by Gill Harvey
‘Don’t!’ Isis sidestepped, but Hopi managed to see what she was carrying.
‘What?’ He peered at the bundle of fruit. ‘What do you need that for?’
‘Shhhhhh,’ Isis begged him. ‘It’s not for me.’
Hopi’s eyes widened as he realised what she was doing. ‘Isis, that’s stealing.’
‘No! No, it isn’t – we’re allowed to eat fruit whenever we want.’
‘We are allowed to eat fruit, yes. But I don’t think Nefert and Paneb would be very happy if they knew that you were giving it away. Especially if they knew who you were going to give it to. It’s that Libyan girl, isn’t it?’
Isis sighed in frustration. She might have known that Hopi would work it out. ‘Look,’ she whispered, ‘I won’t eat my share of the fruit for a week. I promise. It’s not stealing if I give my own share away, is it?’
Hopi frowned, but he didn’t seem too angry with her. ‘Isis, this prisoner of war thing . . . you might be right. Sort of. Menna wants me to come with you this evening.’
Isis felt a bound of hope. ‘Really? Why? Do you know what the pit is?’
Her brother hesitated. ‘No. Not yet. That’s what I have to find out.’
‘But you have some idea?’ Isis studied his face.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Tell me!’ Isis demanded.
But Hopi was firm. ‘I can’t, Isis. Not yet. But if you keep quiet for now and stop pestering, I’ll carry your bundle of fruit for you in my linen bag.’
‘That’s not fair.’
‘How else are you going to carry it without anyone noticing?’
Isis hadn’t thought of that. She’d only got as far as wanting to help the Libyan girl. But Hopi was right – this was her only option, because he always carried a bag and she never did. Slowly, she nodded. ‘But you will tell me later, won’t you?’
‘I promise I won’t keep you in the dark unless I have to.’
Isis gave in. ‘All right.’ She handed over the bundle and Hopi slipped it into his bag.
.
The sight of the army camp made Hopi feel small and afraid. Most of the soldiers seemed to be sitting around fires close to their tents, sharpening their weapons or cleaning the horses’ harnesses, and he was very conscious of his limp as he passed. The troupe made their way to the central arena, but tonight there were no wrestling matches – just music and dancing while the officers ate their food by the fire. Commander Meref appeared from his tent and ordered the entertainment to begin.
As the troupe took up their instruments, Hopi made a show of holding the women’s shawls for a while, as though he were there for a purpose. Then, when he was sure that the officers were absorbed by the performance, he gradually moved backwards until he was shrouded in darkness. He placed the shawls carefully in a pile, then nestled the bundle of fruit on top so that Isis could find it later, and headed away from the arena.
The task he had to face was harder than he had anticipated. When Isis had told him about the wrestling, he had imagined all the soldiers gathered together in one place, but tonight they were spread throughout the camp. It would be difficult to avoid being noticed.
He moved silently towards the darkest part of the camp, ducking behind tents and listening to the soldiers’ conversations. Some of them bragged to each other about their greatest feats in battle. Some discussed their favourite wrestlers from the night before. Some were not Egyptian and talked to each other in their own languages.
One particular conversation caught his attention. Staying in the shadow of a tent, he crouched down and peered round it to see two soldiers bent over a fire, talking in low voices.
‘. . . That Djeri is dead, or dying, so they say.’
Hopi stiffened and inched closer.
‘Perhaps that’s why Meref didn’t use the pit today.’
‘I doubt it. It’s his favourite pastime. He didn’t get round to it, that’s all.’
The other man pushed a branch further into the fire. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
The two fell silent for a moment, watching the flames. Hopi’s heart was pounding. So there was some connection between Djeri and the pit . . . but what was it? Then one of the soldiers spoke again.
‘I keep wondering when he’ll use it on us.’
‘What? The pit? Never!’ The other soldier shook his head. ‘He only does it because they’re Libyans.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
The second soldier shuddered. ‘Would Meref really do that to his own men? Anyway, if it’s true that Djeri is dead, he’ll soon run out of scorpions.’
