Prince in Exile, Page 3

  “Such a sad thing for a boy to die so young,” she said.

  “Very unfortunate,” said Paneb. “Such a rush to get his tomb ready.”

  The servant brought in a tray of food.

  “We’ve already eaten our midday meal,” said the scribe. “But you’re probably hungry after your journey.”

  Ramose was hungry. He watched as the servant put bread and meat, cooked vegetables and fruit on a low table. It was a small amount of food that had obviously been picked over already and then left uncovered to dry out. Several flies circled the food. The meat was from a pig. Ramose had never eaten anything but the best quality beef. If he’d been at the palace he would have kicked over the table and demanded fresh food. He was very hungry though.

  Ramose sat and waited for Teti to serve him and to pour something for him to drink. She didn’t move. There was an awkward silence. Paneb and his wife watched him with puzzled expressions. “Is there something wrong?” asked Ianna.

  “No,” said Ramose.

  He looked at the food. The others looked at him. Ramose suddenly realised that he had to serve himself. He moved over to the table and helped himself to the food. The bread was gritty and the meat was tough. All there was to drink was beer, which had a bitter taste.

  “May I have some gazelle’s milk?” he asked. He was pleased that he had remembered to ask politely instead of demanding it.

  The servant looked surprised and shook her head. Paneb and his wife exchanged doubtful looks. Ramose ate his meal in silence.

  When he had finished the meagre meal, the servant brought him a bowl of water to wash his hands. He had to be grateful for small blessings.

  “Where is my room?” he asked the scribe.

  “You don’t have a room,” Paneb replied. “You will sleep on the roof. My wife has a chest for you to keep your things in.”

  Ramose had never been in an ordinary house before. It was tiny, just three rooms and an outdoor kitchen. There was only one bedroom and that was where Paneb and his wife slept. The servant woman and the girl slept out in the garden.

  Teti carried the chest up to the roof for Ramose. The chest wasn’t made of wood but woven from date palm leaves. It was rather old and the leather hinges didn’t look too strong. Ramose unpacked his few possessions and put them in the trunk. All that Heria and Keneben had allowed him to bring was a spare kilt, some scratchy undergarments and a woollen cloak. Keneben had given him some gold shaped into large ring-shaped ingots in case of emergencies. He hid them under everything else. He also put his scribe’s kit in the chest. He realised that his own ebony brush box and palette, inlaid with ivory, gold and turquoise, would be too rich for a humble scribe. He would have to pretend he had lost his scribe’s tools and ask Paneb to provide new ones.

  Paneb, like the other workers, worked an eight-day shift at the pharaoh’s tomb, followed by two days rest. This was his second rest day, he would be returning to work the next day. That gave Ramose the rest of the afternoon to explore the house and the village. Half an hour would have been enough really. It took ten minutes to walk the length of the one street. The fifteen or so houses were built squashed up against each other and all looked the same.

  Outside the village walls there was a small temple, a half-finished building almost as large as the village and a lot of sand and rocks.

  What was there to amuse a boy in this miserable place? There were no gardens, no ponds, no orchards, no river. No animals to hunt, no fish to catch. A group of boys about the same age as Ramose were playing a game that involved drawing lines in the sand. It looked very dull. They all looked at him as he walked by, but no one spoke.

  When he got back to the scribe’s house, he wondered what he was going to do with himself for the rest of the day. Wandering around, he found the dark-skinned girl out in the garden. She was on her hands and knees grinding grain on a curved stone.

  “So you’re the new apprentice,” she said.

  “And who are you?” Ramose demanded.

  “My name is Karoya,” she said, “I grind the grain.” She sprinkled more wheat grains on the curved surface and rolled a round stone back and forth over them.

  “You’re a slave, aren’t you,” said Ramose. “Are you from Kush?”

  “Yes. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “I don’t think you should talk to me like that,” said Ramose.

  “Why not?”

  Ramose didn’t know what to say to this insolent girl.

