by Gill Harvey
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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York
First published in Great Britain in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
Text copyright © Gill Harvey 2010
Illustrations copyright © Peter Bailey 2010
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
This electronic edition published in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
All rights reserved.
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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 4088 1073 6
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Also by Gill Harvey
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Egyptian Chronicles series
The Spitting Cobra
The Horned Viper
The Sacred Scarab
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Also available
Orphan of the Sun
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For Diallo
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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.
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PROLOGUE
The wind whipped under the goatskin tent, gusting the sand inside. A girl lay there, curled up on a mat. She wiped a hand over her face groggily. There was sand everywhere. Sand in her ears. Sand on her eyelashes. Even sand in her mouth, and her skin was covered with a fine, gritty layer of it. The sandstorm had been blasting for hours.
Now, at last, it was blowing itself out. A young man entered the tent holding a bowl, and shook the girl’s shoulder.
‘Neith, it’s time to get up,’ he said. ‘We must keep moving. The others are packing their tents.’
Neith barely stirred. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ she asked weakly.
‘There is a little goat’s milk. It will help with your thirst, too.’ The man crouched down beside Neith and lifted her head. ‘Here.’ He tipped the bowl to her mouth.
The milk was warm and rich, and Neith gulped it gratefully.
‘I’m sorry, Neith, that’s all there is,’ said her brother. ‘But just think. We shall soon be there, and in Egypt there is plenty of everything.’
‘Tell me about it again,’ whispered Neith. ‘Tell me, to give me strength.’
The young man stared out of the tent towards the horizon. ‘They say there is a great river there,’ he said. ‘A great, beautiful river lined with trees. There are fruits in abundance – melons and grapes and figs. And there is sweet honey, the sweetest and finest in the world.’ He stopped as his voice began to break.
‘Go on,’ Neith whispered.
‘The river is full of fish, and the air full of birds . . . the gardens are lush, and the fields are wealthy with crops. Everyone wears elegant clothes and jewels, and their houses are full of the most exquisite crafts . . .’
‘Hurry!’ cried a voice outside.
Neith gazed up at her brother. ‘Can it be true? Surely such a land does not exist.’
He stroked her hair. ‘It is what they say, Neith. Come now. We must go.’
Neith struggled to her feet and helped her brother to dismantle the goatskin shelter. The desert air was still full of sand, so that the line between land and sky was blurred. But as Neith slowly rolled up her mat, it seemed that the line was thicker, out towards the east.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing.
Her brother looked up from folding the goatskin covers. Together, they stared at the dense cloud of sand. It was getting bigger. Then, suddenly, it became clear what it was.
‘Chariots! Soldiers! It’s the Egyptian army!’
Neith’s brother raised the alarm, and all the men rushed for their weapons, fumbling among their belongings in haste. The army drew closer, and Neith’s heart quaked with fear. The Egyptian chariots were pulled by mighty horses; the feet of the soldiers beat a solid tattoo on the parched ground. Her companions were outnumbered two to one – they stood no chance at all.
‘Let them show mercy . . .’ she muttered under her breath.
The attackers’ war cry chilled her blood. The chariots were charging. Sunlight flashed on bronze axes and daggers. Arrows flew, and Neith saw a friend of her brother’s fall, pierced through the thigh. She watched in terror as her brother bounded forward, slashing an Egyptian with his dagger. The man fell and was trapped beneath the wheels of a chariot.
Neith gave a little cry. Her brother was fighting on, his dagger flailing wildly . . . she could no longer bear to watch. She sank to her knees and buried her face in her hands. They had come so far in the hope of reaching Egypt. Was it really going to end like this?
The men’s battle raged. And then a cry rose up above the clash of swords.
‘We must surrender!’ called her brother. ‘Or we shall surely die!’
The Egyptians were rampaging through the encampment. Neith looked up in time to see a soldier approaching her. She was yanked to her feet and dragged towards the other women, who screamed and wailed in terror.
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Neith scanned the camp for her brother. The men’s hands were being tied behind their backs, and she just glimpsed him, shouting at his captors. One of them slapped him and she flinched, then bowed her head in grief. In all his tales of Egypt, her brother had never mentioned the army, or the possibility of capture. She had always imagined that they would arrive free and happy, as welcome arrivals in a plentiful land. Instead, they were prisoners of war.
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CHAPTER ONE
It was Isis who heard them first.
‘Listen!’ she said, grabbing Mut’s arm.
The two girls sat still as the noise grew closer. Hoof beats and rhythmic tramping, then the blast of a trumpet.
Isis scrambled to her feet. ‘Come on!’
‘We can’t,’ protested Mut. ‘We have to wait for Mother’s washing . . .’
