by Gill Harvey
Hopi knew he couldn’t put Isis at risk any longer. He hoisted himself back up the wall and managed to drop down on to his good leg. He looked up the road. He couldn’t see Isis, but the light was dimmer now. Perhaps she was hidden in shadow. Slowly, he walked up towards the gate.
It was shut, and Isis was nowhere to be seen.
.
When Isis heard the gate clank shut behind her, she kicked herself. She should never have let this happen. It had been going perfectly at first: she’d knocked, a guard had answered and, to her relief, it was a man she didn’t recognise – he was older, with a kindly face.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m going to see my uncle, but I think I’m lost.’
The guard smiled. ‘Oh dear, that won’t do,’ he said. ‘Do you know which way he lives?’
‘Not far from the temples of Ipet-Isut. He’s a scribe there, you see.’
‘Is he now?’ The guard looked impressed. ‘Well, you’re not too far off track. I can soon point you in the right direction. I’ll walk you up the road myself, if you can just hang on a few minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Isis. Waiting a few moments was fine by her – it would give Hopi all the time he needed. She smiled prettily. ‘So, who lives in this house?’
The guard laughed. ‘Most people know the answer to that question,’ he said. ‘But maybe you’re too young to care about tax collectors.’
‘You might be right,’ said Isis, laughing with him.
‘The work’s all right, though,’ the guard carried on. ‘I’m the day guard, so I go off duty at sunset. Any minute now, you see.’ He pointed up at the darkening sky, then beckoned her. ‘Just come inside for a minute. I have to go to the house to report that I’m leaving.’
His broad smile had reassured her and, without thinking, Isis had stepped through the gate. Then – bang. It had shut.
‘You sit here. Won’t be long,’ the guard called over his shoulder. ‘Here comes the night guard. He’ll look after you until I get back.’
‘I really need to go straight away –’ she began.
But it was too late. Isis felt her heart sink. The guard walking towards them was the one who’d been on duty the night before.
‘Well, if it isn’t our little dancer!’ He grinned. ‘Couldn’t keep away from us, hey?’ Then, to her horror, he called after his colleague, ‘Tell the boss his favourite dancer is here!’
‘No!’ Isis turned and pulled at the gate.
The guard put his weight against it, keeping it fast. He had stopped smiling. ‘I reckon Abana will be interested to find out what you’re doing here.’
Isis gave a trembling smile, and looked appealingly into the guard’s eyes. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘I was only passing by. Please don’t get me into trouble.’
But the guard was unmoved. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he said. ‘Just my job, that’s all.’ He looked towards the house. ‘Well, well. What about that? Here comes the boss now.’
Isis felt sick. Abana was walking towards her. She made for the gate again, but it was hopeless: the guard would not let her pass.
‘Isis. How nice to see you,’ said Abana. There was a veiled threat in his voice. ‘I think you should come inside.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to. Let me out.’
‘But it seems that you came to see me of your own accord,’ said Abana smoothly. ‘Now you’re in a hurry to leave. That’s very strange. I think we were talking of favours . . .’
‘I don’t want anything to do with you,’ she spat. ‘I know what you are. You’re a cheat and a thief.’
Abana’s face lost its oily smile. ‘Be careful what you say, little she-cat.’
‘What I say is the truth! You’ve got a store full of stolen grain,’ raged Isis. ‘You take everything from peasants who have lost their crops. You’ve no right to be the king’s servant.’
‘She must be silenced. Seize her.’ Abana’s voice was cold.
The guard made a lunge for Isis, but he hadn’t reckoned on her quick reactions. She ducked under his outstretched arm and ran. In the gathering dusk, she saw the grove of fig trees up ahead and sprinted for it. Her legs flying, she zig-zagged around castor bushes and tamarisk trees, feeling insects batting her cheeks. She reached the grove and dived in among the trees, off the pathway. Glancing back, she saw that she had seconds to spare.
Little she-cat . . . she’d show him.
She leaped at a fig tree, grabbed its lower branches and swung herself up. Scraping her elbows and knees, she pushed herself higher. On a thick branch close to the trunk she stopped. She should be well hidden here. Gasping for breath, she tried to sit still among the broad, green leaves.
