Nile Builder: The Architect from the East

Chapter 114: Chapter 8: The Corvée under Siege — The Old Nobles’ Last Stand

On the day the Decree Abolishing the Forced Conscription of Craftsmen in the Busy Season went before the court, the sky was overcast.

From the palace gate to the main street, people stood the length of half the street. No one shouted, and no one smiled. The three times before, when the laws had gone before the court, the people outside the palace gate had come with smiles on their faces. This time was different. This time, everyone knew, from the first man to the last, was the hardest one of all.

”Today,” the old flatbread seller said, ”I have made more flatbreads than on any day before.”

”Why?”

”Because today, in that hall,” the old man said, ”there is a hard battle. People who watch hard battles get hungry fast.”

In the crowd, there were old craftsmen come from the West Bank, farming folk from Thebes, and the headmen of the villages outside the city. One old man had brought his son along: ”I brought you to watch. Watch how the four words ’no levies in the busy season’ are fought for in that hall, word by word. From now on, when you farm, those four words are your amulet.”

”Father,” the young man said, ”and if they cannot be won?”

”If they cannot be won,” the old man said, ”then next spring’s plowing, you will still be taken off by ropes.” He paused, and his voice sank. ”Like your elder brother.”

The young man said nothing more. He looked up at the palace gate, and his fists clenched tight.

In the hall, it was fuller than it had ever been.

The conservatives had all come. The old noble, the tall thin man, the square-faced noble, the oily noble — not one missing. The old priests had come too, white robe over white robe, lining from the side of the hall to the corner. The county officials were double the number of the medical house debate. On the military side, the northland centurion had taken his seat early, hands pressed on his knees, his face heavy.

The pharaoh sat down and looked around the hall. He did not say ”Deliberate.” He said:

”Today, we deliberate the last one.”

The hall went still for a moment.

Then it blew apart.

”Pharaoh!” The old noble was the first on his feet, hair and beard bristling. ”The corvée is the ancient way! It is the root on which this land stands! The former kings dug the canals with it, raised the temples with it, built the palaces with it — which of these did not stand on the corvée! And now the busy-season pressing is to be abolished — no levies in the busy season, hired labor in the idle season — where does the money for the hired labor come from? Where do the hired men come from? Egypt has stood a thousand years, and this is the first time I have heard of officials paying wages to mud-legs for doing the state’s work!”

”The ancient way, the ancient way!” The tall thin man slapped the table after him. ”You keep saying the old system harms the people. But have you thought — without the corvée, who works the royal projects? Who repairs the temples of the gods? Who keeps the tomb of the former king? All stopped, or all hired? And if hired, does the tax not come down on the people’s heads in the end!”

”And there is more!” The square-faced noble rose. ”The most important article of all — the corvée is the foundation of the royal power! Without the corvée, the king’s orders cannot pass the palace gate, and the projects cannot set one pile in the ground! This is cutting away the royal power! It is taking the former kings’ thousand-year foundation and breaking it into bricks to hand out to the mud-legs!”

The hall buzzed.

”Sir,” Kamon pressed his hands on his knees and rose, ”I have listened to your words for a long while, and I have heard one thing—” He paused. ”The unpaid labor on the gentleman’s estate will no longer be at his command.”

”You are spitting blood at the innocent!”

”Then let me ask the gentleman one thing.” Kamon said. ”Your estate, in the busy season, how many men does it press? Do you dare to say the number in this hall?”

”What business is that of yours!”

”You will not say it.” Kamon said. ”Then I will say it for the gentleman. The fields of the West Bank, the land of the noble estates — in the busy season, one pressing takes over a hundred men. These men, brought in with ropes, working for no pay, eating their own dry rations.” He looked around the hall. ”Honored gentlemen — who is it, in truth, that has broken the former kings’ thousand-year foundation into his own unpaid labor?”

”You—”

”He speaks the truth.” Meru took it up, knocking his pipe, unhurried. ”The gentlemen keep saying ’no one to work the projects.’ But in this half year that my merchant house has been supplying the guild, has the worksite ever lacked hands? Hired in the idle season, the prices open and the accounts clear — the men come in better order than any pressed levy.” He paused. ”Why? Because paid work, a man does with spirit. Unpaid work, a man does with resentment. This principle, any man of trade understands.”

Someone in the hall called out approval, low.

Asaf waited until the sound had fallen, and only then stepped out. He saluted the pharaoh and said: ”I have heard everything the honored gentlemen have said. The ancient way, the projects, the royal power. Three caps, each one bigger than the last.” He paused. ”Then let me ask three questions.”

”First. The ancient way — the former kings set up the corvée to dig canals and raise temples, to guard the land and settle the people. And now? Pressing men in the busy season presses the men who farm. When the men are taken, the land goes to waste; when the land goes to waste, the grain grows short; when the grain grows short, the state grows weak. Honored gentlemen — is this ’ancient way’ the former kings’ ancient way, or an ancient way that has gone sour?”

”Second. The projects—” He turned to the tall thin man. ”The gentleman says that without the corvée, no one works the projects. Then let me reckon one account for the gentleman: hired labor in the idle season, at the guild’s rate, settled day by day. Where does the wage money come from? From the grain gained. With no men pressed from the spring fields, the land has people to farm it, and every mu yields three dou more. Across all the fields of Egypt, the grain gained hires the idle-season labor of the whole land — with a surplus left over. This account, Tia has run three times, and the Royal Steward has verified it. Does the gentleman want it verified one more time?”

