The Sacred Scarab

by Gill Harvey

  ‘Why, yes, but –’

  ‘A family tree can sprout in many directions.’ There was a hint of anger in Paneb’s voice now.

  Kia frowned. ‘But that’s not common. And the thought of a mere peasant –’ She broke off, clearly appalled.

  ‘He’s a relative, and that’s that,’ said Paneb coldly. ‘I’m sorry the thought is so distasteful to you.’

  ‘We weren’t saying that,’ said Sheri gently. ‘It’s just . . . surprising, that’s all. And of course we must help him. I’m sure we can spare a sack of grain.’

  ‘One sack of grain will hardly solve his problems.’ Paneb gazed out towards the river, then turned back to his family and took a deep breath. ‘There’s something else that I must tell you. We’ve received another request to perform – at a harvest celebration party tomorrow night.’

  Isis felt a pang of alarm. She exchanged a worried look with Mut.

  ‘Tomorrow! But Mut is injured –’ began Nefert.

  ‘The request is from Abana, the head of the tax collectors.’

  Everyone was shocked into silence for a second.

  Then Kia spoke. ‘Surely that’s out of the question.’

  ‘Is it?’ Paneb looked around. ‘Why?’

  ‘Paneb, don’t be absurd,’ said Nefert. ‘For one thing, Mut can’t dance for several days. The doctor has totally forbidden it. And for another, whoever Sinuhe may be, he has recently suffered at the hands of this man. How could you think of entering the house of one who has inflicted such pain?’

  Isis let out a sigh of relief. She didn’t mind being watched when Mut was close to her, but the thought of dancing alone was awful.

  Paneb’s face was grave. ‘I understand the difficulties,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about nothing else all evening. But we can still offer music, and Isis can perform the girls’ old routine. Besides, this may be our opportunity to make contact with Abana. Perhaps we can make him see reason. Perhaps . . . perhaps the gods have willed it this way.’

  This was dreadful. Isis looked beseechingly at Nefert. ‘But I can’t dance on my own!’ she burst out.

  ‘He will pay us handsomely,’ Paneb carried on, almost as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘It will surely be worth our while.’

  ‘But we all know that this tax collector is a cheat and a swindler.’ Sheri’s voice was hot with indignation.

  ‘We’ve worked for such people before.’

  ‘Not when we know those who’ve suffered –’

  ‘Enough, Sheri. This may help Sinuhe, too.’

  Isis couldn’t bear it. ‘But I can’t!’ she wailed.

  ‘I’m afraid, Isis, that you have little choice.’

  When Paneb spoke in that tone of voice, Isis knew that his mind was made up. He had brought them up to the roof to tell them, not to consult them. How could he do this to her? And why was he bending over backwards for this so-called cousin when he’d just appeared out of the blue?

  .

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hopi left the house early the next morning. He wanted to tell Menna about Sinuhe and the mice, because his tutor was fascinated by all living creatures. Menna made his living from treating snake bites and scorpion stings, but his knowledge stretched much further. Hopi was sure that he would have plenty to say about a plague of mice. He might even be able to interpret it as a sign from the gods.

  He found the old man sitting in his courtyard, staring at a little casket that lay at his feet. He barely looked up as Hopi approached.

  ‘Hopi,’ he murmured, ‘may the gods be with you.’

  ‘And also with you, Menna,’ said Hopi, sitting down beside his master. ‘I hope you are well.’

  ‘Well enough, well enough,’ said the old man, but his voice was weary.

  Hopi hesitated. He wanted to blurt out his story, but something stopped him. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Menna? Have you eaten today?’

  ‘Food . . .’ Menna shook his head, as though the mere thought of it was off-putting.

  It frightened Hopi a little. ‘Master, I know you are grieving,’ he said. ‘But the body cannot survive on sorrow alone. You will grow weak. Let me prepare a meal for you.’

  Menna lifted his head and studied Hopi with calm, soft eyes. He reached out with his thin hand and touched Hopi’s arm. ‘These times will pass,’ he said. ‘I understand your concern better than you think. I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘Anything.’ Hopi was relieved to hear more strength in the old priest’s voice.