Hopi almost gasped, but managed to stay quiet.
‘There’s always someone else who’ll catch the beggars.’
‘Sure, boys catch ’em when they see ’em. But Djeri was special. Had a knack for finding them. Weird, if you ask me.’
So that was it. Djeri had been Commander Meref’s scorpion catcher. Hopi studied the soldiers’ faces. They both looked uneasy and fearful.
‘We don’t know Djeri’s dead.’
‘With his leg cut up like that? Sure he’s dead.’ The soldier jerked his head back, indicating the linen enclosure behind them. ‘That Libyan, though. D’you think he’ll survive?’
His companion shook his head. ‘Too weak already. The pit will finish him.’
Hopi stared at the enclosure. So the pit was right here and these men were its guards. Silently, he shrank back. He got up and crept around to the other side. He could see now that it was open to the stars, the rough linen pegged out around a series of stakes. Hopi scanned the area for more guards, but all he could see was the glow from the fire on the other side, where the two soldiers still sat. He stepped closer. The fabric of the enclosure came only as high as his chest; he could see over the top.
The troupe’s music drifted over the encampment, bright and full of joy, but what he saw in the moonlight made Hopi’s heart go cold. In the middle of the enclosure, a young man stood in a knee-high pit. He was tied to a stake. His head was lolling to one side, his mouth hanging open in exhaustion. Hopi took in the dark beard and the brightly coloured robe that had been ripped and torn.
He’s just a Libyan prisoner, he told himself. But now that he could see the man in the flesh, he understood how Isis had felt. He saw how the ropes were cutting into his wrists and how his whole body was twisted against the stake. His heart filled with pity.
He looked around the rest of the enclosure. It was almost empty, apart from the man and the stake. But then Hopi saw a box lying in the sand near the edge of the pit. He stared at it. Could it be what he was looking for?
The faint sound of clapping reached his ears. The troupe had just finished one of their routines. Hopi took a deep breath and dropped to his knees. The linen was pulled tight between the stakes, but with a little easing and some scraping in the sandy earth, Hopi got an arm beneath it. He rolled on to his back, and ducked his head under.
He stopped. The prisoner had heard him. He was staring at Hopi, wild-eyed. With his free arm, Hopi lifted a finger to his lips, begging the man to stay quiet. The prisoner obeyed, his expression changing from fear to curiosity as Hopi slowly pulled his whole body into the enclosure. He was in. He dragged his bag through after him and lay still for a moment, listening to the murmur of the guards’ voices. Their fire crackled, their conversation continued. Nothing had alerted them yet.
Hopi lifted himself up off his belly, but stayed doubled over and hobbled as quickly as he could towards the box. He reached it and dropped to his knees once more.
A harsh, unintelligible sound came out of the Libyan’s throat. Hopi glared at him, shaking his head furiously and tapping his lips with his finger.
‘What was that?’ said one of the soldiers, the sound of his voice just reaching Hopi’s ears.
There was nowhere to hide. Hopi could feel himself sweating. He waited for the soldiers to get up and check the enclosure. The Libyan’s face was still rigid with fear. Seconds passed. Nothi
ng happened. Hopi heard the murmur of the men resuming their conversation and let out a long sigh of relief. It was time to investigate the box.
Hopi reached out and touched its lid, running his hand along the edge. Although the box was rough, the lid was well made and close-fitting. Hopi got his fingernails underneath it and slowly lifted it. A shaft of moonlight lit up the interior. It was just as Menna had thought. Inside, scuttling around the bottom, were three deathstalker scorpions.
Hopi knew what he should do. He should close the lid and report back to Menna. But how could he do that, with the Libyan staring at him in terror? He had to do something – and do it fast. Handling scorpions like these was very risky. Their sting, as Commander Meref clearly knew only too well, would cause intense pain and convulsions at the very least. Hopi made his decision. He whipped his basket out of his bag and settled it firmly into the sand. He removed the lid, then lifted the wooden box and tipped the scorpions out, shaking it hard to make sure that they fell. When he was sure that all three were in his basket, he rammed the lid over them.
