by Gill Harvey
Isis felt a thrill of excitement. ‘Can we come with you?’ she asked.
Paneb looked at the two girls. ‘I don’t see why not. If anything is going to convince them to employ us, I’m sure you two will!’
.
The soldier’s eyes flickered open. Hopi watched as he took in the faces gathered around him.
‘Father,’ he murmured.
‘I am here, Djeri, my son,’ said Anty. ‘I have brought Menna to see you.’
Djeri nodded, then grimaced with pain and closed his eyes again.
‘I must show Menna your injuries,’ said Anty. ‘I know the doctors have already examined you, but Menna has different skills. There may be other treatments that can help you.’
The soldier nodded and levered himself upwards. ‘I will bear it as best I can.’
Menna hesitated, then stepped forward and lifted the sheet that covered Djeri’s legs to reveal swathes
of bloody bandages. Hopi tried to stifle a gasp. The pattern of the bloodstains was horribly familiar: it reminded him of how his own leg had looked, all those years ago.
‘What happened?’ Hopi blurted out. He knew that, as Menna’s apprentice, it was not his place to speak, but he couldn’t help himself.
Djeri’s eyes swivelled around to meet his. He licked his dry, cracked lips. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘And why do you ask?’
Hopi flushed. ‘I am Menna’s apprentice,’ he replied. ‘And I ask because I bear similar wounds myself. They were inflicted in the river, by a crocodile.’
Djeri seemed interested. ‘Well, you look alive to me,’ he said. ‘That’s something. But my injuries are actually rather different. One of those desert barbarians struck me from my chariot –’ his left hand drifted up towards the deep gash in his shoulder ‘– and I fell to the ground. It was the wheels of the chariots behind . . . behind me . . .’ He paused, gulping, sweat breaking out on his brow. Slowly, carefully, Menna was unwrapping the bandages, and Hopi knew only too well that the pain must be excruciating. ‘. . . That . . . that gouged these wounds,’ Djeri managed to finish.
He fell silent as Menna teased the linen free. It was encrusted with yellow pus as well as blood, which had stuck the fabric to the skin.
‘They should have used more oils,’ Menna muttered. He pulled at one of the bandages. ‘I am sorry about this, Djeri.’
Djeri closed his eyes again, his forehead creased and his breathing shallow. Hopi could see that the pain was intense. In solidarity, he placed a hand on the soldier’s good shoulder.
‘He will, of course, receive great honour for his bravery,’ said Anty. ‘We expect the commander of the company to visit very soon.’
Menna had finished unwrapping the wounds and was gazing at them, deep in thought. They were a gruesome sight and they smelled bad, too.
‘Is there anything you can do?’ Anty asked him. ‘He will live, will he not?’
‘My brother, life or death rests in the hands of the gods. You know that.’ Menna replied. ‘I would have expected better of the army doctors, but I will do all I can. I must return home to fetch some supplies. Leave the bandages unwrapped for now.’
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Anty bowed his head. ‘We will do anything you say.’
‘Then it is time to go.’ Menna nodded to Hopi. ‘Come, Hopi, we must be on our way.’
.
Isis and Mut danced around Paneb as they walked to the outskirts of Waset and beyond, into the desert, where the army had set up camp. Smoke from cooking fires rose into the air between the roughly constructed tents. With most of the soldiers in the town, it seemed quite deserted, so Isis thought they would be able to walk straight in. She soon realised she was mistaken. Hidden behind boulders were lookouts, heavily armed with bows and spears. One of them stepped out as they approached.
‘Halt!’ he cried. ‘What is your business here?’
‘We are performers,’ Paneb told him. ‘We have come to see whether the company requires entertainment.’
‘Entertainment!’ The soldier grinned. ‘We’ve plenty of prisoners of war to entertain us.’
‘With respect, I imagine your commander seeks better entertainment than that,’ said Paneb. ‘We are one of the most sophisticated music and dance troupes in Waset.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, I can’t let you in,’ said the lookout. ‘You’ll have to wait here.’
Paneb shrugged. ‘Very well.’
They wandered over to a scrubby acacia tree to sit in the shade, and watched as the lookout disappeared behind his boulder once more. A breeze lifted the dusty sand, whirling it in eddies around them. The shadow of the tree grew longer.
