Nile Builder: The Architect from the East

Chapter 109: Chapter 3: The People Petition — Voices from Below Reach the Court

The first petition arrived on the seventh day.

The man who brought it was the old master of the new capital’s branch of the masons’ guild, and he had two apprentices with him. He stood at the gate of the Bureau, and drew a roll of something out from inside his robe. The roll was wrapped in a piece of new cloth; opened up, it was one long sheet of papyrus — and on it, packed thick, name after name. After every name, a handprint.

”Chief Builder.” the old master said. ”This is one hundred and seventeen craftsmen of our guild, each with his handprint pressed.” He paused. ”Most of us cannot read. But we know these laws. The four laws — every one of them was made for people like us. We cannot say any great truths, so we press our handprints.”

Lu Zhu took the papyrus. The papyrus was heavy in the hand. One hundred and seventeen handprints — some pressed deep, some light, some of whole thumbs, some pressed down with half the print askew.

”These handprints,” Lu Zhu said, ”weigh more than any official seal.”

”And this too.” The old master drew out another roll. ”The worksite people put this together overnight. More than three thousand of them, printing through two nights. Count them.”

”There is no need to count.” Lu Zhu said. ”I believe it.”

The old master did not leave. He stood at the gate, rubbing his hands together a long while, and then said: ”Chief Builder, one more thing. These petitions — can they go into the court?”

”They can.” Lu Zhu said.

”Truly?” The old master’s eyes lit at once. ”People like us go weak-kneed just talking to the office runners. And now these handprints — can the people in the palace truly see them?”

”They will see them.” Lu Zhu said. ”I give my word.”

”Then that is a fine thing.” The old master smiled, and the wrinkles of his face all loosened. ”Then — then I will go back and tell the worksite people. They will be glad.”

From that day on, the petitions rose like the spring water of the river.

The first batch came from the new capital itself. The guild’s people, the worksites, the market, the docks — even several villages outside the city sent theirs in by other hands. Some were whole rolls of papyrus, some sheepskin, some simply a length of white cloth covered in handprints. The merchant house’s traders, one page to a shop, pressed their handprints and added the name of each shop after each name.

”Shopkeeper Meru,” the trader who brought the petitions said, ”most of us in the trade cannot write. But these handprints are solid, every one. Whose print stands behind whose name — there is no mistake in it.”

”No mistake.” Meru said. ”In trade, what is valued is exactly this: the solid.”

The people who brought the petitions came in every shape. There were men straight from the worksites at the end of the shift, their clothes still smeared with mortar; men up from the docks after unloading, their trouser legs soaked halfway up; a woman selling vegetables, who took the petition out of her vegetable basket, with a scallion still rolled up inside it, saying: ”Chief Builder, do not look down on this. I cannot read a single word, and the name on it was written for me by the gentleman next door.” And there were farming folk from outside the city, carrying half a sack of new wheat on their backs: ”This is the first cut of the spring. You take it — take it as if I had pressed this wheat into the handprint too.”

”Take the wheat back home.” Lu Zhu said. ”The handprint, we take.”

”But how can that—”

”Why not.” Lu Zhu said. ”Your handprint is worth more than your wheat.”

The gate of the Bureau was never without people, from first light to dark. Tia had a table set up in the gatehouse, just for receiving them. Each roll that came in was registered in a book. One book a day. By the eighteenth day, the books stood seven high.

The West Bank letter arrived on the ninth day.

Old Camel himself escorted the boat up the river. The moment the boat touched the dock, he was ashore, a wooden box held in both arms. The box opened, and inside it lay the joint petition of the West Bank guild, the merchant house, and more than ten villages. The papyrus of the West Bank was home-made, and rougher to the touch than the new capital’s, but the writing on it, stroke by stroke, was done with the greatest care.

”The guild’s old masters,” Old Camel said, ”some of them had hands that shook too badly to write. So they pressed their handprints. And when they pressed them, one after another, no one spoke.” He paused. ”At the end, one old master said one sentence — ’This handprint of mine is pressed for the brother who died on the official road.’”

”Those words,” Kamon said, ”I have written them down.”

”More.” Old Camel drew out a small cloth bundle. ”This is from Date-Grove Village, North Shoal Village, and the other villages. They say the wall of the west line — how it was raised, they saw it with their own eyes. The reason in these laws is the same reason as the west-line wall.” He paused. ”They also say, when the laws stand, their villages will be the first to rebuild their houses to the pattern of the dwelling law.”

”Good.” Lu Zhu said. ”Those words weigh more than the petitions.”

”One thing more,” Old Camel lowered his voice, ”on the road here, a few villages along the river saw the petitions in our boat and stopped the boat to ask. When they understood, they spread cloth on the riverbank then and there and pressed their handprints. And when they were done they chased the boat, calling — ’Carry ours with you!’” He grinned. ”That stretch of the river, the boat rode several measures deeper in the water.”

”What rode deeper is the people’s hearts.” Meru said. ”Hearts as ballast weigh more than cargo.”

When the West Bank gathered its handprints, Old Camel’s caravan helped run to more than ten villages.

