The Deathstalker (3 page)

‘They should have used more oils,’ Menna muttered. He pulled at one of the bandages. ‘I am sorry about this, Djeri.’

Djeri closed his eyes again, his forehead creased and his breathing shallow. Hopi could see that the pain was intense. In solidarity, he placed a hand on the soldier’s good shoulder.

‘He will, of course, receive great honour for his bravery,’ said Anty. ‘We expect the commander of the company to visit very soon.’

Menna had finished unwrapping the wounds and was gazing at them, deep in thought. They were a gruesome sight and they smelled bad, too.

‘Is there anything you can do?’ Anty asked him. ‘He will live, will he not?’

‘My brother, life or death rests in the hands of the gods. You know that.’ Menna replied. ‘I would have expected better of the army doctors, but I will do all I can. I must return home to fetch some supplies. Leave the bandages unwrapped for now.’

‘Thank you. Thank you.’ Anty bowed his head. ‘We will do anything you say.’

‘Then it is time to go.’ Menna nodded to Hopi. ‘Come, Hopi, we must be on our way.’

.

Isis and Mut danced around Paneb as they walked to the outskirts of Waset and beyond, into the desert, where the army had set up camp. Smoke from cooking fires rose into the air between the roughly constructed tents. With most of the soldiers in the town, it seemed quite deserted, so Isis thought they would be able to walk straight in. She soon realised she was mistaken. Hidden behind boulders were lookouts, heavily armed with bows and spears. One of them stepped out as they approached.

‘Halt!’ he cried. ‘What is your business here?’

‘We are performers,’ Paneb told him. ‘We have come to see whether the company requires entertainment.’

‘Entertainment!’ The soldier grinned. ‘We’ve plenty of prisoners of war to entertain us.’

‘With respect, I imagine your commander seeks better entertainment than that,’ said Paneb. ‘We are one of the most sophisticated music and dance troupes in Waset.’

‘Maybe. Anyway, I can’t let you in,’ said the lookout. ‘You’ll have to wait here.’

Paneb shrugged. ‘Very well.’

They wandered over to a scrubby acacia tree to sit in the shade, and watched as the lookout disappeared behind his boulder once more. A breeze lifted the dusty sand, whirling it in eddies around them. The shadow of the tree grew longer.

‘I can hear them,’ announced Mut at last.

Isis listened. From the direction of Ipet-Isut came the faint
thump-thump
,
thump-thump
of soldiers’ feet. ‘Yes, I can, too,’ she said.

They waited as the rhythmic thuds grew closer. There was something about them that made Isis quiver, but not with fear, exactly; it was more a sense of awe at something powerful, something much bigger than her – the might of Egypt itself.

The soldiers came into view, tramping out of the town in the same formation as before, a row of chariots riding before each infantry platoon. Isis noticed how each man stared straight ahead of him while keeping perfect time with the others. And now she could see that the company was bigger than she’d thought. After the first two platoons came two more, then about a hundred prisoners of war, with a final platoon bringing up the rear.

All the prisoners had their hands tied behind their backs. They looked miserable and exhausted. Isis stared at them, taking in their strange, colourful clothing and dark beards.

‘Don’t Libyans ever shave?’ gasped Mut. No Egyptian man would go around looking like that.

‘They live in the Red Land, the land of Seth,’ said Paneb. ‘It’s no wonder they look so disorderly.’ He took the two girls by the hand, one on either side of him. ‘Come. Now is our chance to speak to the commander.’

As Paneb hurried them forward to the front of the company, Isis looked back, fascinated by the prisoners. Many of them were men, but there were some women, too, with long, bedraggled hair, and in the middle of the group were a few girls.

One of the girls caught her eye. She had a thin, narrow face that looked pinched with unhappiness. She noticed Isis staring at her, and her expression changed. Instead of misery, Isis saw a flare of anger and shame.

‘Hurry up, Isis,’ Paneb chided her.

Isis broke into a jog to match Paneb’s stride, but couldn’t resist one last glance. The girl’s gaze was still fixed on her, but now she was begging, pleading with soulful eyes. Reluctantly, Isis turned away and looked ahead at the row of charioteers. But it felt as though the girl’s eyes still followed her long after she had moved on, out of sight.

.

CHAPTER TWO

‘I can’t believe that a soldier of our own army has been treated so badly,’ said Menna, rummaging through one of his caskets. ‘The military doctors are supposed to be the best. Yet here am I, a priest of Serqet, trying to find medicines from my own supplies. They are all for bites and stings! I can’t treat wounds like these . . .’

‘But why?’ asked Hopi. ‘Why haven’t they treated him better?’

Menna paused, his gnarled hands resting on an ointment bottle. ‘There could be any number of reasons,’ he reflected. ‘War is brutal. The doctors have to prioritise.’

‘You mean . . .’ Hopi was struggling to take it all in. ‘You mean, they didn’t bother? They thought he would die anyway?’

Menna’s kind, wise eyes met his. ‘Well, you saw his injuries.’

Now Hopi was horrified. ‘Yes, but mine were just as awful, and I lived!’

The old priest smiled sadly. ‘You were not at war,’ he said, and turned back to the caskets.

Hopi was thinking hard, casting his mind back five years to the days when he, too, had been forced to lie still and entrust his life to doctors. He had been only eight, but he could still remember some of the details.

‘Menna, let me go to the market,’ he said. ‘The wounds on my leg had a great deal of badness in them. The doctors treated them with fresh honey and castor oil – and I recovered. Perhaps these are what Djeri needs now.’