‘I can hear them,’ announced Mut at last.
Isis listened. From the direction of Ipet-Isut came the faint thump-thump, thump-thump of soldiers’ feet. ‘Yes, I can, too,’ she said.
They waited as the rhythmic thuds grew closer. There was something about them that made Isis quiver, but not with fear, exactly; it was more a sense of awe at something powerful, something much bigger than her – the might of Egypt itself.
The soldiers came into view, tramping out of the town in the same formation as before, a row of chariots riding before each infantry platoon. Isis noticed how each man stared straight ahead of him while keeping perfect time with the others. And now she could see that the company was bigger than she’d thought. After the first two platoons came two more, then about a hundred prisoners of war, with a final platoon bringing up the rear.
All the prisoners had their hands tied behind their backs. They looked miserable and exhausted. Isis stared at them, taking in their strange, colourful clothing and dark beards.
‘Don’t Libyans ever shave?’ gasped Mut. No Egyptian man would go around looking like that.
‘They live in the Red Land, the land of Seth,’ said Paneb. ‘It’s no wonder they look so disorderly.’ He took the two girls by the hand, one on either side of him. ‘Come. Now is our chance to speak to the commander.’
As Paneb hurried them forward to the front of the company, Isis looked back, fascinated by the prisoners. Many of them were men, but there were some women, too, with long, bedraggled hair, and in the middle of the group were a few girls.
One of the girls caught her eye. She had a thin, narrow face that looked pinched with unhappiness. She noticed Isis staring at her, and her expression changed. Instead of misery, Isis saw a flare of anger and shame.
‘Hurry up, Isis,’ Paneb chided her.
Isis broke into a jog to match Paneb’s stride, but couldn’t resist one last glance. The girl’s gaze was still fixed on her, but now she was begging, pleading with soulful eyes. Reluctantly, Isis turned away and looked ahead at the row of charioteers. But it felt as though the girl’s eyes still followed her long after she had moved on, out of sight.
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CHAPTER TWO
‘I can’t believe that a soldier of our own army has been treated so badly,’ said Menna, rummaging through one of his caskets. ‘The military doctors are supposed to be the best. Yet here am I, a priest of Serqet, trying to find medicines from my own supplies. They are all for bites and stings! I can’t treat wounds like these . . .’
‘But why?’ asked Hopi. ‘Why haven’t they treated him better?’
Menna paused, his gnarled hands resting on an ointment bottle. ‘There could be any number of reasons,’ he reflected. ‘War is brutal. The doctors have to prioritise.’
‘You mean . . .’ Hopi was struggling to take it all in. ‘You mean, they didn’t bother? They thought he would die anyway?’
Menna’s kind, wise eyes met his. ‘Well, you saw his injuries.’
Now Hopi was horrified. ‘Yes, but mine were just as awful, and I lived!’
The old priest smiled sadly. ‘You were not at war,’ he said, and turned back to the caskets.
Hopi was thinking hard, casting his mind back five years to the days when he, too, had been forced to lie still and entrust his life to doctors. He had been onl
y eight, but he could still remember some of the details.
‘Menna, let me go to the market,’ he said. ‘The wounds on my leg had a great deal of badness in them. The doctors treated them with fresh honey and castor oil – and I recovered. Perhaps these are what Djeri needs now.’
Menna stopped rummaging, his expression thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘I was looking for some malachite powder, but the wounds are probably too rotten for that. It’s worth a try. Here, take some beads to barter with.’
Hopi accepted the beads and set off towards the riverbank, where the last traders would soon be packing up for the day. He felt pleased and honoured that Menna had agreed with his ideas, and felt doubly gratified that it was he who could offer some help to Djeri. The soldier’s fate had affected him deeply – it had brought back many memories. His own recovery had been terribly slow and painful, but it had also changed his life. As he had healed, the gods had seemed to touch him and call him to his vocation. It was strange that Djeri’s wounds were so similar, superficially at least. Perhaps the gods had willed it that way.
Finding an oil vendor was easy enough, but it took a little longer to find the honey. At last, Hopi came across an old woman sitting on her own, with just a big pot in front of her. In its depths, Hopi spotted fresh honeycomb.
