Ramose and the Tomb Robbers (3 page)

A group of women and children from the village appeared on the rim of the valley. They had heard the terrible roar of the water from the village. Ianna, the scribe’s wife, was among them, so was Karoya.

“Are you all right?” she said taking the striped cloth that she wore over her head and giving it to Ramose with her head turned away.

Ramose had forgotten that he was naked. He quickly wrapped the cloth around himself.

“Yes, I’m okay, but I’m not sure about Hapu.” Ramose gently wiped the mud and blood from his friend’s face.

Ianna was looking frantically from face to face.

“Where is Paneb?” she asked in a quavery voice.

Ramose hadn’t given the scribe a thought. He had been down in the tomb when the storm hit. The scribe was fat and slow. He would have heard the roar of the approaching water, but would never have made it up the shaft in time. Ianna let out a wail that echoed around the valley. Other women who had been unable to find their husbands and fathers joined in. The eerie wailing gave Ramose goosebumps, despite the fact that the sun had already dried and warmed him.

“What’s that?” asked Karoya pointing to the damp, furry bulge in the crook of Ramose’s arm.

“It’s for you,” he said and held out the cat to her.

The storm had lasted for only half an hour, but it had changed the lives of the tomb workers forever. Of the eighteen men who worked in Pharaoh’s tomb, only six had survived the flood. Ten women had lost their husbands. Twenty-three children were fatherless. Hapu, whose mother had died the previous year, was orphaned. Pharaoh’s tomb was ruined.

The heavy rain had damaged the village, mud bricks had melted away in the downpour, cellars had been flooded, but the damage was soon repaired. Hapu, though stunned, cut and bruised, was soon recovering.

Ianna wandered from room to room in the house, not knowing what to do with herself. “His soul will be lost,” she cried. “He will never find peace.”

Ramose hadn’t liked the scribe much, but he would never have wished this on him. His body was buried under the great weight of stones and sand that the flood had washed into Pharaoh’s tomb. There would be no mummy to place in the hillside tomb that Paneb had been preparing, at great expense, for his own burial.

“The sculptors will make a statue of Paneb to place in his tomb.” Ramose had tried to console her. “His spirit will live in the statue. He will find peace.”

Five days after the flood, Vizier Wersu stood in the valley of the Great Place on a pile of sand and rocks. The royal architect, a man called Ineni, was explaining the situation to him.

“The tomb entrance under us is buried beneath several cubits of sand and rocks. The sculptured walls will be cracked, scored and broken. The tomb itself will certainly be full of water. The burial chamber may have collapsed.”

Ramose was standing at a respectful distance with the other surviving tomb workers trying to catch the architect’s words.

“While the rocks and sand could eventually be removed,” Ineni told them, “it would take years, decades, perhaps even a century, for the water to seep away.”

The vizier said nothing. His thin mouth was grim. His bony insect hands were clasped behind his back.

“It is my recommendation, Vizier,” continued the architect, “that a new tomb should be excavated with the entrance on higher ground.” He said it as casually as if he was talking about weaving a new basket or making a stool.

There was a murmur among the tomb workers. They had all been working on Pharaoh’s tomb for three years.

The vizier turned to the workers. Ramose kept to the back of the group. His face was cut and bruised and he didn’t think the vizier would recognise him, but he didn’t want to take the risk. Ramose avoided Wersu’s evil eyes.

“I agree with Architect Ineni,” said the vizier. “A new tomb must be commenced.” He looked around at the battered and bruised team of workers as if he was bored with the situation. “There is another matter which is of importance to this project.” He paused while he adjusted the folds of his robes. “Pharaoh has fallen ill in Memphis. He is very ill. It is feared that he may be rested from life before the year’s end.”

Ramose stared at the vizier’s dispassionate face. He might have been telling them that there was no beer for their midday meal or that the cost of chisels had increased.

For Ramose the news was staggering. His father was dying. When he died, Ramose would be the rightful heir to the kingship, but since everyone thought he was dead the crown would go to his half-brother, the horrible brat Tuthmosis.

“So then, work must start on the new tomb immediately,” said the vizier.

The tomb workers turned to go back to the village. They knew they had a huge task in front of them, but they were Pharaoh’s tomb builders and they were willing to do whatever they had to in order to finish his tomb in time.

“There is one more thing.” The vizier’s voice was thick with what sounded like pleasure.

The workers turned back.

“Pharaoh’s new tomb is to be built with the entrance higher in the cliff face. It will be a difficult excavation. Time is short. You are now few.”

He looked around at the six remaining tomb workers and the two apprentices. “I will send for the gangs of temple craftsmen working in Thebes and in Memphis. They will take charge of the work. You will be sent to work somewhere else.”

The tomb workers stood in stunned silence for a moment as Vizier Wersu walked away and climbed into a covered chair. Four porters lifted the chair and carried the vizier away towards the city. The tomb workers all started shouting at once.

“They can’t send us away.”

“We are Pharaoh’s tomb makers.”

“This is our home!”

“Where will we be sent?” Ramose asked the architect.

“You have been appointed to Tombos,” replied the architect. There was a shiver of exclamations through the small group. “You will have the honour of working on a fortress and temple commemorating Pharaoh’s great victories over Egypt’s enemies.”

Ramose walked back to the tomb makers’ village on legs that felt like they were made out of soft mud. He kept his distance from the other workers. He needed time to get used to these new circumstances. Only a week ago he’d thought of his life in the village as a tedious chore. He thought he would have done anything to get out of it. Now that it was suddenly all about to change, he found himself wishing it wasn’t over.

He went back to the scribe’s house. Ianna was lying on a couch, weeping. Hapu came in and slowly lowered himself onto a stool. He was still weak and hadn’t been to the meeting with Wersu.