The guards crashed through the grove, calling and swearing. Isis thanked the gods that darkness was falling, so they could no longer see her faint footprints in the sandy soil. She leaned against the trunk and waited for silence.
‘She’s here somewhere! Find her!’ yelled Abana’s voice, somewhere close by.
But when the guards replied, they were well beyond the grove.
‘She must have got over the wall!’ one of them called back.
‘Damn her,’ Abana spoke under his breath. He was right next to her tree.
‘No sign of her, master.’ One of the guards was returning.
Abana began to move towards the house. ‘Leave it. Call off the search.’ His voice became a growl. ‘I’ll deal with this some other way.’
It was almost dark. Bats swooped and dived overhead. Isis knew that for now, all she could do was wait.
The minutes passed, and the darkness became thick and velvety. Then she heard something – a slight scraping – from the direction of the boundary wall. She listened.
‘Isis!’ Her brother’s voice was calling, very softly.
Swiftly, nimbly, Isis climbed down the tree and ran towards the sound.
‘Isis!’ came Hopi’s voice again.
She could just see the wall, with Hopi’s head peering over it. She waved frantically and leaped at it, scaling it in seconds. Then they were both down on the other side, hugging each other.
‘I thought he’d got you!’ exclaimed Hopi.
‘He almost did,’ said Isis. ‘I hid up a tree. Come on, let’s go.’
They ran up the street, Hopi half-hopping as he went.
‘Did you find the scarab?’ asked Isis, when they finally slowed to a walk again.
Hopi shook his head.
‘I knew you wouldn’t,’ said Isis. ‘But don’t worry, Hopi. Now I know what I’m going to do. I’ll get it back from Sinuhe, I promise.’
.
The rich smell of roasting mutton floated through the house as they entered. Hopi guessed it was Sheri’s idea; she was always the one who tried to cheer the household up, and there was nothing like good food to do that. They went through to the courtyard and found everyone apart from Paneb and Sinuhe gathered around the fire.
‘We’ve got mutton ribs!’ shouted Ramose, as Isis and Hopi joined them. ‘Sheri and Kia went to the market!’
Hopi sank down gratefully and took the hot, charred rib that Kia offered him. He sat gnawing it, feeling a little strength return. It had been a long day, and he had hardly eaten; the discovery that he had lost the scarab had taken away his appetite.
‘Who will take these up to Paneb?’ asked Sheri, removing some ribs from the fire.
There was a brief silence. Paneb would normally be eating with them, but since his row with Nefert, he was keeping himself apart. Hopi could still feel the tension in the air. He looked around at the awkward faces.
‘I will,’ he offered, throwing his bone back into the fire.
He stood, took the ribs from Sheri and carried them up the stairs. Paneb was sitting on his own on the roof, gazing out towards the Nile.
‘I’ve brought you some food.’ Hopi handed him the ribs.
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’ Paneb sighed, and waved them away. ‘You eat them, my boy.�
�
‘No, no, I’m not very hungry, either.’
Paneb looked up at him. ‘Turning down good mutton? That’s not like you. Is something wrong?’
Hopi avoided the question. The two mutton ribs dangled from his fingers. ‘What should I do with them?’
‘Perhaps we should both make an effort. Come, sit.’ Paneb patted the mat next to him. ‘Let’s eat one rib each.’
Hopi lowered himself down next to his guardian. They ate in silence, ripping the thin shreds of meat from the bones. Paneb finished his, and threw the bone over the low roof wall for dogs or jackals to find.
‘I hope you’re happy living with us, Hopi,’ he said.
Hopi looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course.’
‘And your studies with Menna are going well?’
‘Yes,’ Hopi said, with a shrug. ‘But . . .’ The thought of facing Menna in the morning made him quail inside.
Paneb seemed to be studying him. ‘You don’t seem very grateful. Believe me, Hopi, you’ve been very lucky.’
‘I’m truly grateful, Paneb! It’s just that . . . I fear I’ve displeased Menna today. He set me a challenge and I’ve failed.’
