The Sacred Scarab

by Gill Harvey

  ‘What, my donkeys? Nah.’ The man shook his head. ‘I’ve been given a big job for them here. Pays better than I’ve been paid all year.’

  ‘Really? Your employer must be rich.’

  ‘Must be, I suppose. No one in their right mind pays extra to have grain shifted on the day of the festival. Suits me, though.’ The man laughed, exposing his blackened teeth.

  ‘I wish you luck,’ said Hopi, turning back towards the river.

  ‘And you, you little lotus-picker!’

  Hopi smiled to himself as he tramped back down the irrigation channel. This was Abana’s trading point – he was sure.

  .

  The three sisters looked very imposing, sitting in a row in the practice room. Isis had never noticed before how strong they could seem; they were all tall and beautiful, with expressive features. Their faces usually showed warmth and laughter, but now they were serious, even stern, and there was no doubt that they meant business.

  Isis had been the one to tell Paneb and Sinuhe that Nefert wanted to speak to them. Both men came into the room – Sinuhe wary, Paneb defensive.

  Nefert didn’t waste any time. ‘Paneb, enough is enough,’ she said. ‘Our cousin’s arrival has caused us all grief. And now it may bring us even greater misfortune if we don’t face up to what’s happening to us.’

  Paneb looked around at the women’s faces. ‘And what is that? What’s going on?’

  ‘My sisters and I wanted nothing to do with the tax collector Abana. We went to his house because you insisted on it, and all because of your cousin,’ Nefert carried on.

  Paneb couldn’t deny it. ‘Yes, that is true.’

  ‘And now it turns out that Abana is every bit as dishonest and ruthless as we suspected him to be. Isis and Hopi have discovered his store of stolen grain, and he wants to make sure they’re silenced. His guard is hunting for our house as I speak.’

  Alarm spread over Paneb’s features. ‘Then we must –’

  ‘Wait.’ Nefert held up one hand. ‘Before we do anything at all, we must settle our own issues. I’m tired of fighting something I don’t understand. Why is it that Sinuhe can make such demands upon us?’

  Isis and Mut exchanged glances. Isis felt excited and scared all at once. Silence fell, until at last Paneb spoke.

  ‘Very well, I can’t hide the truth any longer,’ he said.

  Isis waited, holding her breath.

  Paneb carried on, ‘Sinuhe is not a distant cousin. He and I grew up together on the land he now farms. Our fathers were brothers and they both died young.’

  Isis stared from one man to the other. They were so very different – Paneb with his soft, plump body and beautiful linen kilt; Sinuhe with his dark, wizened skin and shabby loincloth. She could barely believe it.

  ‘Our grandfather held our birthright,’ Paneb continued. ‘It was symbolised by an obsidian scarab that had passed down through the generations. I had no wish to lead the life of a peasant and I left . . . I left everything to Sinuhe.’

  The scarab that Isis had found! But now it was broken . . .

  ‘You mean you ran away,’ said Sinuhe, his voice bitter. ‘You left me with nothing but hardship. You left me with your mother as well as my own, and with all our unmarried sisters.’

  Isis saw shame creep over Paneb’s features. It clearly pained him deeply to think about his past.

  ‘But, cousin, you were given the birthright,’ he said. ‘You were given the fields. I had nothing. I was nothing for a long, long time: a man with no family trade. Believe me, my body grew leaner than yours is now.’

  ‘A young man on his own can always survive,’ retorted Sinuhe. ‘You fled your responsibilities. I am the one who has toiled year in, year out to grow crops. I am the one who cared for your family. I am the one who bore the greatest burden, and it is a burden I shouldered alone.’

  Paneb looked close to tears. ‘I am sorry, my cousin,’ he said. ‘Everything you say is true. I failed my family. I failed you. I should have stayed to help you farm the land and pay the king his taxes.’

  It was a tense moment. Everyone was astounded to hear the truth about Paneb’s past. Then, to Isis’s surprise, Nefert stepped forward and placed her hand in her husband’s.

  ‘These were the faults of his youth,’ she said to the peasant. ‘Paneb has grown up now. He has us. He protects us – a wife and her widowed sisters – and he chose to take two orphans under his roof.’