  “Where I come from you’d be beaten for such rudeness.”

  “And who’s going to beat me?” laughed Karoya. “Certainly not a puny little apprentice scribe, like you. You’d have to catch me first.”

  “Where are the rest of the servants?” asked Ramose changing the subject.

  “There aren’t any more servants, just Teti and me.”

  “But who will dress me? Who will help me bathe?”

  “Who will dress you?” Karoya stopped grinding and looked up at him in amazement. “Only babies can’t dress themselves.”

  Ramose looked at the shocked expression on the girl’s face and realised he’d made another mistake.

  “I was just joking,” he said, and went back into the house. Ramose didn’t like making mistakes. He didn’t like having to pretend he was an ordinary person. There was nothing about his new life that he liked.

  Ramose had been looking forward to washing off the dust and sweat from his walk. Water was precious out there in the desert. He was only allowed to have two jars of water to bathe with. It was such a small amount of water. He was also given a tiny jar of animal fat mixed with limestone to cleanse his skin. He knocked over one of the jars, spilling most of the water meant for rinsing, leaving his skin covered with the chalky fat. So much for bathing, thought Ramose. I probably smell worse now than I did before.

  That night Ramose lay on his back. Then he lay on his left side. Next he tried his right side. It didn’t matter which way he lay he just couldn’t get comfortable. How could he? How could anybody be expected to sleep lying out on the roof on a rickety old bed with a base of woven reeds? He’d only been given one thin blanket. Nights in the desert were cold. Even wrapped in his cloak he was freezing.

  Ramose was still awake when the sun rose. His body, used to soft beds, was sore from head to toe. He was itchy as well. When he inspected his legs and arms, he saw that they were covered in bites. Whether they were from the mosquitoes that had buzzed around his head all night or from the fleas he had found in the blanket, he wasn’t sure.

  He put on his kilt. He fumbled with the ties. When he had finished it hung unevenly. He wrapped it the other way and it hung a little better, though he was sure he wouldn’t be able to undo the knot he’d tied.

  Breakfast was the same gritty bread and a few overripe figs.

  “I’d prefer some sweet plum cake,” he said to Teti.

  She blinked at him as if he’d asked for a slice of the moon.

  Scribe Paneb and his wife came in for their breakfast. They grabbed at the food with both hands, filling their mouths. Ianna talked and ate at the same time. Ramose suddenly lost his appetite. He went back up to the roof, where he found the slave girl just lifting the lid of his chest.

  “Take your hands off my belongings!” shouted Ramose.

  “I was just going to tidy them for you,” said the girl.

  “Your job is to grind grain and make bread, not to touch my personal things. You were looking for something to steal, I know. My father told me that people from Kush were all thieves and barbarians!”

  “I wasn’t stealing anything,” retorted Karoya. “Why would I want to steal your spare kilt and your undergarments?”

  Ramose marched down the stairs. The scribe was still eating his breakfast.

  “I found the slave girl up on the roof trying to steal my possessions,” Ramose said to Paneb. “I want her punished.”

  “I’ve told her before about being inquisitive,” said the scribe belching
softly.

  “Inquisitive!” shouted Ramose. “She’s a thief. She should be beaten.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Ianna. “She can’t work as hard if she’s bruised and sore.”

  “She can go without her evening meal,” said the scribe.

  Ramose couldn’t understand why the scribe was being so lenient with the girl.

  “It’s hard to punish someone who has nothing,” observed the scribe.

  Ramose turned on his heel and went back up the stairs two at a time.

  “That’s it,” he said to himself as he rammed his belongings back into the reed bag. “I’m leaving!’

  6

  PHARAOH’S TOMB

  Ramose had had enough. He couldn’t stay in that place with those people. He just couldn’t. He strode down the village street. How could he be expected to live in such a squalid little house with such disrespectful people? He’d rather eat the palace scraps than their awful food. He’d have to explain to Heria and Keneben. It just wasn’t right for a prince to have to sleep on a flea-ridden bed out in the open and to have to put up with barbarians trying to steal what few possessions he had. It was too much.

