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Egyptian - Sacred Scarab.tif

CHAPTER SIX

In spite of his painful leg, Hopi was determined to make Menna’s delivery as quickly as possible the next morning. The workshops were towards the temples of Ipet-Isut, not far from the grand houses of people like Abana; the difference was that they were hidden away along the riverbank, out of public view. Embalming was a gruesome business, and people didn’t like getting too close to it.

Towering palm trees marked the site of the workshops, and Hopi hobbled to the entrance. He found a pair of guards half asleep under a tree, and shook one of them awake.

‘I have a delivery,’ Hopi told him. ‘I’m the apprentice of Menna, priest of Serqet. He has sent a letter for the head embalmer.’ He delved into his bag and brought out a little papyrus scroll.

The guard rubbed his eyes. ‘Can’t read,’ he mumbled, then nudged his colleague. ‘Go and get one of the embalmers. Boy says he’s got a delivery.’

The second guard sleepily got to his feet, and set off towards one of the tents that Hopi could just see between the trees. When he returned, it was with a man whose kilt and hands were stained with dried blood.

‘I am an assistant embalmer. Do you have authorisation to be here?’ the man enquired. Hopi showed him the papyrus scroll. The assistant inspected it and nodded. ‘You are welcome, apprentice of Menna,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to Weni, the chief embalmer. Follow me.’

Hopi set off after him, curiosity burning. He had always wanted to see this place. Up ahead were three tents. As the assistant led him past the first one, Hopi peered back at it, wondering what was inside.

The assistant spotted his interest and smiled. ‘That’s where we wash the bodies when they first arrive,’ he explained, and carried on towards the second. ‘This tent is where we prepare them for drying and cover them in natron.’

He pushed back a flap and entered. Hopi followed him eagerly, not sure what to expect – and immediately got a surprise. The first thing that hit him was the smell: the heavy stench of dead flesh, thick and choking. The tent was spacious enough – designed, no doubt, so that fresh air could circulate – but nothing could mask that horrible odour. Hopi felt his stomach turn.

The assistant led the way past mounds of natron salt and a stack of canopic jars. Hopi stared at the mounds. They were body-shaped. There were dead people lying buried in the salt, slowly drying out.

‘Hmm. I thought Weni was doing his inspection here,’ said the assistant. ‘No matter. He must be in the next tent. That’s where the bodies are wrapped.’

Hopi followed him to the final tent. If possible, the smell here was even stronger, but at least it was easier to bear. The tent was filled with vats of different oils and resins, perfumes and spices, all used to anoint the bodies as they were wrapped. In one corner stood a huge pile of ready-woven linen; a boy sat cross-legged, cutting it into strips. Two men were examining a fully wrapped body laid out on the table. The assistant approached them.

‘This boy has come with amulets from Menna,’ he said.

‘Ah, good,’ said one of the men. He stepped away from the body and greeted Hopi. ‘I am Weni, the chief embalmer. And this is Hetep, the lector priest, who sanctifies all that happens here.’

‘I am honoured to meet you.’ Hopi fetched out Menna’s wooden box. ‘These are the amulets.’

Weni accepted the box and handed it to Hetep. They both closed their eyes for a second. Hopi stared at them, then saw that Hetep’s lips were moving. The lector priest was murmuring a spell. With the box in the palm of one hand, he moved the other to hover over it, and began chanting the spell more loudly. Hopi felt awed and incredibly lucky to witness something so sacred.

The spell came to an end. ‘May the gods judge his heart light and free of burden,’ Hetep finished, and opened his eyes.

‘There. Thank you, Hopi. Your task is done.’ Weni took the box from the priest’s hands, then disappeared behind a linen curtain that Hopi hadn’t noticed before. As the fabric swung to one side, he caught a glimpse of an area crammed with statues, caskets and coffins. A mask of Anubis seemed to look straight at him and, instinctively, he took a step back. This was a holy place.

Weni emerged from behind the curtain. ‘I will escort you back to the entrance,’ he said. ‘Come.’

Hopi walked out into the sunshine. It was a relief; the air had been hot and oppressive inside. He glanced towards the river and saw that a man was walking up from the jetty. Weni saw him, too, and stopped.

‘You have better news for me this time, I hope?’ said the embalmer.

The man looked embarrassed. ‘I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,’ he said.

‘That’s very late. You should be leaving sooner,’ said Weni, clearly frustrated. ‘So when will you return?’

The man shifted from one foot to the other. ‘I can’t say. The river is unpredictable . . .’

Hopi stared at him. His face was oddly familiar.