  ‘That may be so,’ Sinuhe muttered. ‘But my family’s belly is empty.’

  Paneb seemed to gain strength from Nefert standing at his side. ‘You are right, cousin,’ he said. ‘And believe me, I have been trying to make amends. Your burden has weighed very heavily upon me. But what Nefert says is true: we now face the anger of Abana, and I must protect us all. We have no time to lose.’

  Sinuhe nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. I have seen for myself what Abana can unleash on a family. I will do whatever you say.’

  ‘Thank you, cousin.’ Paneb looked around at everyone. ‘We must leave the house at once,’ he said. ‘Isis, run to Meryt-Amun’s house to see if they will take us in for the night. We’ll take everything we need for the festival, and board up the door.’

  As the women began to pack away their instruments, Paneb turned to Sinuhe. ‘You, my cousin, can rest in the shade on the street, and tell the guard that we have fled.’

  Relief spread around the room as Paneb took charge. Isis ran to the door, then looked back to see that Paneb’s face was grave.

  ‘Never let it be said again that I have failed to look after my family,’ he finished, and drew himself up tall.

  .

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hopi made his way straight to Menna’s house to report back. Out of breath, he let himself into the courtyard and found the old man poring over some old sheets of papyrus.

  ‘I found it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Menna, the cargo boat is all lined up. Abana has even hired a donkey owner to transport the grain.’

  ‘And is your family safe?’

  ‘I’m not sure – I haven’t been back there yet.’ Hopi felt a pang of anxiety.

  Menna looked grave. ‘I hope that Isis has persuaded them it is serious.’ He indicated the space next to him. ‘Come, sit. I’ve been doing some research.’

  Hopi sat down cross-legged next to his tutor, and gazed in fascination at the rows of hieroglyphs that stretched across the papyrus on his lap.

  ‘What is this, Menna?’

  ‘It’s a record of the Beautiful Festival of the Valley, kept by an old friend of mine.’

  ‘A scribe?’

  ‘Of course.’ Menna smoothed his hand over the papyrus. ‘I’ve been thinking. The problem we face is Abana’s power. There are few in Waset who have the authority to challenge him. The high priests of Amun at Ipet-Isut, perhaps, but I don’t think we could reach them. They will be engaged in preparations for the festival and will not be disturbed on any account.’

  ‘So who else is there?’ asked Hopi. ‘Surely there’s someone?’

  ‘Yes, indeed there is.’ Menna smiled. ‘You must know who arrives in Waset today.’

  Hopi stared. ‘You mean the king?’

  The old man nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But . . .’ Hopi couldn’t quite grasp it. ‘How can we reach the king if we can’t even reach the priests of Ipet-Isut?’

  Menna bent over the papyrus again, pointing to the rows of intricate hieroglyphs. ‘My friend’s writings have shown me something. Nothing is guaranteed, but there is a chance. Every year the king pays close attention to the performers at the festival. Sometimes he bestows special favours upon them. He calls the best to speak with his vizier.’

  ‘But that’s perfect!’ Hopi exclaimed. His heart gave a bound of hope. ‘Our troupe is the best. I’m sure it is.’

  The old man smiled. ‘I imagined as much.’

  Hopi realised there was no time to lose. He scrambled to his feet.

  ‘I must go at onc
e to tell everyone. They have it in their power to resolve it all!’

  .

  Hopi’s news set the house of Meryt-Amun buzzing. The trader himself had returned from Lebanon in time for the festival; his wife and daughters served drinks and titbits, excited to be part of the plot.

  Isis and Mut were practising their routines in the courtyard under Nefert’s watchful eye. They were having to work without music, because it was too risky for the women to play – music was sure to draw attention from the street, where spies of Abana might still be lurking. Isis and Mut did double somersaults, bringing their routine to an end.

  ‘That’s enough!’ called Nefert. ‘You look beautiful, both of you.’

  Isis and Mut stopped dancing with relief, and flopped.

  ‘How does your ankle feel?’ asked Isis.

  ‘It was sore at first,’ Mut admitted. ‘But it’s fine now.’ She wiggled it around, then yawned. ‘I’m tired, though.’