‘The blessing of Sekhmet be upon you,’ she said, as Hopi traded the beads.
‘Why do you say that?’ Hopi asked fearfully. ‘She is the goddess of war.’
‘But also of healing,’ the old woman replied. ‘I sense her presence around you.’
A little mystified, Hopi hurried back to Menna. Without further ado, they returned to the house of Anty, where the servant let them in.
The soldier was feverish. His body was clammy, his cheeks burned to the touch, and this time he did not open his eyes and speak to them.
‘He is worse,’ muttered Anty. ‘He is drawing close to the Next World.’
‘He is in the hands of the gods, brother,’ said Menna. ‘Only they know the direction in which he is travelling.’
Hopi brought out the pots of oil and honey that he had bought, and together he and Menna set about
re-inspecting the wounds.
‘Brother, I must be honest with you,’ Menna said to Anty. ‘I don’t know the right spells to speak over wounds such as these. We will have to trust that this treatment will be enough.’
‘It comes with the blessing of Sekhmet,’ said Hopi. He felt surprisingly calm. ‘Menna, will you allow me to dress the wounds? They must be cleaned first.’
The old man nodded. ‘Of course, Hopi. Your hands are surer than mine.’
Hopi moistened a soft linen cloth in a bowl of water and began the delicate job of wiping away the worst of the pus. Djeri cried out and tossed in pain on the bed. Hopi dampened the cloth again and laid it on the wounds for a moment, soothing them.
‘This apprentice seems old for his years,’ commented Anty in surprise.
Menna nodded. ‘Those who have suffered are always the ones with greatest wisdom,’ he said.
Hopi felt a warm glow at Menna’s words. Gradually, the old man was allowing him to treat more and more of the patients who came to them. Hopi had learned most of the remedies for both snake bites and scorpion stings; only a few of the most difficult remained, and that was because they required a powerful level of magic. Menna had even started to pay him regularly, which he knew was a sure sign of the old man’s trust.
He worked quickly and quietly while Menna and Anty looked on. When he had finished, he put the bowl to one side.
‘I have something to ask of you,’ he said to Anty.
‘Please ask,’ Anty replied.
‘Allow me to stay with him,’ said Hopi. ‘I would like to see how he is, later on.’
‘Why, yes, of course you may. I would be very grateful,’ said Anty. ‘But don’t you have a family of your own to go to?’
‘They will understand,’ said Hopi. ‘Perhaps you could send a message, Menna? Isis will want to know where I am.’
.
In the last light of dusk, Ramose was chasing his younger brother Kha around the rooftop, bellowing and waving a stick. The rest of the family sat around and relaxed; Isis and Mut were playing a game of senet in one corner.
‘Kha’s a Libyan!’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to chop his head off!’
Kha shrieked in mock terror, then crashed into the wall and collapsed in a heap. Ramose pounced on him and put the stick to his throat.
‘Surrender or die,’ he growled.
‘Surrender!’ Kha squeaked, then rolled over and jumped to his feet again.
‘Careful!’ cried Mut, as Kha catapulted towards her.
Sheri looked up from gently plucking her lyre. ‘Yes, that’s enough, you two,’ she told the boys. ‘You’ll end up hurting someone.’
Ramose threw the stick down and flopped on to a mat next to his father. ‘I want to come and see the soldiers,’ he said, with a pout. ‘Everyone else is going and we have to stay here.’
‘Don’t be silly, Ramose.’ Nefert’s voice was firm. ‘We’re only going because we have to.’
‘When I grow up, I want to be a soldier,’ said Ramose. ‘I want to go to war.’
Paneb chuckled and tugged playfully on his son’s side-lock.
‘Don’t encourage him.’ Nefert’s voice was sharp. ‘You would not wish such a fate for him.’
A heavy silence fell upon the adults. Isis and Mut exchanged glances. Since their return from the army camp, the atmosphere in the house had been strange. On hearing that Paneb had managed to arrange a performance, the women had said very little. They had pursed their lips and nodded, then they had got on with their chores. A new job usually meant lots of questions and a long discussion about the performance. But not this time.
