by Gill Harvey
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Isis watched as Hopi mechanically lifted some bread to his mouth. He looked drained, as though he had hardly slept. He had shown up just as the family were eating breakfast in the courtyard.
‘It’s not like Menna to keep you out all night,’ said Sheri, handing him a beaker of beer. ‘Was it a bite or a scorpion sting?’
Hopi shook his head. ‘Neither.’ He took a swig of the beer. ‘It was an injured soldier. Djeri, son of Anty. A company from the division of Amun is camped outside the –’
‘We know that.’ Mut cut Hopi short. ‘We’re going to perform for them this evening.’
‘Really? You’re going to the camp?’ Hopi looked around at everyone in surprise.
Isis nodded. ‘They’ve taken us on for three evenings. We saw them march through town, on their way to give thanks at the temples.’
‘Well, it was an important victory. I expect they made a lot of offerings,’ said Hopi. He reached for another piece of bread. ‘Djeri received a great honour last night, from the commander himself. He was given the Order of the Golden Fly.’
Isis noticed that suddenly, the women were listening intently.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Mut.
‘It’s a kind of award,’ said Hopi. ‘He was given a necklace with a fly made of gold strung on it.’
‘Who is this man?’ demanded Kia.
‘Djeri? He’s a charioteer.’
‘An officer, or one of the rank and file?’ Now Kia’s voice was sharp and her eyes were flashing. Isis looked at her in astonishment. Why should Hopi’s news make her angry? Hopi seemed equally taken aback.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Not all the charioteers are officers, I don’t think.’
‘So what did he do to receive this great honour?’
‘He fought bravely,’ said Hopi. ‘He was part of an attack against the Libyans and he was knocked from his chariot.’
‘So he was doing his job, and for this he has been richly rewarded.’ Kia’s voice seemed to become ever more bitter.
Isis felt the tension rising in the courtyard. Hopi seemed nonplussed. He didn’t reply for a moment, but took in the expectant faces around him.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘he may have been rewarded, but he may also lose his life.’
‘Such is the soldier’s lot,’ said Sheri softly. ‘To fight, to die for Egypt. We knew that, Kia, did we not?’
‘We know very little,’ retorted Kia.
‘And now is our chance to find out more.’ Sheri placed a hand on Kia’s arm.
Kia pulled her arm away. ‘No, Sheri. It is too late for that.’
‘It is never too late, sister. We could talk to them. The company is here, on our doorstep. We are even going to visit them. We can find out –’
‘No!’ Kia almost shouted. Her chest was heaving. ‘No, sister. It is too long ago. The lives of soldiers are short. It may be the same company, but it will not be the same men. Any inquiry is bound to fail. My suffering is buried deep inside me. I cannot bear to unearth it again now.’
The sisters stared at each other. Nefert leaned forward and placed a comforting arm around each of them.
‘As you wish, sister,’ said Sheri eventually, her voice soft and sad. ‘I would not wish to do anything that might cause you further pain.’
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CHAPTER THREE
Paneb and Nefert led the way out to the fringes of the desert. Isis was feeling nervous, but she wasn’t sure why. Of course she was always a little bit nervous before performing, but this was different. She had never been inside an army camp before. As they approached, a shiver ran down her spine. Guards loomed up holding flaming torches, and escorted them past rows of simple tents stretching out into the darkness. Isis glimpsed shields and daggers propped up against the tents, and saw a group of dozing horses tethered near a row of chariots. Then she peered into the gloom, wondering where the prisoners were kept. She could see no sign of them.
The troupe was taken to the centre of the camp. Here, the atmosphere was livelier, with soldiers laughing and joking around a wide open area. It was circular, a kind of arena, lit by a larger fire and more guards holding torches. At one end, seated on an elegant wooden chair, sat the man who had led the company through Waset, Commander Meref. A fan-bearer stood behind his shoulder and officers at either side. He got to his feet as the troupe walked towards him.
‘Ah, the entertainers!’ Meref beckoned them. ‘Let us see what you’re made of before the wrestling begins.’
