The Spitting Cobra (5 page)

CHAPTER THREE

The house of Nakht was packed, and the inner room was hot. Very hot. Lamplight flickered around the walls, creating deep, twisting shadows that leaped and cavorted in time with the music. Nefert, Sheri and Kia were playing their instruments faster and faster, while Paneb beat out the rhythm with a pair of clappers. Mut and Isis gyrated and swayed to the music, their bodies shining with fragrant oil.

The room was crowded with people. Men holding beakers of wine stood cheering and clapping. Women sat along one wall dressed in their finest linen and jewellery – beautiful beaded collars and gold bangles that glinted in the lamplight. Perfume cones sat on top of their wigs, slowly melting, filling the room with rich, sweet scent.

‘More space! More space!’ Paneb cried. ‘Make room for our dancers!’

The partygoers squeezed tighter together, laughing, to create an open area in the centre of the room. Mut and Isis whirled into it together, perfectly in time. They gave each other a little nod and flipped their bodies forward into a front-flip. Then, without pausing, they flipped themselves backwards in the tiny space, gaining a roar of applause.

‘Again!’ called the men.

The girls did as the men asked, then carried on with their dance. Their arms in the air, they swung their hips in time to the music, then started taking rhythmic little steps, first in one direction, then in the other. Isis knew this part of their routine so well that she could allow her glance to wander around the room. Some of the women had drunk too much wine, and were giggling together in a corner. Many of the men had started leaning against the walls a little heavily. By the doorway stood Hopi, alone.

In between her twists and turns, Isis noticed someone appear by Hopi’s side: a middle-aged man, wearing a neat, well-made wig and fine jewellery. Hopi looked surprised as the man started talking to him. Isis saw him shaking his head, his face concerned. What was going on?

She had to carry on dancing. They were reaching a more difficult section of their routine, and she needed to concentrate. But now the man was placing a heavy hand on Hopi’s shoulder . . .

Isis wished they could dance in that direction. She craned her neck, distracted. Before she knew it, she was out of time. She did a somersault well after Mut, and landed awkwardly, almost falling over. Mut glared at her, furious. She could tell what her dance partner meant:
What do you think you’re doing?

Isis felt her cheeks grow hot, hoping desperately that Nefert and Paneb hadn’t noticed. Arguing with Mut was one thing. Making mistakes when she was dancing was quite another. The troupe prided itself on giving a perfect performance every time – its reputation depended upon it. Losing concentration like that . . . Isis was furious with herself. It was unforgivable.

.

‘Come with me.’

The man steered Hopi out of the main room. Hopi looked over his shoulder, hoping to see someone familiar, but the whole family was performing, and he hadn’t seen Seti since they’d parted that afternoon. The man dug his fingers a little deeper into Hopi’s shoulder. There was no choice. This man had an air of authority, something powerful that was slightly frightening. Obediently, Hopi accompanied him out into the cool night air.

In the moonlight, the man’s eyes searched Hopi’s face from beneath dark eyebrows. ‘It worries me when I see young people dabbling in things that they do not understand,’ he said.

Hopi was baffled. ‘Are you speaking to the right person, sir?’ he asked. ‘I only arrived this morning. I’m not dabbling in anything.’

‘Oh, I’m addressing the right person, there’s no doubt about that.’

Hopi began to feel very uncomfortable. The man’s eyes seemed to be boring straight through him.

‘Well . . . the only thing I’ve done is look for snakes,’ he said. ‘I know I shouldn’t have been on the cliff path, but I meant no harm.’

‘I know what you were doing,’ said the man. ‘What’s unfortunate is that you yourself do not. There is powerful magic at work in this village, boy.’

Hopi was beginning to feel scared. ‘What kind of magic, sir?’ he asked.