In the guild’s courtyard, long tables were set. The old masters queued, and came forward one by one. Shunzi kept the register. He could write now; he wrote slowly, but stroke by stroke it was solid. Every man he registered, he read the name aloud once and checked it against the face. At the third registration, a young fellow edged up and asked in a low voice: ”Brother Shunzi, can I press for my father? His legs are bad, and he cannot leave the village.”

”You can.” Shunzi said. ”But the name will be written as your father’s, and the print will be yours. When you get back, have your father add one more print beside yours. If he cannot, no matter — I have it noted.”

”Then that is good.” the young fellow said. ”My father will be glad to hear it.”

In Thebes, the move came together even more evenly.

The night the letter arrived, the chief officiant called everyone who could be called to the old temple. Woser of the official granary came, and Nekhet of the field hospital, and old Montu of the work crews, and Nefer of the Haven, and Old Sun of the porridge shed, and the elders of every trade in the market. The chief officiant did not speak of any great truths. He only read Tia’s letter aloud to them all, from the first line to the last. When the reading came to the final two lines — ”one man, one print, and every print is iron proof” — the temple went so quiet that a man could hear the lamp-wick burning.

”I will gather the prints.” Nefer spoke first. ”The Haven has over a hundred households. I will go door to door, and speak to every one. By this time tomorrow, half the handprints will already be in.”

”The official granary side, I will gather.” Woser said. ”The granary keepers, the office runners, the grain traders who come and go through our gates — I know them all.”

”The field hospital’s,” Nekhet said, ”the patients, the patients’ families, the medicine boys and the hired hands — all of them counted.”

”The work crews number over a thousand,” old Montu said, ”and I keep the roll of them. When the roll is called, whoever has not pressed his print, I will go and find him myself.”

”The porridge shed,” Old Sun said, ”among the people who come to drink porridge, there are the families of the men who surrendered that year. They understand the weight of those words better than anyone.”

”The market,” the grilled-fish woman said, ”we women with stalls, we will take care of a whole stretch of it.”

”Then I will go too.” A-Bu of the water stall said. ”I have sold water for thirty years, and I know the faces of half the city.”

”What about the children?” A-He squeezed in and looked up. ”Chief officiant, can we children press too?”

The chief officiant smiled and touched his head: ”You can. And you can do more than press a print — you can write your own name.”

”I will write it!” A-He said. ”I can write ’A-He’ now!”

The lamps in the temple burned late into the night. When the meeting broke up, the people went home each their own way, and carried the word into every lane.

Before dawn the next day, the queue had already formed outside the official granary.

Men and women, old and young, all pressing their handprints. Some had just come back from the fields, mud still on their shoes; some leaned on walking sticks; some carried children in their arms. The chief officiant set up a table, spread the papyrus, and ground the ink. Woser handed out the numbers; old Montu read the names; Nekhet took the ones who could not read — he wrote the names for them, and they pressed their own prints.

”One at a time.” the chief officiant said. ”No hurry. One print, one man. Press it firm.”

In the market, the grilled-fish woman left her stall to the neighbor and walked the stalls one by one with a bamboo tube in her arms. Rolled inside the tube was a fresh length of papyrus. She said: ”Brothers and sisters, press a print. For no other reason than this: from now on, we stall people will have a true standard to live by.”

”What true standard?” a stallholder asked.

”Houses have their shape, markets have their shape, medical houses have their shape.” the woman said. ”And one more — no levies in the busy season. From now on, if the officials want our men, they pay.”

”Pay?” A vegetable-selling woman’s eyes went wide. ”Would that not pain them to death?”

”Pain or no pain, they must pay.” the woman said. ”It is written in the law. And our handprints are to make the law stand that much more solid.”

”Press!” the stallholders said. ”A print like that is worth it!”

At the porridge shed, Old Sun wiped the pot lid three times before he asked the porridge-drinkers to press their prints. A woman of a surrendered soldier’s family, after pressing, held Old Sun’s hand and said: ”Uncle Sun, families like ours — our footing is not clean. Can these prints of ours still count?”

”Why would they not count?” Old Sun said. ”You are people of this city too. And this city’s law is your law.”

”Then . . .” The woman hesitated, and pressed it down in the end. When the print was down, she said in a low voice: ”Then let the officials up there see — even people like us are waiting for the new laws to stand.”

”Waiting.” Old Sun said. ”We are all waiting.”

When the queue came to the blind old soldier, he felt his way to the table and said: ”Chief officiant, I cannot write my name. Write it for me. I will press the print.”

”Your print . . .” the chief officiant hesitated.

”The hand shakes, I know.” the old soldier said. ”Have A-He hold my hand for me. If I press it crooked, it is still my print.”

So A-He came up, and held the old soldier’s hand in both of his, and pressed it down for him, finger by finger. When it was done, the old soldier smiled and said: ”Crooked, a little. But this crooked handprint, I pressed it myself. My eyes are gone, but my heart is bright. This law — I can see it.”

”See it.” A-He said. ”We can all see it.”

The Thebes petitions arrived on the eighteenth day.

The man who brought them was A-Tu. The boat had made haste on the river, two days faster than the usual run. He came ashore without even changing his clothes, an oilcloth bundle held in his arms, and he ran the whole way from the dock to the Bureau. The bundle opened, layer by layer, and inside it, roll after roll of papyrus, tied up with fine cord, neat and even, like stack after stack of days pressed down tight.

