Ramose and the Tomb Robbers Read Free Page A

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.