  Isis nodded. ‘I’m going to sleep early. We have to be at our best tomorrow.’

  As she spoke, she felt a flutter of nerves. The plot to attract the king’s attention was a daring one. What if he didn’t notice them? What if they made a mistake? It was all too scary to think about.

  She got up and went to find her brother, who was sitting talking to Meryt-Amun about his trips to Lebanon, but excused himself when Isis caught his eye. Together, they went up on to the roof. Isis wanted to hear the rest of the story, and asked Hopi to describe his trip back to the embalmers and his discovery of the cargo boat. When he had finished, she told him what had happened at home.

  ‘So Sinuhe’s obsidian scarab is very important,’ she finished. ‘But he didn’t mention that it’s broken.’

  ‘Maybe he’s afraid,’ said Hopi. ‘If it’s so important, he won’t want to reveal what has happened to it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Isis frowned. Sinuhe certainly seemed full of fear. ‘But at least he listened to Paneb, and did as he said. When we left the house, he sat outside as though he was just a poor beggar until Abana’s guard came back. Sinuhe told him that we’d all run away in the night.’

  ‘And the guard believed it?’

  Isis shrugged. ‘Who knows? He went to tell Abana.’

  Hopi grew serious. ‘Then we are not yet safe,’ he said. ‘And the house, too, is in danger.’

  Isis looked out towards the sun, which was dipping down in the west. ‘Well, let’s hope he decides not to strike until he has dealt with his cargo.’

  .

  The troupe woke at dawn to begin their preparations. Meryt-Amun’s wife and daughters fussed around; Nefert, Sheri and Kia stayed inside to check that their instruments were in tune; Isis and Mut slotted back into their old ritual of helping each other to get ready.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re better, Mut,’ said Isis, dabbing some red ochre on to her partner’s cheeks. ‘I never want to perform alone again in my whole life.’

  ‘I hope you won’t have to,’ said Mut. She grinned. ‘I don’t like you getting all the attention!’

  Isis laughed. It was good to banter, because the butterflies in her stomach were getting worse. She reached for the bronze mirror to show Mut what she’d done.

  ‘Do I have enough eyeliner on?’ asked Mut.

  ‘Plenty,’ said Isis. ‘Any more and it’ll smudge.’

  They packed away their box of cosmetics. They were ready. Nefert, Sheri and Kia appeared in their translucent linen gowns, and Paneb in his best pleated kilt.

  ‘Come, we must go,’ he said. ‘And may the gods be with us.’

  It was still early, but people were making their way towards the great temples of Ipet-Isut, where the Beautiful Festival of the Valley would begin. Isis knew that the king and priests would already be making offerings to the great god Amun, his son Khonsu and consort Mut, after whom her dance partner was named.

  As they drew nearer, more and more people milled around. Isis looked up at the beautiful temples and felt a thrill of excitement. The buildings were awe-inspiring, with their imposing walls painted in the most brilliant colours.

  Paneb led the way purposefully to a point near the main gate, where performers were supposed to gather. The king had brought a retinue of his own performers from the north, of course, but this was a chance for the performers of Waset to shine. Together they waited for the great moment when the gates would open.

  The atmosphere began to build. The crowd was immense. Many carried offerings for their deceased relatives on the west bank; many others waved palm fronds. Everyone wore garlands around their necks. At last, there was a blare of trumpets and a roar from the crowd as the massive temple gates creaked open. A glorious sight met Isis’s eyes – the barque of Amun, carried high on the shoulders of his priests. The god’s shrine was dazzling, covered in beaten gold that glistened in the sun.

  Behind the barque of Amun came those of Khonsu and Mut. And then came the terrifying vision of the king himself, wearing his beautiful red and white crown. Isis lowered her eyes, not sure she should look. It was one thing to see the shrine of Amun on his barque, but the king was a living god, the gods’ representative on earth.

  ‘Don’t look away, Isis!’ whispered Mut. ‘The king’s the one we have to impress.’

  ‘Come,’ added Nefert. ‘It’s time to begin.’

  As the procession moved forward, the groups of dancers and musicians took up position and joined in, close behind the long retinue of priests. The family troupe began to perform, but this was not yet their moment: they would follow the king over the river, and on the west bank they would get their chance.