”Third. The royal power—” He looked around the hall. ”Whether the royal power is steady — what does it rest on? On whether the granaries are full, and whether the people’s hearts are at ease. No levies in the busy season — the granaries fill, and the people’s hearts settle. This law lays the foundation of the royal power. The gentleman says this law cuts the royal power — then let me ask: a royal power raised on snatching farmers from their fields, what sort of royal power is that?”

”You!” The square-faced noble’s face flushed red. ”You are spitting blood at the innocent!”

”What spits blood at the innocent is those years.” Asaf said. ”Twenty years ago, Thebes levied four thousand men in one season. In these forty years, how many households, in the spring plowing, were taken off by ropes? Honored gentlemen — these accounts, Tia has them, page by page.”

The hall went quiet.

”Let me read two pages.” Tia stepped forward and unrolled a length of papyrus.

”This page is from Montu, the old stonemason of Thebes. He said: ’The corvée — the worst thing about it is the busy-season pressing. My father was taken away in the spring plowing, and in the autumn he died on the official road. That year, half our family’s land went to waste.’”

”This page is from a man who called the work-chants on the city wall: ’We do not fear putting out strength. We fear strength put out without a count. Today you pull us to build the wall, tomorrow you pull us to haul grain, and the day after you say — hold the city.’”

She closed the papyrus and said: ”Behind these two voices stand two households. Behind the two households stand hundreds of thousands of households. Honored gentlemen, this law is to set one ’count’ for those hundreds of thousands of households.”

”Do not come here stirring feelings with those!” The tall thin man jumped up. ”The words of village bumpkins — are they fit to be read in the court!”

”Sir,” Tia’s voice went cold, ”you say the words of village bumpkins are not fit to be read. But this hall eats the grain they grow, and lives in the houses they build.” She paused. ”Even the robe on your body — they wove it.”

”You!”

”I have not finished.” Tia said. ”If the gentleman finds two pages too few, I have seventeen hundred more here. Every page has its village, every page its household, every page its name.” She patted the wicker trunk at her hand — the very trunk carried all the way from Thebes. ”Four months, and we have filled this trunk.”

The hall went still for a moment.

”Well said!” On the military side, the northland centurion rose. ”Let this humble officer say a coarse word. This humble officer has seen the pressed men of the north — empty stomachs, building the border wall, letters from home saying the fields have gone to waste and the children are sick. That is how the people’s hearts scatter!” He paused. ”Soldiers cannot march without grain, and a country cannot stand without its people. This law — this humble officer seconds it!”

”Seconded!” Two more military officers rose.

”Seconded!” The county magistrate from the south rose too. ”Your humble servant’s county, last year’s busy season, had three tenths of its able-bodied men pressed away. The land went to waste, the grain was gone, and the people cursed — they cursed your humble servant! Your humble servant’s post — I have held it unjustly!”

”What is your injustice?” The old noble laughed coldly. ”Who sent in the lists of the pressed men?”

”They were forced down from above!” The magistrate was frantic. ”If your humble servant did not send them, your humble servant’s head would . . .”

”Enough.”

The pharaoh raised his hand.

The hall went quiet. The pharaoh’s finger tapped, tap by tap, on the wood-grain of his armrest. He glanced at the old noble, and then at Asaf, and said: ”This matter is weighty. Let me deliberate it further.”

The words had not died when a man walked out from the side of the hall.

The Minister of Revenue. He carried a stack of account books in both arms, and set them on the table, one by one, book upon book.

”Your Majesty.” he said. ”This servant has not come to oppose the law. This servant is a keeper of accounts.” He opened the topmost book. ”If the corvée law hires labor at the guild’s rates, the northern wall, added to the southern granary works, comes in a year’s wages to half a year of the treasury’s income.” He paused, and pushed the books forward. ”What this servant fears is not the spending. What this servant fears is — the law stands, the money goes out, the treasury empties, and then the north strikes again. What pays the soldiers’ grain then?”

The hall was so quiet you could hear the pages of the account books turn.

The tip of Tia’s brush stopped. The Revenue Ministry’s accounts — she had never seen them, and it was not her place to see them. This figure, she could not reckon it out on the spot.

In the rows of the conservatives, looks passed between them, and the corners of their mouths could not be held down.

The pharaoh was silent for a long time. He looked at the stack of account books, then at the men below the dais, and said: ”The law — let it rest a while.”

The court rose.

The conservatives walked out with a swinging stride. The old noble’s carriage ground the stone slabs, creaking. The reformers left the hall last. Asaf walked to the palace gate and stood a long while. The sky was still overcast, and the wind carried damp, as if it meant to snow.

”Today,” he said, ”we fought to a draw.”

”A draw,” Tia said, ”is them winning. They only need to drag.”

”And so,” Lu Zhu said, ”we cannot let it drag.”

That night, the lamps of the deep mansion burned again into the third watch.

”Today’s battle,” the old noble said, ”was not badly fought.” He sipped his tea slowly. ”The Revenue Ministry’s knife struck exactly the right place. The pharaoh said ’let it rest a while’ — rest means undecided. And undecided means there is room to work.”

