‘I’m sorry. I’ll go back down, I was only looking for snakes and scorpions . . .’

  The young man examined Hopi more closely. ‘Really? What do you know about snakes and scorpions?’

  Hopi shrugged. ‘Well, quite a lot, I suppose.’

  ‘You’ve been trained?’

  ‘No, no – I’ve just taught myself.’

  The man stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. Then a mysterious glint appeared in his eye. ‘Strange,’ he muttered. ‘This could be . . .’

  ‘Could be what?’ Hopi was curious.

  The man shook his head. ‘Oh, nothing. Let me introduce myself. My name’s Seti. I’m a painter up at the tombs – I’ve just finished my apprenticeship. I’ll show you a bit more of the mountain, if you like.’

  Hopi nodded. ‘I’m Hopi. Thank you. I’d like that.’

  Seti smiled, then turned and began to climb energetically. Hopi struggled to keep up, cursing his injury. Seti looked back and waited for him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, nodding at Hopi’s leg, then continued more slowly, taking a side path that led around to the left, out of sight of the village. Perching himself on a ledge, Seti patted the space next to him. Hopi sat down, and rested his elbows on his knees to get his breath back.

  Seti was quiet for a few moments. Then he spoke, just one word. ‘Meretseger,’ he said.

  The word meant she who loves silence.

  Hopi frowned. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘You don’t know of her?’

  Hopi shook his head.

  Seti gestured up at the mountainside behind them. ‘This is her home,’ he said. ‘She is the cobra goddess of the mountain. She has many names, but Meretseger is the most powerful. Sometimes we call her after her home: the Peak of the West.’

  Hopi was astonished. The only cobra goddess he had ever heard of was Renenutet, the goddess of the harvest. ‘We don’t worship her in Waset,’ he said.

  ‘No. There’s no reason why you should. But if you know so much about snakes, perhaps you could help me meet her.’

  ‘You wish to hunt out cobras? But why?’ Hopi was puzzled. ‘Doesn’t Meretseger have a shrine or temple where you can worship her?’

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s over there.’ Seti nodded towards the south. ‘I make offerings there every week. But that’s not enough.’ He studied his hands, and seemed to be trying to decide what to say. ‘I need to see her for myself. I need to know . . . I am seeking an answer . . .’

  Hopi was intrigued. ‘An answer to what?’

  Seti hesitated. He looked out over the view, a frown on his face. Then he turned to Hopi and spoke in a low, confidential tone. ‘You are younger than I,’ he said. ‘But I see from your leg that life’s troubles have already touched you.’

  ‘Indeed they have,’ agreed Hopi, with feeling.

  ‘And perhaps some of the gods seem more important than others,’ suggested Seti. ‘Some bring blessings, while others bring pain.’

  Hopi nodded. ‘The god Sobek has brought me both,’ he said, for the crocodile god had taken much away from him, but had also given him his unusual gift.

  ‘Then you understand,’ said Seti, relief in his voice. ‘Now, if I tell you that a crisis has brought me to seek out Meretseger, you will accept what I say.’

  Hopi thought about it. He had great respect for all the gods, and Seti’s words were still a little confusing. ‘The cobra is a powerful snake. This must be a powerful goddess. I would not want to attract her attention without good reason.’

  His words seemed to trouble Seti. ‘No, no, you wouldn’t,’ he agreed, fear clouding his face. ‘She’s terrible when she’s angry. And . . . and that’s what I need to know – if she is truly angry.’

  ‘If she is angry? With who? You?’

  Seti looked uneasy. ‘I can’t tell you that,’ he said. He sighed, a little wearily, and stood up. ‘All I can say is that I feel that she has sent you. So will you help me, or not?’

  .

  Mut was helping Heria with her make-up, patting red ochre powder on to her cheeks.

  ‘Not too much!’ exclaimed Heria. She grabbed her polished bronze mirror and peered at her reflection. Mut had already finished her eyes, which were surrounded with dramatic black eyeliner and a touch of green malachite paint.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ declared Mut. ‘Doesn’t she, Isis?’

  Isis nodded and smiled. ‘Lovely,’ she agreed. She was watching Mut in surprise. She couldn’t remember the last time her dance partner had seemed so happy. Mut was fussing around Heria, dabbing at her cheeks and then her lips with the red ochre, her face alight with friendliness.

  ‘I wish I had a sister,’ said Heria wistfully. ‘You two must do each other’s make-up all the time.’

  Mut’s smile disappeared. ‘I told you,’ she said sharply. ‘We’re not sisters. We’re just dance partners.’

  A flicker of surprise crossed Heria’s face. ‘Yes, but . . . you live together, don’t you?’

  Mut pursed her lips. ‘We haven’t for long. And anyway, Isis has Hopi,’ she said.

