The Sacred Scarab (5 page)

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Hopi limped through the outskirts of Waset to the south, passing donkeys carrying vast bales of straw and others heavily loaded with grain. The harvest was almost at an end. Hopi listened to the
thwack
of boys’ sticks on the donkeys’ backs and gazed out over the fields, which were mostly just stubble now. It was easy to see the rich, black earth, made up of the silt that the River Nile left behind each year.

Hopi wandered on to a bare field and made his way along the edge with his eyes trained on the ground. Then he spotted what he was looking for and stopped. It was a little mound of donkey dung. He poked at it with his stick. Nothing. It was fresh; perhaps the scarabs hadn’t found it yet.

He kept walking. A little further on there was another pile of dung – and, this time, it looked almost alive. Crawling all over it were about fifteen scarabs, their shiny black wings glinting in the sun. Hopi squatted down on his haunches and watched.

The beetles were working furiously. They were using the donkey dung to create perfectly round balls, each one several times the size of the beetles themselves. Hopi realised he’d never watched them closely before. It was incredible. How did they manage to make their dung balls so round? And so big? Some of them had finished making the balls and were beginning to push them away. That was amazing, too. They more or less stood on their heads and rolled their dung balls along with their hind legs. It made Hopi smile.

The pile of donkey dung was soon demolished. Some of the beetles fought, trying to claim another’s hard work. But most of them kept on pushing their balls away, away, up and over ruts of earth and between stalks of corn. Hopi wondered how they knew where they were going. He followed a couple of them and found that they had burrows. Somehow, they shoved their precious balls inside, down into the earth, and covered them up.

‘Hey!’

The voice made Hopi jump. He looked around. A peasant farmer was marching over the field, waving his stick.

‘What are you doing here?’ the man demanded. ‘You’re trespassing.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Hopi pointed at the ground. ‘I was just watching some scarabs.’

‘Very likely. Where are you from?’

‘Just from Waset. My tutor sent me to study here – I’m training to be a priest,’ Hopi told him hurriedly. ‘A priest of Serqet.’

The farmer rubbed his chin. He looked doubtful, but didn’t dare question Hopi’s words. ‘A priest, eh? Can’t see why a priest needs to poke around in the bare earth.’

Hopi tended to agree with him, but he had no other explanation for being there. It would be safer to change the subject. ‘Did you have a good harvest?’ he asked. ‘Looks like you managed to bring it all in.’

The farmer grunted and folded his arms. ‘Harvest was fair enough. Rotten, cheating tax collectors, that’s our problem.’

Hopi’s ears pricked up. ‘Really? What happened?’

‘You see those markers there.’ The farmer pointed to some little white stones that stretched across the field. ‘Well, beyond those stones it’s my neighbour’s land. We’ve kept track of that boundary as far back as I can remember, never had a problem. Now, when that new tax collector Abana came along last week, he said they’d been moved. “According to our records.” That’s what he said. Showed us this big papyrus scroll all covered in marks.’

Abana. That name was cropping up a lot lately.

‘And were the records correct?’ asked Hopi.

The farmer shrugged. ‘How should I know? The likes of us can’t read.’

Of course. It was all too easy to fool someone uneducated. ‘But didn’t you protest?’ asked Hopi.

‘Didn’t have a chance,’ growled the farmer. ‘He and his men loaded up the extra taxes and moved on. When I spoke to my neighbour, it turned out they’d played exactly the same trick on him. Dirty scoundrels.’

Hopi felt himself growing hot with indignation. Abana was the man who had cheated Sinuhe, too. ‘But that’s so wrong!’ he exclaimed. ‘These men are servants of the gods and king. They should be brought to account!’

The farmer threw him a cynical look. ‘Yes, well, you’re young, lad. You would say that.’

.

‘Take this bowl of food to our cousin Sinuhe, Isis,’ said Sheri. ‘Then hurry upstairs and get yourself ready. It’s almost time to leave.’

Isis took the fish stew and bread through to the front room, peering inside before entering. Sinuhe was lying down, staring blankly at the wall, and the room was full of his earthy odour. Isis felt it catch in her throat. She placed the bowl before him. Sinuhe said nothing. Isis watched as he sat upright and reached for the bread. He tore it in two with his big, rough hands, and dipped one half in the stew. He didn’t even look at Isis.

‘Isis!’ Kia’s voice drifted down the stairs. ‘Hurry up!’

She turned and skipped away, but the image of those gnarled, grubby hands stuck in her mind as she prepared her own smooth body for the evening’s dancing. Kia covered her in sweet-smelling oils and placed a short, neat wig on her head. Isis adjusted it, peering into the bronze mirror that Sheri held for her. Then she reached for a band of beads that fitted over the wig, adding a splash of colour, and for another band to sling around her waist.

‘Just your make-up and you’ll be done,’ said Sheri. ‘We need to hurry. We’re going to be late.’

Isis turned to Mut, who was sitting with the pots of kohl and red ochre. The two girls always did each other’s make-up, so it felt very strange not to be doing Mut’s. Mut wasn’t even coming; she was going to stay behind with Hopi, Ramose and Kha – and Sinuhe, of course. Isis sat still, and closed her eyes to let her dance partner encircle them with the black kohl eyeliner, then sucked in her cheeks as Mut brushed on a little red ochre powder.

‘I’m dreading this,’ Isis whispered.

‘Sorry, Isis,’ murmured Mut. ‘But you’ll be fine without me. Just think – I have to stay in the house with
him
. The boys are scared he’ll put mice in their beds.’