”The whole city’s.” A-Tu said. ”The chief officiant led the people through every street, and into every house. Three days and three nights of gathering it.”

Lu Zhu unrolled the rolls one by one.

The first roll was the official granary’s. Woser’s handprint was pressed at the very front. The name was written by the chief officiant’s hand, but beside the handprint, one small line of characters, traced by Woser himself: ”While the granary stands, the man stands.”

The second roll was the field hospital’s. Nekhet’s handprint, neat and proper, pressed exactly in the middle. Beside it, the prints of Shafi’s two little apprentices — A-He’s name, written crooked and wobbly, the strokes thick and thin by turns, but stroke by stroke, all of it his own hand.

”This child’s writing,” Lu Zhu said, ”has grown.”

”It has grown.” A-Tu smiled. ”He practices under the peace boards every day. He says that when you all come back, he will read the words ’the law has stood’ aloud to you.”

The third roll was the city wall work crews’. Old Montu’s print at the very top, and the dark-faced men and the centurion who had held the wall, not one missing. After them, the market people: the old date seller, the knife-grinder, the grilled-fish woman, A-Bu of the water stall, the old-clothes man . . . Those who could write their names wrote them; those who could not, the chief officiant wrote for them, and they pressed their own prints.

”One more thing,” A-Tu said, ”the knife-grinder, after pressing his print, said a sentence. He said: ’I have not yet worked off the account of the ten sharpenings I did for free. When the laws stand, I will grind a hundred blades for free, and invite the whole city to watch.’”

”A hundred blades.” Lu Zhu smiled. ”He has staked the days ahead of him.”

”Staked.” A-Tu said. ”The whole city has staked them.”

The last roll was the Haven’s.

Nefer’s handprint, pressed at the head. After it, the prints of the third women’s group, of Sister Wei, of the old and young of the whole settlement. At the end of the roll, a single sheet was tucked in, with one sentence on it, spoken by Nefer and written down by the chief officiant:

”The rules of the Haven were bought with four months of blood and tears. Whoever twists them crooked in the court — I, Nefer, will be the first to refuse.”

Lu Zhu read it through, and stacked the roll with the others.

”The chief officiant sent words too.” A-Tu said. ”He said: ’In the court, win one more inch for the people. That inch is raised up on the handprints of the whole city of Thebes.’”

”Inch by inch, then.” Lu Zhu said.

”And this.” A-Tu drew a cloth bundle from inside his robe and opened it: a small packet of incense ash. ”The chief officiant said, this is not incense burned for the god. It is the incense sent in by every household, gathered over those three days and nights, and burned all together. In the ash is the whole city’s remembrance.” He paused. ”He said, sprinkle a little of the ash over the records. Let those four laws carry a touch of the smoke of human homes.”

Lu Zhu took the packet of ash and said nothing. He tipped a little of the ash into his palm, and lightly patted it back into the packet.

”Go back and tell the chief officiant.” he said. ”The ash — I will not sprinkle it. I am afraid that if I do, the four laws will grow light.” He paused. ”I will press this packet at the bottom of the trunk. With it pressing down, the four laws will ride heavy.”

”Those words,” A-Tu said, ”I will carry back exactly.”

”And tell the fathers and elders of the city,” Lu Zhu said, ”the handprints have arrived, the words have arrived, and the incense ash has arrived too. What remains — leave it to us.”

A-Tu nodded hard, turned, and went out. A few steps on, he turned back: ”Chief Builder, one more sentence, and this one I add myself — the dock people say that on this trip into the new capital, the people on both banks looked at our boat the way they look at a triumph coming home.”

”A triumph,” Lu Zhu said, ”it is these petitions that have triumphed.”

On the third night after the petitions piled up, the great lamp was lit in the courtyard of the Bureau.

Tia and Asaf sorted all the petitions by where they came from: the new capital’s, the West Bank’s, Thebes’, the river villages’ along the way. When that was done, Tia sorted them again by what they spoke of: the hardships of the corvée, the evils of the granaries, the dangers of the dwellings, the lack of the medical houses. They sorted until past midnight, and the whole courtyard was full of the clean smell of papyrus.

And in the sorting, the cases rose up out of the rolls by themselves.

In the dwelling rolls, word was tucked in from Reed Village — the surrendered soldier’s family had raised their first house to the pattern, and the whole village had queued up to look at it, and after looking, everyone said the same thing: come spring, every household in the village would build by the same pattern. In the granary rolls, there were words sent along by an old man who had come back to his wasted land: ”People do not fear the land gone to waste. What they fear is no one caring for it. As long as those above care, any wasted land can be turned back.” In the medical rolls, the matter of one village was written down in full: a medical point opened for three days, and then the man who mixed the medicines went away, and the point closed. The corvée rolls were the thickest of all. Villages had written them household by household: in which year how many men pressed away, how many of them came back, how many mu of land went to waste. Some of the writing was done by those who could write, some not — those who could not had others write for them, and pressed their own prints. At the very bottom of one roll, one line of characters was written with such force that the strokes bit through the papyrus:

”No levies in the busy season.”

