Prince in Exile (2 page)

Prince Ramose was a clever boy. He could read the hieroglyphs that were only used for writing on the walls of tombs and temples. He could also read the cursive handwriting that the scribes used for keeping records. He could add up numbers in his head without writing them down. The prince also had a good knowledge of the history of Egypt. He knew the names of all the pharaohs going back to the beginning of time.

There was one thing Ramose wasn’t good at though and that was writing. He knew all the words, but when he wrote them down on a papyrus, no one could read them. His writing was untidy and the lines of script wandered up and down the scroll, like beetle trails in the sand. He could never get the right amount of ink on his reed pen. There was either too much and the letters merged into fat inky blobs or there wasn’t enough and they were thin and too pale to read. Keneben tried to encourage him to practise every day.

Ramose sat on the floor with his kilt stretched over his crossed knees to make a writing surface. Princess Hatshepsut came into the schoolroom followed by two of her companions. Ramose smiled at his sister. She didn’t sit on a reed mat on the floor. She took her place on a chair carved with lotuses, straightening her dress around her and arranging her long hair until she looked like one of the goddesses painted on the temple walls. She was only thirteen years old, just two years older than Ramose and still with a girlish face, but her manner was like that of a grown woman. She moved so gracefully, spoke so quietly and never wanted to do anything silly.

“Why do you come to the schoolroom every day, Penu?” he asked his sister. “Girls don’t have to learn to read and write. If I didn’t have to learn, I’d be out doing something more interesting.”

“I think it’s important to learn the scribal skills,” said Hatshepsut taking her pens and palette from her servant. “I will be married one day and my husband will be pleased to have a wife who can help him with his business affairs.”

Keneben gave them both a well-worn papyrus to copy.

“Not this one again!” grumbled Ramose. “I’ve written this out at least fifty times.”

It was a text about the benefits of being a scribe, how easy the work was compared to being a farmer or a labourer, how a scribe didn’t get calluses on his hands.

Ramose was still grumbling. “I’m never going to be a scribe. What do I care whether they have to work hard or not?”

Hatshepsut didn’t complain.

Ramose opened his brush container. It was made of carved ebony with a pattern inlaid in gold, ivory and turquoise. He pulled out a reed and chewed the end to make a brush. He spat out threads of reed. It was a disagreeable thing to have to do. His sister got her servants to prepare her brushes. He’d have to remember to do the same. Keneben brought him a bowl of water. Ramose dipped his brush into the water and then rubbed it on the ink block on his palette. He started to write.

“Wait, Highness!” said Keneben. “First you must say a prayer to Thoth, god of writing, and sprinkle water in offering to him.”

“That’s what scribes have to do,” complained Ramose. “I’m not a scribe.”

Hatshepsut was muttering the prayer and sprinkling a few drops of water on her papyrus. She started to copy out the lesson. She wrote in beautiful even script, in perfect arrow-straight lines. Ramose dipped his fingers in the water and dripped too much water on his scroll. He wiped it off with his kilt and started writing.

After they had both copied the text, Keneben dipped his reed pen into his red ink ready to correct their work. On Ramose’s papyrus, he crossed out words on every line, rewriting them in red in the margin.

“There is some improvement, Highness.” Ramose knew Keneben was lying. “Perhaps you might like to write out some of the words again.”

He was only a tutor and he couldn’t actually tell the future pharaoh that he had terrible handwriting. Keneben turned to Hatshepsut’s papyrus. His red pen hung above her scroll as he read it.

“Not a single mistake, Princess,” he said putting down his pen unused. “And every word is perfectly formed as always. Your writing is beautiful to behold.”

Hatshepsut smiled at the tutor and he bowed to her as if she was the one complimenting him.

Ramose yawned. “I’m bored with lessons.”

“You haven’t practised reading hieroglyphs yet, Highness,” said Keneben.

Ramose groaned as Keneben unrolled a scroll that was at least five cubits long and covered in word-pictures.

“The hieroglyphs are beautifully drawn, Keneben,” Hatshepsut said.

Keneben blushed. “You are very kind, Princess.”

“I’ll begin reading the scroll,” she said.