”The Revenue Ministry this time,” the tall thin man said, ”has finally opened its mouth.”

”He should have opened it long ago.” the old noble said. ”He keeps the treasury, and what he fears most is exactly the two words ’hired labor.’ That knife of his is far more solid than our ancient way.”

”How do we proceed?” the tall thin man asked.

”Three roads, walked together.” The old noble counted them off on his fingers. ”First, the ears of the palace. The Queen Mother — this old servant will go and speak with her in person; the King’s Uncle — the square-faced one will go. Say the same thing to both of them: once the corvée is abolished, the former king’s tomb can never be finished. And with the former king’s tomb standing unfinished, the new pharaoh’s face will not look well either.”

”Second, the old ministers. The retired, the idled — visit them one by one. What they can least bear to hear is the two words ’ancient way.’ Bring them out, and have them submit a joint memorial.”

”Third,” he lowered his voice, ”the outside. The estates of the counties and prefectures are all in the hands of our kin and friends. Send the word down — next year’s projects all open early. Before the busy season, press the men clean first.”

”This . . .” the square-faced noble hesitated, ”is this not handing them a handle?”

”A handle?” The old noble laughed coldly. ”The law has not stood yet. Pressing men now is no breach of law. But when their law stands — no, by the time they have been dragged out of all heart — the resentment of these hundreds of thousands of pressed men will all be written onto their heads. Then it is they who hand the people’s hearts back to us.”

”High.” The men were convinced.

”One road more.” The young man in the white robe pressed forward. ”Our people have already put the word out in the villages outside the city: ’If this law stands, next year’s canals, temples, and tomb all stop. And when they stop, all of you who eat from the projects will starve.’”

”Those words,” the old noble nodded, ”are good. The project rice bowl is a real rice bowl. Smash the bowl, and it works better than any ancient way.”

”On the old priests’ side,” the young white-robed one said again, ”they have also spoken. They say that in the matter of the corvée, the temple will not come forward. But the temple’s fields also need hands in the busy season. If this law stands, who reaps the temple’s grain?”

”Temple fields . . .” The old noble smiled. ”Now there is a good knife. Throw the four words ’the god’s fields gone to waste’ at the pharaoh too. However little the pharaoh believes in gods, he will not dare carry the name of wasting the god’s fields.”

”Yes.” the young white-robed one answered.

In the lamp-shadows, several shapes swayed heavily on the wall.

”Go and do it all.” the old noble said. ”And be quick. Tomorrow they will send letters and gather handprints. We must be quicker than they are.”

”Yes.” The whole room broke up.

Outside the deep mansion, the wind had risen. The old tree in the courtyard rustled and clattered in it. The old noble stood at the window, watching the tree’s shadow sway on the wall, and after a long while said suddenly: ”This tree — my grandfather planted it. Forty years now.”

”Forty years,” his old servant answered, ”and the roots are deep.”

”Deep.” the old noble said. ”But if the wind is strong enough—” He did not finish. He only drew the window shut, slowly.

On the reformers’ side, the lamps were burning too.

Lu Zhu had called everyone together. When all had come, he said: ”All of you, speak. In today’s hall, what did you see.”

”They are anxious.” Asaf said. ”The more anxious they are, the more we must guard.”

”They are not anxious.” Lu Zhu said. ”They are aligned. The ancient way, the projects, the royal power — three roads released at once. The ears of the palace, the joint memorial of the old ministers, the words in the countryside. Three things, each more hidden than the last.” He paused. ”But they have missed one thing in their reckoning.”

”What?”

”They have missed the root of this law.” Lu Zhu said. ”The root of this law is not in the hall. It is in the ground. Four months of blood, hundreds of thousands of households. This root, they cannot pull up.” He rose. ”What we must do is let the root speak for itself.”

”How does it speak?” Kamon asked.

”The petitions.” Lu Zhu said. ”Last time, twenty-seven thousand handprints carried the granary law onto the table. This time, there must be more prints. Not only the new capital, the West Bank, Thebes. The villages of the whole land. Which village had its men pressed, which village’s fields went to waste, which household’s man never came back — all of it written down, all of it with handprints.”

”The whole land . . .” Tia said. ”The roads are long. It takes time.”

”If it takes time, then race for time.” Lu Zhu said. ”They drag, and we run. Letters out to the counties and prefectures; men out to the villages and towns. Before winter comes in, gather the handprints back.”

”And the hall?” Asaf asked.

”In the hall,” Lu Zhu said, ”as before. They put out their moves, and we take them. Go on deliberating, until the pharaoh nods.”

”Deliberate until he nods.” The whole room repeated it.

The lamp was filled once more with oil. Outside the window, the wind blew harder, gust after gust. The first snow of the winter was on its way.

After the meeting broke, the people left. In the courtyard, only Lu Zhu and Tia remained.

Tia did not go to her room. She sat under the colonnade, sorting the day’s records page by page. The wind passed along the colonnade, and the lamp-shadow flared and dimmed. Lu Zhu walked over and draped an old robe over her shoulders: ”It is late.”

”I cannot sleep.” Tia said.

”Afraid?”