  Menna reached for the casket and lifted the lid. He fished around inside and brought out a small object. ‘Open your hand.’

  Hopi did as he said. Menna dropped the object into his palm and Hopi looked down. All that sat there was a simple scarab amulet made out of blue faience, like the ones worn by thousands of Egyptians every day.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Menna.

  Hopi frowned. ‘It’s just a scarab,’ he said.

  ‘A sacred scarab,’ agreed Menna.

  ‘What should I do with it?’

  Menna smiled. ‘You can give it back, for now.’ He held out his hand and Hopi returned the amulet. ‘This is only a model of the real thing. It’s the real thing that I want you to seek. Go into the fields, and observe the life of the scarab.’

  ‘Observe the . . .’ Hopi stared. ‘What, you mean, now?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Why not? The morning is a good time to walk out to the fields. And don’t fret about me – I need very little to eat. I will take care of that later.’

  Bewildered, Hopi got to his feet. ‘But what if someone comes for treatment?’

  ‘I’ve managed to treat patients on my own for many years, Hopi.’ Menna looked at him wryly.

  Hopi flushed. Menna could make him feel very foolish sometimes, although he knew he didn’t mean to. ‘Very well. I will go straight away. What do I do when I’ve finished?’

  ‘Come and tell me what you’ve seen,’ said Menna.

  Hopi left the priest sitting there, and let himself out on to the street. It was only when he had set off along the winding streets leading south that he remembered – he hadn’t told Menna about Sinuhe, or his tale of the plague of mice.

  .

  Ramose and Kha ran into the courtyard and rushed up to Isis and Mut.

  ‘We saw him eat his breakfast!’ squealed Kha. ‘He ate it fast. Like this.’ He opened his mouth wide and pretended to stuff food into it.

  Isis tried to keep a straight face. But then she caught Mut’s eye and they both snorted with laughter.

  ‘He’s dirty,’ said Ramose. ‘I don’t think he knows how to wash.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kha, his eyes wide with glee. ‘He smells!’

  Isis sucked in her cheeks, trying to make her face serious. She and Mut shouldn’t encourage the boys to make fun of Sinuhe. But she couldn’t blame them, either. Sinuhe was very different from any visitor they’d ever seen, and what they said was true. He did smell.

  ‘You two should try to fix the toy that Kia gave you,’ she said, pointing to a little wooden dog in the corner of the courtyard. Its legs were supposed to move, but they’d been stuck ever since the boys had used it in a tug of war. ‘Does she know it’s broken?’

  Guilt spread over the boys’ faces, and they rushed to pick up the toy. Isis bent over her work again, half-heartedly grinding a batch of grain. Mut watched her for a moment, looking bored, then struggled to her feet and hopped to the courtyard door.

  ‘Careful, Mut!’ exclaimed Isis. ‘Don’t you dare hurt your ankle again. You’ve got to get better quickly.’

  Mut wasn’t listening to her. She was craning her neck, trying to hear what was going on inside. ‘I haven’t even seen him,’ she complained. ‘All this fuss about someone I haven’t even met!’

  ‘He’s just a peasant,’ said Isis. ‘I’ve got to dance alone, thanks to him.’

  Mut hopped back across the courtyard and flopped down. ‘I bet Father would have made you dance anyway
, even if he hadn’t shown up.’

  Isis shook her head, pushing the grain back and forth on the grinding stone. ‘I’m not so sure. We have enough work at the moment.’ Then she looked at her dance partner curiously. ‘Do you know where your father came from?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Mut’s face was sharp.

  Isis hesitated. She had always taken Mut’s family for granted. She and Hopi were the ones with all the problems: their parents had died a horrible death, pulled underwater by crocodiles, and then they had begged on the streets until Paneb had taken them in. It had never occurred to her that Mut’s family might have its own stories to tell.

  ‘Well, Nefert and Sheri and Kia . . . they grew up as dancers, didn’t they?’ she said slowly. ‘Their mother taught them to play music.’

  ‘Yes. My grandmother taught them everything,’ said Mut proudly. ‘It runs in the family.’

  ‘But not in your father’s family,’ suggested Isis. ‘Paneb doesn’t play music, does he? Well, he only keeps time, with the clappers.’

