not notice. Ramose looked at the scarab. It was so bright and so beautiful out there in the bleak, colourless desert.
Ramose sank down on his knees in the sand. In the last weeks he had held back his sadness, he had buried his loneliness, he had hidden his fears. Now he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had believed that his two friends would save him, now they were both gone. Heria, the nanny who had cared for him all his life, was lost to him forever. Keneben, his tutor, was far away in a foreign land. His father believed he was dead, and so did his beloved sister. The queen who hated him was still in the palace, still the pharaoh’s favourite. He was alone in the world. Tears dropped one by one into the sand and disappeared, sucked into its dryness. Ramose wept and wept until the sand beneath his face was wet.
A hand touched his shoulder. Ramose looked up, startled. His first thought was that the palace guards had been sent to get him. It was Karoya.
“What’s wrong, Ramose?” she asked.
Ramose wiped his face on his kilt.
“Why does the writing sadden you so?”
Karoya stroked his arm gently, just like Heria used to do when he was upset. She looked at him with what seemed like real concern. Then she suddenly stopped stroking. She was staring at the scarab in Ramose’s hand.
“Where did you get that? I’ve never seen such a jewel.”
Ramose sat back with the scarab in his lap, but said nothing.
“What sort of an apprentice scribe has such a thing and two handfuls of gold and scribe’s equipment fit for a king?”
Ramose said nothing.
“Who are you?” asked Karoya peering at Ramose.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
Ramose felt that he had nothing more to lose. He needed to know that there was at least one person in Egypt who knew who he was and why he was in hiding.
“I am Prince Ramose,” he said, trying his best to sound royal even though his face was streaked with dirt and tears. “Third son of the pharaoh. Heir to the throne of Egypt.”
“The prince is dead. Even I know that.”
“He’s not dead. I’m not dead.”
Karoya looked at the scarab, then at Ramose.
“Do you believe me?”
“That would explain a lot of your strangeness. Why would a prince be hiding in the village?”
Ramose told her the whole story, all about the deaths of his brothers, the evil queen, and his friends’ fears for his life.
“My friends were supposed to be collecting evidence against the queen and the vizier, to convince the pharaoh that they had murdered my brothers and tried to murder me. Now my friends are gone there is no one in the world I can trust, apart from my sister, Hatshepsut, and she thinks I’m dead.”
“You can trust me,” said the slave girl. “I won’t tell anybody.”
Ramose looked at her and believed her.
“Thank you.”
9
CARVED IN STONE
Karoya had kept her word and told no one what she had learned about Ramose. “Why do you have a jewel that is shaped like a beetle?” she asked as she kneaded bread dough in a large clay bowl.
“It’s a heart scarab,” replied Ramose who was sitting in the kitchen garden watching her.
“What’s it for?”
“It’s made to be buried with me when I die.”
“It’s very beautiful. It seems a shame to bury it in a tomb.”
“When an Egyptian dies, their body is preserved so that it can travel into the afterlife.”
Karoya glanced at him dubiously and started to shape the dough into flat round loaves.
“I’ve heard about this. They take out all the insides and wrap the body in strips of cloth.”
“Not all of the insides—the heart is left in. In the afterlife Osiris, the god of the underworld, judges whether the person is fit to enter. Anubis, the jackal-headed god, takes the heart and weighs it against the feather of truth. If the heart exactly balances the weight of the feather, then Anubis knows the owner of the heart has been a good and truthful person and allows him to enter the afterlife.”
Karoya
Ramose sank down on his knees in the sand. In the last weeks he had held back his sadness, he had buried his loneliness, he had hidden his fears. Now he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had believed that his two friends would save him, now they were both gone. Heria, the nanny who had cared for him all his life, was lost to him forever. Keneben, his tutor, was far away in a foreign land. His father believed he was dead, and so did his beloved sister. The queen who hated him was still in the palace, still the pharaoh’s favourite. He was alone in the world. Tears dropped one by one into the sand and disappeared, sucked into its dryness. Ramose wept and wept until the sand beneath his face was wet.
A hand touched his shoulder. Ramose looked up, startled. His first thought was that the palace guards had been sent to get him. It was Karoya.
“What’s wrong, Ramose?” she asked.
Ramose wiped his face on his kilt.
“Why does the writing sadden you so?”
Karoya stroked his arm gently, just like Heria used to do when he was upset. She looked at him with what seemed like real concern. Then she suddenly stopped stroking. She was staring at the scarab in Ramose’s hand.
“Where did you get that? I’ve never seen such a jewel.”
Ramose sat back with the scarab in his lap, but said nothing.
“What sort of an apprentice scribe has such a thing and two handfuls of gold and scribe’s equipment fit for a king?”
Ramose said nothing.
“Who are you?” asked Karoya peering at Ramose.
“You ask a lot of questions,” he said.
Ramose felt that he had nothing more to lose. He needed to know that there was at least one person in Egypt who knew who he was and why he was in hiding.
“I am Prince Ramose,” he said, trying his best to sound royal even though his face was streaked with dirt and tears. “Third son of the pharaoh. Heir to the throne of Egypt.”
“The prince is dead. Even I know that.”
“He’s not dead. I’m not dead.”
Karoya looked at the scarab, then at Ramose.
“Do you believe me?”
“That would explain a lot of your strangeness. Why would a prince be hiding in the village?”
Ramose told her the whole story, all about the deaths of his brothers, the evil queen, and his friends’ fears for his life.
“My friends were supposed to be collecting evidence against the queen and the vizier, to convince the pharaoh that they had murdered my brothers and tried to murder me. Now my friends are gone there is no one in the world I can trust, apart from my sister, Hatshepsut, and she thinks I’m dead.”
“You can trust me,” said the slave girl. “I won’t tell anybody.”
Ramose looked at her and believed her.
“Thank you.”
9
CARVED IN STONE
Karoya had kept her word and told no one what she had learned about Ramose. “Why do you have a jewel that is shaped like a beetle?” she asked as she kneaded bread dough in a large clay bowl.
“It’s a heart scarab,” replied Ramose who was sitting in the kitchen garden watching her.
“What’s it for?”
“It’s made to be buried with me when I die.”
“It’s very beautiful. It seems a shame to bury it in a tomb.”
“When an Egyptian dies, their body is preserved so that it can travel into the afterlife.”
Karoya glanced at him dubiously and started to shape the dough into flat round loaves.
“I’ve heard about this. They take out all the insides and wrap the body in strips of cloth.”
“Not all of the insides—the heart is left in. In the afterlife Osiris, the god of the underworld, judges whether the person is fit to enter. Anubis, the jackal-headed god, takes the heart and weighs it against the feather of truth. If the heart exactly balances the weight of the feather, then Anubis knows the owner of the heart has been a good and truthful person and allows him to enter the afterlife.”
Karoya
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