”Not afraid.” Tia said. ”There is a fire in my heart.” She raised her head, and her eyes were alarmingly bright under the lamp. ”Today in the hall, that square-faced one said the words of village bumpkins are not fit to be read. What I read was old Montu, and the man who called the chants on the wall. Four years ago, Asaf and I went to the West Bank and listened to the farmers pour out their grievances, and we sat a whole day at a time. In those days I thought — one day these words will go up to the hall. Now they have gone up. And still they say — not fit.”

”Let them say it.” Lu Zhu said. ”You read yours. The words you read — the pharaoh heard them.”

”Heard them,” Tia said, ”but has not decided.”

”He will decide.” Lu Zhu said. ”Of the four laws, three have stood. This last one — the sky will not fall.”

”The sky will not fall,” Tia said, ”but I want it to come sooner.” She paused. ”Every day it drags, next spring’s plowing hangs one more day.”

”And so,” Lu Zhu said, ”tomorrow, we keep driving the nails.”

Tia said nothing more. She lowered her head and went on sorting the records. Her hands had grown thin again, and the backs of them were split with cold cracks. But when the brush came down, stroke by stroke, it was as steady as ever.

Lu Zhu watched her a while, turned, and left. At the gate of the courtyard he looked back and said: ”Tia.”

”Yes?”

”Your backbone,” he said, ”is harder than many men’s.”

Tia started, and smiled. The smile, in the winter night, was like a small lamp.

The wind had risen in the palace too.

The next day, the pharaoh went to the Queen Mother’s palace to pay his respects. The Queen Mother took his hand in hers and said: ”My son, I hear that you mean to abolish the busy-season corvée?” She paused. ”Of the other matters I understand nothing, and I will say nothing of them. But your father’s tomb is not yet finished. When your father lived, what lay heaviest on his heart was this one tomb. Abolish the corvée, and where do the men on the tomb come from?”

”Mother,” the pharaoh said, ”the tomb must be built. But the men of the busy season must also go home to farm.”

”Farming,” the Queen Mother sighed, ”is that more important than the tomb? It is where your father will live, ten thousand years hence.”

The pharaoh did not answer. He came out of the Queen Mother’s palace, walked a few steps, and asked the Royal Steward: ”The former king’s tomb — how many men are on the work now?”

”Answering the pharaoh,” the Steward said, ”about two thousand.”

”Of the two thousand,” the pharaoh said, ”how many were pulled from the fields in the busy season?”

The Steward lowered his head and reckoned a moment, and said: ”Seven or eight in ten.”

The pharaoh stopped. He looked in the direction of the former king’s tomb for a long time, and said: ”Bring the Revenue Ministry’s accounts. I want to see how much farming season these seven or eight in ten have missed.”

”Yes.”

That night, the pharaoh’s table was covered with account books. He turned pages until past midnight, and suddenly snapped a book shut: ”Steward.”

”Your servant is here.”

”Tell me,” the pharaoh said, ”these four laws, bought with four months of blood — if I press this last one down—” He paused. ”Can it be pressed down?”

”It can be pressed down for a while,” the Steward said, ”but not for a lifetime. The people’s hearts — pressed down, they are fire; let out, they are light.”

”Fire . . . light . . .” the pharaoh murmured. He rose and walked to the hall door. Outside, the snow had not come, but the wind already carried its smell. He stood a long time, and said: ”Wait for the petitions. Wait for them to lay the people’s hearts on my table.”

The petition letters went out that same night.

South, north, west, east. Fast boats, fast horses, and the merchant house’s boats going their way. In every letter, one sentence only: ”Of the four laws, only ’no levies in the busy season’ remains. In the hall, some are holding it to the death. Fathers and elders of every place — write down your true circumstances, and press your handprints to them. The more prints, the heavier the law.”

The West Bank was the first to answer.

Old Camel received the letter that evening, and gathered the guild’s old masters into the guild courtyard that very night, every one of them. He stood before them and said: ”The last time we pressed handprints, it was for four laws. This time, for one alone — no levies in the busy season. This one is heavier than all four put together. Press.”

The old masters queued and came forward. One old stonemason, pressing halfway, suddenly said: ”My father was pressed away in the busy season, and died on the official road.” He paused. ”This print is pressed for him.”

”For our fathers.” The whole courtyard of craftsmen lowered their heads.

The registrar was the accountant Old Camel had brought. When a young fellow came up, the fellow said: ”Let me press one for my elder brother. My brother, three years ago, was pressed away in the busy season, and never came back.” The accountant’s brush paused, and he said: ”Press. Your brother’s name, I will write it larger.”

”Larger is good.” the fellow said. ”So the men in the hall can see it at one glance.”

The West Bank’s petitions were loaded onto the boat on the third day. Old Camel escorted them himself. When the boat passed the river bend, the villages along the bank stopped it again to ask. When they understood, they spread cloth on the riverbank then and there and pressed their handprints. When they were done they chased the boat, shouting: ”Carry ours with you!”

”Carried!” Old Camel shouted back. ”All carried!”

In Thebes, the chief officiant opened the old meeting that night.

”This last law,” the chief officiant said, ”is the one the farming households of all Egypt have waited for all their lives. Last time’s handprints carried three laws up. This time, they carry this one alone. This one must be padded the thickest.”

”I will gather the official granary.” Woser said.

”I will gather the work crews.” old Montu said.

”I will gather the Haven.” Nefer said.