  Ramose slung his bag on his shoulder and walked out of the village gate. Worrying about being stabbed or poisoned would be much easier than living in that horrible place. He missed his sister, he missed Keneben and Heria, he missed the river, he missed being waited on. He got ten strides away from the village when a voice called out.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Ramose turned round. It was the slave girl, Karoya. She was sitting in the shade under the wall of the half-built mud brick building outside the village.

  “I’m going home,” Ramose replied continuing to stride away from the village. “Away from thieves and fat scribes.”

  “I thought you were an orphan and you didn’t have a home.”

  “I mean the city,” said Ramose still walking.

  “Why would you want to go to that noisy, smelly place?”

  “The part I lived in wasn’t noisy and smelly.”

  “I thought your uncle died and you had no one to care for you.”

  Ramose stopped walking. He imagined returning to the palace. The only people he could really depend upon were his sister and two servants. The queen and the vizier wanted him dead. Everyone believed he was dead already. He might not survive there for half an hour. He sat down in the sand.

  “I hate the desert.”

  “I love the desert,” said Karoya.

  “There’s nothing in the desert to love. Nothing but sand and rocks.”

  “It’s beautiful. It reminds me of my home. I come out here every morning to watch the sunrise. The sky turns pink and orange and purple.”

  Ramose looked up at the early morning sky. The colours were beautiful, like a temple painting. Voices were drifting from the village. The first tomb workers were dawdling out of the gate, talking quietly to each other as they headed off to work.

  “I want to go home,” said Ramose sadly.

  “This is your home now. You just have to get used to it.”

  “Don’t tell me what I have to do! You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “I know what it’s like to have to leave your home and live in a foreign place full of strangers,” said the girl.

  Ramose sighed and leaned against the wall. “What’s this building for?” he asked.

  “It’s a house for Pharaoh,” said Karoya.

  “A palace?” Ramose looked at the rough half-finished walls. “This is nothing like a palace.”

  “It’s supposed to be for the pharaoh if he ever comes to visit. The men work on it from time to time.”

  “Why would Pharaoh ever want to come to this awful place?”

  Karoya shrugged. “So are you leaving?”

  “No.”

  It was now fully light.

  “The scribe will be looking for you,” said Karoya. “Go and wait for him at the gate. He’ll think you were keen to get started.”

  “I don’t know why you think I should take the advice of a thief,” Ramose grumbled bitterly.

  “I’m not a thief,” said Karoya.

  Ramose went over to the gate to wait for the scribe.

  Paneb walked in silence. Ramose was grateful. He didn’t want to talk to the scribe. He followed Paneb up the hill to the west of the village, further into the desert, further away from his home. The overweight scribe was soon puffing and panting. The other workers disappeared over the crest before Paneb and Ramose were halfway up.

  The path looked the same as the one that had brought him to the village—just a dusty track worn by the passage of feet. On either side of the path was the same dry sand and sharp rocks and flints. There were no trees, no plants, no sign of animal life. Ramose thought it must surely be the most inhospitable place in the world. They reached the top and the heat of the sun hit Ramose full in the face. He wasn’t used to being outside in the heat without servants to fan him. He hoped he would be able to work out in the sun without fainting.

  Ramose shielded his eyes. The Great Place lay below them. It didn’t look great at all. It was a dry and sand-coloured valley the same as the valley where the village was. The only difference was the cliffs leading down to this valley floor were still standing.

  “Is this it?” asked Ramose. “Where’s Pharaoh’s tomb?”

  “Hidden underground, of course,” said Paneb. “The entrance is over there.”

  He pointed to a hole in the side of the valley wall opposite. Ramose was disappointed. He knew that the royal tomb was being built underground to protect it from tomb robbers, but he had expected it to have an ornate entrance and elaborate temples above ground. There was nothing.