But Isis was already running away from the riverbank and up the street. ‘We’ll come back afterwards!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
She ran on into the town, where the commotion was getting louder. Mut caught up with her and they joined hands, weaving in and out of the crowds that were beginning to gather.
‘Is it the king?’ called a woman from a doorway.
‘No, no,’ a man called back. ‘It’s the army! They’re c
elebrating a victory!’
‘Victory! Victory!’
The cry went up along the streets, and Isis felt her pulse quicken with excitement.
She and Mut made their way to the temple that dominated the centre of Waset. Both of them were dancers, small and supple, so it was easy to duck and wriggle their way through the milling people. Isis caught sight of chariot wheels, then peered around a man’s shoulder to see ostrich plumes bobbing on horses’ heads.
‘Nearly there,’ she said to Mut, and they dived forward one last time.
The rich, tangy smells of leather and sweat hit her nostrils as they emerged from the edge of the crowd. A row of five chariots clattered towards them, the horses prancing and tossing their heads, the drivers’ arms bulging with muscles as they tugged on the reins. Behind each chariot driver stood a proud soldier waving a spear or a bow, encouraging the throng to cheer them on.
One chariot rode slightly in front of the others,
and Isis noticed that its soldier was the only one wearing armour. ‘We are the fighters of Amun!’ he cried. ‘He has given us victory again! Praise Amun, people of Waset!’
‘Glory to Amun!’ roared the crowd.
The chariots passed by, and behind them came a platoon of infantry – five rows of ten men marching in perfect time, each with a spear in one hand and a shield in the other. Isis saw that some of them had raw-looking cuts on their arms and chests, but they showed no pain on their faces.
‘They’re so brave,’ she whispered in Mut’s ear.
Mut nodded, her eyes wide with admiration.
The company had come to a halt, and up ahead, the leader was making an announcement.
‘What’s he saying?’ Mut demanded of no one in particular.
The news filtered along the crowd. ‘They’ve set up camp on the outskirts of Waset,’ someone told them. ‘They found Libyan marauders in the desert and defeated them, so they have come to give thanks at the temples here.’
Mut gripped Isis’s hand more tightly. ‘Did you hear that? They’re camping here. You know what that means!’
Isis was puzzled. ‘What?’
‘They’ll be looking for entertainment,’ said Mut. ‘We must tell Father. He could ask if they’d like to
see the troupe. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to perform for them?’
‘Oh yes.’ Isis grinned. It was a brilliant idea. ‘Let’s go and find him right now!’
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Hopi heard the troops from further away – a drifting cacophony from the direction of the river as he and his tutor Menna prepared to go out on a visit.
Menna smiled. ‘They like nothing better than the adulation of the crowds,’ he commented. ‘And why not? They have earned it.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Hopi.
‘I heard that it is a company of the division of Amun,’ said Menna. ‘Just five platoons.’ He grasped his walking stick. ‘Come.’
Hopi followed Menna along the winding streets, listening to the distant noises. Menna was old and could not walk fast, but somehow the thought of fit, marching soldiers made Hopi all the more conscious of his own limp. It had been over five years since the jaws of a crocodile had inflicted his wounds, and they had healed as well as they ever would. He was lucky to be alive at all, but when he thought of able-bodied men and boys, he felt a pang of envy all the same.
Menna stopped at the door of one of the larger town houses, and knocked.
‘My old friend Anty lives here,’ he said. ‘He is a wise and well-respected scribe. He has summoned me – to celebrate the return of his son, no doubt.’
Hopi was surprised. He had imagined they were on a mission to treat someone for a snake bite or scorpion sting – that was what they usually did. But now, a servant opened the door and Menna entered. Hopi stepped in after him, noticing at once that this was the house of a wealthy man. It was lofty and spacious; fine murals were painted on the walls, while beautiful carvings and furniture were dotted about the rooms. A middle-aged man appeared from one of them and extended his arms in greeting.
‘Menna, may the gods be with you. Life, prosperity, health!’ he exclaimed. ‘You have not come a moment too soon.’
‘Anty.’ Menna accepted the man’s embrace, then stood back and surveyed his friend’s worried expression. ‘I had expected a celebration. Is something wrong?’
The scribe wrung his hands. ‘I fear so, I fear so. Djeri has returned, sure enough. But he is wounded, Menna. They have brought him here.’
Menna seemed startled. ‘He is not with his platoon?’
‘No, no. That is why I called for you. Come.’
The two men hurried through the house, still talking.
‘But I am not a doctor, Anty,’ Menna was protesting.
‘I know that, old friend, I know that.’ Anty placed a hand on Menna’s shoulder. ‘The doctors have already been. But you have skills, nonetheless, you have powers, you are a priest . . .’