Menna stopped rummaging, his expression thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘I was looking for some malachite powder, but the wounds are probably too rotten for that. It’s worth a try. Here, take some beads to barter with.’

Hopi accepted the beads and set off towards the riverbank, where the last traders would soon be packing up for the day. He felt pleased and honoured that Menna had agreed with his ideas, and felt doubly gratified that it was he who could offer some help to Djeri. The soldier’s fate had affected him deeply – it had brought back many memories. His own recovery had been terribly slow and painful, but it had also changed his life. As he had healed, the gods had seemed to touch him and call him to his vocation. It was strange that Djeri’s wounds were so similar, superficially at least. Perhaps the gods had willed it that way.

Finding an oil vendor was easy enough, but it took a little longer to find the honey. At last, Hopi came across an old woman sitting on her own, with just a big pot in front of her. In its depths, Hopi spotted fresh honeycomb.

‘The blessing of Sekhmet be upon you,’ she said, as Hopi traded the beads.

‘Why do you say that?’ Hopi asked fearfully. ‘She is the goddess of war.’

‘But also of healing,’ the old woman replied. ‘I sense her presence around you.’

A little mystified, Hopi hurried back to Menna. Without further ado, they returned to the house of Anty, where the servant let them in.

The soldier was feverish. His body was clammy, his cheeks burned to the touch, and this time he did not open his eyes and speak to them.

‘He is worse,’ muttered Anty. ‘He is drawing close to the Next World.’

‘He is in the hands of the gods, brother,’ said Menna. ‘Only they know the direction in which he is travelling.’

Hopi brought out the pots of oil and honey that he had bought, and together he and Menna set about
re-inspecting the wounds.

‘Brother, I must be honest with you,’ Menna said to Anty. ‘I don’t know the right spells to speak over wounds such as these. We will have to trust that this treatment will be enough.’

‘It comes with the blessing of Sekhmet,’ said Hopi. He felt surprisingly calm. ‘Menna, will you allow me to dress the wounds? They must be cleaned first.’

The old man nodded. ‘Of course, Hopi. Your hands are surer than mine.’

Hopi moistened a soft linen cloth in a bowl of water and began the delicate job of wiping away the worst of the pus. Djeri cried out and tossed in pain on the bed. Hopi dampened the cloth again and laid it on the wounds for a moment, soothing them.

‘This apprentice seems old for his years,’ commented Anty in surprise.

Menna nodded. ‘Those who have suffered are always the ones with greatest wisdom,’ he said.

Hopi felt a warm glow at Menna’s words. Gradually, the old man was allowing him to treat more and more of the patients who came to them. Hopi had learned most of the remedies for both snake bites and scorpion stings; only a few of the most difficult remained, and that was because they required a powerful level of magic. Menna had even started to pay him regularly, which he knew was a sure sign of the old man’s trust.

He worked quickly and quietly while Menna and Anty looked on. When he had finished, he put the bowl to one side.

‘I have something to ask of you,’ he said to Anty.

‘Please ask,’ Anty replied.

‘Allow me to stay with him,’ said Hopi. ‘I would like to see how he is, later on.’

‘Why, yes, of course you may. I would be very grateful,’ said Anty. ‘But don’t you have a family of your own to go to?’

‘They will understand,’ said Hopi. ‘Perhaps you could send a message, Menna? Isis will want to know where I am.’

.

In the last light of dusk, Ramose was chasing his younger brother Kha around the rooftop, bellowing and waving a stick. The rest of the family sat around and relaxed; Isis and Mut were playing a game of
senet
in one corner.

‘Kha’s a Libyan!’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to chop his head off!’

Kha shrieked in mock terror, then crashed into the wall and collapsed in a heap. Ramose pounced on him and put the stick to his throat.

‘Surrender or die,’ he growled.

‘Surrender!’ Kha squeaked, then rolled over and jumped to his feet again.

‘Careful!’ cried Mut, as Kha catapulted towards her.

Sheri looked up from gently plucking her lyre. ‘Yes, that’s enough, you two,’ she told the boys. ‘You’ll end up hurting someone.’

Ramose threw the stick down and flopped on to a mat next to his father. ‘I want to come and see the soldiers,’ he said, with a pout. ‘Everyone else is going and we have to stay here.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ramose.’ Nefert’s voice was firm. ‘We’re only going because we have to.’

‘When I grow up, I want to be a soldier,’ said Ramose. ‘I want to go to war.’

Paneb chuckled and tugged playfully on his son’s side-lock.

‘Don’t encourage him.’ Nefert’s voice was sharp. ‘You would not wish such a fate for him.’

A heavy silence fell upon the adults. Isis and Mut exchanged glances. Since their return from the army camp, the atmosphere in the house had been strange. On hearing that Paneb had managed to arrange a performance, the women had said very little. They had pursed their lips and nodded, then they had got on with their chores. A new job usually meant lots of questions and a long discussion about the performance. But not this time.

‘Your move,’ said Mut.

Isis realised she wasn’t concentrating on the game. She hurriedly moved a piece, then returned to her thoughts. She wanted to ask Sheri and Kia about their husbands. She wanted to speak to Hopi about going to the army camp, but her brother was out for the night. Above all, she wished she could forget the face of the Libyan girl that she had seen among the prisoners of war, but those deep, dark eyes would not go away. Who was she? Isis wondered. Could she speak any Egyptian? There was a whole night and day to wait until they went back to the camp. Then, maybe, she would see the girl again.

I’ll go and look for her
, Isis told herself.
I’m sure I’ll be able to find her
.