Free Prince in Exile by Carole Wilkinson

was Karoya’s hand. Her face came into the circle of light which made her black skin shine like polished ebony.
    “Are you all right?” Another face came into the light. It was Hapu, the apprentice painter.
    “Of course he isn’t all right,” said Karoya impatiently as she inspected Ramose in the lamplight. “He’s covered in bruises and he’s got a bad cut on his forehead.”
    She handed the lamp to Hapu and gently felt along Ramose’s arms and legs. She held his head and moved it slowly to one side and then the other. She placed her hands on his chest. Ramose cried out in pain.
    “You have some broken bones here,” she said.
    “We can’t carry him,” said Hapu.
    “We don’t have to carry him,” replied Karoya. “He can walk.”
    Getting up and walking seemed like the most impossible thing in the world. Karoya pulled a leather pouch from her belt. She held it to Ramose’s mouth. He felt liquid trickle down his throat. It wasn’t water, it was wine. Ramose felt his insides warm. Karoya pulled a small metal box from the folds of her belt. Inside was something with a strong smell.
    “What’s that?” asked Ramose.
    “Ointment from Kush. I only have a little left.”
    She rubbed the salve into Ramose’s arms and legs. His limbs tingled and he could move his toes and fingers again.
    “Hapu, you get behind him. We have to get him to his feet.”
    Hapu didn’t know where to grip him. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said.
    “Sometimes pain can’t be avoided,” replied Karoya. “You push, I’ll pull.”
    Ramose was thinking he was quite comfortable where he was, when an unbearably sharp pain in his chest made him cry out. Next thing he knew, he was on his feet.
    The sky was starting to lighten. Ramose could now see that he had landed on a narrow ledge not much more than a cubit wide. If he had fallen any further, he would certainly have fallen to his death. Hapu was trying not to look at the sheer drop beneath them. It was a long way down.
    “Let’s get off this ledge.”
    “Can you walk, Ramose?”
    Ramose nodded. His legs moved slowly and clumsily as if they were made of stone.
    “I have your bag, Ramose,” said Karoya. “We found it up higher where you and Weni fought.”
    She took Ramose’s hand and led him slowly along the ledge until they came to a wider area that opened out and sloped down to the valley floor. Ramose had lost one of his sandals and the other one was broken. Hapu gave him his sandals to wear.
    “I’m sorry we left you on the mountain,” he said.
    With Hapu supporting Ramose on one side and Karoya on the other, they made slow progress. Ramose learned that Weni and Nakhtamun had told no one about the incident on the mountain.
    “I saw them follow you up the mountain,” said Karoya. “Then I saw them return at nightfall without you.”
    She had confronted the boys, demanding to know what had happened. Weni and Nakhtamun wouldn’t tell her, but Hapu had told her what had happened.
    “Weni said we’d tell the foreman if you hadn’t returned by daylight,” Hapu told him. “I knew you could be dead by then.”
    They’d waited until the moon rose and then gone to look for him.
    By the time they reached the safety of the valley floor it was daylight. Ra had survived his perilous night journey. So had Ramose.

11
PLACE OF BEAUTY
    Ramose screwed up his nose. “What’s that?” Karoya was pressing something soft, wet and foul-smelling against the wound on his head.
    “It’s meat.”
    “It smells awful.”
    “A wound on the head must be treated with a poultice of fresh meat on the first day.”
    “It doesn’t smell fresh.”
    “It’s as fresh as there is in this place.”
    “Is this another of your remedies from Kush?”
    “No, I learnt this from an Egyptian priest.” Karoya bound the meat to Ramose’s forehead with a strip of linen. “Tomorrow I will just use oxen fat and honey.”
    “That sounds almost as bad,” grumbled Ramose. “When I hurt myself