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flea-ridden bed back at the scribe’s house now seemed like the height of comfort. His chamber in the palace with the painted walls and the bed with the soft mattress was a dim memory. All he had to sleep on was a reed mat spread on the bare ground. He was too tired to eat. He just wanted to close his eyes. He got out his cloak and wrapped himself up in it, even though the sun had barely set.
    The other boys had different ideas though. After they had eaten, they came inside the hut and played board games. Ramose had played similar games back at the palace with Keneben. It had always been a quiet business. The games the boys played involved a lot of shouting and disputing. One of the boys was a bad loser. He always accused the others of cheating, but he would do anything to win himself. Whenever Ramose was about to drift off to sleep, one of the boys would shout out or nudge him with a foot. When they were ready to sleep, they each took it in turns to keep Ramose awake while the others slept. Ramose hardly slept at all.
    In the morning Ramose stood in line to receive his breakfast. His stomach growled with hunger. He took his bread and dried fruit and was pleased to see that there was milk to drink. Just as he went to sit down with his food, one of the boys pushed him from behind and the food, milk and Ramose himself ended up in the sand. The tomb workers all laughed.
    “That apprentice of yours has got two left feet, Paneb.”
    Ramose hated them all. He wanted to make them all suffer the same as he was, but he knew anything he said or did would only make them laugh at him more. He swallowed his anger and picked up the remains of his meal.

    The job of an apprentice scribe was to keep a register of all the workers reporting for work every morning. If someone was late, he recorded it. If someone didn’t come, he had to find out if they had a good excuse, such as being sick or having a special family feast day. He recorded that too. Then he had to note down all the tools they took from the store, all the pigment used to make paint, all the oil and wicks for the lamps. Even the water was rationed. The nearest water was the Nile and it had to be carried up by donkey from the river in big jars. Each man was only allowed six cups a day to drink.
    Ramose collected the worn and broken chisels and took them back to the storeman. Copper was expensive and the chisels would be melted down and made into new chisels. At least once a day, Ramose dropped one of the stone flakes that he was writing on and had to pick up the pieces and fit them together again before he could copy the writing onto a fresh flake. He also had to walk up and down the steep stone ramp to the tomb again and again. Sometimes it was to fetch things from the store; sometimes it was to fetch a cup of water for Paneb. Paneb didn’t do much at all.
    The pace of work at the tomb was leisurely. Pharaoh was in good health and expected to live for another five or ten years at least. No one was in a great hurry to finish the work.
    At meal times and in the evenings, the three boys did their best to make Ramose’s life a misery. They never spoke to him, but from what they said to each other he got to know each of them. Nakhtamun was a short, stocky boy with a squashed nose and a shaved head. He was an apprentice sculptor. Hapu was an apprentice painter. He was quieter than the other two and always had a worried look as if he was sure he was going to get into trouble at any minute. Weni was the ringleader of the little group.
    Weni was angry. It was he who had made Ramose drop the chisels. He was the boy who was going to be apprentice scribe before Ramose came along. Now he was just a general errand boy at the tomb. Eventually he would have to leave and join the army or work in the fields. He was a sullen boy with a downturned mouth, hard eyes and a scar on his cheek from a fight he once had with a sculptor wielding a chisel. Weni never smiled. Even when he won at senet he