The Crocodile Tomb

by Michelle Paver

  ‘What? But we don’t even know where we are!’

  Herihor shooed her away with his long bony hands. ‘That is not our concern! Go now, back to your own lands!’

  With the others, he headed for the boat – but suddenly Rensi turned and waddled back to Hylas and Pirra. He was still seething with anger, incensed by Pirra’s question about burial rites. ‘You,’ he jabbed his finger at Hylas, ‘shut up.’ To Pirra: ‘You should be ashamed! Of course we buried him well! Do you think we would neglect one of our own? The brother of Nebetku?’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ said Hylas. ‘Ask him about the dagger!’

  ‘I am shabti-maker,’ fumed Rensi, his voice shaking with rage. ‘You know what is shabti? Little people who work for you in the Duat, when you are dead! For him I made the finest shabti! And Herihor there …’ he pointed at the grey-haired man, ‘he is embalmer. Other friends are garland-maker, mixer of unguents. Nebetku himself is great scribe! We gave Userref – may his name be spoken always in the mouths of the living – a burial fit for Perao himself!’

  He gulped for breath. ‘You will ask how we managed this so quickly and I will tell you! Last year, Nebetku got everything ready for his own death – so now for his brother, we had it all! Coffin, amulets, Spells for Coming Forth by Day – all we had to do was change the names! As for the body, well, Herihor is best embalmer I’ve ever seen, he lives for his Wrapped Ones, he prefers them to the living! He took out the insides, all nice and clean …’

  Pirra put her hands to her mouth.

  ‘… he purified the body with hesmen and resin, even myrrh, which Nebetku had been saving for himself. When Herihor finished with that Wrapped One, you’d think it was alive! Skin plumped up, wadju on the eyes, beautiful wig of real hair! And that coffin!’ He kissed his fingertips. ‘No cheap basketwork, oh no, sycomore wood, painted inside and out! And then for the burial – we paid wailers, we sang prayers, we filled the tomb with food, the proper garlands – everything perfect, everything right!’

  ‘Pirra,’ Hylas broke in impatiently.

  Rensi shot him a withering look. ‘This barbarian cares only for his dagger! But didn’t I tell you that we followed Userref’s every wish? He’d told Nebetku that if he died, the cursed thing must be wrapped in spells begging the gods to destroy it – so this we did! He wanted it buried with him – this also we did!’

  Pirra blinked. ‘What? You buried the dagger with him?’

  Rensi flung up his stumpy arms. ‘Did I not say so? Are you barbarians deaf as well as stupid?’

  Numbly, Pirra told Hylas in Akean.

  His jaw dropped. ‘It’s in his tomb?’

  She nodded.

  He thought for a moment. ‘Right. Well then we’ve got to get it out.’

  She stared at him. ‘We can’t break into his tomb!’

  ‘We’ve got to.’

  ‘No, Hylas. Listen. Rensi says it was buried with a spell asking the gods to destroy it. Surely we can leave them to –’

  ‘No, we can’t! To the gods, ten thousand years are like the blink of an eye, they might not do it in our lifetime!’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Besides, if the Crows could find Userref, they can find his tomb. We’ve got to get there first!’

  He was right, but just for an instant, Pirra hated him for it.

  ‘Tell the dwarf,’ he urged her. ‘Tell him we have to get the dagger out now.’

  Predictably, Rensi exploded. ‘Break into his tomb? You barbarians are all the same! Well thanks be to Ausar, Greatest of the Great, his tomb is beyond your reach!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Pirra.

  The dwarf stomped up and down – then put his hands on his hips and glared up at her. ‘Nebetku’s family tomb,’ he said in a furious whisper, ‘was dug by his ancestors long ago, when they were out of favour with the Hati-aa. They dug it in a secret place, so it could never be harmed: they hid it as only those who know every stone in the Houses of Eternity can hide. Years passed, they came back into favour – but always they kept their tomb hidden! Now only Nebetku and a few trusted friends,’ he pounded his barrel chest, ‘know where it is – and we will never tell! No one will ever find this tomb! Not if you searched for more years than there are sands in the desert could you find it!’