“I’ve just walked around the garden,” he said sounding exhausted.

Now that he had no family of his own, Hapu had been recovering in the scribe’s house where Karoya could look after him. His injuries were worse than Ramose’s. His face was still swollen and bruised, his broken nose permanently squashed sideways. His whole body was stiff and sore. Karoya came in with wine for her grieving mistress, beer for Ramose and a thick brown potion for her patient. The cat, Mery, followed closely at her heels.

Hapu pulled a face as he sipped at the potion. “I’m sure you’re trying to poison me,” he said to Karoya.

“It is a remedy from Kush, made from burnt lotus leaves and the fruit of the castor oil plant. It will help heal your body.”

Hapu drank it down in one gulp. “What did the vizier say?” he asked.

“A new tomb is to be built,” replied Ramose quietly.

Hapu nodded. It was what they had expected.

“And excavation has to start immediately,” continued Ramose blankly. He was still numb with shock. “Pharaoh is dying.”

Hapu and Karoya both turned to Ramose. They knew what this meant to him.

“May Osiris protect him,” muttered Hapu.

“That’s not the only thing,” said Ramose. “New gangs will build the tomb. We will be sent to Tombos.”

Hapu looked at Ramose in disbelief. “Tombos? Where’s Tombos?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of this place.”

Ramose had heard of it. He knew all the details of his father’s campaigns. It was a small town only recently conquered by Pharaoh’s army.

“It’s a town at the very southern edge of Egypt, beyond the third cataract.”

Hapu was stunned. “I’ve never been south of the city. I’ve never been north of it either. I’ve spent my whole life in Thebes. I thought I’d grow old here.”

Hapu knew that the Nile, in its journey from its source deep in foreign lands, was not the silent, slow-moving river that they were familiar with. It was a noisy, foaming stream that cascaded over a series of rocky outcrops. These were known as the cataracts. Until Pharaoh’s recent conquest, the first cataract had marked the edge of Egypt.

“I don’t want to live beyond the third cataract,” said Hapu. “That’s in the lands of the barbarian sand-dwellers.”

Karoya looked annoyed. “Why do Egyptians think everyone outside their land is a barbarian? I should like to go to this place. It will be closer to my home.”

“He doesn’t mean to offend you, Karoya,” Ramose said. “No one likes to leave their homeland.”

The tomb makers and their families left the village after the funerals. Only two of the missing bodies had been found. They had been sent to Thebes for mummification. All the other men had had statues made for their tombs. This meant that they didn’t have to wait the usual seventy days until the mummification process was complete. Now that they were used to the idea, the villagers seemed anxious to leave. Their few possessions were piled on a sled which the men took it in turns to pull.

Ramose could easily carry his possessions. He had slightly less than he’d had when he arrived at the village. Since he lost his kilt in the flood, he didn’t even have a change of clothing. He still had the gold, melted down into thick rings, that Keneben had given him. He had the scribal tools that he’d used in the schoolroom back at the palace, but which had been too rich and ornate for him to use in the village without attracting attention. He also had his heart scarab hidden at the bottom of his bag. This was the large beetle-shaped jewel that was to be buried with him when he died. Hapu had taken a stool and a chest that his father had made. Karoya, the slave girl, had more baggage than either of them. She had a large bag which contained her favourite cooking pot and the round stone that she used for grinding grain. She was also carrying a basket made of woven rushes under her arm. The basket had an open grille woven into the lid to let air in.

“You shouldn’t have brought that, Karoya,” grumbled Hapu, who was now recovered enough to walk to Thebes. “Slaves aren’t supposed to have possessions. You should be helping me carry my things.”

“Carry your own baggage,” Karoya snapped.

Ramose smiled as he listened to his friends bicker. He knew Hapu would never get the better of Karoya. Through the lid of Karoya’s rush basket, Hapu could see two glinting green eyes. She was carrying the cat that Ramose had saved from the flood.

“Mery is mine,” said Karoya firmly. “She comes with me.”

The ragged group straggled up the path that led from the tomb makers’ village to the city. They reached the top of the hill and the blue strip of the Nile was suddenly visible in the distance with a band of green vegetation on either side. The temples and the city were on the other side of the river. On this side was the palace, its white-washed walls dazzling in the sun, its gold-tipped flagpoles glinting. Ramose turned to look back at the village. From that height its mud brick walls seemed to merge with the valley floor. It was a strange place for a prince to have spent six months of his life. He was glad to be leaving the miserable little village, but, on the other hand, he wasn’t sorry he had experienced living there.

“Come on, Ramose,” Hapu called out. “You’re getting left behind.”

In less than half an hour Ramose was back in the familiar fertile Nile Valley that he hadn’t seen for eight months. The landscape changed suddenly from dry, dusty desert to green fields and orchards. Ramose breathed in deeply.

“Smell that,” he said to his friends. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

The air was laden with the fragrance of pomegranates and slightly fermenting grapes. Karoya wrinkled her nose. She was a desert-dweller and the fertile smells of the river valley were strange to her.

“It smells sort of greenish,” she said. “And the air is heavy.”

They passed by the palace walls. Ramose looked up at the fluttering pennants and the high windows. Karoya and Hapu exchanged a glance. Ramose pictured its luxurious interiors: the massive halls and columns; the comfortable bed with the thick linen mattress; his own room with the wall paintings of Amun, king of the gods, and of his father hunting in the Delta. He wondered if his sister, Hatshepsut, was in the palace. More than likely she had travelled up to Memphis to be with their father. There was nothing for him at the palace now. His nanny was dead, his tutor sent abroad. He would be a stranger in his own home.

They reached the edge of the river and the foreman herded them onto a ferry made of bundles of papyrus reeds lashed together. Karoya was very anxious about getting onto the boat.