The Deathstalker (5 page)

Minutes passed. Isis knew she must return to the arena before anyone noticed she was missing. She watched as the Libyan man cupped the girl’s face in his hands. Now her tears were clear to see. He stroked her hair and placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

He’s going for it
, thought Isis, her mouth dry.
He’s going to try to escape.

A big roar went up from the direction of the arena. Isis felt a stab of anxiety. She must go back. She began to wriggle out, but took one last look at the pair before she left. The girl had bent her head and was quietly sobbing. Isis longed to help her, but what could she do? She pulled herself up from underneath the chariot and dusted herself down. Then, silently, she ran back to the rest of the troupe, hoping desperately that the Libyan would change his mind.

.

All was quiet, apart from the sound of Djeri’s breathing. Hopi wiped the sweat from the soldier’s forehead, terrified that he was slowly slipping away – away from this world, and into the next.

‘You must fight,’ he said urgently, close to the soldier’s ear. ‘You fought the Libyans. Now you must fight for your life. You must not give up, Djeri.’

For a second, Djeri’s eyes flickered open.

Hopi shook his good shoulder gently. ‘Can you hear me? Do you understand what I am saying?’

Djeri gave the tiniest nod of his head, and Hopi sighed in relief.

‘You are good to me, Hopi,’ the soldier said faintly, and closed his eyes again.

So he was still with them, just about. It was strange, how Hopi felt about this soldier. He admired his courage and bravery, but it was more than that. It was as though they had a connection, an understanding that could not be put into words. Their injuries were so alike, and even beyond that, Hopi felt something else. Something deeper. But he did not know what it was.

Then Djeri’s lips moved. He began to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Tell me . . .’ he croaked. ‘Tell me the truth.’

Hopi was puzzled. ‘The truth about what?’

‘I am not a fool,’ muttered Djeri. ‘Tell me what will happen, should I live.’

Hopi felt his pulse quicken. He licked his lips. ‘You mean . . . your leg?’ He looked at Djeri’s bandages, tongue-tied.

‘Will I be able to walk?’

So, that was it. Hopi took a deep breath and thought for a moment. Was it really up to him to break the news? It didn’t seem fair. Then again, perhaps he was the best person; maybe the gods had sent him to help.

‘I think . . . I think you will be like me,’ he said eventually. ‘My wounds were similar to yours.’

Djeri’s eyes flew open. He had seen Hopi come and go, of course; but suddenly, he looked at him properly, as though for the first time. With a huge effort, he hoisted himself on to his elbow.

‘Walk across the room,’ he instructed, with surprising strength in his voice.

Hopi’s mouth dropped open. ‘I don’t –’

‘Walk!’ ordered Djeri.

Reluctantly, Hopi got up from the stool he was sitting on and stepped over to the doorway. He could not hide his limp. There was no disguising the way his right leg dragged with every step. He was mortified. He turned and saw Djeri’s expression. The soldier’s mouth was curled with anguish and disgust. Their eyes met, then Djeri’s slid away, hard and bitter.

‘A cripple,’ Hopi heard him mutter, as he flopped back down on the bed to stare up at the ceiling.

Hopi’s cheeks were burning with indignation. He made his way back to the stool. ‘It’s not that bad! I still get around and work. I’m not a cripp—’ He stopped abruptly. He knew that he
was
a cripple, as far as a soldier was concerned.

But now Djeri seemed lost in his own world. His breathing became shallow again, harsh gasps that frightened Hopi.

‘It is the punishment of the gods!’ he burst out.

‘No, no,’ Hopi protested. ‘Djeri, the injuries of a soldier bring only honour.’

Djeri’s eyes focused on Hopi’s face. ‘Believe me, my friend,’ he said. ‘When I talk of punishment, I know what I am saying. There is sickness in this company of Amun. A great sickness that eats the souls of men.’

‘What? What sickness?’

Djeri’s words didn’t make sense.
The fever has taken him
, thought Hopi desperately.

He reached for a beaker of wine.

‘Djeri, drink this. It’s the fever talking. You need to sleep.’

But in his anger, Djeri seemed to have found a new energy. He tried to sit up again, his eyes flaming and the veins sticking out in his neck. ‘Don’t speak to me of fever! I tell you, the gods have spoken!’ he cried wildly. ‘See what they have done to me!’

Hopi got to his feet and tried to push the soldier back down. ‘Hush, hush,’ he soothed him. ‘Djeri, please lie down.’

The shouting brought people running. Anty rushed in, followed by two of his servants. ‘What’s going on here?’ demanded the scribe. ‘What’s happening, my son?’

Djeri’s eyes were bulging and there were flecks of spit on his lips. ‘We are doomed!’ he cried. ‘Ma’at is no longer with us. She will judge our hearts in the Next World and they will fail. We shall be devoured by Ammut. There will be no mercy . . . no mercy . . .’ Djeri’s voice grew weaker again, and he collapsed back down on the bed.

Anty looked stricken. ‘He is elsewhere. Even now, he is not in this world.’ He placed a hand on his son’s forehead, then dropped to his knees at the bedside and clung on to Djeri’s hands. ‘Oh, my boy, my boy,’ he groaned. ‘Stay with us. Stay . . .’ Tears dripped down his cheeks to land on his pale, clenched knuckles.

He stayed like that for some time, mouthing prayers to all the gods, while Djeri lay still and silent. At last, Anty rose and beckoned one of his servants.

‘Send word to Djeri’s brothers. They must come and pay their respects. Summon his younger sisters and their children. All must come soon, before it is too late.’