  ‘Time is running out,’ Telamon told Meritamen, the Hati-aa’s young wife, ‘and you still haven’t found my dagger.’

  ‘I will soon,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  A slave staggered between them with a giant bunch of blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies, followed by three maidservants bearing baskets piled with loaves. At least, Telamon thought they were loaves. Each was shaped like a cow, with brindled markings of mashed dates, and large roast-almond eyes.

  These people decorate everything, he thought in disgust. Even bread. Out loud, he said to Meritamen: ‘Tell me what’s going on and stop hiding behind all this.’

  She flinched at his tone. Behind her, her little sister clutched her cat in her arms. ‘I’m not hiding,’ she replied coolly. ‘But tomorrow is the start of the heb, and the Hati-aa’s household must do its part. I have much to see to …’ A wave of her hand took in the courtyard bustling with barbers and linen-pleaters, garland-weavers and music-makers.

  All the useless people, Telamon thought scornfully. Why would anyone keep slaves just to make music?

  To his astonishment, Meritamen turned her back on him to give orders. How dare she, a girl, ignore a warrior of the House of Koronos?

  Rage churned within him. To be thwarted by women … He was only here now because Alekto had said he might get more out of Meritamen than she. ‘I’ve done what I can with the girl,’ she’d yawned. ‘It’s your turn, nephew.’ That was typical of Alekto, presuming to give him orders! And now this girl Meritamen was calmly walking away …

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ he barked. With a jerk of his head, he told her to follow: A deliberate insult that made her flush.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said when they’d reached a quiet corner of the garden. ‘I can break you if I want. Look at me when I’m talking to you!’

  Reluctantly, she obeyed. Her dark eyes were rimmed with black, the upper lids painted brilliant green; like the stone goddesses outside the Temple, he thought with a twinge of unease.

  ‘I have been patient,’ he went on in a low voice. ‘At your request, I’ve even moored my ship behind that island in the River, so that the sight of it won’t offend your gods. I’ve done all this because you promised to find my dagger.’

  ‘And I will,’ she said.

  ‘I gave you until the Day of the First Drop,’ he continued. ‘That’s two days away. If by then I don’t hold the dagger in my fist, the Perao will know that it’s your fault. I will see you and your husband stripped of power, your names obliterated, your family ruined. Do you doubt that I can do this?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a look of cold dislike. ‘Now please, I must prepare to take my place in the heb –’

  ‘I don’t care about your wretched procession!’

  ‘Well you should!’ Darting a glance over her shoulder, she leant closer, and he caught her scent of jasmine and cinnamon. ‘I don’t know where your dagger is hidden,’ she breathed, ‘but I will soon, and to find out, I must be at the heb!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t tell you! Just believe that I know how to make them give it to me –’

  ‘Who’s “them”?’

  ‘Let me do this my way!’

  Was this a trick? Was she laughing at him behind that pretty, painted face?

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I’ll go with you to the heb –’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m watching you. And if you’re deceiving me …’ He shot a threatening glance at the little sister, who was peering from behind a pomegranate tree. ‘And don’t imagine,’ he told Meritamen, ‘that you can hide your sister somewhere safe. The Lady Alekto has asked Kerasher to set
his slaves to watch her. From now on, your sister will never be out of their sight.’

  Meritamen’s eyes widened with alarm. ‘That is not necessary,’ she faltered.

  So he was right. This was how to control her: through the sister. ‘The Lady Alekto thinks it is,’ he replied, ‘and so do I. No more argument. I’m coming with you to the heb.’ He was beginning to enjoy himself. And it occurred to him that he would go to the heb without telling Alekto. He felt a flicker of fear at the idea, which he swiftly suppressed. It was time to show Alekto who was in command.

  ‘Then come if you wish,’ said Meritamen. ‘But stay away from me, or you’ll ruin everything.’

  ‘So you do know how to get it back.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she retorted with startling bitterness. ‘I know a way, though it is cruel beyond anything even you barbarians could do, and I am ashamed to do it! But to save my family, I will make myself cruel. I will find your dagger – because I must. And then you and your kind will leave Pa-Sobek and never trouble us again!’

  The lion cub was desperate to leave this horrible land and never come back.