  Mut clearly didn’t like this line of thinking. ‘So what?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t have a father at all.’

  ‘I know that. I wasn’t saying –’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  Isis knew better than to push it. ‘Nothing,’ she sighed, and scooped up a handful of flour from the grinder. ‘Come and look at this flour. Do you think it’s fine enough yet?’

  .

  Hopi limped through the outskirts of Waset to the south, passing donkeys carrying vast bales of straw and others heavily loaded with grain. The harvest was almost at an end. Hopi listened to the thwack of boys’ sticks on the donkeys’ backs and gazed out over the fields, which were mostly just stubble now. It was easy to see the rich, black earth, made up of the silt that the River Nile left behind each year.

  Hopi wandered on to a bare field and made his way along the edge with his eyes trained on the ground. Then he spotted what he was looking for and stopped. It was a little mound of donkey dung. He poked at it with his stick. Nothing. It was fresh; perhaps the scarabs hadn’t found it yet.

  He kept walking. A little further on there was another pile of dung – and, this time, it looked almost alive. Crawling all over it were about fifteen scarabs, their shiny black wings glinting in the sun. Hopi squatted down on his haunches and watched.

  The beetles were working furiously. They were using the donkey dung to create perfectly round balls, each one several times the size of the beetles themselves. Hopi realised he’d never watched them closely before. It was incredible. How did they manage to make their dung balls so round? And so big? Some of them had finished making the balls and were beginning to push them away. That was amazing, too. They more or less stood on their heads and rolled their dung balls along with their hind legs. It made Hopi smile.

  The pile of donkey dung was soon demolished. Some of the beetles fought, trying to claim another’s hard work. But most of them kept on pushing their balls away, away, up and over ruts of earth and between stalks of corn. Hopi wondered how they knew where they were going. He followed a couple of them and found that they had burrows. Somehow, they shoved their precious balls inside, down into the earth, and covered them up.

  ‘Hey!’

  The voice made Hopi jump. He looked around. A peasant farmer was marching over the field, waving his stick.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ the man demanded. ‘You’re trespassing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Hopi pointed at the ground. ‘I was just watching some scarabs.’

  ‘Very likely. Where are you from?’

  ‘Just from Waset. My tutor sent me to study here – I’m training to be a priest,’ Hopi told him hurriedly. ‘A priest of Serqet.’

  The farmer rubbed his chin. He looked doubtful, but didn’t dare question Hopi’s words. ‘A priest, eh? Can’t see why a priest needs to poke around in the bare earth.’

  Hopi tended to agree with him, but he had no other explanation for being there. It would be safer to change the subject. ‘Did you have a good harvest?’ he asked. ‘Looks like you managed to bring it all in.’

  The farmer grunted and folded his arms. ‘Harvest was fair enough. Rotten, cheating tax collectors, that’s our problem.’

  Hopi’s ears pricked up. ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘You see those markers there.’ The farmer pointed to some little white stones that stretched across the field. ‘Well, beyond those stones it’s my neighbour’s land. We’ve kept track of that boundary as far back as I can remember, never had a problem. Now, when that new tax collector Abana came along last week, he said they’d been moved. “According to our records.” That’s what he said. Showed us this big papyrus scroll all covered in marks.’

  Abana. That name was cropping up a lot lately.

  ‘And were the records correct?’ asked Hopi.

  The farmer shrugged. ‘How should I know? The likes of us can’t read.’

  Of course. It was all too easy to fool someone uneducated. ‘But didn’t you protest?’ asked Hopi.

  ‘Didn’t have a chance,’ growled the farmer. ‘He and his men loaded up the extra taxes and moved on. When I spoke to my neighbour, it turned out they’d played exactly the same trick on him. Dirty scoundrels.’

  Hopi felt himself growing hot with indignation. Abana was the man who had cheated Sinuhe, too. ‘But that’s so wrong!’ he exclaimed. ‘These men are servants of the gods and king. They should be brought to account!’

  The farmer threw him a cynical look. ‘Yes, well, you’re young, lad. You would say that.’

  .

  ‘Take this bowl of food to our cousin Sinuhe, Isis,’ said Sheri. ‘Then hurry upstairs and get yourself ready. It’s almost time to leave.’