The man placed a hand on his shoulder once more. ‘You do not belong here,’ he said. ‘The secrets of this village have nothing to do with you. Try to remember that.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Don’t ask questions. Do not follow strangers who may lead you into trouble. And, above all, fear and respect the magic that surrounds us here. You are not in Waset now, but treading in the Kingdom of the Dead, where the greatest of our kings find access to the Next World. This mountain . . .’ he said, waving a hand towards the dark rocky bulk behind them, ‘is a sacred place.’

Hopi realised that his mouth had gone dry. The only stranger he had followed was Seti, who was not much older than himself. How could that get him into trouble? It wasn’t even as though they’d found any snakes – they’d hunted all afternoon without any luck. He licked his lips, and found nothing to say.

The man directed him back into the party. ‘I see you’ve understood me well enough. Now go and enjoy yourself. Drink wine, and watch your sister perform.’

The mention of Isis gave Hopi a little courage. ‘Who are you?’ he managed to ask.

‘I am Rahotep,’ the man answered. ‘I hope you will remember my name.’

Hopi nodded. ‘I will, sir.’

‘Good. Now go.’

Hopi was only too glad to obey. He stepped back towards the house of Nakht, but in the darkness a rut in the street made him stumble. His weak leg collapsed beneath him and, with a cry, he fell to the ground.

For a second, he was winded. Then he felt Rahotep’s hand on his arm. ‘Are you hurt?’ asked the man.

Hopi sat up slowly, brushing himself down. He winced as he moved his bad leg, but could tell that he had not done any real harm.

‘No . . . no. I’m all right.’ He reached for his linen bag, which had flown off his shoulder. Some of its contents had spilled on the ground, and Rahotep helped him gather them up: some pottery ostraca on which Hopi sometimes doodled, and the lid of his papyrus basket. He took them and put them back into his bag, then spotted the cheap amulet that the woman had given him the day before. He bent down to pick it up, and Rahotep saw it.

‘What is that?’ he demanded.

Hopi shrugged. ‘Nothing. Just an amulet. A woman gave it to me yesterday. It’s worthless.’

‘Let me see it.’ Rahotep held out his hand.

Puzzled, Hopi passed it over. The man looked at it closely. When he looked up, something in his expression had changed. Now, he looked almost . . .
curious
.

‘Why did she give it to you?’ he asked.

Hopi shrugged. ‘It was all she could find. She didn’t want to give me anything at all, if you ask me.’

Rahotep shook his head. ‘You have not understood,’ he said. ‘I asked why she gave you
that
. It was not a random gift. What was it for?’

‘Oh, I see.’ Hopi nodded. ‘You’re right, it was more of a payment than a gift. She had a snake in her house and I took it away for her. It was a perfectly harmless rat-eating snake, that’s all.’

Rahotep nodded, slowly. He handed the amulet back. Once more, he placed his hand on Hopi’s shoulder, but this time it felt more gentle.

‘You asked who I am,’ he said, and now his voice was gentler, too.

‘Yes. You are Rahotep,’ said Hopi.

‘True. I am Rahotep, a workman in the Great Place. But I am also a priest of the goddess Serqet. Do you know what this means?’

Hopi cursed his ignorance. It frustrated him that he knew so little, and he mourned his lost education. So Serqet was a goddess, but, like Meretseger, he had never heard the name before.

‘No, sir.’

‘I thought as much.’ Rahotep helped him to his feet. ‘Well, the gods reveal themselves in their own time.’ And he turned to lead Hopi back into the light and noise of the party.

.

The routine was coming to an end. Isis and Mut held hands to smile and bow; the foreman Nakht himself stepped forward to place flower garlands around their necks. Isis glanced at Nefert to see if she seemed annoyed, but both she and Paneb were smiling at their host. Perhaps they hadn’t seen her slip, after all.

The partygoers began to mill around, finding new people to talk to. Isis looked for Hopi, but he was nowhere in sight. Servants appeared carrying trays of delicious-smelling food and flagons of wine; a young girl offered Mut and Isis some freshly cut melon.