  She’d had enough of flies, river pigs and giant lizards. For the boy’s sake, she’d braved the strange humans – even the one who was missing his forepaw and whose mane came right off when he scratched his head. She’d endured many Lights and Darks on that wobbly bundle of reeds which gave her a nasty feeling, as if she was going to sick up a furball, but never did. And when the boy and the girl had got into another bundle of reeds and crossed the Great Wet, she’d seized her courage by the scruff and swum after them.

  But now, just as she’d shaken the wet from her pelt, they’d crossed the Great Wet again. She dared not swim after them this time, not even for the boy. There were too many humans over there. She was simply too scared.

  Why was everything so chewed up? It was harder and harder to keep the pride together. As soon as she’d got used to the dark boy, he’d left, and now some terrible sadness was gnawing the girl, biting so deep that not even a muzzle-rub could help. What made things even worse was that the falcon was so distracted by all the ducks that it didn’t seem to bother her that the pride was falling apart.

  Mewing in distress, the lion cub prowled the bank. The boy hadn’t called for her, and she sensed that he wanted her to stay on this side, which made her feel even more left out.

  What was he doing over there? Couldn’t he smell that there were far too many humans? Why couldn’t he stay here, among the lairs of the dead ones, and the ghosts, who were no bother to anyone?

  The falcon alighted on her back and companionably pecked off some ticks. The lion cub envied the falcon. She never got scared. Why would she, when she could fly away whenever she wanted?

  Besides, the falcon actually liked this awful place.

  The falcon much preferred this side of the Great Wet. There were only a couple of falcons on the cliffs, and they were keeping their distance – and not too many humans.

  The falcon liked the sick one best, as he reminded her of the first human she’d ever seen, who’d rescued her from ants when she was a fledgling and fell out of the Nest. The sick human coughed, but spoke to her respectfully, and he’d put a dead lark for her on a boulder. She’d gulped a few beakfuls and tucked the rest in a hole for later. She couldn’t eat when she was worried about the girl.

  Human feelings were twisty and hard to follow, like the bumpy air before a storm; but the falcon could tell that the girl was sad. The falcon had tried to make her feel better, but she didn’t think it had worked.

  The Sun was coming up, and the falcon spotted ducks nibbling among the reeds, and was instantly distracted. Her feathers tingled. She longed to hunt.

  This place was made for falcons. Why didn’t the others like it? The lion cub hated it, and as for the boy and the girl, at first, the falcon had thought they liked it as much as she did, because they’d made themselves look like falcons, by smearing black stripes under their eyes. But now she sensed that they disliked it as much as the lion cub. This made everything so complicated that the falcon was nearly tempted to fly off and never come back.

  And now the boy and girl had gone across the Great Wet again, to where all those humans were flocking together. Why?

  The lion cub padded over to the falcon and flicked her a glance. What do we do now?

  The falcon half spread her wings to cool them, then stretched out one foot and tidied her leg feathers. She was too proud to admit it, but she didn’t know.

  Worse than that, she was scared. There were simply too many humans on the other side: a vast, smelly, jostling, noisy flock.

  The last thing the falcon wanted was to go anywhere near them.

  A man thrust a basket of figs at Hylas and jabbered in Egyptian. Hylas shook his head and mimed I can’t speak. With a shrug the man moved off into the crowd to badger someone else.

  A motherly woman cast Hylas a pitying glance. He drew the end of his head-wrapping across his face and turned away. It was hard to blend in when he was taller than most Egyptians. And the Crows might be anywhere. Where was Pirra?

  The air was thick with incense, the crowd so tightly packed he could hardly breathe. Peasant girls crowned with white egret feathers chatted and waved papyrus flowers. Old women hawked beer, date cakes, fried fish wrapped in palm fronds. Hylas glimpsed several black faces; Kem had said that his people came to Pa-Sobek to trade ivory and ostrich eggs. Everyone was jostling for a place on the tree-lined avenue that led from the Temple to the River. And along its length, huge black basalt falcons perched on granite plinths, frowning at eternity with sharp golden eyes.