‘That’s strange,’ said Weni, his voice hard. ‘It was perfectly reliable before.’

‘Yes, yes, indeed it is strange.’ The man nodded.

‘And you’re a liar,’ said the embalmer. ‘I want to make one thing clear: if we don’t receive a shipment of natron by the end of next week, I shall seek another supplier. Do you understand?’

At the mention of the word shipment, something slipped into place. Of course: this was one of the men that Hopi had seen in the grounds of Abana’s mansion only the night before.

‘But –’ began the man.

‘No buts. My word on this is final,’ snapped Weni.

‘I understand,’ said the man. ‘You will receive your natron, Weni.’ He turned and walked back towards the Nile, his head bowed.

Weni watched him go, his face clouded with anger. ‘We cannot work without natron,’ he said. ‘This man is holding us to ransom.’

Hopi was intrigued. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

Weni shook his head. ‘Meanwhile, we must suffer this loathsome stench.’

‘You mean, it’s not usually like this?’ Hopi asked.

‘There’s always a certain odour,’ admitted Weni. ‘But it’s worse at the moment because we can’t use a deeper layer of natron. The bodies are barely covered. Some . . .’ He shook his head, then spoke more briskly. ‘Well, that’s not your concern. I must take you to the entrance.’

Weni marched purposefully through the second tent. Hopi darted glances to the left and right, sizing up the bodies that lay on either side of him. Now that Weni had pointed it out, he could make out their forms more easily than he might have expected. Hopi set out for Menna’s house, his thoughts buzzing.

.

The atmosphere was tense. Mut and Isis sat playing with Ramose and Kha at the far end of the courtyard, keeping the two boys out of the adults’ way. After their row the night before, Paneb and Nefert were barely speaking to each other; Paneb stayed on the roof, Nefert on the first floor, while Sheri and Kia performed the household chores methodically.

‘I’m getting tired of slaving for this cousin of ours.’ Kia spoke almost under her breath, as she stirred a pot of lentil soup.

Isis knew she wasn’t meant to hear. She carried on weaving a straw man for Kha, careful not to look over at Kia. But she did sneak a look at Mut, and saw that her dance partner was listening, too.

‘It can’t be for much longer.’ Sheri was pummelling a fresh batch of dough.

‘I’m not so sure. Now that we’ve failed with Abana, we’ll never get rid of him.’

Sheri sighed. ‘I agree it would help if he was a little more grateful for what we do.’

‘Grateful!’ Kia snorted. ‘He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Never says a word of thanks for the food we serve, never smiles. Treats us like servants, or worse.’

‘I know. But we have to make allowances, Kia. After all he’s been through –’

‘Make allowances!’ Kia was working herself into a rage. ‘I don’t see why. He’s shown up here, claiming he’s kin, taking every last scrap he’s given and more. How do we know who he is? He’s –’

‘I know, I know. Hush, hush,’ Sheri murmured. ‘We know he’s kin, sister. Paneb wouldn’t lie about that.’

‘Well, more’s the pity,’ muttered Kia.

Isis and Mut raised eyebrows at each other. Even Ramose was beginning to prick up his ears. Only Kha remained oblivious, solemnly handing Isis pieces of straw to weave into his straw man.

The two women fell silent. Isis finished the straw man and handed it to Kha, who clasped it in delight, then promptly began to pick at the straw, tearing it apart. She eased him off her lap and stood up. Mut looked at her questioningly, but she skipped away without saying anything. Her heart beating a little faster, she went inside, then moved forward along the shadows of the corridor until she could just peek inside the front room.

Sinuhe was in there, as usual. Isis studied him. The peasant was looking at something in his hand, examining it closely. Isis craned her neck, but she couldn’t see what it was. She took another step. The peasant was turning the object over in his hands, murmuring to himself. Then he clutched it and brought his hand up to his chest. His eyes were closed. Isis shifted, and her foot brushed a wisp of dry straw on the floor. Sinuhe’s eyes flew open.

‘Who’s there?’

Isis took a deep breath, ignoring the pungent smell that seemed to get richer each day, and stepped inside the room.

‘It’s Isis,’ she said, sitting down beside him. She paused. ‘What were you looking at, in your hand?’

Sinuhe’s fist tightened against his chest. ‘You were spying!’

‘No, no, not really,’ said Isis. ‘I just . . .’ She trailed off as the peasant leaned forward, bringing his face close to hers. Isis could see the black pores in his skin, and smell the onions and lentils on his breath. He was frightening, but somehow fascinating, too. She recoiled and scrambled to her feet.

