The Deathstalker

by Gill Harvey

  A jabber of voices soon heralded the boys’ return. They turned the corner, the soldier in their midst clearly angry and confused.

  ‘Who ordered my return?’ demanded the soldier. ‘I have not a minute to lose!’

  Hopi stood to greet him. ‘I did. Who are you seeking?’ he asked.

  ‘Menna, the priest of Serqet,’ the soldier replied. ‘We were told that he is the greatest in the town. Has he returned? It’s urgent – desperate!’

  ‘No,’ Hopi told him. ‘But I am his apprentice. What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s the commander. He’s been stung by a scorpion – a deathstalker! His cries have filled the camp with terror, his shrieks are like those of an animal, a jackal.’

  Hopi’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘I cannot wait any longer – I must find another priest.’ The soldier was already pulling away from the boys, distracted and sweaty.

  ‘I will come.’ Hopi’s mind was working fast. ‘I know the spells. But I must somehow enter Menna’s house for some herbs. This is the quickest solution, I can assure you.’

  ‘But the house is shut,’ objected the soldier. ‘I can’t waste any more time.’

  Hopi looked up at the walls. ‘I know how to enter,’ he said. ‘Menna will understand. Wait here.’

  Around the side of the house were steps leading up to the roof. They were rarely used, as the mud brick was crumbling. Hopi limped up them, hopping over the broken brickwork, and clambered on to the roof. From there, he jumped awkwardly down the steps that led into the courtyard. Hopi tried the house door. Menna hadn’t bothered to bar it, and so he half-ran, half-limped to the sanctuary where Menna kept his supply of herbs.

  This was where they had sat chanting the night before. Hopi reached for the herbs that Menna had shown him and went to stuff them into his bag. Then he slapped his forehead – but of course, he didn’t have his bag! It hadn’t been in the sanctuary when he had woken up that morning. Hopi dashed to the door. Menna must have put it in the front room, where he had slept. But then he stopped in his tracks. There was the bag, sitting by the doorway with the papyrus basket inside. He frowned. He was sure it hadn’t been there when he had woken up.

  There was no time to puzzle over it now. He grabbed the bag and shoved the herbs inside, then slung it over his shoulder and made his way out of the house the way he’d come. The soldier was waiting impatiently, shifting from one foot to another.

  ‘Come on,’ said Hopi. ‘Let’s go. I’ll walk as fast as I can.’

  .

  CHAPTER NINE

  Isis trotted after the great wrestler. She was bursting with questions, but it was all she could do to keep up with him. They hurried through the streets of Waset and beyond, to the area of parched desert that separated the town from the camp. The sun was fierce, but Nes did not slow down. He marched across the sea of sand and pebbles with his eyes fixed on the canvas of the camp, just visible in the shimmering haze.

  Up ahead, the ground seemed to shift, blurring into the blue of a mirage. Isis was used to such tricks of the desert and ignored it at first. But then, emerging from the patch of reflected sky, she saw a figure. He was not on the track, but to one side of it, as though coming from the desert itself.

  She stopped for a moment, shielding her eyes. All she could make out were swathes of linen, wrapped around the figure to protect him from the sun. He carried a spear. No, not a spear . . . Isis squinted in the harsh light. There was no bronze at the tip. It was simply a staff.

  In alarm, she realised that Nes had not faltered.

  He was already well ahead, and Isis turned to run after him. ‘Nes! Wait!’ she cried, sprinting forward again.

  The wrestler only turned one shoulder to beckon her. ‘It’s not far now!’ he called. ‘We shall soon be there!’

  Isis threw one last glance at the stranger, who seemed to be making for Waset. Then she obeyed and ran at full tilt to catch up with the wrestler, keeping at his heels until they reached the boundary of the camp.

  Something had happened. Isis sensed it at once. The soldiers were crowded together in groups, gossiping. It looked as though they had stopped mid-training; charioteers stood at their horses’ heads, trying to calm them, as infantrymen stood idle with their bows and spears.

  ‘Where are the officers?’ demanded Nes, as they passed the first group. ‘Why aren’t you training?’

