Free Prince in Exile by Carole Wilkinson Page B

Hapu, were painting texts on three of the walls. They were instructions for how to travel through the dangerous underworld. The painters were also drawing maps showing two different ways to get past the monsters and lakes of fire. Hapu was on his knees, painting a border of papyrus reeds and Horus eyes.
    “We’ve only had time to carve sculptures on one of the walls,” said the foreman.
    “Will there be no carvings in the corridor?”
    “No, there isn’t time.”
    Ramose opened his mouth to complain.
    “It’s not my fault the royal princes keep dying so young,” grumbled the foreman. “Three tombs in two years! How are we supposed to cope?”
    Ramose looked closer at a half-finished carving of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the dead, leading a young boy into the presence of Osiris, the god of the underworld. A sculptor was gently chipping away at the rock to shape the boy’s kilt. Another sculptor was carving the boy’s name alongside in elegant hieroglyphs. It was Ramose’s name.
    Ramose realised that the carving was of himself. His heart was being weighed against the feather of truth. Thoth, the ibis-headed god of writing, was noting down the results. The monster Ammut, part crocodile, part lion, part hippopotamus watched, ready to pounce on the heart and devour it if it was heavy with wrong-doing.
    Another sculptor was working on the other end of the wall. He was putting the finishing touches to a carving of Ramose’s family: Pharaoh, his mother, his beautiful sister Hatshepsut, his two brothers and himself as a small boy. He was sitting on his mother’s lap. A cat was playing under her chair.
    It probably wasn’t a real likeness of his mother. The man who had drawn the outline for the sculptor would never have seen her. Ramose couldn’t remember what she looked like. He held a lamp up to the image of his mother’s face. It was beautiful. Calm and smiling. One elegant hand was resting on the shoulder of the child on her lap. Another sculptor, who was working on the hieroglyphs, had finished his work on the other carving. He came over and started to carve the names of the family members. He was a skilled craftsman. Following the outlines painted on the walls, he carved the shapes with smooth assured strokes. The hastily drawn outlines were transformed into neat three-dimensional hieroglyphs, each one a small work of art.
    Ramose looked closer. Next to the image of his mother the sculptor had carved the hieroglyphs for Mutnofret.
    “Stop!” Ramose reached out and grabbed hold of the sculptor’s hand.
    “What do you think you’re doing, stripling?” said the sculptor.
    “You’ve made a mistake,” said Ramose angrily.
    The sculptor turned to look at the new apprentice scribe, surprised by the tone of his voice. “What are you talking about?”
    “Mutnofret is only a lesser queen. The name of the Great Royal Wife was Ahmose. You’ve carved the wrong name.”
    “We’re in a hurry,” the sculptor said, going back to his carving. “I haven’t got time to redo it.”
    “You have to change it,” shouted Ramose as he prised the chisel from the sculptor’s hand.
    Hapu looked over to see his new friend grappling with the sculptor. He ran across to restrain Ramose before he got hurt in the scuffle.
    “Calm down, Ramose. Does it matter if it’s the wrong queen?”
    “Yes it does matter. It matters a lot. Mutnofret isn’t Prince Ramose’s mother. It has to be changed.”
    Ramose stopped struggling and Hapu released his hold. As soon as he was free, Ramose lunged at the sculpture and with the chisel attacked the name of the hated queen. He gouged the first two hieroglyphs from the wall before the startled tomb workers realised what he was doing and wrestled him to the floor. Ramose fell hard and cried out in pain as his unhealed ribs hit the stone floor.
    Hapu pushed through the knot of men around his friend and knelt at his side.
    “He’s still recovering from an accident,” Hapu pointed to