  ‘Mut!’ Isis couldn’t keep quiet any longer. ‘What’s Hopi got to do with it? He doesn’t do my make-up, does he?’

  ‘So do you do it for each other?’ Heria looked at Isis, clearly puzzled.

  ‘Of course we do,’ said Isis.

  Mut went very quiet. All her good humour had vanished, and there was an awkward silence. Then Mut reached for the wig that lay by Heria’s side. ‘It’s time to put your wig on,’ she said.

  Quietly, Isis slipped out of the room. Leave them to it, she thought, and went out to the courtyard to find a beaker of water. As she did so, there was a soft knock on the front door. She went to open it, and found a boy of about Hopi’s age.

  He grinned at her. ‘Is Mut there?’ he asked. ‘Nefert’s sent me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Isis, letting him in. ‘She’s in the back room with Heria.’

  The boy obviously knew where he was going. Isis trailed after him as he walked straight through the house.

  ‘Hello, Heria,’ he greeted her. ‘Nefert’s sent me to get Mut. She wants her to help her get ready for the party.’

  Heria smiled at Mut. ‘Looks like you’ve finished just in time,’ she said.

  Mut looked disappointed, and Isis could guess why. Helping Nefert meant leaving her new-found friend – and more than that, it meant leaving her alone with Isis. Mut fiddled with the beads on Heria’s wig for a moment, her face averted. Then she followed the boy out without a word.

  When the front door had closed, Heria turned to Isis, playing with the ends of her wig. ‘Is Mut always like that?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Like what?’

  Heria hesitated. ‘Well . . . she wasn’t very nice to you.’

  Isis felt embarrassed. ‘Oh, Mut’s just in a bad mood,’ she said. ‘We had an argument yesterday.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Heria. She looked sad. ‘I’d love to live with someone my own age. I’ve got friends, of course, but it’s not the same.’

  Isis was suddenly aware of how quiet the little house was. It was unusual for an Egyptian household. Isis thought of their street in Waset, and how all the houses buzzed with people. But here, there was no one around apart from Heria’s father Khonsu, who had come back from the tombs and fallen asleep in the front room.

  ‘Who does live here?’ she asked. ‘Just the two of you?’

  Heria nodded. She stood up and straightened the beautiful black wig. Some of the hairs at the back were tangled, and Isis went to tease them out for her.

  ‘And Father’s so busy at the moment. He’s up at the tombs most of the time, but even when he’s here, he’s stuck in secret meetings in the front room.’

  ‘Secret meetings? That sounds exciting,’ said Isis.

  ‘Huh. Not really. He doesn’t tell me what they’re about.’ Then Heria lowered her voice. ‘Though sometimes I overhear things.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Heria hesitated. ‘Didn’t you think it was odd that you and your family were invited here?’

  Isis frowned and shook her head. The dance troupe got invitations to all sorts of places; this one didn’t seem any different. ‘Why? Don’t you invite people usually?’

  ‘No. We have our own musicians.’

  ‘So what’s happened to them?’

  Heria sighed. ‘Well . . . one of the families is sick. And one of the other dancers, Tiya, has broken her arm.’ Suddenly, her voice wobbled. ‘Tiya’s my best friend. Her arm might never be the same again, and no one will want to watch a dancer with a crooked arm.’

  Straight away, Isis thought of Hopi’s injured leg, and her heart flooded with sympathy. She put a hand on Heria’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s not even the worst of it,’ Heria carried on. ‘I know that Father’s having people watched. It’s awful. I know lots of families are being spied on, and I can’t say a word.’

  ‘Spied on!’ exclaimed Isis. ‘But why?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Heria. She wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. ‘Now I’ve smudged my make-up, haven’t I?’

  Isis smiled. ‘I’ll soon fix it for you.’ She bent down and picked up a piece of soft linen that Heria kept with her make-up pots. She moistened it, then began dabbing around Heria’s eyes.

  ‘You and Mut are both so lovely,’ said Heria gratefully. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Isis felt awkward and ashamed. ‘I’m always fighting with Mut,’ she confessed. ‘She doesn’t like Hopi, that’s the trouble. But I have to be nice to her now, whatever she says. Hopi thinks that if I’m not careful, we’ll get thrown out of the troupe.’

  Heria’s eyes widened in shock. ‘But . . . they’re your family!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Not really.’ Isis explained about her parents, her uncle and how she had been taken in as a dance partner for Mut. ‘We haven’t lived with them for long,’ she said. ‘And Hopi can’t work, so they just keep him for my sake. Now Nefert’s getting angry because Mut and I don’t get on.’

  ‘But where would you go?’

  It was a question that Isis had been avoiding. She hadn’t wanted to face up to Hopi’s warning. It hadn’t seemed real, until now.

  ‘I think we might have relatives, somewhere,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘But not in Waset.’

  .

  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.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11