Prince in Exile by Carole Wilkinson Page B

several months before he would actually get any payment himself.
    Ramose’s concentration was broken. He could feel someone watching him. He looked up. It was Karoya.
    “What are you doing up here?” he said. “Why aren’t you back in the village?”
    “I have to fillet and salt the fish,” she said. “It has to be dried before it can be given out to the workers.”
    “So will you be staying here in the Great Place?”
    “For a few days. I go where I am told.”
    “It will be a change to have a friend here,” Ramose said. “Ever since I arrived, all I’ve done is make enemies.”
    Samut came over. “Get back to your work, slave girl,” he shouted at Karoya and raised his hand to hit her.
    “I told her to come over here,” said Ramose. “I need to record how many fish she has gutted.”
    Samut walked away grumbling. Karoya smiled at Ramose and went back to her work.

    Now that he was used to the work and the walking up and down the tomb ramp every day, Ramose wasn’t ready to fall into bed as soon as his day’s work was over. He was bored. In the evenings, the workers sat around in small groups talking. Some worked on private sculptures either for their own tombs or to sell to others. They made small statues of the gods or stelae, inscribed stones telling the gods all about the good things they had done in life. The painters sometimes brought up stools or small chests that they had made in the village. They painted them in their spare time and would sell them when they got home. The other boys often spent the evening playing games, but lately Weni had been working on a chest.
    Ramose came back from the tomb carrying some stone flakes he wanted to check over before the sun set. Weni was sitting outside the hut carefully painting texts on the side of his chest in neat hieroglyphs. Ramose wasn’t looking where he was going. He stumbled on a rock, staggered sideways to stop himself from falling over, and stood on Weni’s chest. It was made of soft tamarisk wood, not hard imported wood. The chest splintered to pieces.
    Weni was furious. His face turned red and he shouted angrily at Ramose, calling him every name he could think of.
    “I’m sorry, Weni,” said Ramose. “I didn’t mean it. Truly.”
    “What difference does it make whether you meant it or not?” shouted Weni. “It’s ruined anyway. Do you think I care whether you’re sorry or not?”
    After that incident Ramose decided to keep away from the hut until it got dark. He went for a long walk. He climbed the hills behind the Great Place. Not that there was anything to see. In those bare hills the most exciting thing that Ramose came across was a tuft of dry grass or a lizard slithering under a rock or a scorpion boldly warming itself in the lowering rays of the sun. Walking gave him time to think.

    Ramose knew that when he went back to the palace, his problems wouldn’t all be over. His father would welcome and protect him, he could be sure of that. His sister would rejoice that he was still alive, he was certain of that as well. Queen Mutnofret and Vizier Wersu would pretend they were pleased that he was well, but secretly they would still be plotting his death. He might not survive there for long.
    He was getting used to the idea that he might die, but he hated the thought that his story would never be known. One evening after the day’s work was over, Ramose decided to go for a walk up the mountain which rose up from the valley on the western side.
    The peak of the mountain formed a natural pyramid shape. It was a sacred place known as the Gate of Heaven, which reached up to the sky and the realm of the gods. It was the home of the cobra-goddess, Meretseger.
    There were no paths leading up there. No one ever climbed the Gate of Heaven, they had no reason to.
    Ramose picked his way through the rocks and watched the workers’ huts shrink and disappear into the sand as he climbed. He climbed up around the cliffs that surrounded the valley