”I will gather the porridge shed.” Old Sun said.

”I will gather the market.” the grilled-fish woman said.

”And me.” A-He squeezed in. ”I can write my own name now! And I know more than a hundred characters! I will help the chief officiant read the names!”

”Good.” the chief officiant said. ”A-He reads the names.”

The Thebes petitions were gathered over five days and five nights. The people pressing handprints queued two li long. Panhesy came too. He squeezed to the table and said: ”Give me a page.”

”You?” The chief officiant looked up.

”I will press.” Panhesy said. ”And not only press — I will write one sentence.” He lifted the brush and wrote, stroke by stroke: ”Panhesy. Pressed work at a price — the first to sign.” When it was written, he pressed his handprint down. ”The work I owe this city, I will pay it back slowly.”

”No need to pay it back.” the chief officiant said. ”The four months of war — one stroke, and it is wiped away.”

”Owed or not,” Panhesy said, ”I keep the account in my heart.”

The knife-grinder came too. After pressing his print, he said: ”The account of my ten free sharpenings is not yet worked off. When this law stands, I will grind a hundred blades and invite the whole city to watch.” He paused. ”We men of the hand trust one thing: if the handcraft can stand, the law can stand.”

”It can stand.” the people beside him answered.

The blind old soldier pressed his print with A-He holding his hand. When it was done, he said: ”My eyes are gone, but my heart is bright. This law — I can see it.” The old sergeant came too, with the surrendered men. He said: ”We men, before, counted blades. Now, we count bowls. If this law stands, the rice in our bowls will be eaten more soundly.”

On Nefer’s side, the Haven pressed the most evenly of all. She said: ”This last law is for the farming households. Of the farming households’ handprints, not one may be missing.”

”Press!” the women said. ”Press for our men, press for our sons, press for the grandsons not yet born!”

Woser’s granary school stopped its lessons for three days. He said: ”I press first. I have kept granaries half my life, and I have seen too much grain that no one came to take in. Why? The people were in the fields — and they were taken away.”

The chief officiant pressed last. When his print was down, he bowed three times toward the old temple and said: ”God, look. These are the prints of the whole city. This last law — if you do not take offense, let the incense burn straight.”

The incense burned very straight.

The new capital was not idle either.

The guild’s branch, the three thousand men of the worksites, the market traders, the patients of the medical house — wave after wave came to the Bureau to press their handprints. A woman with a child in her arms said: ”My man was pressed away the year before last, and came back thin beyond recognizing. This print, I press for him, and for myself too.” Then she pressed the child’s small hand lightly onto the papyrus as well. ”Let the child press one too. When he grows up, he will know how this law came to be.”

Kamon brought the guild’s craftsmen to press too: ”Three hundred and more men of the guild, not one missing. From now on, whoever again makes men work for nothing, the guild’s chisel will be the first to refuse.”

”Count me in.” Meru said. ”The merchant house’s men, the boatmen, the loaders — all of them press.”

Imset and Shafi came with the patients of the medical house. Shafi said: ”Patients press the slowest. But every one of them presses the most firmly.”

”Most firmly.” Tia said. ”All firmly.”

The word from River-Bend Village came by other hands. The white-bearded old man’s letter was one sentence: ”Our village’s prints are all pressed. I pressed two — my own, and my eldest son’s. The eldest did not come back. If he were still here, he would press too. This law should have stood long ago.”

Tia read this letter and stopped for a long time. She folded the letter and laid it with the other petitions.

By the tenth day, the petitions filled half a room of the Bureau’s courtyard.

Tia and Asaf began again the day-and-night sorting. Classifying, counting, checking names. Tia’s wrist swelled again and again, wrapped in cloth strips, and still she wrote, stroke by stroke. Shafi saw it and pressed her down at the table edge, applied the salve, wound the cloth: ”How many more characters do these hands of yours have to write? If you do not ache for them, I ache just looking at them.”

”When this law stands,” Tia said, ”I will rest three days.”

”Three days?” Shafi said. ”If you can rest one day, I will burn the tallest incense.”

”Then one day.” Tia smiled.

On the worksites, these days, everyone talked of this last law, and nothing else.

At the midday rest, the craftsmen squatted at the wall foot, one flatbread to a man, eating along with their words. A young one asked: ”Old master, do you think this no-levies-in-the-busy-season can truly stand?”

”It hangs.” the old master said. ”They slapped the table in the hall. ’The ancient way must not change,’ shouted till the rafters rang.” He bit his flatbread. ”Wait. The sky is nearly light.”

”Old master,” another craftsman edged over, ”were you ever pressed?”

”I was.” the old master said. ”Twenty years ago, the canal. When I left, the wheat in our fields had just headed. When I came back, it had all rotted in the ground.” He paused. ”My father went on that canal too, and never came off it. This law — I have been waiting twenty years for it.”

He rose, brushed the dust from his hands, and said: ”Work. Do our work well, and we add bricks to this law.”

”Add bricks!” The craftsmen answered, and the work-chants rose again.

That night, Kes came back from the dock with a piece of news.

”The trade road,” he said, ”is cut again, one stretch of it. The northbound boat was turned back halfway.”

”The Hittites?” Lu Zhu asked.

”Not them.” Kes said. ”Horse bandits in the mountains. Grabbing a handful before winter.” He paused. ”The letter from the north will not be coming for a while.”

