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CHAPTER TEN

Hopi made his way straight to Menna’s house to report back. Out of breath, he let himself into the courtyard and found the old man poring over some old sheets of papyrus.

‘I found it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Menna, the cargo boat is all lined up. Abana has even hired a donkey owner to transport the grain.’

‘And is your family safe?’

‘I’m not sure – I haven’t been back there yet.’ Hopi felt a pang of anxiety.

Menna looked grave. ‘I hope that Isis has persuaded them it is serious.’ He indicated the space next to him. ‘Come, sit. I’ve been doing some research.’

Hopi sat down cross-legged next to his tutor, and gazed in fascination at the rows of hieroglyphs that stretched across the papyrus on his lap.

‘What is this, Menna?’

‘It’s a record of the Beautiful Festival of the Valley, kept by an old friend of mine.’

‘A scribe?’

‘Of course.’ Menna smoothed his hand over the papyrus. ‘I’ve been thinking. The problem we face is Abana’s power. There are few in Waset who have the authority to challenge him. The high priests of Amun at Ipet-Isut, perhaps, but I don’t think we could reach them. They will be engaged in preparations for the festival and will not be disturbed on any account.’

‘So who else is there?’ asked Hopi. ‘Surely there’s someone?’

‘Yes, indeed there is.’ Menna smiled. ‘You must know who arrives in Waset today.’

Hopi stared. ‘You mean the king?’

The old man nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘But . . .’ Hopi couldn’t quite grasp it. ‘How can we reach the king if we can’t even reach the priests of Ipet-Isut?’

Menna bent over the papyrus again, pointing to the rows of intricate hieroglyphs. ‘My friend’s writings have shown me something. Nothing is guaranteed, but there is a chance. Every year the king pays close attention to the performers at the festival. Sometimes he bestows special favours upon them. He calls the best to speak with his vizier.’

‘But that’s perfect!’ Hopi exclaimed. His heart gave a bound of hope. ‘Our troupe is the best. I’m sure it is.’

The old man smiled. ‘I imagined as much.’

Hopi realised there was no time to lose. He scrambled to his feet.

‘I must go at once to tell everyone. They have it in their power to resolve it all!’

.

Hopi’s news set the house of Meryt-Amun buzzing. The trader himself had returned from Lebanon in time for the festival; his wife and daughters served drinks and titbits, excited to be part of the plot.

Isis and Mut were practising their routines in the courtyard under Nefert’s watchful eye. They were having to work without music, because it was too risky for the women to play – music was sure to draw attention from the street, where spies of Abana might still be lurking. Isis and Mut did double somersaults, bringing their routine to an end.

‘That’s enough!’ called Nefert. ‘You look beautiful, both of you.’

Isis and Mut stopped dancing with relief, and flopped.

‘How does your ankle feel?’ asked Isis.

‘It was sore at first,’ Mut admitted. ‘But it’s fine now.’ She wiggled it around, then yawned. ‘I’m tired, though.’

Isis nodded. ‘I’m going to sleep early. We have to be at our best tomorrow.’

As she spoke, she felt a flutter of nerves. The plot to attract the king’s attention was a daring one. What if he didn’t notice them? What if they made a mistake? It was all too scary to think about.

She got up and went to find her brother, who was sitting talking to Meryt-Amun about his trips to Lebanon, but excused himself when Isis caught his eye. Together, they went up on to the roof. Isis wanted to hear the rest of the story, and asked Hopi to describe his trip back to the embalmers and his discovery of the cargo boat. When he had finished, she told him what had happened at home.

‘So Sinuhe’s obsidian scarab is very important,’ she finished. ‘But he didn’t mention that it’s broken.’

‘Maybe he’s afraid,’ said Hopi. ‘If it’s so important, he won’t want to reveal what has happened to it.’

‘Yes.’ Isis frowned. Sinuhe certainly seemed full of fear. ‘But at least he listened to Paneb, and did as he said. When we left the house, he sat outside as though he was just a poor beggar until Abana’s guard came back. Sinuhe told him that we’d all run away in the night.’

‘And the guard believed it?’

Isis shrugged. ‘Who knows? He went to tell Abana.’

Hopi grew serious. ‘Then we are not yet safe,’ he said. ‘And the house, too, is in danger.’

Isis looked out towards the sun, which was dipping down in the west. ‘Well, let’s hope he decides not to strike until he has dealt with his cargo.’

.

The troupe woke at dawn to begin their preparations. Meryt-Amun’s wife and daughters fussed around; Nefert, Sheri and Kia stayed inside to check that their instruments were in tune; Isis and Mut slotted back into their old ritual of helping each other to get ready.

‘I’m so glad you’re better, Mut,’ said Isis, dabbing some red ochre on to her partner’s cheeks. ‘I never want to perform alone again in my whole life.’

‘I hope you won’t have to,’ said Mut. She grinned. ‘I don’t like you getting all the attention!’

Isis laughed. It was good to banter, because the butterflies in her stomach were getting worse. She reached for the bronze mirror to show Mut what she’d done.

‘Do I have enough eyeliner on?’ asked Mut.

‘Plenty,’ said Isis. ‘Any more and it’ll smudge.’

They packed away their box of cosmetics. They were ready. Nefert, Sheri and Kia appeared in their translucent linen gowns, and Paneb in his best pleated kilt.

‘Come, we must go,’ he said. ‘And may the gods be with us.’

It was still early, but people were making their way towards the great temples of Ipet-Isut, where the Beautiful Festival of the Valley would begin. Isis knew that the king and priests would already be making offerings to the great god Amun, his son Khonsu and consort Mut, after whom her dance partner was named.

As they drew nearer, more and more people milled around. Isis looked up at the beautiful temples and felt a thrill of excitement. The buildings were awe-inspiring, with their imposing walls painted in the most brilliant colours.

Paneb led the way purposefully to a point near the main gate, where performers were supposed to gather. The king had brought a retinue of his own performers from the north, of course, but this was a chance for the performers of Waset to shine. Together they waited for the great moment when the gates would open.

The atmosphere began to build. The crowd was immense. Many carried offerings for their deceased relatives on the west bank; many others waved palm fronds. Everyone wore garlands around their necks. At last, there was a blare of trumpets and a roar from the crowd as the massive temple gates creaked open. A glorious sight met Isis’s eyes – the barque of Amun, carried high on the shoulders of his priests. The god’s shrine was dazzling, covered in beaten gold that glistened in the sun.

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.