The Sacred Scarab (14 page)

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, trying 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.’

.

The troupe was making its way back towards the river. The king was still in his mortuary temple, performing his annual ritual. Much of the crowd had dispersed, as now was the time for the wealthier members of society to make offerings to their ancestors in their own individual tombs. Isis looked back at the foot of the limestone cliffs, where people were meandering up between the tomb-chapels that nestled there. She knew that some people would stay overnight, in the hope that their dead relatives would speak to them in their dreams.

None of the troupe had relatives buried in such a special place. Isis thought with sadness that her own parents had not been buried anywhere; they had been taken by the crocodile god Sobek into the depths of the Nile. She brushed the thought aside, and thought instead of Hopi, taking the vizier to see the evidence of Abana’s treachery. She could hardly believe that their plan had succeeded – or, at least, it had so far.

Other people were heading home, too, chatting and laughing about the day’s festivities. Isis noticed that there was an old man walking in the opposite direction, coming towards them with his back stooped and his weight placed heavily on his stick. There was something familiar about him. Then she realised who it was.

‘Menna!’ she cried, running up to him. ‘Your idea worked! The king blessed us with his favour!’

The old man stopped. ‘Well done, Isis. And what has become of Abana?’

‘The king was very angry. He sent his vizier to check what Hopi had found,’ Isis told him.

The old man nodded. ‘I am glad. Now let’s hope that order will be restored to our world.’ He tapped his stick on the ground and began to walk forward.

‘Where are you going, Menna?’ asked Isis. ‘You missed the festival.’

‘I’m too old for such things,’ said Menna, with a smile. ‘But all the same, this is a day when the family tomb should be visited. And now that I have seen you and heard the news, I can do so with a lighter step, because the embalmers’ troubles should be coming to an end.’

‘I hope so.’ Isis thought for a moment. ‘They’ll have to find someone else to bring them their natron, won’t they?’

‘They will. But when the king deals with a problem, he has a habit of doing so thoroughly. I am at peace,’ the old man replied.

.

Hopi returned home to find Paneb lifting down the boards that had blocked the door to their house.

‘Hopi!’ his guardian greeted him. ‘I trust I’m not acting before time. Are we truly out of danger?’

‘We are,’ Hopi assured him. ‘Abana has been arrested by the vizier himself.’

‘The gods be praised!’ said Paneb. ‘Ma’at does not disappoint us.’ He placed the last board on the ground and pushed open the door. ‘Now, I must go and fetch the rest of the family.’

Hopi wandered inside while Paneb hurried up the road. He had a lot to think about, and he wanted a few moments of peace before everyone returned. Sitting quietly in the front room, he thought of what the vizier had said when he saw the store of grain: ‘We must restore this grain to its rightful owners. The king does not steal from his people, for they are his children and he is their god.’

But Hopi wasn’t sure how the vizier was going to go about such a huge task, and he wondered what would become of Sinuhe. He frowned as he mulled over what Isis had told him about the peasant and his broken amulet. His mind drifted to the shiny black scarabs he had seen in the fields . . .

Voices interrupted his thoughts, and the family piled through the door in high spirits.

‘Hopi!’ Isis skipped in with Mut, and the two of them danced around him happily. ‘Paneb told us! We’re safe!’

They were followed by the women and boys. Hopi grinned and let his sister hug him, while Ramose and Kha clung to his legs. Then, gently, he extricated himself. While Nefert led the way into the courtyard to begin cooking a meal, Hopi stepped quietly upstairs, looking for Paneb and Sinuhe. He found the two men together on the roof, conversing quietly on the mats. Sinuhe seemed subdued but humble.

‘I see that you take care of this family,’ Hopi overheard. ‘You’ve learned to take a burden upon your shoulders.’

‘I have, cousin,’ Paneb responded. ‘And I regret that it was not always so.’

Then they fell silent as Hopi approached and sat down next to them.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ said Hopi. He looked at Sinuhe. ‘But I believe there’s something that you have not confessed.’

The peasant looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I speak of the fate of the obsidian scarab,’ said Hopi.

Paneb drew in his breath. ‘The birthright scarab? What do you know about that?’

Hopi studied his hands, and spoke carefully. ‘Paneb, you told me yourself that when a single scarab pushes its ball of dung into the ground, new life springs forth. It is not one scarab that emerges from the ball, but several.’ He raised his eyes to Sinuhe’s. ‘The obsidian scarab is in your linen bundle. It is time to show Paneb what has become of it.’

For a moment, the peasant seemed dumbstruck. Then, slowly, he picked up the bundle that sat by his side and undid the knot. With trembling fingers, he picked out the two halves and held them out in the palm of his hand.

‘It’s broken!’ gasped Paneb.

Sinuhe bowed his head. ‘It’s the symbol of my birthright,’ he whispered. ‘I broke it when all was lost.’

‘Don’t think like this,’ said Hopi gently. ‘Think that where there was one scarab, now there are two. Take one half, Paneb. You have made up for the errors of your past.’

Paneb hesitated. Hopi saw that he was searching Sinuhe’s face, trying to work out if this was what his cousin wanted. Slowly, the peasant nodded.

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It is yours.’

As Paneb’s hand closed over one half of the scarab, Mut’s voice rang up the stairs: ‘Father! Hopi! There are donkeys outside!’

Paneb, Hopi and Sinuhe looked at each other.

‘Donkeys? Where from?’ Hopi called back.

‘The vizier! The king!’

They all scrambled to their feet and rushed to the rooftop wall. There, down below, were indeed three donkeys. Hopi smiled. They were fully laden with grain.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Chronicle Characters

Hopi
The thirteen-year-old brother of Isis. Ever since surviving the bite of a crocodile in the attack that killed their parents, Hopi has had a fascination with dangerous creatures, particularly snakes and scorpions. He is training to be a priest of Serqet, which will qualify him to treat bites and stings.

Isis
The eleven-year-old sister of Hopi. She is a talented dancer and performs regularly with Nefert and Paneb’s troupe. Her dance partner is Mut.

Mut
The eleven-year-old daughter of Paneb and Nefert, and dance partner to Isis.

Paneb
Husband of Nefert, father of Mut, Ramose and Kha, and the head of the household where Isis and Hopi live. He organises bookings for the dance and music troupe.