He replaced the empty box exactly where he’d found it. And then, with a small, sympathetic nod towards the Libyan, he made for the fence and scrabbled back under it, disappearing into the night the way he had come.
.
No wrestling. Isis hadn’t reckoned on that. It was a disaster. How was she going to visit the Libyan girl now? As she danced alongside Mut, her mind was working furiously. She had to get away. She just had to. She watched the officers out of the corner of her eye, looking for any signs that they would ask for the entertainment to end.
Commander Meref seemed bored. He sat facing the troupe, but his eyes weren’t focused on the dancing. They had a distant look, as though he were thinking about something else. And as Isis sneaked more glances at the men, she noticed that none of the officers seemed to be very interested in the troupe, either. It was odd – they were all watching the commander, then turning to each other to exchange opinions, then glancing back at him again. It was as though they were waiting for something.
Abruptly, the commander stood up. He raised a hand. Nefert, Sheri and Kia stopped playing, while Isis and Mut came to a halt.
‘Enough for now,’ he said, and passed a hand over his forehead, as though the music had wearied him.
Isis eyed the pile of shawls that Hopi had left by the side of the arena. She knew that her bundle of fruit would be tucked in among them. She watched as the officers waited expectantly for the commander to speak.
‘Fetch the prisoner,’ he ordered. ‘The music is giving me a headache. I would rather watch some real entertainment.’
A murmur rippled among the officers. One of them clicked his fingers to a pair of guards, who came running. Then the officer turned to Commander Meref. ‘Should we go to the pit, sir?’
The commander shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no. Bring everything here. Set some soldiers to work. They can dig, can’t they?’
‘But this is the wrestling arena. To dig a pit would ruin it,’ said the officer nervously.
‘If they can dig a hole, they can fill it in again. Get on with it!’ barked Commander Meref.
The officer flinched and immediately sent for more soldiers. The guards disappeared towards another part of the camp. Isis wondered where Hopi could be. He had gone to find out about the pit, but whatever it was, it was about to happen right here! Her eyes roved the shadows, looking for her brother, but there was no sign of him.
Soldiers appeared with tools and began to dig the earth in the centre of the arena. The commander had given the troupe no further orders and the three women were discussing what to do with Paneb. They looked as though they were waiting for a chance to speak to Meref. Perhaps they would be sent home early again! While Mut watched the soldiers digging, Isis slipped away from the troupe and grabbed her bundle from the pile of shawls. Now was her only chance – and she had to be quick.
She ran lightly across the camp, taking less care than she had the night before. All she could think of was that she had to help the Libyan girl before Nefert and Paneb started looking for her – and before the girl’s brother was brought to the pit. Now she was running headlong, ignoring the shadows in her haste.
It was a big mistake. From behind a chariot, a soldier stepped out, barring her path. Isis knew she was fast – she had dodged people before. She ducked down and made to run past him. But this was no ordinary soldier. He grabbed her arm and spun her round so that she was brought up close to him. Gasping with fear, she stared up into his face.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.
It was Nes the Lion, the great wrestler they had watched the night before.
.
CHAPTER SIX
Hopi made his way to the edge of the camp. Reappearing at the side of the arena was too risky – he wanted to get the deathstalkers right away, in case someone started asking questions. As he checked the periphery for guards, his heart sank. They were stationed at regular intervals along the boundary. What was worse, the surroundings were flat and featureless, with few rocks and fewer trees. Even if he managed to get out, the guards would see him as he made for Waset. He thought of Isis and her tale of the Libyan’s attempted escape: no wonder he had been caught so easily.
Two chariots stood idle nearby. Hopi crawled between them to watch and wait. At least no one would notice that the scorpions had gone. The officers were watching the performers . . . and then he went still. The music had stopped. There was nothing but the sound of voices in the distance, and the steady rhythm of a horse chewing its fodder somewhere close by.
Hopi listened, straining his ears. Why had the entertainment finished early? Had it finished early? He heard shouts. Something was happening at the arena.
