The Deathstalker (7 page)

Scorpions
. . . the creatures of the goddess herself. Hopi stared down at them.

‘You recognise these?’ asked Menna.

‘Of course. They’re the fat-tailed one and the deathstalker.’

‘That’s right. And you know what they are capable of doing?’

Hopi nodded. These were two of the most dangerous scorpions in Egypt. Their sting could kill a child, or someone weak; it could bring even a strong man close to death, but not before inflicting the most terrible pain.

‘But what do these have to do with Djeri, Menna?’

Menna placed the two dead scorpions back into their niche. ‘I cannot be sure,’ he said. ‘All I can do is piece together the clues. The clearest is the term
pit
. You will have seen the sport of putting scorpions together to fight each other?’

‘They make a pit!’ Hopi exclaimed.

‘Yes.’ Menna nodded.

Hopi’s mind raced as he considered the implications. If the prisoners of war were sent to a pit, what did that have to do with scorpions? Only one possibility occurred to him, and it was a dreadful one. He didn’t want to believe it.

‘They are only . . . only Libyans,’ he said, but the words sounded hollow.

‘No, Hopi.’ Menna’s voice was sharp. ‘Many prisoners of war end up as loyal servants of Egypt. Serqet’s creatures should never be abused like this. It is not the way of the goddess Ma’at, either.’

Hopi took a deep breath. So Isis had been right to question the treatment of the prisoners . . . he felt ashamed, now, of dismissing her. ‘But what can be done?’ he asked.

Menna pursed his lips. ‘That remains to be seen. We must first find out if we are right,’ he said. ‘And to do that, you must go to the army camp with the troupe tonight.’

.

Isis stood by the storeroom door, listening. She could hear Ramose and Kha playing together out in the courtyard. There was the sound of Kia rhythmically grinding grain. Nefert was singing softly to herself, somewhere upstairs. Isis took one last look around and slipped inside the store. She laid out a little square of old linen cloth on the floor, reached into the basket of fruit and picked out a big handful of dried figs. She dropped them on to the square of linen, then reached for two handfuls of dates and added them to the pile. Hurriedly, she pulled the corners of the cloth together to make a bundle and tied it with a knot at the top. Her heart pounding, she tiptoed to the storeroom door and peered out.

As luck would have it, her brother was just entering the house. Isis ducked back into the storeroom – too late. Hopi had already seen her.

‘What are you doing in there?’ he demanded.

Isis hid the linen bundle behind her back. ‘Nothing.’

Hopi laughed. ‘You have guilt written all over your face. Show me!’ He reached to grab her.

‘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. Nothing 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.