The text was about a battle fought by a pharaoh from an earlier dynasty. Hatshepsut read well and Ramose was soon following the story and wanting to have a turn at reading.

“It’s a lot more interesting than the text about scribes,” he said.

Eventually though, Ramose got bored with that as well. He uncrossed his stiff legs and stood up. He had ink spots on his kilt.

“I’ve had enough lessons. I’m going down to the river to play at naval battles. Do you want to come, Penu?”

His sister laughed. “I’d have skin as dark as a peasant girl’s if I went outside as often as you want me to,” she said. “I prefer to stay indoors.”

A few years ago she would have been as keen as Ramose to pretend the ibis were enemy soldiers and throw papyrus stalk spears at them. Now she thought Ramose’s games were childish. She spent all of her time with her women companions who rubbed her pale skin with perfumed oils, tied ornaments in her hair and painted her eyelids green.

Ramose walked quickly along the path that led to the river. Three servants hurried after him. One had a fan to cool the prince if he got hot. Another carried a chair, in case he felt like sitting down. Another brought a water jar and some grapes. Ramose made one of them get into the river and pretend he was a hippopotamus so that he had something to hunt. The servant did as he was told, even though crocodiles had occasionally been seen in that part of the river.

Ramose was bored with the game after ten minutes. Not so long ago, games like that had occupied him for hours. He sank down on the lion-footed chair and sighed. Games weren’t any fun when you played alone. Or else he was just getting too old for games. The thought depressed him. He stood up to throw grapes at a passing flock of ducks and slipped in the soft mud at the river’s edge. Now there were mud stains as well as ink spots on his kilt. He thought he saw one of the servants smirk to himself. Ramose felt a flash of anger.

“I’m tired,” he said. “You can carry me back to the palace.”

Two of the servants lifted him on the chair and carried him along the path. He made them go the long way, through the pomegranate grove and around the vegetable gardens. That would teach them to laugh at him.

Heria was waiting for him when they returned to the palace.

“It’s past time for your midday meal, Prince,” she said. Ramose realised that he was very hungry. He took the old woman’s hand. “I feel like a pelican egg, Heria,” he said.

“I’ll send to the kitchens for one immediately.”

Heria and Keneben sat on reed mats on the floor. They would only eat when their prince had finished. Ramose sat down on a stool. A servant girl placed plates of food next to him on a low table.

“I’ll have a little gazelle meat and bread while I wait for the pelican egg,” he said. Heria held the plates up to him. He picked up the food with his fingers.

“Where’s Topi?” he said raising the meat to his mouth.

Heria suddenly screamed. Keneben leapt to his feet and launched himself at Ramose. He slapped the boy’s hand away from his mouth just as he was about to eat the gazelle meat.

Ramose looked at his tutor in amazement. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded angrily.

Heria was trembling. Her bony finger was pointing at a lump on the floor. Ramose looked closer. The lump was brown and furry. It was Topi. The boy fell to his knees next to his pet.

“What’s wrong with him?” He picked up the animal’s limp body. The monkey’s tongue was lolling out of its mouth. “He’s dead. Topi’s dead.”

He looked around at his tutor and his nanny for explanation. They were both grim faced. Heria took the amulet from around her neck and handed it to Keneben. He broke a seal from the top. The amulet was actually a small flask. Keneben grabbed hold of Ramose roughly.

“What are you doing? I’ll call the guards!”

The tutor’s mouth was severe. He didn’t answer. His eyes had a fierce determined look that Ramose didn’t recognise. Ramose was afraid—afraid for his life. Keneben forced the neck of the flask to Ramose’s lips and tipped the contents into his mouth. He grabbed the boy’s hair and pulled his head back so that he had no choice but to swallow. Ramose was surprised at the strength in his tutor’s hands. He felt the bitter-tasting liquid run down his throat. He broke out of Keneben’s hold and got to his feet. Ramose’s legs felt strange. They crumpled beneath him. The room was spinning. Heria was wailing. He could hear the birds in the courtyard calling. The sounds grew further and further away. The faces of his tutor and his nanny grew smaller. He opened his mouth to ask them what they had done to him. Then the floor came up and slapped him in the face.