  ‘They are all in the commander’s tent!’ a young soldier told him, pointing, his face alight with fear. ‘Nes, have you not heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Meref has been attacked. A scorpion stung him. The men are saying that the gods are avenging themselves.’

  Nes stopped in his tracks. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Yes! Yes! They say he won’t live, they say there is no cure.’

  Isis was agog. ‘A scorpion! We must fetch Menna at once – or even Hopi . . .’

  But Nes was not listening. He was gazing in the direction of the commander’s tent, deep in thought. Then a sigh escaped him and he shook his head. ‘This is not our concern,’ he said gruffly to Isis. ‘We have things to do.’ And he marched off purposefully – in the opposite direction.

  Isis scampered after him. ‘Why won’t you go and see? My brother knows about such things – he is an apprentice to Menna, the priest of Serqet.’

  Nes did not reply.

  ‘But we could help,’ Isis protested, more weakly this time.

  For some reason, Nes was not going to get involved. She realised that they were heading to his tent. Other soldiers called out to him as he passed, but he ignored them all. They reached his rough canvas shelter and he ducked inside.

  ‘Come in,’ he invited her.

  Isis pushed back the flap of fabric to enter his tent for a second time. In daylight, it appeared bigger, but now that she could take a good look, it seemed very bare and spartan. Nes might own a farm somewhere, but he carried with him the absolute minimum – his weapons, a mat to lay on the floor and a bundle of possessions, which was resting in one corner. That was it.

  ‘Sit,’ he told Isis, reaching for the bundle.

  She settled herself on the mat, watching curiously as he rummaged through his belongings. He soon found what he was looking for. It was a little alabaster jewellery box, similar to ones owned by Sheri, Nefert and Kia. He lifted off the lid and dipped his fingers inside.

  ‘Open your hand,’ he said, reaching towards her with his fist clenched.

  Isis did as he said. Nes held her gaze for a second, and then she felt something small drop into her palm. Two things. She looked down, and found that she was holding two tiny flies. They were made of pure gold.

  She gasped. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Many years ago, these were given to Henu and his brother in arms, Userkaf. They symbolise the Order of the Golden Fly, and were awarded for bravery in battle,’ said Nes. ‘I have kept them safely until this day.’

  Isis was still staring at the flies in disbelief. Now she looked up. ‘But why didn’t you send them to Sheri and Kia?’ she demanded. ‘All this time, and they have received nothing. They don’t even know how their husbands died!’

  An expression of suffering came over Nes’s face. ‘This is a painful story,’ he said. ‘And I wish only to tell it once. We must return to town, and I shall tell them face to face.’

  .

  Commander Meref was having a convulsion. His back arched and twisted, and his legs thrashed on the floor. His eyeballs had rolled to the back of his head so that only the whites showed, and his eyelids flickered furiously. But worst of all was his mouth – his lips were drawn back from his teeth, white froth dribbled down and a horrible gurgling sound emerged from his throat.

  Hopi stood at the opening of his tent, aghast. None of the soldiers knew what to do. They were watching their commander with a mixture of fascination and terror.

  ‘Hold him down!’ ordered Hopi.

  The soldiers looked at him in surprise as the messenger led him insi
de.

  ‘What is this boy doing here?’ demanded one.

  ‘I am the apprentice of Menna, the great priest of Serqet,’ Hopi told them. He watched as the commander’s arms flailed in the air. Blood joined the froth around his mouth – he had bitten his tongue. ‘Please, do as I say! Hold him! And place a stick between his teeth, over his tongue.’

  Something in his voice had an effect. Four of the men stepped forward and pinned the commander’s limbs to the mat. His body juddered and bucked, but they held him fast, and another rammed a staff into his mouth.

  ‘Nnngggghhhh,’ gurgled the commander, his eyes still rolling wildly.

  Hopi bent down and opened his bag. Fishing out the herbs, he looked up and barked, ‘Bring me water, a bowl and a beaker. And some embers.’

  While he waited, he knelt at the commander’s head and placed his hands on his forehead. Closing his eyes, he began to chant the first of the spells he had learned only the night before. ‘Blessed is Serqet, great goddess of poisons, blessed giver and taker of life, grant us your mercy . . . may the power of this poison be undone . . .’