‘You little brat,’ he growled.

‘I was only asking,’ said Isis, backing off towards the door. ‘I didn’t see anything.’

Sinuhe shook his clenched fist at her. ‘The gods will punish you!’

Isis was shocked. That was a terrible thing to say! The image of Sinuhe eavesdropping at the top of the stairs flashed into her mind. ‘So what happens when you spy on people?’ she cried. ‘Don’t the gods care about that?’

Sinuhe glared at her. But, for some reason, he had nothing more to say. Isis backed into the corridor, watching his face. She couldn’t work out what his expression meant at first. But then, as he swallowed and gulped, his nostrils flaring, she realised that it was fear.

.

Hopi let himself into the old priest’s courtyard. It was deserted, so he flopped down on the mats.

‘Is that you, Hopi?’ Menna’s face appeared in the doorway. ‘You’ve taken the amulets to Weni?’

‘Yes,’ said Hopi, rubbing his leg, which had become worse on the way back.

‘Good, good. You had no problems, then?’

Hopi looked up at his tutor. ‘Me? No, no. I hurt my leg last night, that’s all. But you were right to sense something at the embalmers. They do have a problem.’

Menna sat down, giving Hopi his full attention. ‘Do they indeed? Tell me.’

Hopi explained that the supplier of natron was letting them down. ‘Weni says they have barely enough to cover the bodies,’ he said. ‘Where does natron come from, Menna? Can’t they get some locally?’

The priest of Serqet shook his head. ‘The main supply comes from the north. There’s a great valley of it there.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘So this means that my brother’s body is in danger.’

Hopi thought of the horrible stench of rotting bodies, but he couldn’t possibly tell Menna about that. ‘All the bodies I saw were covered,’ he said.

‘Hmm. Even so, this may be what I detected.’ Menna lapsed into silence. ‘Well, thank you, Hopi. Now you must go.’

‘Go?’ Hopi’s heart sank. He didn’t feel like moving anywhere – in fact, he’d been hoping that Menna might offer to treat his leg.

‘You have work to do,’ Menna said. ‘You haven’t finished with the life of scarabs.’

‘Oh . . .’ Hopi almost groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was trek out to the fields again.

‘The magical part of their cycle is the most important, Hopi.’ Menna’s voice was almost sharp. ‘That’s what you must come to understand.’

Hopi’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded. ‘I will do as you say.’

Menna rose silently, and fetched Hopi a beaker of fresh beer. ‘Drink this before you go.’

Gratefully, Hopi took the beaker and glugged it down. It was cool and refreshing, and made him feel better. Without too much effort, he got to his feet.

‘I’ll return later,’ he told Menna, and stepped out into the street.

A breeze was blowing from the west, lifting the dust and making it swirl and eddy through the air. Hopi turned his face away from it and began to limp slowly towards the edge of town. But he didn’t get far. A breathless figure appeared, barefoot, running towards him.

‘Apprentice of Menna!’ he cried. ‘Is that you?’

Hopi recognised him at once. He was the boy who had been sitting making linen bandages at the embalmers’ workshops. ‘Yes. Why, what is it?’

The boy gulped and clutched his side, trying to get his breath back. ‘Something is missing.’

Missing? You mean –’

‘One of the amulets. My master Weni has been through them all. He says that there’s no heart scarab – or if there was one, it’s gone.’ The boy shielded his eyes from a blast of dust.

Hopi’s mouth went dry. ‘It was there. It was among them, I swear!’

The boy shook his head. ‘He has examined them twice. I know how careful he is. He sent me to tell you straight away.’

Panicking, Hopi swung his bag off his shoulder and bent down on one knee to examine its contents, scattering them wildly into the dust. There was very little inside – his papyrus basket, his writing materials, some ostraca – that was all. He turned the bag inside out; nothing more was there. They were still only a few metres from Menna’s house. Horror gripped Hopi at the thought of his tutor finding out, and he grasped the boy’s arm.

‘You mustn’t tell Menna,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, don’t betray me. I’ll find it!’

‘But I must –’ began the boy, looking doubtful.

Please,’ Hopi begged him. ‘I’ll be in terrible trouble. I can find it, I know I can.’

He saw a hint of sympathy appear on the boy’s face. ‘Well . . .’

‘You could wait, at least,’ Hopi insisted. ‘Give me a day.’

The boy relented. ‘All right. I’ll say I couldn’t find you. I’ll give you until this time tomorrow. But that’s all, or I’ll be in trouble myself.’