Four words, and no more. Tia counted them: those four words appeared in the petitions two hundred and seventeen times.

”Count them.” Tia said.

They counted through the night. By first light, the count was out: one hundred and thirteen rolls of petitions. More than twenty-seven thousand handprints. More than nine thousand names.

”These numbers,” Asaf said, ”the men in the hall must look at them, one by one.”

”Can they look through them all?” Hapy asked.

”Whether they can look through them all,” Asaf said, ”does not matter. What matters is that they have arrived.”

”One more stack,” Kes came in carrying a pile of new arrivals, ”from several villages west of the city, last night. The men who brought them say they walked a day and a night, just to press their handprints under the four words ’no levies in the busy season.’”

”Good.” Lu Zhu said. ”Take them all in. Tomorrow, carry a part of them up to the hall. Let the men who talk of ’the surging will of the people’ pass them through their own hands.”

At the palace gate, people had begun to gather too.

At first in twos and threes; then, day by day, more. There were old masters come from the West Bank, farming folk from Thebes, common people of the villages along the way. They did not make trouble, and they did not shout. They just stood. Those who knew each other nodded. When the sun stood high, they squatted in the shade of the wall; when the sun went down, they sat where they were for a while.

Kes went every day with a few of the guild’s young craftsmen, carrying water and flatbread. One old man would not take the flatbread: ”I came to petition, not to beg.” Kes said: ”You petition your petition, and the flatbread is my treat to you. Two different things.” Only then did the old man take it, break off half, and give it to a stranger beside him.

The soldiers at the gate wanted at first to drive the people off. A squad leader came out to look, went back, and said: ”Do not drive them. They are honest common people. Drive them, and what you cannot drive away is their hearts.”

So the soldiers stopped driving.

One day, a junior messenger came out of the palace, stood on the stone steps, and shouted: ”Disperse, all of you! The pharaoh knows!” The crowd stirred, and did not disperse. Someone answered back: ”Knowing, and standing — two different things. We are waiting for the standing.”

The junior messenger opened his mouth, and no words came out, and he went back in.

The next day, more people came.

In the court, the wind had begun to turn.

The first to turn were the officials of the counties and prefectures. Before, they had brought only ears into the hall. Now, some of them began to nod, and some began to move their seats toward the reformers’ side. The county magistrate from the south stopped Asaf as the court was rising, and said: ”My county sent a petition too. Sent it by other hands. Did you . . . receive it?”

”We did.” Asaf said. ”Your county’s granaries, your county’s land, your county’s people — all written into the records.”

”Then good.” The magistrate rubbed his hands. ”We who hold local posts did not dare speak before. Now that the common people have stood up, if we still do not speak, we will truly have become the deaf.”

The conservatives, of course, would not accept it. The tall thin man shouted in the hall: ”This is stirring up the people’s hearts! Someone is behind it, egging them on! A pack of mud-legs — what do they know of the laws of the land!”

”Sir.” Asaf said. ”Twenty-seven thousand handprints, and more than nine thousand names. If this is stirring up, then who has stirred up all the people under heaven?”

”You!”

”The gentleman says the common people do not understand the laws of the land.” Asaf said. ”But there is one thing they understand: press a man away in the busy season, and his land goes to waste. Let the land go to waste, and the whole household goes hungry. To understand that, a man needs no law. He only needs to understand hunger.”

Someone in the hall laughed out loud.

The laughter had not died away when the old noble rose.

”Pharaoh.” He walked to the center of the hall with a roll of papyrus in both hands. ”This servant here has two rolls of petitions as well. Let the pharaoh look on them.”

He unrolled them. They were covered in handprints too, packed thick.

”These two rolls,” he said, ”come from two counties in the east. This servant had them examined — the more than three hundred handprints on them have finger-lines exactly alike. One and the same person pressed them all!” He paused, and raised the rolls high. ”This is what they call ’the ten thousand people petitioning’? One man, pressing several hundred prints!”

The hall went up in a roar.

”And more!” The tall thin man jumped up. ”Who knows how many more false ones are hidden in those twenty-seven thousand!”

”They are deceiving the pharaoh!” The square-faced noble shouted too. ”Using a false people’s will to force the palace to nod!”

The pharaoh’s face sank, little by little. He took the roll of papyrus, turned two pages, and threw it down on the table.

He did not speak.

In the hall, not a crow, not a sparrow.

Asaf stepped out from the ranks. His voice was hard, but it could not press down that one thread of a tremor: ”This servant begs the pharaoh’s word. One hundred and thirteen rolls, twenty-seven thousand handprints — verify them roll by roll. If a false one is found—” He paused. ”This servant will bring his own head.”

”Verify.” the pharaoh said. One word only. ”Seven days.”

The court rose.

That same day, the petitions were carried out of the Bureau and into the west side-room of the Civil Affairs Bureau.

Tia took three scribes, plus the two senior clerks sent over by the Royal Steward, and they verified from first light to dark. To verify one roll was to check it against the registers, to question the witnesses, to compare the finger-lines one against another. The people waiting outside the palace gate heard that the prints were being verified, and not one of them went away — the crowd only grew, day by day. Kes went on bringing water and flatbread, the same as always. An old man caught him by the arm and asked: ”Young fellow, why must the handprints be verified? We pressed them with our own hands — how could any of ours be false?”

