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large red sandstone sarcophagus.
    Ramose wasn’t interested in the detail of the carving though. As soon as he’d lost sight of the square of light that was the outside, he felt panic rise in him. He was thinking about how far it was to the surface. He was picturing the enormous weight of rock just above his head and imagining it falling in and burying him alive. His breathing started to get fast and shallow. The air was stale and smelt of rock dust, burning oil and sweat. His skin turned icy cold. The walls were closing in on him. He was sure he was about to be crushed to death. He choked out some words.
    “Outside,” he stammered. “Can’t breathe.”
    He stumbled towards the stairs, falling over a sculptor.
    “Where do you think you’re going?” the scribe asked impatiently. The tomb workers were all laughing.
    He felt his way up the stairs. His chest felt like it was exploding. He couldn’t draw a breath. He scrambled under the scaffolding, tripped over a jar of paint and crawled along the floor. A square of daylight came into view. Ramose rested his cheek on the cold stone floor and breathed in the fresh air that came from above.
    “Whoever heard of a tomb worker afraid of being underground?” said one of the tomb workers. They all thought it was a great joke.
    “You’ll have to get used to being underground,” Paneb snapped. “I can’t have the workers laughing at me. You get used to it or you go.”
    “I’ll be all right,” Ramose said in a quiet, croaky voice.
    “Whether you’re all right or not, you have work to do,” said Paneb angrily. “You must keep a tally of the copper chisels that the sculptors use.”
    The scribe sat down on a block of stone. “Whenever a chisel wears out it is to be replaced. Go back up, out to the valley and collect some new chisels from the store. There are men up there in the corridor with worn out chisels, we can’t have them sitting around doing nothing.”
    The scribe was, however, quite happy to sit and do nothing himself.
    “Where is the papyrus I am to write on?” Ramose asked.
    Paneb looked around quickly, hoping that the workers hadn’t heard.
    “Where did you get this apprentice from, Paneb?” shouted one. “Are you sure he knows how to write?” The painters were all chuckling to themselves.
    “We don’t use papyrus in the tomb,” hissed Paneb. “Whatever gave you that idea? It’s very expensive as I’m sure you know.”
    “So what do I write on?”
    The scribe sighed at the ignorance of his apprentice. “On stone flakes, of course. The pieces chipped from the rock when the quarry men were excavating the tomb. You’ll find plenty of them in piles up on the surface, all different sizes. I use papyrus only for the documents I send to Vizier Wersu.”
    Ramose shivered. Whether it was the mention of the vizier’s name or the cool air in the tomb he wasn’t sure. Either way he was glad to be making his way out of the tomb and up into fresh air again, even if it was hot desert air.
    Out on the valley floor Ramose stood in the sun and felt it heat up his skin. He looked up at the clear blue sky and the bright sun until his breathing slowed and he felt calm again. Ramose looked around the valley, now dotted with after-images of the sun. The scribe was right, there were piles of stone flakes outside the tomb entrance: small ones no bigger than a hand which could be used for short notes, larger ones for long reports.
    The mud brick storehouse was about fifty paces from the tomb entrance. Another huge, dark-skinned foreigner stood on guard outside. Ramose explained who he was and the guard let him enter. The storeroom was packed with everything that the tomb makers needed: paints, tools, oil for the lamps as well as grain and water.
    “Treat these very carefully,” said the storekeeper taking a dozen copper chisels from a wooden chest. “The workers like their chisels sharp, and Scribe Paneb gets very angry if anybody damages them.” He wrapped