  A soldier came running with a brazier, another with the bowl and beaker. Crushing a handful of herbs into the bowl, Hopi continued to chant, then added water and placed the mixture over the smouldering coals. Strange, aromatic smells filled the tent.

  The soldiers holding Meref began to tire, but in between the chanting, Hopi urged them on.

  ‘Do not let him move! If your arms are weak, let your brothers help you!’ he cried.

  More soldiers piled in to hold the commander down. The convulsions came and went. Just when it seemed that his body was calm, another spasm would take hold, hurling his body this way and that. Hopi poured some of his potion into the beaker, and in the quieter moments, dribbled drops of it into the victim’s mouth. He chanted and chanted again, losing all track of time.

  At last, the commander lay still. Hopi had exhausted the spells. Everyone in the tent stared at the man who now lay prone on the floor. They were tensed and ready for the next convulsion. His eyes were now closed. He was quite unconscious.

  Slowly, Hopi got to his feet.

  ‘Will he live?’ asked one of the men.

  Hopi did not know the answer. ‘I have done my best,’ he replied. ‘His life is in the hands of the goddess. All I can say is this: should he be spared, his recovery will be slow. He will suffer for weeks. You would do well to appoint another commander.’

  .

  Nes led Isis out of his tent. Then, to her surprise, he did not head out of the camp, but to a stand of several chariots. Their horses were tethered behind them, dozing in the mellowing sun. A soldier emerged from between them, holding a leather bridle in one hand and a cloth in the other. He looked young and gentler than many of the others.

  ‘Nebnufer. I am glad to see that someone is doing some work around here,’ commented the wrestler. ‘I hope you can do me a favour.’

  ‘Anything. You are the Lion,’ said Nebnufer. ‘I am one of your greatest fans.’

  ‘Then you can drive us into town,’ said Nes. ‘The little dancer has walked enough today.’

  Nebnufer noticed Isis standing behind Nes. He looked curious to see her, but didn’t comment. ‘Of course. I will prepare the horses at once.’

  Isis felt a thrill of excitement as Nebnufer untethered two black stallions. The horses were spirited, one stamping backwards and the other rearing up as Nebnufer led them to the slender chariot. But the young soldier was not afraid. He calmed them with soothing noises and soon had them harnessed. Nes stepped up beside him and held out a hand for Isis.

  ‘Hold on tight,’ he instructed her, and Isis grasped the side of the chariot.

  It began to move and Isis gasped. It was much more bumpy than she’d imagined. She gripped tighter as they picked up speed through the camp, clinging on as they swayed and jolted over the rough terrain. Then they were out on the desert plain and the horses broke into a canter. Isis felt the wind whip past her, bringing tears to her eyes, and her whole body felt as though it were being shaken to pieces.

  At the edge of Waset, Nebnufer slowed the horses down. Isis gave directions, and soon they were winding through the back streets, along alleys that were barely wide enough for the two horses. Then they were on her street, and to her delight, she saw Mut running to meet them.

  ‘Isis! Isis! We’ve been looking for you!’ cried her dance partner, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Her calls brought Sheri to the door of the house, soon followed by Kia, holding little Kha in her arms. Isis watched the expressions on the two women’s faces as the chariot came to a halt, and how they changed from curious to disbelieving – to stunned.

  Nes lifted Isis down from the chariot, then jumped down himself. ‘Wait for me,’ he instructed Nebnufer.

  Isis took the great wrestler’s hand. ‘Come inside.’ She looked at the expectant faces of the family. ‘Nes has something to show you,’ she told them. She led him across the threshold and into the front room. ‘Please sit, Nes,’ she said, offering a stool.

  ‘Would you like some fresh beer?’ asked Sheri.

  ‘And some figs?’ Isis added playfully.

  Nes smiled. ‘Fresh beer sounds good,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  Ramose appeared and gazed at Nes with solemn admiration. ‘Are you a soldier?’ he demanded. ‘I want to be one. I want to chop up Libyans.’

  ‘Ramose! Go and play in the courtyard,’ Kia chided him. She put Kha down. ‘And take your brother with you.’

  Ramose pouted in disappointment as Paneb and Nefert joined the gathering. Everyone waited in silence until Sheri reappeared with the beer. And then, bursting with the news, Isis made her announcement.