‘It can’t be as bad as all that,’ said Paneb. ‘Tell me. Perhaps I can help.’
Hopi hesitated. He still couldn’t bring himself to admit the loss of the amulet. Quickly, he thought of something else.
‘He sent me out into the fields to observe the life of the scarab,’ he said, feeling bad, even though he was telling a truth. ‘I watched them making dung balls and pushing them into their burrows. But Menna told me that this is only one half of their cycle. I haven’t seen the magical half.’
‘You don’t know what happens?’ Paneb sounded surprised. ‘Is that what’s bothering you?’
Hopi didn’t want to tell an outright lie. ‘He said I should go and find out, but I haven’t.’
Paneb chuckled. ‘All that knowledge of snakes and scorpions, and you don’t know the ways of the simple scarab.’
In spite of himself, Hopi was curious. ‘So what happens?’
In the darkness, his guardian fingered the amulet he wore around his neck. Hopi knew it was a simple faience scarab with a blue glaze; nothing unusual.
‘Out of that ball of dung, new life springs forth,’ said Paneb. ‘This is the scarab’s power. It creates itself out of nothing, out of dung and earth.’
‘You’ve seen this?’
Paneb nodded. ‘It’s an extraordinary sight, the young scarabs coming out of the ground. I am surprised you haven’t seen it, Hopi.’
Hopi thought about this. He had grown up in the town, where snakes and scorpions made their way into people’s houses and granaries. And he had spent long hours on the fringes of the desert, hunting for more of the same. He had spent some time in the fields, of course, looking for snakes among the crops . . . Then it dawned on him.
‘You grew up on farmland, Paneb?’
His guardian went quiet for a long, long time. Then Hopi felt the man’s hand on his arm.
‘Yes, Hopi,’ he said. ‘I can no longer deny it, much as I’ve tried. I grew up toiling in the fields with my family. With Sinuhe. I was born as nothing but a peasant.’
.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isis was struggling to stay awake. She was tired, but if she dozed off, all would be lost – she’d be fast asleep right through to the morning. She had to stay awake; she had it all planned. She lay back and watched the stars shifting slowly across the sky. The moon had risen, casting ghostly shadows over the softly breathing bodies around her. Paneb was snoring on one side of the roof. Everyone else was quiet; they seemed to be sleeping, too.
At last, she decided it was late enough. She got up and tiptoed silently down the stairs. First she went out into the courtyard and lit an oil lamp from the embers of the fire. Then she fetched the stick she had put aside earlier. With the oil lamp in one hand and the stick in the other, she crept back inside the house. All was dark in the front room. Isis peeped inside, and saw the peasant’s form lying prone on the reed mats. He was breathing heavily, fast asleep. Isis placed her own lamp just outside the room, so that it cast only a faint glow, then stepped stealthily forward.
She looked down at the man’s face. Even in sleep, a slight frown creased Sinuhe’s forehead, as though he could never quite leave his worries behind. He twitched and murmured something. Isis held her breath. But then he was quiet again, and didn’t wake. She scanned the floor alongside him, looking for his little linen bundle. It was lying close to his right arm.
Very, very slowly, Isis reached out with her stick and prodded it into the bundle. She fiddled with it, until she was sure that she had caught hold of the fabric. Then she began to pull, easing the bundle towards her.
Sinuhe shifted in his sleep. Instantly, Isis pulled the stick back and stepped out of the room. The peasant turned and slept on. She set to work on the linen bundle once again, this time dragging it further, further, until she could reach down and pick it up. Grabbing the oil lamp, she ran out to the courtyard.
Her fingers trembling with nerves, Isis undid the knot that held the bundle together. The linen was grimy and had the same rancid odour as the peasant himself. Isis wrinkled her nose as the linen came undone. Holding the oil lamp up, she examined what was inside.
The peasant’s possessions were few. As far as Isis was concerned, they were nothing but rubbish – bits of broken faience, some twisted scraps of copper, a strip of coiled-up leather. She rummaged for the precious heart scarab. What had Hopi said? Green jasper, cased in gold? Her fingers touched something smooth and rounded. Here it was! Excited, she lifted it out.
