Ramose and the Tomb Robbers Read Free Page B

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 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