for an Egyptian on the street.

  The girl looked at Isis with barely veiled hostility, and said nothing.

  ‘Her name is Neith,’ said the priestess of Hathor. ‘Do you wish to tell her yours?’

  ‘Isis,’ she whispered faintly, still in shock.

  The priestess spoke a few words in the girl’s language. Neith listened, then responded, her voice sharp and questioning.

  ‘She wants to know what you want with her,’ the priestess translated. ‘She’s asking who you are.’

  ‘But she saw me . . .’ Isis began. Then she thought back. The only time that she had actually connected with Neith was on the track out of Waset, when they had locked gazes for a few seconds. Neith had no idea that Isis had spied on her in the enclosure, witnessed her brother’s arrest, or returned the next night with fruit.

  Tentatively, she held out her gift. ‘Tell her that I’m the girl she saw near the camp and that . . . I’m sorry.’ Then she felt stuck. What else could she possibly say? Neith’s brother was in a dreadful situation, and her own wasn’t much better – she was about to become someone’s slave, and there was nothing that Isis could do about it.

  Neith took the bundle, but now Isis felt ashamed of it. The linen was very grubby. It had been taken out to the camp, left with Nes and carried back again. She watched as the Libyan girl put it down by her side without opening it, then looked at Isis with a question in her eyes. Isis could read her look.

  Is that all? Neith seemed to say.

  Isis now felt like running away. This was all a big, embarrassing mistake. She turned to the priestess. ‘That’s all I came for,’ she said. ‘I can go now.’

  The priestess looked puzzled. ‘Well, if you’re sure. Of course.’ And she spoke briefly to Neith again.

  Isis started walking back towards the exit, her head bowed.

  But then the priestess called, ‘Wait.’

  The women were all watching her, their unhappy eyes following her every step. Isis felt her cheeks blazing, but she turned round to face the priestess again.

  ‘Neith says thank you,’ said the priestess. ‘She’s glad that you came.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Isis tried to smile.

  Neith touched the bundle of fruit. She smiled back, but her lower lip was trembling and her kohl-rimmed eyes were brimming with tears.

  .

  Hopi wandered the streets of Waset aimlessly, attracting local children who hoped he’d show them a snake. He shrugged and laughed, showing them that he had nothing with him.

  But inside, he wasn’t laughing. He felt guilty, angry and confused. With no Menna to consult, he had to think for himself. He knew he must go and see Djer
i, if only to change his dressings. He was putting it off and his cowardice made him feel guilty. But the more he thought about the deathstalkers, the more his anger with Djeri swelled. The feelings swirled around inside him and, at last, Hopi knew he could avoid them no longer. He changed direction and made for Anty’s house.

  Anty seemed pleased to see him. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘Djeri has been asking for you.’

  The news made Hopi feel worse. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘He is calmer,’ said Anty. ‘And there is no fever. In other words, he is much better. We feel the danger has passed. Thank you, Hopi.’

  Hopi was tongue-tied for a moment. ‘I’m glad.’

  Anty smiled and led him to his son’s room.

  The soldier was awake, but Hopi avoided his gaze as he walked in.

  ‘Hopi. I’m happy to see you,’ Djeri greeted him.

  Hopi reached for the honey and oil that he had left next to the bed. He didn’t know what to say, so instead he reached for the covers and pulled them back. Still saying nothing, he began to inspect Djeri’s leg.

  ‘You are not going to greet me?’ asked the soldier.

  Hopi looked up. He licked his lips. This was even more difficult than he had imagined. ‘I have been to the army camp,’ he said quietly. ‘I know what you have done.’

  Djeri stared at him and then a slow, soft sigh escaped from his lips. ‘Is that so,’ he said. ‘Well, it is better that someone knows. Now you can leave me to die and to receive the punishment I deserve in the Next World.’

  Hopi looked down at Djeri’s leg. It was still a nasty, glistening mess, but in spite of everything, he could see that it was likely to heal – in time.