Wrestling! So that was what the arena was for. Isis sized up the soldiers gathering to watch. Their faces were young, but they seemed hardened, their eyes glittering in the leaping light of the fire and the torches. She stood close to Mut, holding her hand as they waited for the musicians to get ready.
Nefert began plucking her lute. Sheri and Kia joined in on the lyre and the flute, while Paneb kept time with the clappers. Isis and Mut began to dance, bowing and swaying, then moving on to energetic somersaults and pirouettes. The soldiers applauded and cheered, their voices raucous, and Isis tried not to hear what they were saying. Some of the men were rude.
The first routine over, the women laid down their instruments while Isis and Mut slipped into the shadows. They found a place near the commander’s chair to see what would happen next. The atmosphere around the arena was building, and the men startwere posteded calling out names.
‘Bring on Nes, the Lion!’ some cried.
‘No, no! Let us see Mose, the Great Bull!’
Then there was a loud cheer as the first two wrestlers stepped into the arena wearing nothing but rough linen loincloths, their bodies shining with oil. They prowled around, waiting for the right moment, and then one of them pounced. The two men clung on to each other, breathing hard, both trying to get a grip on the other’s slippery skin. The soldiers surrounding them took sides, urging on their comrades, until one of them rolled his opponent on to his back and pinned him to the ground in the dust.
The soldiers bellowed their approval, pumping their fists into the air. They were much more excited about the wrestling than they’d been about the music and dancing. The troupe was sidelined; it wasn’t even clear if they would perform a second routine. Isis realised this was her chance to explore.
‘I’m just going to the toilet,’ she whispered to Mut.
Her dance partner’s eyes were transfixed by the wrestlers. She didn’t even seem to hear.
Isis slipped away from the crowded area and melted into the darkness. Away from the arena, the night was quiet, the sky studded with stars. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, nervous and shallow. Isis surveyed the camp with its rows of tents, thinking that the prisoners must be somewhere close by. Keeping to the shadows, she made her way to the far end of the camp.
By the light of the moon, she spotted a row of stakes that formed a kind of enclosure. Guards were posted around it at regular intervals. Isis crept closer, then ducked behind a chariot and dropped down to lie on her belly. Now, she could just about see inside.
Peeping between the stakes, she saw people. The prisoners of war were there, huddled together on the bare sand. Isis took in their limp bodies and haggard faces. Their hands were no longer tied behind their backs, but Isis could see lengths of rope entwined around their ankles. It was a very different scene from the one she’d witnessed at the arena. Dragging herself a little closer, she peered beyond rows of men, looking for the women. And then a movement caught her eye.
Two of the prisoners were talking to each other. One was the girl she had seen before, sitting next to a young man. Isis shifted around beneath the chariot, trying to get a better view of their faces. She studied them, fascinated. In spite of the man’s beard, it was easy to see that they were from the same family. Isis guessed that they were brother and sister.
The girl seemed very upset. She gripped the man’s arm and shook her head. Isis thought that she could see the glimmer of tears on her cheeks. The man seemed
to be remonstrating, trying to convince her of something. Then Isis saw what it was. The man put his hand to his ankle. The rope that encircled it looked secure enough but, with a deft movement, the man slipped it off his foot. He had managed to free himself.
Isis felt her heart beating faster. From her hiding place, she looked up and down the line of guards. There were two quite close by and it would be madness to try to get past them. Dangling from each of the guards’ waists was a little trumpet – they could draw the attention of the whole company in no time. The young Libyan looked tired and weak. He couldn’t run far, surely?
Minutes passed. Isis knew she must return to the arena before anyone noticed she was missing. She watched as the Libyan man cupped the girl’s face in his hands. Now her tears were clear to see. He stroked her hair and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.
He’s going for it, thought Isis, her mouth dry. He’s going to try to escape.
A big roar went up from the direction of the arena. Isis felt a stab of anxiety. She must go back. She began to wriggle out, but took one last look at the pair before she left. The girl had bent her head and was quietly sobbing. Isis longed to help her, but what could she do? She pulled herself up from underneath the chariot and dusted herself down. Then, silently, she ran back to the rest of the troupe, hoping desperately that the Libyan would change his mind.
