The Sacred Scarab (11 page)

At last, she decided it was late enough. She got up and tiptoed silently down the stairs. First she went out into the courtyard and lit an oil lamp from the embers of the fire. Then she fetched the stick she had put aside earlier. With the oil lamp in one hand and the stick in the other, she crept back inside the house. All was dark in the front room. Isis peeped inside, and saw the peasant’s form lying prone on the reed mats. He was breathing heavily, fast asleep. Isis placed her own lamp just outside the room, so that it cast only a faint glow, then stepped stealthily forward.

She looked down at the man’s face. Even in sleep, a slight frown creased Sinuhe’s forehead, as though he could never quite leave his worries behind. He twitched and murmured something. Isis held her breath. But then he was quiet again, and didn’t wake. She scanned the floor alongside him, looking for his little linen bundle. It was lying close to his right arm.

Very, very slowly, Isis reached out with her stick and prodded it into the bundle. She fiddled with it, until she was sure that she had caught hold of the fabric. Then she began to pull, easing the bundle towards her.

Sinuhe shifted in his sleep. Instantly, Isis pulled the stick back and stepped out of the room. The peasant turned and slept on. She set to work on the linen bundle once again, this time dragging it further, further, until she could reach down and pick it up. Grabbing the oil lamp, she ran out to the courtyard.

Her fingers trembling with nerves, Isis undid the knot that held the bundle together. The linen was grimy and had the same rancid odour as the peasant himself. Isis wrinkled her nose as the linen came undone. Holding the oil lamp up, she examined what was inside.

The peasant’s possessions were few. As far as Isis was concerned, they were nothing but rubbish – bits of broken faience, some twisted scraps of copper, a strip of coiled-up leather. She rummaged for the precious heart scarab. What had Hopi said? Green jasper, cased in gold? Her fingers touched something smooth and rounded. Here it was! Excited, she lifted it out.

However, what she held in the light of the lamp was not made of jasper. It wasn’t green and it certainly wasn’t cased in gold. It was a scarab, sure enough – or half of one; but it was black, and seemed almost like glass. Frowning, Isis groped around in the linen bundle again. Her fingers found something else. She brought it out and gazed down at another half-scarab just like the first.

She took one half in each hand and put the rough edges together. They were a perfect fit. What she held had once been a beautiful scarab but, somehow, the dark glass had broken cleanly in two.

.

‘You did
what
?’

Hopi felt a rush of affection for his sister. He loved her loyalty and guts, even if they did get her into trouble sometimes. Her nocturnal adventure had left her looking tired, with big hollows under her eyes.

Isis grinned. ‘I told you I would.’ Then she became serious again. ‘I’m sorry, Hopi. You were right. I found a scarab, but it wasn’t the one you’ve lost. It was made of black stuff.’

Hopi frowned. ‘A black stone?’

‘More like glass.’

‘Obsidian.’ Hopi thought of the little obsidian blades that Menna used to prepare some of his remedies. ‘How big was it?’

Isis made a circle with her finger and thumb. ‘Like that. No, a bit bigger.’

Hopi was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course I am! Why?’

‘An obsidian scarab that size is pretty unusual. Obsidian isn’t found here in Egypt, it’s brought in from other countries. Menna told me so.’

‘Well, it’s even more unusual now,’ said Isis. ‘It was broken in two.’

Hopi was intrigued. A broken obsidian scarab . . . could it be part of the mystery that surrounded Paneb and Sinuhe? He was still trying to digest the news that Paneb had given him the night before. He couldn’t imagine his guardian working in the fields, or how he had ended up somewhere so different. If you were born a peasant, a peasant you would remain – usually. But, somehow, Paneb had managed to get out of it.

‘So it wasn’t at Abana’s, and Sinuhe didn’t steal it,’ said Isis, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Now what do you think happened to it?’

Hopi sighed. Isis had reminded him that he was no closer to finding the scarab he had lost. He thought of the other information that Paneb had given him.

