As it got closer the wave grew bigger. Ramose calculated that it must be at least ten cubits high. The cook’s cat yowled again and struggled out of her master’s arms and darted out of the tomb. Ramose suddenly realised that the terrible wave was heading straight for them.
“We have to get to higher ground,” Ramose yelled, “or we’ll be washed away.”
The tomb makers suddenly leapt to life and ran out of the tomb entrance. They didn’t have time to get across the valley to the path that led to the village. Instead they followed the cat which was clambering up the cliffs around the tomb entrance. Hapu didn’t move, he was mesmerised by the awful brown wave.
“Hapu, come on!” shouted Ramose, but the roar of the approaching water drowned his feeble voice.
Ramose grabbed his friend’s arm and pulled him along. Hapu finally tore his eyes away from the water and started scrambling up the cliff. The rain battered down on them. Rivulets of water pouring down the cliff loosened stones, making it hard for them to climb. Every time they grabbed a stone for a handhold it would slip out of its muddy hole and fall to the valley floor.
Ramose turned to look for Hapu who was struggling below him. The wall of brown water was coursing across the valley. The storehouse and the workers’ makeshift huts were smashed by the crest of the wave. The place where minutes before they had sat in the sun eating their meal disappeared beneath the surging water.
The wave would be on them in a few seconds. Ramose looked for a way up the sheer cliff face. Water was sluicing down it like a waterfall. Other men were trying to climb up the cliff, but it was too steep and slippery with rain. He saw someone slip and fall. He knew that if he didn’t think of something quickly he and his friend would face the same fate.
The familiar dirty-yellow colour of the cliff had turned brown in the rain. Ramose saw a darker brown stripe in the rock face to his left. It was a crevice, a vertical split in the cliff. Hapu’s hands were groping wildly around Ramose’s feet. Ramose reached down, grabbed his friend’s arm and yanked him up. He shouted at him, telling him to shelter in the crevice. His words were completely swallowed by the roar of the water. Hapu was blinking the rain out of his eyes, too frightened and stunned to comprehend what Ramose was trying to do.
Ramose pushed Hapu into the crevice, but didn’t have time to squeeze in himself. The wave of water hit the cliff with a crushing force. Ramose glimpsed other workers washed from the cliff as the side of his head crashed against the rock. Gritty water filled his mouth and nose. He couldn’t move. The weight of the water pushed him against the rock. I’m going to die, he thought, squashed like an insect under god’s thumb.
The wave split into two streams around the cliff face and Ramose felt himself being ripped off the cliff face by one of the streams and washed along in its furious course. The tumbling water tossed him like a reed. There was water all around him. He couldn’t tell which way the surface was. He tried to scream out in terror, but only got a mouthful of muddy water.
Ramose felt the grasping hands of drowning men grab at his arms and legs. Now he knew which way was down. I don’t want to die, he thought. He kicked out to stop them dragging him down with them. His lungs were ready to burst. He opened his eyes. He could see nothing but murky brown water. He kicked again and his head broke the surface.
He gulped in air, but still couldn’t see through the sand and silt that filled his eyes. He reached out blindly. His hand banged against stone as the stream dragged him along and his fingers struck a protruding rock. He grabbed at it with both hands and heaved himself up onto it. The rushing water pulled at him, but he clung to the rock gasping for air. He felt sharp points stick into his back and then something climbing up his back and onto his shoulder.
By the time Ramose had blinked the sand out of his eyes the rain had stopped. The water still rushed past, but it was losing its force. There was a forlorn yowling in his ear. He reached up to his shoulder. There was something clinging there, covered with wet fur. It was the cook’s cat, terrified but still alive. Ramose straddled the rock with the wet cat in his arms. A feeling of elation burst inside him, he wanted to shout out loud. He was alive, he’d cheated death. The gods had poured down their fury and he had survived.
The water was disappearing, oozing through cracks and ravines, soaking into the sand. The sky was a strange orange colour as the sun fought to break through the thinning clouds. It cast an unearthly light on the Great Place. The rocks shone. The valley was an unfamiliar place. The rushing waters had completely resculpted the valley floor with wet sand and huge boulders. The remains of the huts and the storehouse were buried under two cubits of brown mud. A deep ravine had been cut down the middle of the valley where the main force of the flood had bored along.
Ramose realised that he was naked. The flood waters had ripped his kilt from him. He could taste the metallic taste of blood in the water that dripped from his hair. Blood was seeping from cuts and grazes all over his body. He stood up shakily and looked around. Others emerged from the shelter of the rocks. Ramose clambered stiffly down the rock, dizzy with the joy of being alive. He waded through the knee-deep sludge that was now the new valley floor, still holding on to the cat.
The mud sucked at Ramose’s legs as he made his way towards the tomb entrance. He couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there any more. The cliff above it had collapsed and fallen into the mud.
The mud around him grew too deep to wade through. There was a soft moist noise like a contented belch after a good meal. The bog around him shifted slightly and a body floated to the surface. The face was bruised and battered beyond recognition, but one hand had two fingers missing. Ramose’s joy turned to horror and then to fear. He was alive, but others had died. What about Hapu? He prayed to Amun, king of the gods, that his friend was still alive.
The clouds moved away to the south and the sun appeared again. The surviving tomb makers slowly made their way to higher ground and gathered together in a dazed and bruised group. Ramose looked frantically at their faces. Hapu wasn’t among them. He clambered back down to where he had left his friend. That section of the cliff was still standing. Hapu was still wedged in the crevice where Ramose had pushed him. He gently pulled his friend out. His face was covered in deep gashes, his nose was pushed to one side, his lip was split and pouring blood. His eyelids flickered as Ramose pulled him out into the sunlight. He was still alive, but unconscious. Ramose’s face, which had just dried in the sun, was wet again. This time with tears of relief. With the cat clinging to his shoulder, Ramose carried Hapu back to where the stunned survivors were huddled together.
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.
3
AFTERMATH
The storm had lasted for only half an hour, but it had changed t
he 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 b
een 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.”