by Gill Harvey
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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
Text copyright © Gill Harvey 2010
Illustrations copyright © Peter Bailey 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This electronic edition published in July 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 1251 8
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Also by Gill Harvey
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Egyptian Chronicles series
The Spitting Cobra
The Horned Viper
The Sacred Scarab
The Deathstalker
.
Also available
Orphan of the Sun
.
For Florence
.
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.
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Hopi and Isis can remember the terrible accident on the River Nile, when they lost their parents to crocodiles. Hopi still bears crocodile teethmarks on his leg. But five years have passed, and they’ve been lucky: eleven-year-old Isis is a beautiful dancer, and she’s been spotted by a dance and music troupe in the town of Waset. Now they live with the troupe, and Isis performs regularly. Meanwhile, thirteen-year-old Hopi, marked by the gods, pursues his strange connection with dangerous creatures . . .
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Join them in the world of ancient Egypt as they uncover the dark deeds happening around them. If there’s anything you don’t understand, you may find an explanation at the back of the book.
g
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CAST OF CHARACTERS
MAP OF ANCIENT EGYPT
FASCINATING FACT FILE
GODS AND GODDESSES
GLOSSARY
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PROLOGUE
The peasant was resting in the shade of a sprawling tamarisk tree, lying on his side with his head resting on his hand. The view was nothing special: fields of closely cropped stubble. But as the peasant gazed over them, he sighed in satisfaction. A few weeks ago, these same fields had been a sea of swaying wheat, golden ripe in the Egyptian sun. The gods had blessed him this year. The annual Nile flood had reached the perfect level, leaving behind a rich layer of silt. The seeding had gone to plan. The crop had pushed itself up eagerly and had ripened earlier than expected.
With great rejoicing, the peasant and his family had brought in the harvest and threshed and winnowed the grain. They had stored it in their mud-brick storage hut and shut the door. Then they had started to celebrate.
‘Let us give thanks to the gods!’ the peasant’s wife had cried. ‘We are going to eat well all year. We even have surplus to trade!’
The peasant had smiled to see her so happy. He smiled again now at the thought of it, and sat up. As he did so, some movement caught his eye. It was two of his sons, running full tilt in his direction.
‘Father! Father!’ Their voices were high with panic.
The peasant got up. ‘What is it?’ he called.
‘They’re everywhere! Thousands of them!’
‘It’s a plague!’
The peasant stood still. The vision of the golden wheat blowing in the breeze came into his mind, then vanished. ‘A plague of what?’
‘Mice, mice – they’re eating their way through the store hut! Come quickly!’
The peasant picked up his stick and ran. The boys had left the store hut door open, and inside, the grain seemed alive. All over it swarmed a seething mass of rodents, squeaking and scurrying, scrambling over each other in a united feeding frenzy. The peasant gave a howl of anguish and raised his stick. Wildly, savagely he thrashed at the mice, beating and beating until his arms burned with the effort. And still they swarmed – under his feet, around his ankles, now wriggling and writhing in terror.
Vaguely, the peasant was aware that the rest of his family had joined in. Neighbours, even. They used anything they could find – planks of wood, lengths of rope, smashing the furry creatures with great swinging crashes. Screams of children mingled with the squeaks and the desperate shouts of the adults . . .
At last it was over. The mice left alive fled out into the fields where they belonged. The peasant leaned against the store hut wall and stared at what was left of his harvest. How much? A quarter? A third?
He reached for the amulet that he wore around his neck. It had protected them for many years, but it had failed them now. He wrenched it loose and, in a gesture of utter despair, he hurled it to the ground.
He had not meant to break it; but, as destiny would have it, the amulet did not hit the soil, but a stone. The peasant stared down at what he had done.
‘It is a sign,’ he whispered.
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CHAPTER ONE
Isis put her hands on her hips and stretched. Her muscles ached. In fact, she was weary all over. They’d been rehearsing day in, day out for weeks.
‘Everyone ready?’ asked Nefert, picking up her lute. ‘Don’t pull that face, Isis. You know very well how important this is.’
Isis moved into position. ‘Sorry, Nefert,’ she said. ‘I’m just tired.’
‘At your age? Nonsense.’
Nefert began plucking the lute’s strings. Kia joined in on her flute, while Sheri lifted a lyre. Together the three women played a joyful melody that filled the whole house. Isis made herself concentrate again, watching Nefert carefully. When she saw a raised eyebrow, she skipped into the centre of the room and began to dance, with her partner Mut joining her from the opposite corner. In time, the two girls swayed their hips and raised their hands high above their heads.
Somebody banged on the front door, and everyone stopped.
‘Another interruption!’ Nefert snapped. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘Oh, it’ll be the wheat!’ exclaimed Sheri. ‘It’s about time that arrived. Nefert, I’ll have to show them the storeroom.’ She put down her lyre and hurried out.