  Isis took the fish stew and bread through to the front room, peering inside before entering. Sinuhe was lying down, staring blankly at the wall, and the room was full of his earthy odour. Isis felt it catch in her throat. She placed the bowl before him. Sinuhe said nothing. Isis watched as he sat upright and reached for the bread. He tore it in two with his big, rough hands, and dipped one half in the stew. He didn’t even look at Isis.

  ‘Isis!’ Kia’s voice drifted down the stairs. ‘Hurry up!’

  She turned and skipped away, but the image of those gnarled, grubby hands stuck in her mind as she prepared her own smooth body for the evening’s dancing. Kia covered her in sweet-smelling oils and placed a short, neat wig on her head. Isis adjusted it, peering into the bronze mirror that Sheri held for her. Then she reached for a band of beads that fitted over the wig, adding a splash of colour, and for another band to sling around her waist.

  ‘Just your make-up and you’ll be done,’ said Sheri. ‘We need to hurry. We’re going to be late.’

  Isis turned to Mut, who was sitting with the pots of kohl and red ochre. The two girls always did each other’s make-up, so it felt very strange not to be doing Mut’s. Mut wasn’t even coming; she was going to stay behind with Hopi, Ramose and Kha – and Sinuhe, of course. Isis sat still, and closed her eyes to let her dance partner encircle them with the black kohl eyeliner, then sucked in her cheeks as Mut brushed on a little red ochre powder.

  ‘I’m dreading this,’ Isis whispered.

  ‘Sorry, Isis,’ murmured Mut. ‘But you’ll be fine without me. Just think – I have to stay in the house with him. The boys are scared he’ll put mice in their beds.’

  Isis grinned, in spite of herself. Then she let out a long, slow breath. She’d be glad when the night was over.

  ‘Everybody ready?’ called Paneb’s voice from down the stairs.

  Isis reached for her linen shawl and slung it around her shoulders. Nefert appeared in the doorway in her beautiful white performance gown, made of linen so fine you could almost see through it.

  ‘See you later,’ muttered Isis.

  .

  The mansion of Abana the tax collector was on the road towards the great temples of Ipet-Isut, where many of Waset�
��s most gracious homes were situated. The troupe was met at the gate by guards, who ushered them through lush gardens lit up with oil lamps, and guided them to the back of the house. There, servants led them past a courtyard where vast amounts of food and drink were being prepared, then into a little room, where the women removed their shawls and checked their make-up.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly rich,’ commented Nefert. ‘This is one of the biggest mansions we’ve ever visited.’

  ‘Newly rich.’ Kia sniffed. ‘Look at all this new furniture – far too much of it everywhere. The man has no taste at all.’

  Isis was feeling too nervous to take much notice. She wished that Hopi had come, but he didn’t join the troupe at parties in Waset; there was no need. A servant led them into a banqueting hall, where the richest men and women of the town were already milling around, admiring each other’s wigs and sipping wine. Isis wondered which man was Abana. Usually, the host came to talk to the troupe personally, but they had only met servants and guards so far.

  A male servant told them to start playing, and Isis tried to relax. She felt exposed without Mut. It was strange – almost as though her dance partner gave her a kind of shield. She stuck to old routines, ones that she could do without thinking. Gradually, the guests began to sit down and watch. But she still had no idea who the host was.

  The troupe played and danced until the servant said they could stop for a break. He led them back to the same little room, where they were served grapes, figs, slices of melon and beakers of beer.

  Paneb seemed preoccupied, almost angry. ‘How am I supposed to approach Abana when I don’t even know who he is?’ he demanded.

  ‘We can always enquire once we’ve finished,’ said Sheri.

  ‘He’ll be drunk by then.’ Paneb spat out a grape pip. ‘Then what am I going to tell Sinuhe?’

  He paced up and down in a fury. Isis watched him, baffled. She still didn’t understand why Paneb was so bothered about Sinuhe. She thought of the peasant’s rough hands and rougher manners. The longer he stayed in their house, the less she liked him.

  ‘Brother, you must not worry about your cousin too much,’ said Kia. ‘After all, his misfortunes are not your fault. We can do only so much to help.’