Mut took a slice, and sucked on it thirstily. ‘You made a mistake,’ she said.

There was no point in denying it. It would only make things worse. ‘I know,’ Isis admitted, her cheeks flaring up in shame. ‘I’m sorry, Mut.’

Mut looked surprised at the apology. ‘So what happened?’

‘I got distracted. I saw . . .’ Isis bit back her words in time. She couldn’t possibly admit the mistake was because of Hopi. Quickly, she made something up. ‘I . . . I saw someone drop their wine.’

‘What kind of excuse is that?’ demanded Mut in disgust. ‘It looked really bad, Isis. We can’t afford to make mistakes. Our jobs depend on it.’

Isis knew that, for once, Mut was right. She almost felt like crying. But at the same time, part of her felt that Mut
wanted
Isis to get into trouble. Maybe she wanted to get rid of her altogether.

‘I suppose you’re going to run straight to Nefert and Paneb,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘You’re going to tell, aren’t you?’

‘Tell what?’ asked a cheerful voice.

Mut’s face lit up. ‘Heria!’ she exclaimed.

‘Well, come on, tell me,’ Heria probed, smiling from one girl to the other.

It was easy to read Mut’s mind. Her face was a picture of indecision. Half of her wanted to gloat, but the other half wanted Heria to think well of her. Isis couldn’t bear the tension.

‘I made a mistake when we were dancing,’ she blurted out. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Oh no! You looked wonderful to me,’ said Heria. She put a friendly arm around Mut’s shoulder. ‘Why, it’s not serious, is it?’

Mut looked caught out. ‘Well . . . it depends who saw it,’ she said lamely.

Heria laughed. ‘Don’t worry about that! Most of the guests can hardly see straight,’ she pointed out. ‘Nakht has been serving his best wine. Everyone thinks you’re both lovely. And very talented, too.’

‘Oh.’ Mut looked pleased, and Isis shot Heria a grateful glance. Heria winked back at her, and Isis saw that she had understood the situation perfectly. What a relief. It was good to know she had an ally.

Heria linked arms with both of them. ‘Come, I want you to meet my friend,’ she said, and led them out of the room.

Out in the courtyard, some of the servants were roasting fowl and mutton, while others prepared vegetables. The space was tiny, but somehow the servants managed to keep trays of food circulating among the guests. Heria dived around them, and Isis saw a girl standing in the shadows, sipping a beaker of wine. Her left arm was wrapped in linen bandages, all the way from her wrist to her elbow.

‘Tiya! There you are. These are the dancers from Waset, Mut and Isis,’ said Heria. ‘And this is Tiya.’

Tiya smiled, but her smile was brief. ‘Welcome to Set Maat,’ she said.

‘Heria told me that you’re a dancer, too,’ said Isis. ‘I’m so sorry about your arm.’

Tiya glanced down at her bandages. ‘Thank you. It’s beginning to heal, I think.’

‘How did you hurt it?’ asked Mut.

‘I fell down the courtyard steps.’ Tiya spoke quickly, then looked away, as if she didn’t want to talk about it.

She’s unhappy
, thought Isis suddenly, seeing how her shoulders sagged.

Mut didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘I like your bracelet,’ she said, pointing at Tiya’s good arm, which was adorned with a beautiful gold bracelet inlaid with precious lapis lazuli.

‘Oh!’ Tiya looked flustered. She shook the bracelet, so that it glinted in the firelight. ‘Thank you. My brother gave it to me.’

There was a brief silence. Isis noticed that Heria was staring at the gold band, her eyes wide. Tiya returned her gaze anxiously.

Then Heria stepped forward, and spoke in her friend’s ear. Hurriedly, Tiya tried to take off the bracelet, then winced with pain. Her friend reached and removed it for her.

‘Don’t be so foolish,’ Isis heard Heria mutter. ‘Keep it somewhere safe.’

.