”Uncle,” Kes said, ”the ones you pressed are true, every one. But someone has mixed false ones in among them. Once the false ones are verified out, everything comes out clean.”

”What son of a devil mixed in false ones!” the old man cursed. ”Let him come press them himself, one whole night of it, and see if his hand swells or not!”

In the deep mansion, the old noble laughed more heartily than ever this time.

”Let them verify.” he said. ”When they are done, it will all come out false.” He sipped his tea. ”Four hundred and twenty-one prints — enough to keep them verifying for seven days. Seven days, the court rests, and the people’s hearts cool. And that crowd kneeling outside the palace gate — kneel as they kneel, they will scatter of themselves.”

”A fine plan, sir.” the tall thin man said. ”The ones we slipped in, they can verify them out; but whose hand slipped them in, that they can never verify.”

”And what if they do?” the old noble said. ”Out of twenty-seven thousand, if ten are false, the words ’ten thousand people petitioning’ are dirtied.”

On the reformers’ side, the alarm was real.

The cloth wrapping Tia’s wrist grew thicker and more swollen day by day. Asaf’s words were down by half. Even Lu Zhu’s pacing in the courtyard took longer than usual. For the first three days, petitions kept arriving daily from all over — but no one dared fold them into the pile at once, for fear there were more false prints hidden inside.

”Teacher,” Hapy asked in a low voice, ”can it all be verified in time?”

”It can.” Lu Zhu said. ”The false can be verified out, and the true cannot be made false.” He paused. ”We wait.”

On the seventh day, the result came out.

Tia carried the register into the hall. She cried no wrongs and spoke no grievances. She only read the numbers: ”Twenty-seven thousand handprints. False: four hundred and twenty-one — from two counties in the east, pressed by one man, and the headman of that county has already been taken into custody. True: twenty-six thousand five hundred and seventy-nine. Every one of them, verified, one by one.”

The hall was so quiet you could hear the register close.

The pharaoh looked at that register for a long time, and said: ”The handprints are verified. Tomorrow, deliberate again.”

No verdict was set that day. Not one word more.

As the court rose, the conservatives’ backs stiffened again. The old noble passed close to Asaf and said in a low voice: ”Tomorrow, deliberate again. Those two words, ’deliberate again’ — have you still not heard them enough?”

Asaf did not turn his head: ”Not enough. We will deliberate until they stand.”

The next day, the deliberation opened again.

”Carry them in.” Asaf turned back and beckoned toward the door of the hall.

Four craftsmen carried two baskets of petitions into the hall. The baskets were the earth-baskets of the worksites, and the petitions were stacked inside them as even as bricks. They set the baskets down in the center of the hall. Asaf bent down, took one roll from the very top, and unrolled it.

”Honored assembly,” he said, ”these are the ’things of the wild countryside.’ Which of the gentlemen will come up and verify them with his own hands? Verify whether the names on them are real; verify whether these handprints were truly pressed down.”

No one in the hall moved.

”You do not dare verify them?” Asaf said. ”Then let me read one passage, for the assembly to hear. This was written for a household in a village of the West Bank, by a man who could write, at their asking: ’Our family has three sons. The year before last, the eldest was pressed away, and died on the canal. Last year, the second was pressed away, and came back with half a life left in him. This year, they wanted to press the third. I stopped them with my life. And this year I heard — the law is to be made. I press this handprint. I cannot read, but I know this: this law will save my fourth.’” He paused, and raised the roll higher. ”A household like this says the law must stand — and the honored gentlemen call them ’vicious folk.’ Where does the word ’vicious’ come from?”

The hall was so quiet it hurt.

”Let me read one more passage.” Tia stepped forward and unrolled another. ”This was written by a child of Thebes. The characters are crooked, but every stroke is his own hand. One sentence only: ’I want to learn to build houses.’” She set the roll down. ”This child is an orphan taken in by the field hospital during the siege. Honored assembly, in these petitions there are a thousand pages like this one.”

”A thousand pages,” the pharaoh repeated in a low voice.

The hall was so quiet you could hear a corner of the petition papyrus lift in the wind.

”And there is more.” Tia stepped forward and unrolled another roll. ”In here, every roll carries true circumstances. This one, from a village of the West Bank: ’The year before last, seventeen men were pressed away in the busy season; forty mu of land went to waste; one ox starved to death; one young man left.’ This one, the handprint of the old granary keeper of the Thebes official granary — he has kept granaries half his life, and he knows what grain rotting in the granary smells like. This one, from the Haven—”

”Enough!” The old noble slapped the table. ”The court deliberates the affairs of the land, and you bring these things of the wild countryside in to stir it up!”

”Sir,” the Royal Steward suddenly spoke, ”the pharaoh has said: deliberating the affairs of the land is deliberating the affairs of all under heaven. And of the affairs under heaven, nine tenths are in the wild countryside. Their things are exactly what this hall most needs to hear.”

The old noble’s face went green and white by turns.

It was on this day that the pharaoh, for the first time, picked up the rolls of the statutes with his own hands.