”If it cannot come,” Lu Zhu said, ”then first, do what we can do, to the last.”

The second day in court came on the eleventh day.

This time the conservatives had changed their method. The old noble did not come — he had gone into the palace, to pay his respects to the Queen Mother, it was said. In the hall, the tall thin man and the square-faced noble took turns speaking, and everything they spoke of was ”the projects”:

”Pharaoh, next year’s canals — are they to be dug or not? If dug, where do the men come from?”

”The former king’s tomb — the work is already behind. Delay it further, and do you mean to let the former king, below the nine springs, curse us unfilial sons!”

”The northern border wall still lacks three stretches. The Hittites are watching with tiger eyes. To stop the work at such a time is making jokes with the gate of the country!”

Asaf caught them one by one: ”The canals will be dug. Hired in the idle season — the guild’s charter is here, and the hands are ready.” ”The former king’s tomb should be built. But if the former king has a spirit in heaven, and sees the pressed men of the busy season casting down their own green shoots to go and build his tomb — what will the former king think?” ”The northern wall — General Horenheb already has his charter: the northern works go at the guild’s rates. The army’s craftsmen and the wall’s pressed men all count as labor.”

”Well spoken!” The tall thin man laughed coldly. ”Next spring’s plowing, and there is not one man on the canal, the tomb, or the wall — we will see what you have to say then!”

”Let this old servant say one word too.” The old priest rose tottering to his feet. ”The temple fields. The temple’s fields, in the busy season, need hands too. If this law stands, who reaps the temple’s grain? Who offers the incense grain before the god?” He paused. ”Honored assembly — let the god’s fields go to waste, and heaven’s punishment will come!”

”Sir,” Asaf said, ”your words come at exactly the right time. The law is written plain: the temple’s fields are treated the same as the people’s fields. No levies in the busy season — the same for everyone. And if the temple needs grain reaped, hire in the idle season, at the guild’s rates.” He paused. ”If the gentleman fears there will be no grain before the god — the Ever-Normal Granary’s grain can be drawn at any time. The handful of incense grain before the god will not be short one grain.”

”You . . .” The old priest’s mouth opened.

”One thing more,” Meru took it up, ”the merchant house’s boats that carry grain for the temple — the price stays the old price. No raising.” He knocked his pipe. ”The god’s affairs are also the people’s livelihood. The people’s livelihood, the merchant house goes on carrying.”

The old priest opened his mouth, and in the end no words came out, and he sat back down.

”Sir,” Tia stepped out, ”then let me read one more account.”

She unrolled a page: ”One county on the West Bank, two thousand men levied in the busy season. With the men in the fields, one mu of wheat yields ten dou; with the men pressed away for a month, the wheat is sown half a month late, and one mu yields seven dou. The difference is three dou. Two thousand men farm twenty thousand mu. Twenty thousand mu, three dou short on every mu — the grain one county loses in one busy season is enough to feed the whole county for three months.” She paused. ”The gentleman says there is no one on the canals. I will tell the gentleman — the men on the canals were snatched from the fields. One day’s work snatched, one season’s grain lost. However this account is reckoned, it is a loss.”

”Your account . . .”

”This account,” the Royal Steward stepped out, ”this servant has verified it. The numbers are true.”

The hall went quiet for a beat.

”And the wage rates.” Kamon rose. He laid a roll of the guild’s charter down on the table, straight and proper. ”The guild’s rates were discussed out by the guild’s three hundred and more craftsmen, household by household, man by man. The stonemason, so much grain a day; the carpenter, so much; the tamper, so much. All of it is on here.” He paused. ”Honored gentlemen, from now on, when you need men, at these rates, they come when they are called. It is not that men cannot be hired. It is that before, no one ever reckoned the word ’man’ into the account.”

”Well said.” The pharaoh suddenly spoke. ”Reckon the word ’man’ into the account.”

The rows of the conservatives looked at one another.

The pharaoh said: ”Deliberate further.”

On the road after the court rose, the tall thin man leaned to the square-faced noble’s ear: ”Did you hear? Today the pharaoh praised that mud-leg.”

”I heard.” the square-faced noble said. ”And so — we must hurry.”

”Hurry how?”

”The Queen Mother’s side,” the square-faced noble lowered his voice, ”is already won over. Tomorrow, the palace’s words will reach the pharaoh’s ear.” He paused. ”You go again to the retired old ministers’ houses. Say the four words ’a crime equal to treason’ a little louder.”

”Understood.”

That night, the deep mansion gathered once more.

”The Queen Mother’s pillow talk has gone in.” the square-faced noble said. ”These past days, the way the pharaoh looks at people has changed.”

”Wind alone is not enough.” the old noble said. ”The joint memorial of the old ministers — is the fair copy done?”

”It is.” the tall thin man said. ”Three old ministers have signed. The leader has added one line — ’shaking the root of the country is a crime equal to treason.’”

”Good.” the old noble nodded. ”The next time in court, submit this memorial first.”

”One thing more,” the young white-robed one said, ”the words outside the city have gone out too. Headmen of several villages have come asking: ’The projects are to stop — is it true?’”

”True or not,” the old noble said, ”let them chew on it themselves.” He paused. ”The more people chew, the more the hearts scatter. And once the hearts scatter, the handprints will not press.”