‘Have you ever seen a scarab create itself out of nothing?’ he asked his sister.

Isis stared at him as though he’d suddenly gone mad. ‘No. Have you?’

‘No, but I wish I had.’ Hopi stretched in the morning sun. ‘The real scarabs do. That’s why they’re magic. But I don’t think the same can happen to amulets. Time’s running out, Isis. I’ll have to confess to Menna. I can’t think what else to do.’

.

From the rooftop, Isis watched her brother walk along the street. She felt very sorry for him – she knew he was terrified that Menna would be angry. He disappeared around the corner, and Isis sat for a while, basking in the sun. She was tired, but she knew that a lot of preparation lay ahead for the festival the next day. Nefert would appear at any moment, calling her to practise, and Mut would have to try her ankle out, too.

She closed her eyes and dozed off. Then she woke with a start. She really should be helping out downstairs. She got to her feet and glanced at the street again, where someone caught her eye. It was Yuya, their neighbour, walking along with a flagon of beer on her head.

‘Yuya!’ called Isis.

Yuya put a hand up to the flagon to steady it, and peered upwards. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Isis.

‘Isis! How’s your visitor?’ she called back. ‘Did he enjoy the bread?’

‘Shhhhh.’ Isis gesticulated down to the ground floor. ‘He’ll hear you!’

Yuya laughed her bubbly laugh. ‘Does it matter?’

Isis grinned at her. Yuya was always fun. She was about to shout back when she spotted someone else walking along the street. Someone familiar. It was Abana’s night watchman.

‘What is it?’ Yuya was still looking up at her, puzzled.

The guard was walking slowly up the street, inspecting the crowded town houses as he went. He stopped a woman and seemed to ask her a question. The woman shrugged and shook her head.

The guard carried on. He was getting close now.

‘Yuya,’ called Isis desperately. ‘That man –’ She jabbed her finger up the street. ‘Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I live that way.’ She pointed over the rooftops towards the river. Yuya looked baffled, but Isis could do no more.

She ducked down out of view behind the roof wall, thinking furiously. What could Abana want now? He surely didn’t expect Isis to dance for him again? No . . . of course. Isis went cold. She could hear the tax collector’s voice:
she must be silenced
.
A man like him meant what he said.

Pressing herself against the wall, she tried to hear what was going on down in the street below. There was nothing at first. Then she heard Yuya’s voice, loud and clear.

‘Dancers? Oh no, not around here. You’ve come to the wrong part of town.’

The guard’s voice was low, and Isis couldn’t hear his reply.

‘Of course I’m sure!’ Yuya’s laugh pealed out, giggly and flirtatious. ‘I’ve lived on this street all my life. I know everyone.’

The man’s voice murmured again.

‘I’d
love
to show you, but I have to deliver this flagon of beer.’ Yuya sounded genuinely sorrowful, and Isis sent silent thanks to her friend. ‘I’ll get into big trouble if I don’t. If you go straight to the river and along to the quarter by the temple, I’m sure someone will help you. You ask around there.’

It was perfect. At least two other dance and music troupes lived that way. The guard would have to find them all before he came back here. Silence fell, but she waited a little longer.

‘Isis!’ hissed Yuya’s voice.

Isis peeped over the wall. ‘Has he gone?’

‘Yes. Who
is
he?’ Yuya’s face was avid with curiosity.

‘Wait there.’ Isis ran across the roof and down the stairs. She scanned the street carefully before stepping outside. ‘Thank you a million times, Yuya!’ she exclaimed, hugging her.

‘It was nothing,’ said her friend, laughing. ‘But whatever’s going on? You look scared, Isis,’ she added more seriously.

‘I
am
scared,’ said Isis. ‘And I have to go and find Hopi, before it’s too late.’ She looked at Yuya beseechingly. ‘Please don’t tell anyone we live here, if they ask. I think I may have put the whole family in danger.’

.