  A flotilla of boats awaited to take everyone over. First to depart were the royal barques, then the troupe was allowed to climb on to one of the priests’ boats. It was a little overcrowded, and Isis gripped Mut’s hand as they clambered on board. The river was not her favourite place at the best of times, but now it was covered with boats of all shapes and sizes, and she was frightened that they might clash and tip her in. But as the priests began to sing and the women played their instruments, she realised there was nothing to fear. This was a blessed day, and she would be safe.

  On the west bank, the procession made its way to the king’s great mortuary temple that sat beyond the fields beneath the towering limestone cliffs. There, at last, it stopped. It was time for the king to assess the performers who had accompanied him on his way.

  Nefert made a sign, and the routine began. Isis danced as she had never danced before. It was as though she were in some other world, where dancers never faltered or made mistakes. She and Mut whirled and somersaulted in perfect timing, sometimes landing so close to the king that Isis caught a glimpse of his dark eyes watching her. Then it was all over and they were bowing, trying to disguise their heaving breath.

  Lifting her head once more, Isis saw that the king was whispering in the ear of a man at his side. She and Mut stepped back towards the crowds, but this man approached, telling them to wait.

  ‘May the gods be with you all,’ he addressed them. ‘The king is most pleased with your performance. You all excel in your arts.’

  Isis felt a thrill of excitement. He had noticed them!

  ‘It is his wish that you receive a favour. Is there anything you would like to ask for?’

  It was Nefert who spoke. ‘Indeed, sir. We have uncovered a great injustice in the town of Waset, and we wish that our king should know of it.’

  The messenger’s face grew grave. ‘You are sure? This is not the sort of request we are used to hearing.’

  Nefert’s face remained calm. ‘Believe me, sir, this is a matter of great importance to us. It concerns one of the king’s highest servants. Please, ask him to send a trusted messenger with my dancer’s brother. There is no time to waste: the evidence for what I say is unfolding now, even as I speak.’

  .

  The vizier’s chariot left a cloud of dust in its wake as it careered along the great avenue that stretched between Ipet-Isut and Waset. Hopi clung on, tr
ying to keep his balance as it swayed and bounced on the palm fronds dropped only that morning. The vizier himself held the reins, his concentration centred on his galloping horse.

  ‘Here, here!’ shouted Hopi, as he recognised the spot where a little track could be seen on either side of the avenue.

  The vizier pulled the chariot to a sudden halt, and Hopi almost fell out.

  ‘I see nothing.’ The vizier’s voice was curt.

  Hopi gulped and got his breath back. ‘See, there is a donkey track here. The donkeys are transporting the grain from over there . . .’ He pointed towards the desert in the direction of Abana’s mansion. ‘And taking it down to the riverbank there.’

  The vizier looked sceptical. But then, at that moment, the five donkeys appeared around a bend in the track, heavily laden with grain. Behind them, ambling along, was the donkey owner that Hopi had met the day before.

  ‘This is what I expected to find, sir,’ said Hopi in relief.

  ‘I see.’ The vizier jumped down from his chariot and held up a hand. ‘In the name of the king! Whose grain is this?’

  The man stopped. Shock and recognition crossed his face as he spotted Hopi, and his eyes boggled at the vizier’s finery – the snorting horse, the chariot, the man’s linen gown and gold jewellery.

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he said, his voice panicky. ‘I’m just transporting it.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said the vizier coldly. ‘But where has it come from?’

  The donkey owner’s gaze flitted between Hopi and the vizier. ‘What’ll happen to me if I tell you?’ he asked.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ snapped the vizier. ‘But if you don’t, you’ll find yourself in trouble. Obstructing the king’s orders is a serious offence.’

  Alarm spread over the donkey owner’s features. ‘Humble apologies, sir. It’s Abana’s grain,’ he mumbled. ‘Abana the tax collector. He’s paid me to take it down to the river. The cargo boat’s waiting there.’

  ‘Then it can wait.’ The vizier climbed back into his chariot. ‘Turn around at once. Take me to this store of grain.’ He turned to Hopi. ‘You and your family have served the king well. Your actions will not go unrewarded.’