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roof.
    ‘And what did he say?’ demanded Nefert.
    ‘He pointed out that we support strangers: we give them shelter and food. He says that if we can do that, we should do more to support our own kin.’
    ‘Support strangers ?’ exclaimed Sheri.
    ‘Hopi and Isis.’
    Isis caught her breath.
    ‘But Isis works for us,’ protested Sheri. ‘She earns her keep, and she wouldn’t be here without Hopi. Even Hopi brings us all he can.’
    ‘ I know that,’ said Paneb. ‘But it is not so straightforward in the eyes of my cousin. The ties of blood run deep, Sheri. I have to do my best by Sinuhe. Surely you can see that?’
    With a sinking heart, Isis realised the truth. For some reason, Paneb had to prove his loyalty to Sinuhe. He had to show that his cousin meant as much as the ‘strangers’ who lived under his roof. And that meant one thing: Isis would have to return to the tax collector’s house to perform that evening.
    .
    When Hopi arrived at Menna’s house, the old man was sitting in a patch of morning sun in the courtyard, his eyes closed. Hopi approached him softly.
    ‘Good morning, Menna.’
    Menna looked up. ‘Hopi. I’ve been expecting you.’
    Hopi sat down next to his tutor. ‘I did as you told me to yesterday,’ he said. ‘I went out into the fields to find some scarabs.’
    A little smile curled Menna’s lips. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself.’
    ‘Well, it was interesting.’
    ‘Tell me what you saw.’ Menna closed his eyes again, waiting for Hopi to speak.
    Hopi thought for a moment. He watched the sunlight play over the old man’s skin, taking in the lines like birds’ feet that surrounded his eyes, the deep hollows under his cheekbones, the ridges that furrowed his brow. He remembered what Menna had said on his way to the family tomb: there are some lessons that only the gods can teach . . . Did these words have anything to do with scarabs?
    Menna opened one eye and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well?’ he asked.
    Hopi came out of his reverie. He described all that he had seen: the mound of donkey dung, the scurrying scarabs, their perfect spheres and their journey to their burrows. When he had finished, Menna nodded slowly.
    ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Very good. You’ve seen the first half of the cycle. But it seems you did not see the second.’
    ‘The second?’ Hopi was puzzled.
    Menna reached for the little casket that was sitting by his side – the same one that he had opened the day before. ‘The first half of the scarab’s cycle shows dedication and labour. In the second half, the hard work is over,’ Menna told him. ‘All that remains is magic.’
    Hopi thought back to the scarabs. He hadn’t seen anything very magical about them. ‘No, I don’t think I saw that,’ he said honestly.
    ‘No matter. You will, all in good time.’
    Menna lifted the lid of the casket. He brought out the blue faience scarab again and placed it on the mat in front of him. But he didn’t stop there. Next he fetched out an ankh , the symbol of life. Then there was another scarab, an udjat eye of Horus, a djed pillar, more udjat eyes . . . slowly, methodically, he laid them all out until there were twenty-nine amulets spread before them. He reached into the casket one last time and brought out a beautiful scarab of green jasper set in a thin casing of gold, which he set to one side, apart from all the others.
    ‘These are my brother’s funerary amulets,’ he said. ‘They must be placed among his wrappings.’ He picked up the jasper scarab and turned it over to reveal hieroglyphs carved into the gold. ‘This is his heart scarab, inscribed with a text from the Book of the Dead . It is the most important amulet of all, to be placed over his heart.’
    Hopi stared at the array of amulets in front of him. He had never been so close to the secrets of the dead before. ‘When will that be?’ he asked. ‘Don’t the embalmers need them?’
    ‘Indeed they do,’ said Menna. ‘And that is where you