Isis cowered back.
‘They’ve just started,’ she squeaked. ‘Commander Meref stopped the dancing . . .’ She trailed off.
The enormous wrestler was listening to the sounds of the camp. He reminded Isis of a wild animal, his senses tuned to the slightest movement. Voices and the faint clank of bronze tools drifted across from the arena. Nes sat perfectly still for a moment. Then his great body sprang into action.
‘Come. I shall take you back there,’ he said, grabbing Isis by the hand. ‘And we shall see about this
pit-digging!’
.
Hopi had a stitch in his side by the time he reached the outskirts of Waset, and his lungs were bursting. But he had done it: he had managed to get away without any of the soldiers chasing him. He slowed to a walk and painfully made his way to Menna’s house. It was late now, but he knew that his tutor would want to hear the news.
Menna came to the door holding an oil lamp. ‘Come in, come in. I was hoping you would report back quickly,’ he said, and led the way into his sanctuary. He placed the lamp in one of the wall niches and indicated the mats. ‘Sit down. What have you discovered?’
Hopi flopped on to the mats, wincing as he manoeuvred his bad leg underneath him. He reached for his bag and opened it. ‘You were right, Menna. I found deathstalkers – three.’
Menna’s forehead creased into a frown as his apprentice brought out his basket. ‘You took them?’
‘Yes.’ Hopi looked up at his tutor nervously. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t have, but the prisoner was there, all tied up. I couldn’t just leave him to be tortured, could I?’
Menna shook his head approvingly. ‘No. You were absolutely right. But it raises the stakes. We now have the wrath of the army to deal with.’
‘They don’t know it was me,’ said Hopi. ‘I managed to get out of the camp without anyone noticing.’
The old man stroked his chin. ‘Hmm. Yes, perhaps. But it will not take a genius to work it out.’ He waved a hand at the basket. ‘Come, then. Show me.’
Carefully, Hopi took off the lid of the basket. Menna reached for the oil lamp, and together they peered inside. The three scorpions were piled on top of each other at the bottom of the basket and began scrabbling around as the light fell on them.
‘Such amazing creatures,’ murmured Menna. ‘You see how their pincers are quite small, smaller than those of other scorpions? This is because the deathstalker’s sting is the most powerful of all. It does not need large pincers to subdue its prey.’
Hopi watched one of the scorpions curl its tail over its head – the tail with the deadly sting at its tip. ‘Is there a cure for such a sting?’ he asked.
‘There are some herbs,’ said Menna. ‘But for a severe sting, the only cure is magic. There is a series of spells. Once they have been spoken, the fate of the victim lies with Serqet herself.’
‘You haven’t taught me these spells, Menna.’
The old priest looked thoughtful. ‘No, I haven’t. They are the most powerful of all the spells of Serqet.’
Hopi had now spent many, many hours mashing herbs, onions and minerals together to make cures for snake bites. He had been out collecting everything from carob to terebinth to add to them. But of all the cures he had mastered in his time with Menna, Hopi loved learning spells best. He badly wanted to learn these powerful ones.
‘Am I ready?’ he asked quietly.
One of the deathstalkers was trying to creep up the sides of the basket and make its escape. Its yellowish pincers groped the air. With a small wooden stick, Menna pushed it back to join its fellows in the depths of the container.
‘Yes, Hopi,’ he said. ‘I think you are.’
‘Thank you,’ breathed Hopi. ‘Can we start now?’
It was late. Menna looked tired and Hopi expected him to defer the training until the morning. But to his surprise, the old priest nodded. ‘Yes. Then you can meditate upon the incantations through the night.
‘They’ve just started,’ she squeaked. ‘Commander Meref stopped the dancing . . .’ She trailed off.
The enormous wrestler was listening to the sounds of the camp. He reminded Isis of a wild animal, his senses tuned to the slightest movement. Voices and the faint clank of bronze tools drifted across from the arena. Nes sat perfectly still for a moment. Then his great body sprang into action.
‘Come. I shall take you back there,’ he said, grabbing Isis by the hand. ‘And we shall see about this
pit-digging!’
.
Hopi had a stitch in his side by the time he reached the outskirts of Waset, and his lungs were bursting. But he had done it: he had managed to get away without any of the soldiers chasing him. He slowed to a walk and painfully made his way to Menna’s house. It was late now, but he knew that his tutor would want to hear the news.
Menna came to the door holding an oil lamp. ‘Come in, come in. I was hoping you would report back quickly,’ he said, and led the way into his sanctuary. He placed the lamp in one of the wall niches and indicated the mats. ‘Sit down. What have you discovered?’
Hopi flopped on to the mats, wincing as he manoeuvred his bad leg underneath him. He reached for his bag and opened it. ‘You were right, Menna. I found deathstalkers – three.’
Menna’s forehead creased into a frown as his apprentice brought out his basket. ‘You took them?’
‘Yes.’ Hopi looked up at his tutor nervously. ‘I know I probably shouldn’t have, but the prisoner was there, all tied up. I couldn’t just leave him to be tortured, could I?’
Menna shook his head approvingly. ‘No. You were absolutely right. But it raises the stakes. We now have the wrath of the army to deal with.’
‘They don’t know it was me,’ said Hopi. ‘I managed to get out of the camp without anyone noticing.’
The old man stroked his chin. ‘Hmm. Yes, perhaps. But it will not take a genius to work it out.’ He waved a hand at the basket. ‘Come, then. Show me.’
Carefully, Hopi took off the lid of the basket. Menna reached for the oil lamp, and together they peered inside. The three scorpions were piled on top of each other at the bottom of the basket and began scrabbling around as the light fell on them.
‘Such amazing creatures,’ murmured Menna. ‘You see how their pincers are quite small, smaller than those of other scorpions? This is because the deathstalker’s sting is the most powerful of all. It does not need large pincers to subdue its prey.’
Hopi watched one of the scorpions curl its tail over its head – the tail with the deadly sting at its tip. ‘Is there a cure for such a sting?’ he asked.
‘There are some herbs,’ said Menna. ‘But for a severe sting, the only cure is magic. There is a series of spells. Once they have been spoken, the fate of the victim lies with Serqet herself.’
‘You haven’t taught me these spells, Menna.’
The old priest looked thoughtful. ‘No, I haven’t. They are the most powerful of all the spells of Serqet.’
Hopi had now spent many, many hours mashing herbs, onions and minerals together to make cures for snake bites. He had been out collecting everything from carob to terebinth to add to them. But of all the cures he had mastered in his time with Menna, Hopi loved learning spells best. He badly wanted to learn these powerful ones.
‘Am I ready?’ he asked quietly.
One of the deathstalkers was trying to creep up the sides of the basket and make its escape. Its yellowish pincers groped the air. With a small wooden stick, Menna pushed it back to join its fellows in the depths of the container.
‘Yes, Hopi,’ he said. ‘I think you are.’
‘Thank you,’ breathed Hopi. ‘Can we start now?’
It was late. Menna looked tired and Hopi expected him to defer the training until the morning. But to his surprise, the old priest nodded. ‘Yes. Then you can meditate upon the incantations through the night.
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