  Itineb had described the heb as a great procession, when images of the gods were loaded on to sacred barges and borne up the River, to ensure that it rose again. ‘It’s the most important time: if the Flood is too weak, the crops die and we starve; too strong, and whole villages are washed away.’

  Hylas didn’t care about that, he just wanted to find Pirra.

  I have to see where Userref died, she’d said as she ran off. Was she mad enough to try to reach the jetty?

  The Sun had only just risen, but it felt like ages since Rensi had left them under the acacia trees. ‘We’ve got to get back to the West Bank,’ Hylas had told her. ‘That’s where the tomb must be, that’s where the dagger is.’

  ‘I don’t care about the dagger,’ she’d said wearily. ‘No one will ever find it now.’

  ‘The Crows will, if they catch Nebetku or his friends.’

  ‘They’ll never tell.’

  ‘They will if they’re tortured.’

  That had gone through her like a knife. Hylas had felt bad about hurting her, and furious with the Crows for causing such grief – but there was no time. ‘As long as the dagger exists, the Crows can’t be beaten! You don’t want to live the rest of your life in fear!’

  But she’d only hugged herself and rocked back and forth.

  ‘Pirra, this isn’t like you! Time to grieve later –’

  ‘What do you know about grief?’

  He’d flinched. ‘Two moons ago, I learnt that my mother was dead.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘You hated your mother!’

  ‘You never even knew yours!’

  There was a shocked silence. Both knew they’d gone too far.

  ‘This isn’t helping,’ Hylas had said. ‘What we need is –’

  He never finished. Torchlight had appeared between the trees and suddenly a throng was upon them: peasants from outlying villages, making for the heb.

  To Hylas’ horror, Pirra had run to join them. ‘What are you doing?’ he’d whispered.

  ‘No one will notice! Hylas I have to do this, I have to see where he died!’

  So here he was at the heb, and despite his attempts to reach the jetty, the crowd was hustling him the other way, towards the Temple that towered over Pa-Sobek. Its massive walls throbbed with blue zigzags and red and yellow stripes. Columns shaped like giant papyrus flowers guard
ed its vast copper-studded gates. Itineb had said that within lay a secret world ruled by an army of priests, and tended by washerwomen, gardeners, perfume-mixers, butchers, wig-makers, weavers and those who ran the crocodile hatchery on the sacred lake.

  A roar went up from the crowd as the gates were flung wide, and out came shaven-headed priests playing silver flutes and ivory clappers carved like slender hands. Behind them swayed more priests, bearing man-high pillars woven of flowers: purple nightshade, blue and white lotus, green papyrus. Then still more priests. On their shoulders they bore a litter: a platform of gilded wood. On it rested a limestone slab garlanded with willow, and on this lay a gleaming greenstone crocodile. Sobek: He Who Makes the River Rise.

  The crocodile god was draped in white linen beaded with turquoise and lapis, and about His neck was a golden collar. From His warty forehead rose a plume of ostrich feathers dyed green. His thick muscular tail flopped over the end of the slab, and His claws gripped its edges – as if at any moment He might slither off it and over the heads of the crowd.

  Around Hylas, people were sinking to their knees. Feeling horribly exposed, he edged backwards, bumping into a water-carrier, who scowled at him.

  Hylas withdrew behind the plinth of one of the basalt falcons. Still no sign of Pirra.

  After the crocodile god came more pillars of flowers in blue clouds of incense, then another gilded litter, supported by poles borne by slaves as black as Kem. Rich swathes of painted linen hung from this litter and swept the ground. Above it, a crimson canopy shaded its occupant, a fat Egyptian with a jewelled collar and an elaborate, braided wig. Tapping his chins with an ebony flywhisk, he scanned the crowd.

  ‘Kerasher,’ murmured someone in the crowd. Hylas’ belly turned over. Nebetku had said that the Perao had sent Kerasher to help the Crows find the dagger. If he was here, surely they were, too.

  After Kerasher’s litter came another, bearing a pretty girl: his daughter? Sister? Her dark hair was twined with purple moorhen feathers, and she was surreptitiously scolding a smaller child. The child was naked but for a wreath of poppies, and clearly bored. As Hylas watched, she wriggled off the litter and into the crowd.