He sat at the head of the hall, listening to the quarreling below him. Listening, he beckoned, and the attendants carried a stack of the petitions up onto his table. He drew out one roll at random, unrolled it, and looked. He looked at it for a long time. Then he drew out another roll. And looked again.

The men in the hall slowly stopped quarreling. Every one of them watched him.

He looked through three rolls, set them down one by one, and said one sentence:

”The handprints on these are real.”

Just that one sentence.

But that one sentence was worth more than three days of quarreling. The conservatives, as if a basin of cold water had been thrown full in their faces, sat back down, one after another.

After the court rose, the pharaoh did not leave.

He had the attendants carry the baskets of petitions into the inner hall. He sat by the lamp and turned the rolls one by one. When he came to the page where the four words ”no levies in the busy season” bit through the papyrus, he stopped, and his fingertip slowly passed over the strokes.

”Steward.” he said. ”The people are like this. What do you make of it?”

”This servant will not presume to speak.” the Steward bowed. ”This servant will say only what these seven days showed his own eyes — the four hundred and twenty-one false prints were all from two counties in the east. The remaining twenty-six thousand five hundred and seventy-nine, in the villages, the guild, the official granary — everywhere there are witnesses. They are not false.”

”Not false.” the pharaoh said. ”Then the people truly want it.”

He rose and walked to the window. Outside, in the direction of the palace gate, shadowy figures could still be seen.

”But the old minister,” the pharaoh said, ”has his reason too. Out of twenty-seven thousand, more than four hundred false ones were mixed in — that shows this law has not yet stood so firm that people believe in it without faking. And so, one matter at a time. First, deliberate the Ever-Normal Granaries. The rest, deliberate slowly. Send the word down: tomorrow, the Ever-Normal Granaries. That one alone.”

”Then the other three . . .”

”Deliberate slowly.” the pharaoh said. ”Begin with the one that can stand.”

As the court rose that day, a young white-robed priest walked too slowly and tripped on the threshold. The old priest beside him caught him and said in a low voice: ”Why the panic. It is not over.”

Those three words, ”it is not over,” came true that very night.

In the deep mansion, the old noble slammed the door until it rang.

”Twenty-seven thousand handprints!” He paced back and forth. ”Did they grow out of the ground?”

”They . . . they truly did grow.” the tall thin man said carefully. ”I sent people to look. The new capital’s, the West Bank’s, Thebes’ — they are all there. Not made up.”

”Still, those four hundred and twenty-one false prints,” the tall thin man added, ”dragged them out for seven days. And the pharaoh, this time, did not set the whole thing with one stroke — his words were ’deliberate slowly.’”

”Seven days,” the old noble laughed coldly, ”in exchange for one sentence of ’deliberate slowly.’ Not a losing trade.” He paused. ”As long as the palace does not speak the final word, we still have room to grind.”

”Of course I know they were not made up!” the old noble roared. ”What I am asking is — why did no one stop them! Are the local officials all dead!”

”They did stop them.” the tall thin man said. ”In several places, they stopped them. But the more they stopped, the more handprints there were. In one county on the West Bank, the official confiscated the petition — and the next day, the villagers who had brought it sat down in a row in front of the office gate.”

”Rebellion!” The old noble’s fist smashed on the table.

”Sir,” the young man in the white robe pressed forward, ”the urgent matter now is to let the ears of the palace hear our words. They have the handprints, but in the hall, the mouths are still mostly ours. Tomorrow, clap the two caps of ’harassing the people’ and ’throwing the government into disorder’ down onto their heads. Say it plainly — the surging will of the people is nothing but vicious folk making trouble, and if they are not strictly put down, the people’s uprising is to be feared!”

”The people’s uprising?” The old noble laughed coldly. ”Good. Bite that word. Do they not love the people’s hearts? Then we say: these people’s hearts are firewood, propped up by someone else’s hands. One gust of wind, and what burns is the land!”

”And one thing more.” he lowered his voice. ”Send the word to all the officials of the counties and prefectures. Whoever again shuts one eye and lets handprints reach the new capital — that official’s post, he can give up.”

”Yes.” the men answered.

At the end, an old noble who had not spoken once all evening said slowly: ”I am reminded of an old affair. In the late years of the former king, there was also a man who submitted a memorial, asking to change the old system of the granaries. And what came of it?” He sipped his tea, and set the cup down without a sound. ”What came of it was this: the grass on that memorial-writer’s grave has been cut over several times since.”

”And so,” the old noble said, ”what is the hurry? The ones who hurry do not go far.”

The whole room laughed. The laughter was pressed down low, like wind squeezing itself through a crack in the wall.

In the lamp-shadows, the rats were grinding their teeth again.

The words of pressure reached the officials of the counties and prefectures the next day.

The county magistrate from the south was stopped at the door of the post-house. The man who stopped him had the look of a house steward about him, and he spoke politely enough: ”Sir. Our master has one word for you — the affairs of the court, the water runs deep. Those few words of ’seconded’ that the gentleman spoke in the hall the other day — our master, hearing of them, broke into a sweat on the gentleman’s behalf.”