  ‘I don’t think that the gods require your life,’ he said. ‘I have already told you: you will be a cripple, like me.’

  He added a little more oil and honey to the wounds, then covered Djeri’s legs again and went to sit by his side.

  The silence slowly thickened. It was hot, and flies buzzed around the room. Outside, the soft call of laughing doves rose and fell. Hopi found that he was growing even more upset. At last, he could bear it no longer.

  ‘How could you do such a thing?’ he burst out. ‘I thought I had found a brother. I thought we could learn from each other. I would have supported you, I would have helped you cope with your wounds.’

  ‘And now you will not?’ Djeri’s voice was flat.

  Hopi felt close to tears. ‘Just tell me. Why did you do it?’ he whispered.

  The soldier shifted on the bed, trying to get more comfortable. ‘I have always been a scorpion catcher,’ he said. ‘Even when I was a small boy, I would catch them for my friends and we would keep them imprisoned. Sometimes, we made them fight each other and wagered on which one would win.’

  Hopi listened. ‘Many boys do this,’ he commented. ‘You were not unusual.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Djeri. ‘The difference is that I carried my interest into adulthood. My brothers were my father’s apprentices; they followed in his footsteps to become scribes. I was the third son, with no future, and so the army was the best option. I joined young, and soon found that my fellow soldiers enjoyed my hobby as much as my boyhood friends had done.’

  ‘But there is nothing wrong in that,’ said Hopi, still hoping that, somehow, Djeri could prove himself innocent.

  ‘Nothing at all. But I did well in the army. I moved on from the infantry and became a charioteer. My strength and bravery came to the attention of the platoon leader, and soon afterwards, Commander Meref himself began to notice me. He soon heard of my skill with scorpions. It was then that things began to go wrong.’

  Djeri’s voice was dry, and Hopi reached for some beer. He helped the soldier to drink, then prompted him again. ‘Go on.’

  ‘What more can I say?’ demanded Djeri. ‘The commander must be obeyed.’

  They lapsed into silence again. Hopi mulled it over, trying to work out what to think. Couldn’t Djeri have refused to catch any more scorpions? Couldn’t he have released them when he knew what they were being used for?

  ‘You still had a choice,’ he said eventually.

  Now Djeri seemed to be getting angry. ‘Yes, soldiers have a choice,’ he responded bitterly. ‘Let me tell you what it is. To obey, or to disobey. To live, or to die. Very simple, isn’t it? What do you know about choices such as those?’

  Hopi’s thoughts were reeling. ‘I-I don’t know,’ he stammered. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’ Djeri rested his head on his pillow again, and closed his eyes.

  .

  The priestess of Hathor led Isis back through the deserted courtyard.

  ‘What will happen to her?’ demanded Isis.

  The priestess shook her head. ‘We do what the army wants of us. What happens after that is not our concern.’ They reached the door and the woman opened it.

  ‘But can’t you look after the women here?’ Isis asked. ‘You’d look after them properly, wouldn’t you?’

  The priestess smiled sadly. ‘They do not belong to us,’ she said. ‘They will go where the army decides

  to send them.’ And with that, she ushered Isis out on to the street.

  Nes was waiting for her, crouching down on his haunches and whittling a stick with a little knife. ‘All done?’ He stood up. ‘That was quick.’

  Isis looked up into his face. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Whose slaves are they going to be? Why can’t they stay here with the priestesses?’

  Nes gave a lopsided smile. ‘And what use would they be inside there?’ he asked. ‘No, little dancer. These women belong to us – the soldiers. They are our reward for the harsh life we lead. They will be distributed among us, according to how well we have fought. Their fate, and that of the men, will be decided tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Isis felt helpless and sad. Then a thought occurred to her. Nes was older than most soldiers, and a great warrior. ‘So you must have many slaves already.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Nes. ‘They work on my farm while I’m away fighting.’