Nefert looked cross. ‘Come straight back!’ she called after her sister. ‘We must get this right today. We have only five days left.’
Isis and Mut rolled their eyes at each other. As far as they were concerned, the routine was already perfect. But Nefert wouldn’t let them stop practising because, for the first time ever, they were going to be part of the Beautiful Festival of the Valley that took place each year. The king himself would accompany the gods of Waset to his great mortuary temple, and Nefert was determined to make an impressio
n.
Mut nudged Isis. ‘Let’s go and watch the delivery.’ She turned to Nefert. ‘We’re just going to help Sheri, Mother.’
Nefert nodded. ‘Make it quick.’
Isis grinned, and the two girls ran downstairs.
‘Not there, not there!’ Sheri was scolding, as a boy dumped a sack in the doorway. ‘Bring it inside. Here.’ She beckoned him into the storeroom.
The boy hoisted the heavy linen sack back up on to his shoulder. It was almost as big as he was, and he staggered under its weight. He shuffled in one step at a time and plonked the sack down just as a second delivery boy appeared in the doorway with another.
‘This is the last one,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Sheri. ‘Put it over here.’
Isis and Mut squeezed into the store. It smelled good in there – herbs and spices mingled with the earthy smell of grain. There were bags of barley as well as the wheat, fruits and vegetables, and a big pot of honey in one corner.
The boys left, and Mut poked at the sacks. A few grains came through the weave, and she nibbled at them.
‘We’ll have lovely fresh bread tomorrow, Sheri!’
‘If we ever find the time to grind the grain,’ said her aunt wryly. ‘Come. We must get back to Nefert.’
‘Do we have to? Mother’s driving us too hard,’ moaned Mut.
Sheri smiled gently. ‘You can never practise too hard, Mut. You know that.’ And she turned to go back to their practice room.
Mut pouted, making a larger hole in the sack with her finger.
‘Come on!’ whispered Isis, heading after Sheri. She didn’t fancy making Nefert any more grumpy than she already was. But she was just climbing the stairs when she heard a loud thump on the mud-brick steps behind her. She spun around. ‘Mut!’
Her dance partner was sprawled on the floor, her face twisted in pain, one hand clutching her ankle. ‘Ow, ow!’ she howled.
Isis rushed to Mut’s side. ‘What have you done? Let me see!’
Tears began to roll down Mut’s cheeks. ‘Those stupid delivery boys! They moved the date box and I didn’t see it!’
Isis looked and saw the box just below the steps. The boys must have shifted it to make room for the sacks of grain.
Mut sat up, still crying, as Sheri reappeared on the stairs.
‘Whatever’s going on?’ she exclaimed. ‘Mut, what happened?’
‘I fell,’ whimpered Mut. ‘I think I’ve broken my ankle.’
‘Broken!’ Sheri dropped to her knees by Mut’s side. ‘Don’t say that. Let go, let me feel it.’
Mut squealed in pain as Sheri began to feel her way down the injured leg. Nefert and Kia appeared, and watched. No one said anything, but Isis knew only too well what everyone was thinking. This was bad news. Very bad news.
‘Try moving it, Mut,’ instructed Sheri.
‘Ah-ah! I can’t,’ gasped Mut.
‘Not even a little bit?’
Grimacing, Mut tried again, and Isis saw that her ankle seemed to move slightly. Sheri finished gently feeling it and looked up at the anxious faces around them.
‘I don’t think it’s broken,’ she said. ‘But we should get the doctor to come and check.’
‘But what about the festival routine?’ asked Mut, through her tears. ‘What if I can’t dance?’
Nefert looked away. Isis knew there was no answer to that.
‘Don’t think the worst until it’s happened,’ said Kia briskly. ‘I’ll go and fetch the doctor.’
Mut’s ankle had already swollen to twice its usual size. Isis felt her heart sink. The festival was such a golden opportunity. All sorts of things might come of it – it could bring the troupe work for months, even years. But if they couldn’t provide dancers, their chance would be gone, and it might never again be repeated.
.
Very carefully, Hopi applied an ointment of mashed onion and salt to the farmer’s arm. The man winced as the mash went on, then held his arm stiffly as Hopi wrapped a bandage around it.
‘Will I live?’ the farmer asked, his voice quaking.
Hopi grinned. ‘Oh yes, you’ll be fine.’ He looked up at Menna. ‘Won’t he, Menna?’
The old priest of Serqet sighed. ‘Yes, yes. This snake is harmless.’
‘Harmless? But its teeth sank deep into my arm!’ exclaimed the farmer.
‘Trust me,’ said Menna wearily, ‘I see plenty of these bites at harvest time. The snake was hiding in a sheaf of wheat, am I right?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ The farmer looked dubious. ‘You are sure, then?’
‘Perfectly sure. Keep the ointment on until tomorrow, then unwrap the bandage. The bite will soon heal.’