They entered a cool, dim room at the back of the house. A young man lay there, his eyes closed.
Hopi stared. There was a deep gash on the man’s shoulder, surrounded by red, swollen flesh. And that was not all. Hopi’s eyes travelled down his body to the linen sheet that was draped over his legs. One of them bulged with bandages, but in spite of all the coverings, there was still blood and pus seeping through. Hopi didn’t need to see any more to know that these were no minor wounds. This was serious. He was looking at a soldier who was very badly injured.
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The company of troops was on the march again. After the first platoon of Egyptian soldiers, there was a platoon of Nubians, all carrying bows with a sheaf of arrows fastened around their waists. Isis found it difficult to tear her eyes away, but she knew they should go and fetch Paneb.
‘They’ll be marching up to the temples of Ipet-Isut,’ she said. ‘That’s where they’ll make their offerings.’
‘So Father could try to talk to them on their way back,’ agreed Mut. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The two girls wove back through the crowds of people, then broke into a run and made for home. Mut’s mother, Nefert, was tuning her lute in the courtyard.
‘You two are home early!’ she commented. ‘Where’s my washing? Is it finished?’
‘We had to come home,’ Mut explained breathlessly. ‘There’s a big group of soldiers in town. Father must speak to them –’
‘Soldiers?’ Nefert’s sister, Sheri, appeared at the courtyard door. ‘Where?’
‘They’re camping just outside town,’ said Isis. ‘They’ve won a great victory and so they’re here to give thanks to Amun. We can go and perform for them, can’t we?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ replied Nefert. Isis saw her throw a swift glance at Sheri.
‘I’m going to tell Father,’ insisted Mut. ‘Where is he? Upstairs?’
‘Wait –’ began Nefert, but Mut was already scampering up the steps.
Isis hesitated, then followed her. ‘I’m not sure Nefert wants to perform for the army,’ she whispered as they reached the roof.
Mut pulled a face. ‘Why ever not? Since all the harvest parties, we’ve hardly done a thing. We need the work.’ She skipped up to her father, Paneb, who was studying a sheet of papyrus in the sun.
‘Did I hear you mention work?’ he asked, smiling at them.
Mut nodded and poured out the story of the soldiers. ‘They’ll be coming back through the town soon,’ she finished. ‘You will go and speak to them, won’t you?’
Paneb looked thoughtful. ‘Soldiers . . .’ he murmured. ‘Well, that is certainly worth thinking about. Leave it with me.’
‘But you must come now!’ protested Mut.
‘All in good time,’ said Paneb. ‘As I said, leave it with me.’
Isis felt a little flat. She had been sure that Paneb would rush down to find the soldiers with them. ‘We’d better go and get the washing,’ she said to Mut.
Mut nodded glumly, and they headed out on to the street o
nce more. The company had moved on now, along the great avenue that led to Ipet-Isut. The two girls made their way back to the place on the riverbank where the laundrymen laboured over their piles of linen.
‘Thought we’d lost you!’ joked one of the men on seeing Isis and Mut. He pointed at the flat stones where a row of garments was spread out in the sun. ‘Yours are almost dry.’
Isis squatted down and watched as the men began sprinkling a fresh batch of wet linen with natron salt.
‘I thought Paneb would jump at the idea,’ she said.
Mut sat down next to her and sighed. ‘It’s probably because of Sheri and Kia.’
Isis was puzzled. ‘Why because of them?’
‘Their husbands.’
Isis was still lost. ‘But neither of them has a husband.’
‘They don’t now, silly,’ said Mut. ‘But they did. They’re widows. Their husbands were soldiers. Didn’t you know?’
It was news to Isis, but then there were still many things that she didn’t know about Mut’s family. She and her brother, Hopi, had lived with them for less than a year. ‘So what happened to them? Were they killed?’
Mut shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘In a battle?’ Isis felt awed.
‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard them talk about it.’
The girls lapsed into silence. Isis watched one of the laundrymen slap-slap the linen on the rocks to pummel it clean. Another began to fold Nefert’s linen into a neat stack. He divided it into two lots, then each girl balanced a pile on her head to take it home. As they dawdled along in the afternoon sun, Isis listened out for the sound of the soldiers returning, but all was quiet for the time being.
They turned into their own street. Suddenly, Mut leaped forward, almost dropping her load of linen.
‘Father!’
Paneb was walking towards them, wearing his best linen kilt.
‘Are you going to ask the soldiers after all?’ demanded Mut.
Her father smiled. ‘Yes. I have discussed it with the rest of the family. We’ve decided that it may be a good way to make a little extra grain now that the harvest is over.’