Ramose awoke and shivered. He hoped it was a dream, but he was too scared to open his eyes. What if it wasn’t? He opened one eye. He could see nothing. He felt like he wanted to be sick. He opened the other eye. Everything was still black. He couldn’t see a thing, but he could smell something. The salty smell of natron, the stuff that the priests used to preserve bodies before they were mummified. There was also the sharp, sweet smell of juniper oil which was poured over the body after it was wrapped in linen strips. He was lying on a cold stone table. This is no dream, thought Ramose. His stomach turned somersaults. I’m dead. Someone is about to cut open my body, take out my insides and turn me into a mummy. Ramose heard someone moving. He raised his head. There was a figure in the corner leaning over a lamp.

“You’re awake!” said a familiar voice.

“Heria!” said Ramose. “Did you die too?”

“You’re not dead, Highness.”

“But this is a tomb isn’t it?”

Heria shook her head, helped Ramose to sit up and gave him some cool water to drink.

“This is an embalming room beneath the temple of Maat,” said the old woman.

Ramose was confused. His mind was still foggy. He was lying on the stone table made especially for embalming dead people. He could see the channels that were meant to carry away the blood when the dead bodies were cut open with a sharp flint. What am I doing in an embalming room if I’m not dead, thought Ramose. He drank the water and then immediately vomited it up again. Heria stroked his back the way she always did when he was sick.

“What’s happened to me, Heria?”

Ramose was trying to remember what had happened. Something frightening, something so bad his brain was keeping it hidden from him.

Keneben came into the room and bowed to the prince.

“I hope you’re feeling better, Highness,” he said.

Ramose suddenly remembered the tutor’s strong grip and the taste of the bitter liquid. He looked from his tutor to his nanny. The two people he had trusted most in the world.

“You poisoned me,” he said, trying to get to his feet.

Keneben knelt at the prince’s feet. “No, Highness, I wish you nothing but health and long life.”

“Someone tried to poison you, my prince, but they failed, thank Amun.”

Heria sat next to Ramose and started to tell him a story. She had told him many stories in his life, but never one that scared him like this one.

“As soon as Queen Mutnofret came to the palace I knew she was trouble,” the nanny said. “I never liked her. When your dear mother died Mutnofret made sure that she became Pharaoh’s favourite wife. Then your half-brother was born and I guessed what her plan was. She wanted her own son to be the next pharaoh. I found a written spell in an amulet around her brat’s neck. I took the spell to Keneben to find out what it meant.”

Keneben continued the story. “It was a spell to bring death to you and your royal brothers, Highness. I don’t believe peasant magic can kill a royal heir, but when your brother Prince Wadzmose died, I wondered if it really was an accident. When Prince Amenmose died as well, I was convinced that someone was killing the princes and that you would be next.”

“Since then, we have watched you day and night,” Heria said with tears in her eyes. “Poisoning was what we feared most. That’s why we tested all your food on the monkey first.”

All the inexplicable things started to make sense.

“Poor Topi,” said Ramose. In many ways the monkey had been his best friend.

Ramose took another sip of water. This time it stayed down. Then he tried a mouthful of bread.

“When can I go back to the palace? We must send messengers to my father.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, Highness.”

“Why not? If Pharaoh knows what she’s done, he’ll imprison Queen Mutnofret.”

“We can’t prove it was her. She’ll just deny it. Pharaoh is very fond of her and she has a way of making things sound convincing.”

Ramose’s head ached. He was finding it difficult to understand what his tutor and nanny were planning.

“But what am I to do? I can’t stay here—unless you think I should become an embalmer.” Ramose laughed despite the pain in his head and his somersaulting stomach. The idea of him having to work for a living was ridiculous. Keneben and Heria didn’t laugh though. They didn’t even smile.

“If you’re to become pharaoh, Highness, you must stay hidden until you are old enough to claim the throne.”

“Hidden? You mean imprisoned?”

“No, Highness.”

“We have given this a lot of thought. There are so few people in the palace whom we can really trust. The vizier is more than likely on the side of the queen. He is a powerful man who no one dares to defy. Every servant and slave will be a potential enemy. It’s too dangerous for you to stay in the palace.”