Hopi walked to Menna’s house deep in thought. He wasn’t looking forward to telling his tutor about the scarab, but the sooner he got it over with, the better. Maybe he should offer to repay him in some way – but how, for something so precious? Its magic was surely irreplaceable.

He found the old man in front of his shrine, sitting on his knees with his head bowed. Hopi stood in the doorway quietly, not wishing to disturb him. After a few moments Menna rose.

‘Good morning, Hopi,’ he said.

‘Good morning, master,’ said Hopi.

He followed Menna outside and took a deep breath. The moment had come.

‘I have things to tell you, Menna,’ he said.

The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? Let’s take our usual seat in the courtyard. You can tell me there.’

Hopi’s mouth was drying up. As they settled down on to the mats, he found that he couldn’t bring himself to confess straight away. ‘I’ve dis-discovered the second half of the cycle,’ he stuttered. ‘The cycle of the scarabs.’

‘Good, good,’ said Menna. ‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Not exactly,’ admitted Hopi. ‘But I’ve found out what happens, and I’ve reflected on its meaning.’

‘To reflect is the most important thing,’ said Menna. ‘Tell me what you have learned, Hopi.’

‘Well, the scarab is a symbol of life,’ said Hopi, ‘because it creates life from nothing but the ground. I think, I think . . .’ He struggled to order his thoughts. ‘I think perhaps there are things that we can’t fight against. Life will renew itself, regardless of what we might do.’ He dried up. Menna was drawing in the earth of the courtyard with his stick.

‘Go on,’ said the old man.

‘That’s all,’ said Hopi. ‘But I wish it were true of stone scarabs as well as real ones.’

‘Now you’re speaking in riddles,’ said Menna.

‘I have something to confess.’ Hopi bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Menna, for I’ve lost the heart scarab that you entrusted to me. Weni’s messenger came to tell me that it wasn’t in the box.’

There. He had said it. He waited for the old man’s wrath to explode. But to his surprise, Menna placed a hand on his arm.

‘Wait,’ he said.

Menna got to his feet and disappeared inside the house while Hopi waited anxiously. When he returned, Menna had a little smile on his face.

‘Open your hand,’ he instructed.

Hopi held it out, palm upwards.

‘Is this what’s on your mind?’ asked Menna, placing something cool and rounded on to it.

Hopi looked at the object and gasped. It was the green jasper heart scarab, its gold casing glinting in the sun. ‘How? Yes!’ He looked up at his master. ‘You had it all the time?’ Now he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry in relief. Was it all a mistake, or a trick? ‘This has troubled me deeply, Menna!’

‘And that is only right,’ said the old priest soothingly. ‘Don’t be angry, Hopi. Let me explain.’

Hopi stared down at the scarab, turning it over and over in his hands. ‘But we have risked so much to find it,’ he muttered. ‘Isis has risked most of all.’

Menna looked at him kindly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Hopi. I didn’t foresee that you would be given the blame. I knew that you wouldn’t open the box, and that you’d deliver it safely. This was a test for Weni, not for you.’

A test? So it
was
a trick! Hopi struggled to conceal his feelings. He was furious, however wise Menna might be.

‘Before you came to me with news of the natron, I was trying to uncover the problem I had sensed at the embalmers’ workshops,’ Menna carried on. ‘I wondered if Weni was at fault. I wanted to be sure that he was still carrying out his duties. If he noted all the amulets properly, he would know at once that one was missing. But would he care? Once the body was wrapped, I would never know that my brother lacked his most important amulet.’

Hopi listened.
But what about us?
he wanted to shout.
What about Isis?

‘So this has shown me that Weni is honest,’ Menna finished. ‘It’s the problem of the natron that must be resolved –’

He stopped. His words had been interrupted by someone outside.

‘Hopi! Let me in!’

Hopi recognised his sister’s voice instantly. ‘It’s Isis,’ he said, as once again she hammered on the courtyard door.

.

Isis continued to bang on the door. This time, she heard Menna’s voice.