Isis grinned, in spite of herself. Then she let out a long, slow breath. She’d be glad when the night was over.

‘Everybody ready?’ called Paneb’s voice from down the stairs.

Isis reached for her linen shawl and slung it around her shoulders. Nefert appeared in the doorway in her beautiful white performance gown, made of linen so fine you could almost see through it.

‘See you later,’ muttered Isis.

.

The mansion of Abana the tax collector was on the road towards the great temples of Ipet-Isut, where many of Waset’s most gracious homes were situated. The troupe was met at the gate by guards, who ushered them through lush gardens lit up with oil lamps, and guided them to the back of the house. There, servants led them past a courtyard where vast amounts of food and drink were being prepared, then into a little room, where the women removed their shawls and checked their make-up.

‘Well, he’s certainly rich,’ commented Nefert. ‘This is one of the biggest mansions we’ve ever visited.’

‘Newly rich.’ Kia sniffed. ‘Look at all this new furniture – far too much of it everywhere. The man has no taste at all.’

Isis was feeling too nervous to take much notice. She wished that Hopi had come, but he didn’t join the troupe at parties in Waset; there was no need. A servant led them into a banqueting hall, where the richest men and women of the town were already milling around, admiring each other’s wigs and sipping wine. Isis wondered which man was Abana. Usually, the host came to talk to the troupe personally, but they had only met servants and guards so far.

A male servant told them to start playing, and Isis tried to relax. She felt exposed without Mut. It was strange – almost as though her dance partner gave her a kind of shield. She stuck to old routines, ones that she could do without thinking. Gradually, the guests began to sit down and watch. But she still had no idea who the host was.

The troupe played and danced until the servant said they could stop for a break. He led them back to the same little room, where they were served grapes, figs, slices of melon and beakers of beer.

Paneb seemed preoccupied, almost angry. ‘How am I supposed to approach Abana when I don’t even know who he is?’ he demanded.

‘We can always enquire once we’ve finished,’ said Sheri.

‘He’ll be drunk by then.’ Paneb spat out a grape pip. ‘Then what am I going to tell Sinuhe?’

He paced up and down in a fury. Isis watched him, baffled. She still didn’t understand why Paneb was so bothered about Sinuhe. She thought of the peasant’s rough hands and rougher manners. The longer he stayed in their house, the less she liked him.

‘Brother, you must not worry about your cousin too much,’ said Kia. ‘After all, his misfortunes are not your fault. We can do only so much to help.’

‘Only so much!’ Paneb glared at his sister-in-law. ‘Kia, you don’t know what you’re saying. I
must
speak with Abana before the end of the evening.’

The servant returned to take them back to the banqueting hall. The guests were more boisterous now, and many of the women were drunk. Isis felt everyone’s eyes on her as she danced.

Not long now
, she kept telling herself,
not long
. . .

One man in particular seemed to be watching her closely and, as she gave her final bow, he beckoned her over.

Isis glanced anxiously at Nefert, who put down her lute.

‘I’ll come with you, Isis,’ she said.

They walked over and stood in front of the man, who was surrounded by a group of friends. Isis bowed her head as she reached him.

‘At your service, sir.’

The man looked at Nefert. ‘A fine dancer you have,’ he commented. ‘She’s exquisite. I hired you on a recommendation, and I haven’t been disappointed.’

Isis gave a start. So
this
was Abana!

‘We are happy to hear that, sir,’ responded Nefert.

‘I should like to see her again,’ said Abana.

‘Well,’ said Nefert cautiously, ‘we are very busy at the moment in the run-up to the Beautiful Festival of the Valley, as I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Every night?’ snapped Abana. ‘I find that hard to believe. Anyway, I don’t want all of you. I just want to see this dancer again.’

Isis felt her heart beating faster. All her instincts told her that this man couldn’t be trusted – and the thought of dancing alone again filled her with horror. She waited for Nefert to speak up in her defence, but her guardian’s next words came as a shock.

‘If you’re so pleased with our performance, perhaps you would consider doing us a favour,’ said Nefert. ‘There’s something my husband wishes to discuss with you.’

The tax collector narrowed his eyes, and a cynical smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘A favour, indeed!’ he exclaimed. ‘But you haven’t given me an answer.’

‘If you would just listen to my husband,’ said Nefert.

Isis couldn’t believe it. Nefert was
trading
her – trading her on behalf of Sinuhe! She felt panic rising and turned to Nefert. ‘But I don’t –’

‘Hush, Isis. I know.’ Nefert silenced her with a glare.

Abana grinned. He was surrounded by even more guests now, all wanting his attention, while two of the servants hovered nearby. He stood and dismissed Nefert with a wave of his hand. ‘Tell your husband to do
me
a favour,’ he said. ‘I want to see this dancer tomorrow, and I won’t listen to anything unless he agrees to my terms. Is that clear?’

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CHAPTER FOUR

The house was quiet. Mut, Ramose and Kha were asleep, curled up together on mats in the back room. Hopi had returned home just before the troupe left for Abana’s party. Once they had gone, he had served himself the remains of the fish stew and carried it up on to the roof, where he mopped it up with chunks of bread. Then he laid the bowl down and watched the sun set over the western mountains, thinking.

He had learned a lot that day. He thought about the scarabs, with their perfect balls of dung. He thought of Khepri, the scarab god of the rising sun, and imagined him pushing the sun up out of the underworld every morning.