  The path wove up and down until it found a way down around the cliffs. When they reached the valley floor, Ramose could see the entrance more clearly. It was just a large square hole cut into the rock face. Outside were blocks of stone quarried from the tomb. The tomb makers were nowhere to be seen. Paneb muttered grumpily to himself as he headed to the tomb entrance. An enormous man stood at the entrance. He wasn’t an Egyptian, he was black-skinned, like Karoya, and very tall.

  “Good morning, Scribe Paneb,” said the guard.

  “Morning,” grumbled Paneb.

  “Who is this with you?” asked the guard.

  “This is my new apprentice, Ramose. Let him pass whenever he wishes.”

  Paneb also introduced Ramose to Samut, a sweaty man with long stringy hair who was foreman of the tomb workers. Then they were out of the sun and suddenly in darkness. They walked down a steeply sloping corridor that led deep inside the rock. Small oil lamps lit the way at intervals, but it was still very dark. Ramose was surprised. He wasn’t really sure what a scribe attached to a royal tomb was meant to do, but he’d imagined that he would be working out in the blazing sun. It had never occurred to him that he would be working deep underground.

  They passed a group of sculptors working on carvings on the sloping walls of the corridor. Ramose could make out pictures of his father fighting in military campaigns. There was a carving of him firing arrows from a chariot, a carving of him with his foot on the head of a grovelling barbarian, another of him standing next to a pile of dismembered hands, cut from his victims. Hieroglyphs told the story of his bravery and how he was undefeated in battle. The corridor continued to slope steeply down. Ramose looked over his shoulder. The tomb entrance was just a small square of light high above him.

  The corridor opened into a room where men were working on the ceiling. It was painted deep blue and the painters, clinging to a wooden scaffold, were covering it with five-pointed yellow stars. The murmur of voices and the sound of the chipping of stone drifted up from a flight of steps that led down from this room at right angles. Ramose followed Paneb down the steps. The burial chamber was at the bottom. Outliners were marking out paintings and text on four square columns supporting the ceiling. More s
culptors were on their hands and knees carving a large red sandstone sarcophagus.

  Ramose wasn’t interested in the detail of the carving though. As soon as he’d lost sight of the square of light that was the outside, he felt panic rise in him. He was thinking about how far it was to the surface. He was picturing the enormous weight of rock just above his head and imagining it falling in and burying him alive. His breathing started to get fast and shallow. The air was stale and smelt of rock dust, burning oil and sweat. His skin turned icy cold. The walls were closing in on him. He was sure he was about to be crushed to death. He choked out some words.

  “Outside,” he stammered. “Can’t breathe.”

  He stumbled towards the stairs, falling over a sculptor.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the scribe asked impatiently. The tomb workers were all laughing.

  He felt his way up the stairs. His chest felt like it was exploding. He couldn’t draw a breath. He scrambled under the scaffolding, tripped over a jar of paint and crawled along the floor. A square of daylight came into view. Ramose rested his cheek on the cold stone floor and breathed in the fresh air that came from above.

  “Whoever heard of a tomb worker afraid of being underground?” said one of the tomb workers. They all thought it was a great joke.

  “You’ll have to get used to being underground,” Paneb snapped. “I can’t have the workers laughing at me. You get used to it or you go.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Ramose said in a quiet, croaky voice.

  “Whether you’re all right or not, you have work to do,” said Paneb angrily. “You must keep a tally of the copper chisels that the sculptors use.”

  The scribe sat down on a block of stone. “Whenever a chisel wears out it is to be replaced. Go back up, out to the valley and collect some new chisels from the store. There are men up there in the corridor with worn out chisels, we can’t have them sitting around doing nothing.”

  The scribe was, however, quite happy to sit and do nothing himself.

  “Where is the papyrus I am to write on?” Ramose asked.

  Paneb looked around quickly, hoping that the workers hadn’t heard.