”Sweat on my behalf?” the magistrate said. ”I thank your master. But my own sweat, I can wipe it myself.”

”Do not be hasty, sir.” the steward smiled. ”Our master also said, the timber for the canal your county means to dig — that matter is easy to settle. If only the gentleman would, from now on, say two fewer words in the hall.”

”Two fewer of which words?”

”’Seconded.’” the steward said. ”Those two words are the ones that draw the most trouble.”

The magistrate stopped walking. He stared at the steward for a long time, and then said: ”Go back, and thank your master for his kindness. And carry back one word from me — in my county, in last year’s busy season, the pressing took away three tenths of the able-bodied men. The land went to waste, the grain was gone, and the people went hungry. Your master’s kindness — can it be eaten as grain? If it can be eaten as grain, I will take it.”

The steward’s face froze where he stood.

The magistrate did not look at him again. He turned and walked away. Far down the road, he suddenly stopped, turned back, and shouted: ”The timber for the canal — I will find another way myself!”

The steward stood where he was for a long while, stamped his foot once, and went back to make his report.

And in the palace, that stack of petitions still lay on the pharaoh’s table.

The night wind poured in through the door of the hall, and stirred the papyrus lightly. Whichever page it turned to, the handprints on that page came into view — some of them still carrying the grey of mortar on the finger-pads, mortar that no washing could take out. The pharaoh walked to the door of the hall and stood there a long time. In the direction of the palace gate, shadowy figures could still be seen, standing still and quiet under the lamps.

”They have not left.” he said.

”They have not.” the Steward said. ”Some new ones have come. From the West Bank and Thebes, they say.”

”Let them,” the pharaoh said, ”not kneel their knees to ruin.”

He turned, walked back to the table, and sat down. That night, the lamps in the palace and the lamps outside the palace gate burned together until dawn.

The word reached the Bureau the next day.

”The Ever-Normal Granaries!” Mery was the first to leap up. ”It begins with the Ever-Normal Granaries!”

That one shout brought the whole courtyard out. Shafi looked up from the medical house’s books, Hapy poked his head out of the work shed, and even the cook came out of the kitchen with his ladle still in his hand. Mery paid none of them any mind. He caught Lu Zhu by the sleeve and said: ”Teacher, to deliberate the Ever-Normal Granaries is to accept the first article! You said it yourself — whichever article is deliberated first is the first to touch the ground!”

”Quietly.” Lu Zhu said. ”It is still only ’deliberate.’ Deliberated through, then it stands.”

”To deliberate the Ever-Normal Granaries,” Asaf said, ”is the pharaoh accepting the first article. With the first article accepted, the ones after it have a road.”

”How does the road go?” Kamon asked.

”One step at a time.” Lu Zhu said. ”First, nail the case of the Ever-Normal Granaries down dead. Material, labor, grain, accounts, siting, keepers — every one of them, laid out on the table, so that the men in the hall cannot get one word of ’no’ out.”

”One more thing to guard against.” Tia said. ”The conservatives failed to bite through in the hall today. Tomorrow, when the Ever-Normal Granaries are deliberated, they will surely change their bite — at the grain price, at the granary keepers, at the merchant house’s supply. We must run these through our heads first.”

”Run them.” Lu Zhu said. ”The grain price — nail it dead: taking in, no pressing the price down; letting out, no forcing it up; the accounts posted monthly. The granary keepers — nail them dead: the school opens before the granary is built, one keeper to one granary. The merchant house’s supply — nail it dead: the official price, the open price, the accounts posted the same as the official granary’s.” He paused. ”Wherever they bite, that place is already nailed down. They cannot bite through.”

”Then we,” Tia said, ”from tonight, will go through the records of the Ever-Normal Granaries one more time.”

”Go through them.” Lu Zhu said. ”This is the first stroke of the hammer. And the first stroke must land true.”

That night, the records of the Ever-Normal Granaries covered the whole of the table.

Mery led the talking. He pinned a newly drawn map to the wall. On it was the layout of the granaries outside Thebes, one every fifty li — village by village marked out, granary linked to granary by lines, and on each line, the day’s journey written.

”Siting looks at the water.” Mery said. ”Near the water, the grain goes damp; far from the water, hauling is hard. I took people out and measured it, stretch by stretch.”

”And the material and labor.” Asaf said. ”One granary — the mud bricks, the timbers, the man-days: all true figures. If the hall asks, report the true figures.”

”The granary keepers must be written into the case too.” Lu Zhu said. ”A granary raised with no one to keep it is an empty granary. The school before the granary — this article, the men in the hall must all remember it.”

”And the grain price.” Tia said. ”The price for taking grain in, the price for letting it out — how it is set, who sets it, how the accounts are posted: this is where the conservatives will bite last. The price must be nailed down dead on the paper.”

”Then nail it.” Lu Zhu said. ”Taking in, at the good-year price, no pressing down; letting out, at the fair price, no forcing up. The accounts, posted monthly, for anyone to read.”

”That article,” Meru said, ”my merchant house will be the first to follow.”

They talked until the third watch before breaking up. The lamps were blown out, and the whole room was still full of the smell of papyrus. Mery walked into the courtyard and looked up at the sky, and said: ”Teacher, do you think this first stroke of the hammer can land?”