  ‘You have a farm?’

  Nes spread his hands. ‘I am the Lion,’ he said, as though that explained everything.

  They began to walk back along the length of the great temple. Nes took enormous strides and Isis skipped to keep up with him.

  ‘Please wait,’ she gasped breathlessly.

  ‘Of course.’ Nes spun round and smiled. ‘Sorry, little dancer.’

  But now, Isis stopped in her tracks. She stared. As he had turned, the end of the soldier’s kilt had flapped to one side, revealing a weapon underneath. It had been there before, of course, jutting up, but Nes’s arm had mostly hidden it. Now a memory slotted into place. Isis thought back . . . yes, that was right. She had seen it only the night before – in Nes’s tent. And it was exactly the same as the one that Sheri had shown her.

  ‘Nes,’ she said slowly, ‘did you ever know a soldier called Henu?’

  The soldier’s face went still. Involuntarily, his hand moved to the dagger and rested on the lotus-shaped hilt. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I have seen another dagger just like that one,’ said Isis, pointing. ‘It was carved in exactly the same way. And it belonged to a soldier called Henu.’

  ‘When? When did you see this?’ Nes dropped to his knees and grasped Isis by the shoulders.

  ‘Today,’ said Isis. He was now at her level and she could look directly into his eyes. ‘He was the husband of Sheri, one of the musicians I work with.’

  Nes’s grip slackened and he gazed over her shoulder. ‘Impossible. It can’t be . . .’ he murmured. ‘Does this Sheri have a sister? A sister whose husband also died?’

  ‘Yes, yes. So did you know Henu?’ Isis was excited now. ‘Was he killed in a big battle?’

  Nes let his hands drop. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ He sighed and got to his feet again.

  ‘But if he didn’t die in battle, what happened to him?’ Isis d
emanded. She felt a bound of hope. ‘Is he still alive?’

  Nes shook his head. ‘No. He is dead.’ His eyes were full of sadness and he placed a hand gently on Isis’s shoulder. ‘Come. We must go to the camp. I have something to show you. These women have waited far too long to hear the truth.’

  .

  Djeri had drifted off to sleep again. Hopi decided it was time to leave. He needed to think, and besides, he still wanted to talk to Menna. Anty waved him off, thanking him once more, and he headed into the heat of the early afternoon sun.

  Hopi wandered back towards his tutor’s house, feeling unhappy. Of course, he had always known that the lives of soldiers were brutal. It was their job to kill and maim others, and to take prisoners, too – all for the protection of Egypt and the glory of their king. And it wasn’t just the enemy that had a hard time; he had once overheard a group of soldiers describing the beatings they had received during training. Thinking about it now, he began to realise that he was lucky. A poor boy such as himself could easily have been conscripted, but his limp meant he was exempt. Then he thought of the terror in the Libyan’s eyes as he had lifted the box containing the deathstalkers, and knew that this punishment was different. It was in a terrible class of its own.

  He reached the far end of Menna’s street. To his astonishment, he saw someone hammering on the priest’s door. So Menna still wasn’t back. And then he realised that the man was not a man of the town. His hair was cut in the style of a soldier and he was holding a spear like a staff.

  Hopi quickened his pace. In frustration, the soldier gave the door a kick, then turned on his heel and began to run in the opposite direction.

  ‘Wait!’ he called, but the soldier was already turning the corner.

  Looking around wildly, Hopi spotted a group of boys playing catch with a leather ball. ‘Which of you can run fast?’ he demanded.

  ‘I can! I can!’ chorused the boys.

  ‘Then run,’ ordered Hopi. ‘Catch the soldier who was banging on Menna’s door. Go, now! As fast as you can!’

  The boys set off in a cloud of dust, their bare feet thundering. Hopi limped as far as his tutor’s door and crouched against the wall to wait. Where was Menna? He wondered. And what did the soldier want?