”High.” the men answered.

”One matter more.” the old noble said. ”The word out of the palace says the pharaoh turned accounts another whole night. The Revenue Ministry’s, the Bureau’s — all of them.” He paused. ”Turning accounts means reckoning. Reckoning means undecided. Undecided means there is still a door.”

”Then we . . .”

”Add one more handful of fire.” the old noble said. ”The next time in court, do not be in a hurry to slap the table. First, weep. Weep over the projects, weep over the tomb, weep over the northern wall. The truer the weeping, the more the officials in the hall will doubt themselves.” He paused. ”Once the men in the hall doubt, the pharaoh’s account will no longer add up.”

”Weep . . .” The tall thin man stared. ”Sir, this . . .”

”This what?” the old noble said. ”Weeping is no disgrace. Losing the land — that is the disgrace.”

And in the palace, the account books on the pharaoh’s table did not close all night.

He finished the Revenue Ministry’s accounts, and then the Bureau’s. Turning pages until past midnight, he suddenly said: ”Steward, reckon it for me. In all Egypt, one year of busy-season pressing — how many ten-thousands of men?”

”By a rough reckoning,” the Steward said, ”not under three hundred thousand.”

”Three hundred thousand.” the pharaoh repeated. ”Three hundred thousand pairs of hands, pulled out of the fields. These three hundred thousand households, in one year, how much grain do they lose?”

”One man missing one month, by last year’s yield,” the Steward said, ”the year’s lost grain is not little.”

”Three months.” The pharaoh rose and walked to the hall door. Outside, the wind moaned. He stood a long time, and said: ”I know now.”

”Pharaoh . . .”

”Go and sleep.” the pharaoh said. ”Let me think further.”

The Steward withdrew. The hall door closed, shutting the wind outside. But the sound of the wind still threaded in through the cracks of the door, fine as silk.

The pharaoh did not sleep. He sat under the lamp, and looked once more at the page of Tia’s reckoning, from the first line to the last. When he had read it, he lifted the brush and, on a blank page of papyrus, wrote twelve words:

No levies in the busy season. Paid labor in the idle season. Every requisition on the books.

When it was written, he looked at it a while, and then took up the brush again and drew one heavy line under the two words ”no levies.”

”I,” he said in a low voice, ”also want to see what these twelve words look like, once they stand.”

He blew out the lamp. But the page still lay on the table, and in the dark, it glowed, quietly.

But that page, on the table, lay there for ten-some days.

Added to the days before, the law had rested a full twenty days.

In those twenty days, the wind in the streets changed, day by day, and each day for the worse. First, two counties west of the city put up official notices, saying that the winter canals would open work ahead of the season. Before dawn, the pressing ropes were already on the roads. A man who had pressed his handprint at the Bureau stood on the field ridge and asked: ”The law has not stood, so how is it pressing again?” The runner escorting the pressed men said: ”The pharaoh himself has not decided — what are you shouting for!”

The four words ”the law will not stand” came out of some dock first, and in three days had gone through half the city. On the worksites, the sound of tamping thinned. The old flatbread seller, for the first time, did not set his steamer up outside the palace gate — he squatted at his own door, telling people: ”I have the bread ready, and I am afraid it will be ready for nothing.”

In the Bureau, the hearts hung too.

Kamon circled the courtyard, round after round. After dozens of rounds, he suddenly crouched down and buried his face in his hands: ”My father died on the official road . . . if this law cannot stand, I . . .” He could not go on. Hapy came over to help him up; he waved it off, and rose by himself, and went silently to grind his chisel. The chisel ground loud, louder and louder, as if he meant to grind all the fire in his heart into its edge.

Asaf went to the Revenue Ministry and asked to see the Minister. The gatekeeper answered: ”The Minister is unwell and receives no one.” The next day he went again, and was not even let through the gate. Asaf sat on the stone steps outside the Revenue Ministry for a small half hour, rose, and left.

Tia shut herself in her room and reckoned accounts for three days. On the night of the third day, she came out with the ledgers in her arms, and her eyes were red.

”Reckoned.” She set the ledgers on the table. ”In all Egypt, one year of busy-season pressing — not under three hundred thousand men. These three hundred thousand households, one month of farming season missed, the grain lost is enough to feed the whole land for three months.” She paused. ”The Revenue Ministry reckoned the cost of hired labor. I have reckoned the loss of the pressing. The cost lies in the open; the loss hides in the ground. Which is greater and which smaller — it is written out plain.”

”Send it up.” Lu Zhu said. ”Together with the look of these twenty days, send it all up.”

It was sent up. But from the palace, still no answer came.

On the twentieth day, the pharaoh took off his court robes, changed into an old robe, and left the city with only the Steward and two attendants.

They walked a dozen and more li along the post road. The villages they passed had their fields lying waste, the furrows untended and the ridges grown over. There was one wheat field where the weeds stood taller than the seedlings. On the ridge at the field’s head, an old man knelt, weeping until his whole body shook. Beside him, two county runners were roping his son.

”Masters,” the old man knocked his head on the ground, ”this is his last season’s living. The canal is not short of one man—”

”The law has not stood!” The runner shook the rope. ”The pressing goes on as before!”

The pharaoh stood by the roadside a long time.