The farmer stared at his arm, as though he could scarcely believe his luck. Then he scratched his head with his good arm, and stood up. ‘I must pay you,’ he said. ‘I have brought grain.’
‘Grain is always welcome,’ said Menna. ‘Though the gods know I can’t seem to eat very much these days.’
The farmer indicated the bag that he had by his side. ‘I hope this is enough.’
‘Indeed. May the gods be with you.’
Hopi took in Menna’s tired eyes and hunched shoulders as he showed the farmer out of the house. This was the busiest time of the year, but his tutor was not himself. With every new patient who arrived to receive treatment, he seemed a little more weary, a little more depressed. Hopi knew he was grieving the death of his brother, but it seemed to have affected him very deeply.
Menna returned to the courtyard. ‘I’m afraid there will be no more treatments today,’ he said, wiping his forehead. ‘You may go, Hopi. There is something I must do.’
Hopi scrambled to his feet. ‘Can’t I help you, Menna?’
The old man shook his head. ‘I must visit the family tomb. It is over the river on the west bank.’
This was intriguing news. ‘I could carry your bag,’ Hopi offered.
Menna smiled. ‘I can see you won’t take no for an answer. Very well, Hopi. Thank you. Fetch me my cloak – I may feel a chill on the river.’
Hopi did as his tutor told him, and they were soon making their way through the winding streets of Waset. Menna had a bad back and walked with a stoop, while Hopi had a limp from the day he had been attacked by crocodiles, so they didn’t hurry. Hopi wandered along by his tutor’s side, thinking. He knew that Menna’s brother was lying in the embalmers’ workshops, his body slowly drying out in natron salt. That should have been enough to tell him that Menna’s family was rich – most people couldn’t afford to give their loved ones such special treatment. But Menna had always seemed humble, and his house was not at all grand, so Hopi hadn’t given it much thought. This was different – a family tomb on the west bank was impressive.
They reached the riverbank, where a ferry shunted to and fro across the Nile. Hopi helped Menna on board, and they sat waiting for the boat to fill up.
Menna seemed to be thinking, too. He turned to Hopi, placing a hand on his knee. ‘I am growing old,’ he said quietly. ‘It is good that you have come with me.’
‘You know I’d do anything to help,’ said Hopi.
‘Yes,’ the old man sighed. ‘You’re a good apprentice. You have already learned much. But there are some lessons that only the gods can teach.’
Hopi looked at him. ‘What sort of lessons?’
Menna shook his head. ‘You will learn, Hopi, you will learn. I must ensure that you do, before it is too late. For the time being, it is good that you will see my tomb, for I, too, will lie there one day.’
The ferry started to glide across the Nile. Hopi gazed over the water at the west bank, where the barren mountains of the desert rose up against the blue sky. This was the Kingdom of the Dead, where people were taken to meet the Next World. He was burning with curiosity, and a little fear, too. He didn’t like to think of Menna’s death, or of anything being too late.
.
The doctor poked and pulled at Mut’s leg, pushing her ankle one w
ay and then the other, causing her to shriek with pain. Eventually, he stood up.
‘I shall soothe her ankle with balm and wrap it in linen,’ he announced. ‘But there is nothing else to be done. The gods will heal it.’ He rummaged in his bag for some bandages.
‘It isn’t broken?’ asked Mut.
‘No,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s a sprain. You must rest it – no walking or running.’
‘What about dancing?’ breathed Mut.
‘Absolutely no dancing.’
Mut started snivelling again, and Isis crouched down to put an arm around her shoulders.
Nefert’s forehead was creased with anxiety. ‘How soon will it heal?’ she asked. ‘We have only two dancers. There’s no one to replace her, and the festival is in five days. Is it possible that she could take part?’
‘Five days?’ The doctor looked thoughtful.
Isis held her breath. She hated the thought of dancing alone.
‘If she rests completely, it is possible,’ said the doctor. He lifted Mut’s ankle on to his knee and began wrapping the linen around it. ‘But I mean completely. She must not walk on it at all.’
So there was hope. ‘You’ll get better, Mut,’ whispered Isis. ‘I’m sure you will. And we already know the routine.’
Mut bit her lip, trying to sniff back her tears. She nodded. ‘I hope so.’
The doctor finished his bandaging, and Nefert went with him to the door.
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Isis heard her say. ‘It’s most important that she recovers quickly.’
Sheri and Isis helped Mut up on to her good leg. With their support, she managed to hop out into the courtyard to sit with Ramose and Kha, her two younger brothers.
‘You can watch us all while we do the rest of the preparations,’ said Sheri. ‘You’ll be better in no time.’
Mut just about managed to smile.
.
By the time Menna had crossed the fields and passed the royal mortuary temples, he seemed exhausted. Hopi was growing more and more worried about him, and feared that he wouldn’t make it back to Waset.
‘You have to rest,’ he said to his tutor. ‘Tell me where your tomb is, and what needs to be done.’ He guided Menna to a boulder and made him sit down.