  ‘Sheri, Nes knew Henu,’ she said. ‘Look. His dagger is the same as the one you showed me. That’s how I worked it out!’

  Sheri almost dropped the pitcher of beer. She sat down heavily on a stool. ‘What?’

  ‘And your husband, too, Kia,’ Isis carried on happily. ‘What was his name again? User—’

  ‘Userkaf.’ Kia’s voice was faint.

  ‘Please tell them, Nes,’ said Isis. ‘And show them what you showed me.’

  Slowly, the wrestler’s hand moved to the pouch he had slung around his waist. He removed it, then he reached for the dagger and lifted that from its scabbard. He lay the dagger on the floor at his feet, then reached inside the pouch and brought out the little box that he had shown Isis. Then he looked across at Kia.

  ‘You were Userkaf’s wife?’ he asked.

  Kia was staring at the dagger. ‘I was,’ she whispered.

  ‘Then this now belongs to you.’ Nes turned the hilt of the dagger so that it faced towards her. ‘Take it, for Userkaf would have wanted you to receive it.’

  Kia dropped from her stool on to her knees. She buried her face in her hands for a moment. Then, silently, she reached for the dagger and picked it up, turning it over and over in her hands.

  ‘What . . . what happened to them?’ It was Sheri who spoke. ‘Can you tell us that?’

  Nes looked troubled. ‘I can,’ he said. ‘But it may not be what you wish to hear. First, let me give you these.’ Carefully, he opened the box and scooped up the flies. Then he turned his hand over, so that the gold glinted in his palm.

  Everyone leaned forward to look.

  ‘Golden flies – for valour!’ Paneb’s voice was full of awe.

  ‘One was awarded to Henu, the other to Userkaf,’ said Nes. ‘I took them into safe keeping when they were both lying on their deathbeds. I was given Userkaf’s dagger at the same time.’

  ‘Who killed them?’ Kia’s voice was hoarse.

  Nes sighed heavily. ‘It was not the enemy you imagine. They were not killed in battle at all, but by the goddess Sekhmet.’

  ‘Sekhmet?’ Sheri sounded full of fear. ‘But what did they do to deserve that?’

  ‘Do not think this way. Sekhmet’s actions are beyond reason. Her greed for life sometimes
overcomes everything else. She can sweep the land with destruction in her paws and pestilence in her breath.’

  Pestilence. Of course. The great lioness was not only the goddess of war. Isis saw how the soldier was trying to break the news gently, but now she realised the truth. The men had been struck down by sickness.

  ‘Go on,’ said Kia.

  Nes took a deep breath, then plunged into his story. ‘We were in the north, picking off groups of invaders. They were ill equipped, badly trained, and we had no difficulty in dealing with them. But what they lacked in weapons, they made up for with something else. They brought among us a plague – a terrible plague.’ Involuntarily, he shuddered. ‘One after one, the men were struck down. Our camp became like the worst of battlegrounds, but the enemy we fought was invisible.’

  ‘How dreadful.’ Nefert spoke softly.

  ‘And this is how they died?’ asked Sheri quietly.

  Nes nodded. ‘Yes. I was among the last to suffer the sickness. I went around speaking to my fellows, offering what comfort I could. I did not know Henu and Userkaf well, but I knew they had fought together bravely in many battles. And as they lay dying, they entrusted their golden flies and the dagger to me. They told me your names. But then I, too, was taken sick.’

  ‘You lived.’ Kia’s voice shook.

  ‘Yes. I was one of the few. But when I began to recover, my mind was confused. It took me several weeks to regain my strength. The survivors were too few to give the dead the treatment they should have received. They were buried in the sand, in the hope that the gods would heal them in the Next World.’

  ‘And us? Why did you not come and find us?’ asked Sheri.

  ‘Try as I might, I could not remember your names. Henu and Userkaf were dead. Most of their platoon was also dead, and I was weak . . .’ Nes paused, his brow furrowed. Then he sighed, and carried on, ‘Time passed. We stayed in the north for many months, slowly rebuilding the company. I took to wearing the dagger, in memory of those we had lost. I gave up hope of ever returning it to its true owner.’