However, what she held in the light of the lamp was not made of jasper. It wasn’t green and it certainly wasn’t cased in gold. It was a scarab, sure enough – or half of one; but it was black, and seemed almost like glass. Frowning, Isis groped around in the linen bundle again. Her fingers found something else. She brought it out and gazed down at another half-scarab just like the first.
She took one half in each hand and put the rough edges together. They were a perfect fit. What she held had once been a beautiful scarab but, somehow, the dark glass had broken cleanly in two.
.
‘You did what?’
Hopi felt a rush of affection for his sister. He loved her loyalty and guts, even if they did get her into trouble sometimes. Her nocturnal adventure had left her looking tired, with big hollows under her eyes.
Isis grinned. ‘I told you I would.’ Then she became serious again. ‘I’m sorry, Hopi. You were right. I found a scarab, but it wasn’t the one you’ve lost. It was made of black stuff.’
Hopi frowned. ‘A black stone?’
‘More like glass.’
‘Obsidian.’ Hopi thought of the little obsidian blades that Menna used to prepare some of his remedies. ‘How big was it?’
Isis made a circle with her finger and thumb. ‘Like that. No, a bit bigger.’
Hopi was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course I am! Why?’
‘An obsidian scarab that size is pretty unusual. Obsidian isn’t found here in Egypt, it’s brought in from other countries. Menna told me so.’
‘Well, it’s even more unusual now,’ said Isis. ‘It was broken in two.’
Hopi was intrigued. A broken obsidian scarab . . . could it be part of the mystery that surrounded Paneb and Sinuhe? He was still trying to digest the news that Paneb had given him the night before. He couldn’t imagine his guardian working in the fields, or how he had ended up somewhere so different. If you were born a peasant, a peasant you would remain – usually. But, somehow, Paneb had managed to get out of it.
‘So it wasn’t at Abana’s, and Sinuhe didn’t steal it,’ said Isis, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Now what do you think happened to it?’
Hopi sighed. Isis had reminded him that he was no closer to finding the scarab he had lost. He thought of the other information that Paneb
had given him.
‘Have you ever seen a scarab create itself out of nothing?’ he asked his sister.
Isis stared at him as though he’d suddenly gone mad. ‘No. Have you?’
‘No, but I wish I had.’ Hopi stretched in the morning sun. ‘The real scarabs do. That’s why they’re magic. But I don’t think the same can happen to amulets. Time’s running out, Isis. I’ll have to confess to Menna. I can’t think what else to do.’
.
From the rooftop, Isis watched her brother walk along the street. She felt very sorry for him – she knew he was terrified that Menna would be angry. He disappeared around the corner, and Isis sat for a while, basking in the sun. She was tired, but she knew that a lot of preparation lay ahead for the festival the next day. Nefert would appear at any moment, calling her to practise, and Mut would have to try her ankle out, too.
She closed her eyes and dozed off. Then she woke with a start. She really should be helping out downstairs. She got to her feet and glanced at the street again, where someone caught her eye. It was Yuya, their neighbour, walking along with a flagon of beer on her head.
‘Yuya!’ called Isis.
Yuya put a hand up to the flagon to steady it, and peered upwards. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Isis.
‘Isis! How’s your visitor?’ she called back. ‘Did he enjoy the bread?’
‘Shhhhh.’ Isis gesticulated down to the ground floor. ‘He’ll hear you!’
Yuya laughed her bubbly laugh. ‘Does it matter?’
Isis grinned at her. Yuya was always fun. She was about to shout back when she spotted someone else walking along the street. Someone familiar. It was Abana’s night watchman.
‘What is it?’ Yuya was still looking up at her, puzzled.
The guard was walking slowly up the street, inspecting the crowded town houses as he went. He stopped a woman and seemed to ask her a question. The woman shrugged and shook her head.
The guard carried on. He was getting close now.
‘Yuya,’ called Isis desperately. ‘That man –’ She jabbed her finger up the street. ‘Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I live that way.’ She pointed over the rooftops towards the river. Yuya looked baffled, but Isis could do no more.