The guards were on full alert. News was beginning to buzz among the soldiers sitting by their tents, and the message soon reached the lookouts.
‘They’re digging a pit in the arena!’ came the cry.
A pit. Hopi’s heart thudded. If they were digging a pit, perhaps they were going to use the deathstalkers tonight. He had to get away. It would only be minutes before they realised what they had lost.
The guards near Hopi had left their positions. All their attention was fixed on the centre of the camp. They gathered together, gossiping and forgetting their strict formation. Hopi spotted his opportunity. Keeping as low as he could, he ran for the gap behind the neglectful guards, then half-ran, half-limped for the only cover he could see – an acacia tree near the road back to Waset.
.
Isis tried to wriggle out of the wrestler’s grasp, but he was much too strong for her.
‘You’re coming with me,’ he said in a low voice. He picked her up and tucked her under his arm as though she were just a toy.
Isis wondered whether to scream, but the thought of Commander Meref stopped her. She clutched the bundle of fruit and tried to think of a good excuse, but fear muddled her thoughts.
Nes carried her through the flap of a small, dark tent and dumped her on to a mat.
‘Please, let me go back to the troupe,’ begged Isis. ‘They don’t know where I am.’
The wrestler reached outside for a flaming torch that was stuck into the ground, and the tent filled with flickering light. Isis took in the dagger that lay near her feet and a shield propped against the wall of the tent, splattered with something dark and sticky. She guessed it was blood.
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ said Nes. ‘I can spot a girl who’s up to mischief.’
‘I wasn’t!’ protested Isis.
‘Really?’ Nes gave a slow smile. ‘We’ll soon see about that. Show me what you were carrying.’
Isis looked up at him. His muscles were enormous and his bulk seemed to fill the whole tent. All the same, behind the deep lines and the stern set of his mouth, there was a hint of something softer.
She bowed her head. ‘It’s only fruit,’ she whispered. She bent to undo the bundle. ‘Look. It’s just
figs and dates. They can’t do anyone any harm.’
Nes crouched down beside her. His big fingers reached for one of the figs and popped it into his mouth. ‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Tastiest fig I’ve had in a long time. Did you bring them especially for me?’ He reached for another one.
‘No, I didn’t! Don’t – they’re not for you –’ Isis stopped.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Nes asked.
Isis nodded. ‘Yes. You’re Nes, the Lion. You’re a great wrestler. We saw you last night.’
Nes held the second fig up to the light and rolled it around with his rough, calloused fingers. ‘So who in this camp deserves figs and dates more than me? He must be very important.’
‘It’s not a he.’
Now Nes looked genuinely surprised. ‘But we are all men.’
‘They are for one of the Libyan girls,’ confessed Isis. ‘One of the prisoners of war.’
Nes frowned. ‘You have taken this risk for a prisoner?’
Bravely, Isis raised her eyes to his. ‘I wanted to help her, that’s all. Is that really so wicked?’
The wrestler regarded Isis with a troubled expression. ‘Well, no, it’s not wicked.’
Isis felt a bound of hope. Perhaps it would all work out. Perhaps Nes would let her get away with her escapade. ‘There, I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘And you can keep some of the figs. But, please, will you let me go now? They’re digging a pit in the arena and –’
‘They are doing what?’ Nes pounced on her words and Isis cowered back.
‘They’ve just started,’ she squeaked. ‘Commander Meref stopped the dancing . . .’ She trailed off.
The enormous wrestler was listening to the sounds of the camp. He reminded Isis of a wild animal, his senses tuned to the slightest movement. Voices and the faint clank of bronze tools drifted across from the arena. Nes sat perfectly still for a moment. Then his great body sprang into action.
‘Come. I shall take you back there,’ he said, grabbing Isis by the hand. ‘And we shall see about this
pit-digging!’
.
Hopi had a stitch in his side by the time he reached the outskirts of Waset, and his lungs were bursting. But he had done it: he had managed to get away without any of the soldiers chasing him. He slowed to a walk and painfully made his way to Menna’s house. It was late now, but he knew that his tutor would want to hear the news.