”It can.” Lu Zhu said. ”The handprints came to twenty-seven thousand. A one-hammer matter — it will break open.”

”And after it breaks open?”

”After it breaks open,” Lu Zhu said, ”one stroke of the hammer follows another.”

”One more thing.” Asaf said. ”The petitions will keep coming. Someone must be there to receive them. And the people outside the palace gate grow more numerous day by day. They are there to hold up our arms — they must not stand for nothing.”

”I will do it.” Kes said. ”I will go every day. Bring water, bring flatbread. And write their words down, sentence by sentence.”

”Write them down.” Lu Zhu said. ”These are the foundation under the three laws that come after.”

The truth was, Kes had already been doing the work for days.

All these days he had gone to the palace gate with a writing board tucked inside his robe, asking whoever he met, hearing a sentence and writing it down. An old woman who had come from Thebes told him: ”In our lane, when the officials quarreled in the old days, the common people could only listen. Now it is better — our words can go up to the court too.” Kes wrote it down and said: ”Auntie, I have written your words. When the medical house law is deliberated later, I will read them aloud to the hall.”

”Can they truly be read aloud?” the old woman’s eyes went wide.

”Truly.” Kes said.

”Then let me say one more.” the old woman said. ”My life was picked back up by the field hospital. The medicine money was put on the hospital’s account first, to be paid later. That account — it should be posted! Posted, and poor people like us dare to walk in the door!”

Kes wrote it down, stroke by stroke. When it was written, he read it back to her. The old woman listened, and her eyes reddened, and she said: ”Read it right. Just read it like that.”

Kes had filled seven boards with words like these. At night he came back, squatted by the lamp, and copied the words from the boards into a book, line by line. When the copying was done, he said to Lu Zhu: ”Teacher, now I understand. Every article that is fought over in the court — under each of them lies a pile of living people. This book — I call it ’the ledger of voices.’”

”The ledger of voices.” Lu Zhu said. ”A good name. When the four laws have all stood, this ledger will be the thickest foundation of all.”

That evening, the open ground before the palace gate filled with people again.

More than ever before. Some of them had just arrived, the mud of the post road still on their shoes. Some carried rolled-up bedding, the look of men ready to spend the night. In the crowd, a white-haired old man leaned on a wooden staff, squinting at the palace gate. Someone beside him asked where he was from. He said: ”A village at the edge of the West Bank. Two days on a boat, then one more day of walking.”

”Come to press a handprint?”

”Come to deliver the petition.” the old man said. ”Our village’s — everyone has pressed. I came to watch. To watch this book go through that gate.”

”Can it get through?”

”It can.” the old man said. ”I am near seventy, and this is the first time I have seen the people of the palace carry the words from outside in.”

Someone beside him recognized him: ”You . . . you are that old father of ’no levies in the busy season’?”

”I am.” the old man said. ”Two sons of mine — one did not come back. When I left home, I told the family: of these four laws, the other words I cannot keep whole, but these four words, I will keep them all my life. Until I die, I will keep them.”

”Keep them!” someone in the crowd answered.

Four hundred and twenty-one false prints had been slipped in among the petitions, and seven days of verification had parted the false from the true. The pharaoh’s hand loosened, word by word, to ”deliberate slowly,” and set the Ever-Normal Granaries first upon the table. The first breach was open.

As he spoke, he knelt down, facing the palace gate.

The sound of his knees touching the stone slab was light. But everyone around heard it. Then one, then two, then three . . . more and more people knelt down after him. No one shouted, and no one wept. Just like that, quietly, a whole stretch of them knelt, row upon row.

The lamps over the palace gate came on.

The lamp-light fell down on the kneeling people, and threw their shadows long against the palace wall — like a whole wall of petitions, quietly unrolling themselves.

And where the lamp-light could not reach, behind the windows of the deep mansion, several pairs of eyes watched all of it, cold as water.

”Do you see.” the old noble said. ”The people’s hearts have risen.”

”Then . . .” the tall thin man’s voice shook a little, ”do we still block it?”

”Block it.” the old noble said. ”The people’s hearts rise fast, and cool fast. If the Ever-Normal Granaries cannot be deliberated through, if that first stroke of the hammer falls on empty air — these kneeling people will scatter of themselves.”

”Then tomorrow . . .”

”Tomorrow,” the old noble said, ”they deliberate the Ever-Normal Granaries. And I, for one, will be curious to see how their thirteen thousand mud bricks are going to fill the holes of the whole land.”

The window closed, slowly.

And the people kneeling before the palace gate went on kneeling.

The wind came in from the river, cool in thin threads, and swayed the lamp-light. No one moved. They were like a patch of grass seeded in the cracks of the stone slabs, waiting, quiet, for the dawn. In the palace, the stack of handprints still lay on the pharaoh’s table — the false ones verified out, the true ones intact — and the three words ”deliberate slowly” sat in every heart like a thorn. With the dawn, the doors of the court will open again. Tomorrow, it is the Ever-Normal Granaries. And the moment the doors open is the moment when the sound must come — the stroke of the mallet, on the solid, or on empty air. All of Egypt is cupping its hands to listen.

(End of Chapter 3)