.
All was quiet, apart from the sound of Djeri’s breathing. Hopi wiped the sweat from the soldier’s forehead, terrified that he was slowly slipping away – away from this world, and into the next.
‘You must fight,’ he said urgently, close to the soldier’s ear. ‘You fought the Libyans. Now you must fight for your life. You must not give up, Djeri.’
For a second, Djeri’s eyes flickered open.
Hopi shook his good shoulder gently. ‘Can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?’
Djeri gave the tiniest nod of his head, and Hopi sighed in relief.
‘You are good to me, Hopi,’ the soldier said faintly, and closed his eyes again.
So he was still with them, just about. It was strange, how Hopi felt about this soldier. He admired his courage and bravery, but it was more than that. It was as though they had a connection, an understanding that could not be put into words. Their injuries were so alike, and even beyond that, Hopi felt something else. Something deeper. But he did not know what it was.
Then Djeri’s lips moved. He began to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Tell me . . .’ he croaked. ‘Tell me the truth.’
Hopi was puzzled. ‘The truth about what?’
‘I am not a fool,’ muttered Djeri. ‘Tell me what will happen, should I live.’
Hopi felt his pulse quicken. He licked his lips. ‘You mean . . . your leg?’ He looked at Djeri’s bandages, tongue-tied.
‘Will I be able to walk?’
So, that was it. Hopi took a deep breath and thought for a moment. Was it really up to him to break the news? It didn’t seem fair. Then again, perhaps he was the best person; maybe the gods had sent him to help.
‘I think . . . I think you will be like me,’ he said eventually. ‘My wounds were similar to yours.’
Djeri’s eyes flew open. He had seen Hopi come and go, of course; but suddenly, he looked at him properly, as though for the first time. With a huge effort, he hoisted himself on to his elbow.
‘Walk across the room,’ he instructed, with surprising strength in his voice.
Hopi’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t –’
‘Walk!’ ordered Djeri.
Reluctantly, Hopi got up from the stool he was sitting on and stepped over to the doorway. He could not hide his limp. There was no disguising the way his right leg dragged with every step. He was mortified. He turned and saw Djeri’s expression. The soldier’s mouth was curled with anguish and disgust. Their eyes met, then Djeri’s slid away, hard and bitter.
‘A cripple,’ Hopi heard him mutter, as he flopped back down on the bed to stare up at the ceiling.
Hopi’s cheeks were burning with indignation. He made his way back to the stool. ‘It’s not that bad! I still get around and work. I’m not a cripp—’ He stopped abruptly. He knew that he was a cripple, as far as a soldier was concerned.
But now Djeri seemed lost in his own world. His breathing became shallow again, harsh gasps that frightened Hopi.
‘It is the punishment of the gods!’ he burst out.
‘No, no,’ Hopi protested. ‘Djeri, the injuries of a soldier bring only honour.’
Djeri’s eyes focused on Hopi’s face. ‘Believe me, my friend,’ he said. ‘When I talk of punishment, I know what I am saying. There is sickness in this company of Amun. A great sickness that eats the souls of men.’
‘What? What sickness?’
Djeri’s words didn’t make sense. The fever has taken him, thought Hopi desperately.
He reached for a beaker of wine.
‘Djeri, drink this. It’s the fever talking. You need to sleep.’
But in his anger, Djeri seemed to have found a new energy. He tried to sit up again, his eyes flaming and the veins sticking out in his neck. ‘Don’t speak to me of fever! I tell you, the gods have spoken!’ he cried wildly. ‘See what they have done to me!’
Hopi got to his feet and tried to push the soldier back down. ‘Hush, hush,’ he soothed him. ‘Djeri, please lie down.’
The shouting brought people running. Anty rushed in, followed by two of his servants. ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded the scribe. ‘What’s happening, my son?’