Hopi watched in anguish. He could not bring himself to tell the old scribe what had happened. But now that the room was quiet again, the soldier’s breathing sounded easier. Looking at his face, Hopi knew that Djeri was not raving. He had been devastated at the news about his leg. And the rest – the talk of sickness and punishment? Was it delirium, madness?
No, it isn’t that
, thought Hopi. In some way, he sensed that the soldier had been telling the truth.

.

The roar that Isis had heard was for the great wrestler Nes, the one the soldiers called the Lion. As Isis nudged up to Mut to watch, she soon worked out that he was pitted against his chief rival, the equally enormous Mose, the Great Bull. The soldiers watching were hollering the two men’s names at full pitch. The noise was deafening. Perhaps, thought Isis hopefully, no one would hear if the prisoners’ guards called the alarm . . .

The wrestlers circled one another, their eyes knowing and wary. Isis guessed they had fought each other many times before. And yet, she noticed, Nes the Lion was much older than his opponent. His muscles were gnarled and sinewy, like bunches of hemp rope, and the lines of his face were etched deeply. But there was no doubting his power.

It was Mose who made the first move, diving in to grasp Nes by the thigh. His hands lost their hold on the slippery oil and Nes spun round to free himself. Then he sidestepped and grabbed Mose by the arm, twisting it behind his back. Nes’s supporters erupted in applause, but Mose wasn’t trapped for long. Jamming his knee between Nes’s legs, he pushed him off balance and loosened his opponent’s grip. Mose’s supporters crowed.

Then, above the tumult of the contest, Isis heard the sound she was dreading: the high, tinny blast of a trumpet. She stared around at the soldiers.

Don’t hear, don’t hear
, she willed them.

The wrestlers now had their arms locked around each other, pushing with all the strength of their massive shoulders. Isis held her breath.

It was no use. There it was again – the shrill, insistent summons, louder and more urgent this time. Nes heard it and raised his head. Isis looked at Commander Meref. He was listening, too.

At once, the wrestling bout broke up. A group of soldiers was sent running towards the prisoners’ enclosure. Commander Meref barked some orders. The rest of the company shuffled into formation, each man in his own platoon, and stood to attention. In seconds, the atmosphere had changed. The arena was silent. Isis heard one of the horses snort nearby. The fire spat and crackled, but none of the soldiers moved.

Isis looked over to where Mut, Paneb, Nefert and her sisters were standing, their faces shocked and bewildered. Isis felt slightly sick. The tear-stained face of the Libyan girl swam into her mind. How right she had been to beg her brother not to be so foolish.

There were shouts in the distance. Isis heard a woman’s cry. She imagined it might be the girl, calling out in despair. Then there was the sound of tramping feet and animated voices, and Isis saw a torch bobbing along, approaching the arena. Half of her wanted to look away, but the other half was compelled to watch as the soldiers appeared, dragging the prisoner of war between them. They reached the arena and stopped in front of Commander Meref.

One of the soldiers saluted. ‘Trying to escape, sir. We caught him heading out to the desert.’

The young man looked up at the commander and poured out a stream of his own language. Isis could not understand a word, but she understood the feelings on his face – the anger, the defiance and the fear. The commander regarded him coldly.

‘A pity,’ he grunted. ‘He is one of the stronger ones. But we must make an example of him, all the same.’

‘Shall we beat him, sir?’ asked the soldier. ‘Or . . .’ He seemed to hesitate. ‘There is the –’

‘I know what the options are,’ thundered the commander. He rose to his feet, a thin smile playing on his lips. ‘Keep close guard on him overnight. Tomorrow he will be sent to the pit.’

A murmur ran through the ranks of soldiers. Isis stared at the young man. It was clear that he had no idea what his fate would be, and for that matter neither did she. But from the soldiers’ response, she could sense that it would be a terrible one.

The commander did not sit down again. The episode seemed to have dulled his appetite for entertainment. ‘Everyone is dismissed,’ he ordered. Then he turned to Paneb. ‘And that, my man, includes you.’

For a second, no one moved, as though a spell had been cast on the gathering. Then the soldiers began to drag the prisoner away, kicking and screaming, and the platoon officers started to give orders. With a click of his fingers to the fan-bearer, Commander Meref strode off into the night.

.

CHAPTER FOUR

Djeri’s eldest brother was the first to arrive at the house of Anty. He could not have looked more different to the soldier. Being the eldest, he had followed in his father’s footsteps, and had the soft paunch and gentle hands of a scribe. Hopi retreated to the corner of the room and bowed his head as the firstborn kissed the forehead of his younger brother, but Djeri had fallen into a deep, troubled sleep.

It was not another family member who arrived next, but Menna, holding a torch. He put his head round the door.

‘Hopi, come here,’ he said, beckoning him out of the room.

Obediently, Hopi went to him.

‘Anty tells me that Djeri has started to talk about the Next World,’ said Menna in a low voice. ‘He has taken this as a sign that he will not remain with us much longer. What do you think?’

Hopi’s feelings were in turmoil. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He is suffering greatly and the fever is upon him. But it’s more than that, Menna. He got upset.’ He hesitated, unsure how much to say. ‘There is something on his mind. Something that must be resolved in this world, and not the next.’

Menna stroked his chin. ‘Do you believe he will live until the morning?’

‘Well, it’s difficult to be sure. But I think so, yes.’

‘Good. In that case you must leave and go to your own home. You may return tomorrow, but for now, the family must be allowed some time with Djeri. Having his family around him for a few hours will do no harm, and may indeed speed his healing.’

‘Very well.’ Hopi felt slightly relieved, for he was exhausted.