‘Your move,’ said Mut.
Isis realised she wasn’t concentrating on the game. She hurriedly moved a piece, then returned to her thoughts. She wanted to ask Sheri and Kia about their husbands. She wanted to speak to Hopi about going to the army camp, but her brother was out for the night. Above all, she wished she could forget the face of the Libyan girl that she had seen among the prisoners of war, but those deep, dark eyes would not go away. Who was she? Isis wondered. Could she speak any Egyptian? There was a whole night and day to wait until they went back to the camp. Then, maybe, she would see the girl again.
I’ll go and look for her, Isis told herself. I’m sure I’ll be able to find her.
‘Your move again,’ said Mut. ‘Where on earth are you, Isis?’
.
Once Menna had left, a servant brought oil lamps to light the darkening room, and Anty fetched Hopi some bread and beer. Djeri had still not opened his eyes. The moments passed slowly. Anty came in and out, fretting over his son, then at last left Hopi alone. Hopi kept a watchful eye on Djeri, looking for any sign of change.
At last, he stirred and groaned. ‘Father,’ he muttered.
‘He’s not here at the moment. I am caring for you,’ Hopi told him.
Djeri opened his eyes a fraction. He frowned, struggling to recollect. ‘You . . . you are . . .’
‘Hopi. Menna’s apprentice.’ Hopi reached for a beaker of beer. ‘Try to drink. This is good beer. It will nourish you.’ He tipped a little into the side of the soldier’s mouth.
Djeri swallowed, choked and coughed. But most of the beer went down the right way.
‘Thank you.’ Djeri closed his eyes again, but he did not sleep. ‘All I can feel is pain,’ he whispered. ‘It’s like a tomb . . . a dark place from which there is no escape . . .’
‘I know,’ said Hopi quietly. ‘I have been there, too.’
He carried on giving Djeri mouthfuls of the rich beer, waiting each time to check that the soldier was ready for more. Djeri gulped and gasped, as though even drinking was exhausting him. Then, outside the room, they heard voices.
‘He’s in here, sir,’ Hopi heard Anty say, as Djeri’s fath
er hurried in, followed by a tall, imposing man in leather armour. His muscular, broad-shouldered body threw a wide shadow on to the wall; he seemed too big for the room.
Djeri’s eyes fluttered open. A look of shock spread over his face. ‘Commander,’ he managed to say.
The man strode to Djeri’s side. ‘You are still alive, then,’ he commented.
‘Yes, sir.’ Djeri’s voice was faint.
The commander cast a glance at Djeri’s body, his eyes roving over his wounded leg.
‘If I may get you something, sir –’ began Anty.
‘No, no.’ The commander waved him away. ‘You know why I am here, Djeri. You have brought great honour to your platoon.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Djeri weakly. ‘I only did my duty to our god the king.’
The commander nodded. ‘And the king rewards those who serve him loyally.’
He snapped his fingers towards the door. A guard stepped into the room and handed him a wooden box. The commander raised the lid and lifted out a necklace. Hopi stared at it. Dangling at the bottom, threaded between beads of jasper and turquoise, was a little fly made out of pure gold, glinting in the light of the oil lamps.
‘Djeri, son of Anty,’ said the commander. ‘I confer upon you the Order of the Golden Fly.’ And he laid the necklace across Djeri’s chest.
The soldier’s fingers groped feebly for the fly. ‘Thank you, commander,’ he said. ‘I hope I shall soon return to duty.’
The commander gave no reply. He stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, then turned and swept out of the room with his guard at his heels. Anty hurried after them to let them out.
Hopi sat still. He could not take his eyes off the golden fly that now lay across the covers. Djeri must have been a true warrior on the battlefield. What an honour! All the same, it seemed strange that there had been so little ceremony, so little fuss. He thought the commander could have waited until Djeri was with his platoon.
And then it occurred to him – Djeri was lucky to be alive. As far as the army doctors were concerned, he was probably dead already. He may never return to his platoon, for even if he survived, he would never be strong enough to stand and fight in a chariot. He would become a cripple, like Hopi. But Djeri was clearly unaware of that. He had talked of returning to duty. And who would be the person to tell him that he would never fight again?