Djeri’s eyes were bulging and there were flecks of spit on his lips. ‘We are doomed!’ he cried. ‘Ma’at is no longer with us. She will judge our hearts in the Next World and they will fail. We shall be devoured by Ammut. There will be no mercy . . . no mercy . . .’ Djeri’s voice grew weaker again, and he collapsed back down on the bed.
Anty looked stricken. ‘He is elsewhere. Even now, he is not in this world.’ He placed a hand on his son’s forehead, then dropped to his knees at the bedside and clung on to Djeri’s hands. ‘Oh, my boy, my boy,’ he groaned. ‘Stay with us. Stay . . .’ Tears dripped down his cheeks to land on his pale, clenched knuckles.
He stayed like that for some time, mouthing prayers to all the gods, while Djeri lay still and silent. At last, Anty rose and beckoned one of his servants.
‘Send word to Djeri’s brothers. They must come and pay their respects. Summon his younger sisters and their children. All must come soon, before it is too late.’
Hopi watched in anguish. He could not bring himself to tell the old scribe what had happened. But now that the room was quiet again, the soldier’s breathing sounded easier. Looking at his face, Hopi knew that Djeri was not raving. He had been devastated at the news about his leg. And the rest – the talk of sickness and punishment? Was it delirium, madness? No, it isn’t that, thought Hopi. In some way, he sensed that the soldier had been telling the truth.
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The roar that Isis had heard was for the great wrestler Nes, the one the soldiers called the Lion. As Isis nudged up to Mut to watch, she soon worked out that he was pitted against his chief rival, the equally enormous Mose, the Great Bull. The soldiers watching were hollering the two men’s names at full pitch. The noise was deafening. Perhaps, thought Isis hopefully, no one would hear if the prisoners’ guards called the alarm . . .
The wrestlers circled one another, their eyes knowing and wary. Isis guessed they had fought each other many times before. And yet, she noticed, Nes the Lion was much older than his opponent. His muscles were gnarled and sinewy, like bunches of hemp rope, and the lines of his face were etched deeply. But there was no doubting his power.
It was Mose who made the first move, diving in to grasp Nes by the thigh. His hands lost their hold on the slippery oil and Nes spun round to free himself. Then he sidestepped and grabbed Mose by the arm, twisting it behind his back. Nes’s supporters erupted in applause, but Mose wasn’t trapped for long. Jammin
g his knee between Nes’s legs, he pushed him off balance and loosened his opponent’s grip. Mose’s supporters crowed.
Then, above the tumult of the contest, Isis heard the sound she was dreading: the high, tinny blast of a trumpet. She stared around at the soldiers.
Don’t hear, don’t hear, she willed them.
The wrestlers now had their arms locked around each other, pushing with all the strength of their massive shoulders. Isis held her breath.
It was no use. There it was again – the shrill, insistent summons, louder and more urgent this time. Nes heard it and raised his head. Isis looked at Commander Meref. He was listening, too.
At once, the wrestling bout broke up. A group of soldiers was sent running towards the prisoners’ enclosure. Commander Meref barked some orders. The rest of the company shuffled into formation, each man in his own platoon, and stood to attention. In seconds, the atmosphere had changed. The arena was silent. Isis heard one of the horses snort nearby. The fire spat and crackled, but none of the soldiers moved.
Isis looked over to where Mut, Paneb, Nefert and her sisters were standing, their faces shocked and bewildered. Isis felt slightly sick. The tear-stained face of the Libyan girl swam into her mind. How right she had been to beg her brother not to be so foolish.
There were shouts in the distance. Isis heard a woman’s cry. She imagined it might be the girl, calling out in despair. Then there was the sound of tramping feet and animated voices, and Isis saw a torch bobbing along, approaching the arena. Half of her wanted to look away, but the other half was compelled to watch as the soldiers appeared, dragging the prisoner of war between them. They reached the arena and stopped in front of Commander Meref.
One of the soldiers saluted. ‘Trying to escape, sir. We caught him heading out to the desert.’
The young man looked up at the commander and poured out a stream of his own language. Isis could not understand a word, but she understood the feelings on his face – the anger, the defiance and the fear. The commander regarded him coldly.