The Steward made to step forward, and was held back. The pharaoh watched the old man, and the field drowned in weeds, and the young man led off by the rope, turning to look back at every step. Only when the people had gone far did he speak, his voice so low it could hardly be heard:

”The Revenue Ministry says the treasury cannot bear it.” he said. ”But what I see is — the land goes to waste, the grain grows short, and where does the tax come from? The pressing looks like it costs nothing. What it spends is next year’s grain.”

He turned and walked back. A few steps on, he looked back once more at that wasted field.

”Back to the palace.” he said.

At the morning court the next day, the pharaoh sat at the head, and his first words were:

”Yesterday, I went out beyond the city.”

The hall went quiet. Every ear stood up.

”I saw a field. The weeds taller than the seedlings. At the field’s head knelt an old man. His son was taken off with ropes.” The pharaoh paused. ”What took him was not the Hittites. It was our own county runners. And the name of it was still the old name — the law has not stood, the pressing goes on as before.”

He looked around the hall, and suddenly raised his voice: ”The Revenue Ministry says the treasury cannot bear the wages. But what I saw is — the land goes to waste, the grain grows short, and where does the tax come from? The pressing looks like it costs nothing. What it spends is next year’s grain — the spring plowing of three hundred thousand households — three months of food for the whole land!”

He brought his hand down on the table with a crack:

”The law passes.”

The hall was still as death.

”The matter of the wage money,” the pharaoh said, ”Tia will reckon it further. Reckon it slowly, and I will wait. Reckon it out and it falls short, and I will make it up from my own inner treasury.”

”Pharaoh!” The old noble was frantic, and took two hurried steps forward. ”This . . . the treasury . . .”

”The treasury the minister speaks of,” the pharaoh only glanced at him, ”I acknowledge.” He paused. ”But I am the king of Egypt, not the Revenue Ministry’s accountant.”

The old noble’s mouth opened, and in the end he could not speak.

When the court rose, the word flew out of the palace, and in less than half an hour it had gone through the whole city. The old flatbread seller carried his steamer out again and shouted at everyone he saw: ”The law passes! It passes!”

”It passes?” The people of the street could not believe it. ”Was it not resting?”

”It passes!” the old man shouted. ”The pharaoh said it with his own mouth — ’the law passes’!”

On the worksites, the tamping rose again. This time, louder than on any day before.

That night, the pharaoh took the page with the twelve words out from under the table and traced them over once more. No levies in the busy season. Paid labor in the idle season. Every requisition on the books. When the tracing was done, the ink was not yet dry, and it shone.

The third day in court came three days later.

This time, one more stack of things lay in the hall — the joint memorial of the old ministers. At its head were three retired old ministers. The memorial said: the corvée is the root of the country, and shaking the root of the country is a crime equal to treason.

”You see.” The old noble had come back, and spoke slowly. ”The people’s hearts? The old ministers’ memorial — that is the ’people’s hearts.’”

”The old ministers’ memorial,” Asaf said, ”is the officials’ hearts. And the officials’ hearts and the people’s hearts are, at times, a hundred and eight thousand li apart.”

”You!”

”Hold your tongues, all of you.”

The pharaoh’s voice was not loud. But the hall went quiet all at once.

”Today,” he said, ”I received a thing.” He gestured toward the Royal Steward. The Steward carried a thick roll of papyrus to the center of the hall and unrolled it.

”The new capital, the West Bank, Thebes, and the counties and prefectures along the roads — a joint petition for the corvée decree.” the Steward read. ”Petition rolls: three hundred and six. Handprints: more than fifty-one thousand.”

The hall was one long indrawn breath.

”This . . .” The old noble’s face changed. ”This is vicious folk . . .”

”Whether they are vicious folk,” the pharaoh said, ”I will look for myself.” He drew out one roll, unrolled it, and looked at it a long time. Then another roll. And looked again.

The hall was so quiet you could hear the papyrus turn.

”I also saw one sentence.” the pharaoh said. He raised a roll. ”On this is written: ’No levies in the busy season.’ These four words, in these one hundred and more rolls, appear—” He looked at the Steward.

”More than two thousand times.” the Steward said.

”More than two thousand times.” the pharaoh repeated. He set the roll down and swept his eyes over the hall. ”One man writes it — it is a grudge. A thousand men write it — it is the temper of the people. Fifty thousand men press their handprints to it—” He paused. ”Tell me, honored assembly — what is that called?”

No one in the hall answered.

”That,” the pharaoh said, ”is called the will of heaven.”

The old noble’s legs went soft. He caught the table, steadied himself, and said: ”Pharaoh! This old servant has one word more! The ancient way! The ancient way must not change! Whoever changes it is—”

”Whoever changes it is what?” The pharaoh stared at him.

”Whoever changes it is . . . the sinner of Egypt!” The old noble shouted it out, and his voice cracked in two.

The hall was still as death.

”Tomorrow,” the pharaoh said, ”the deliberation continues.”

After the court rose, the conservatives, for the first time, did not take their carriages.

The old noble walked in the wind, his white hair blown into disorder. After a few steps he suddenly stopped and looked back at the palace gate. Outside the gate, the people stood black as a tide again.

”Handprints.” he murmured. ”Handprints again.”

”Sir,” the tall thin man caught up, his voice hollow, ”fifty . . . fifty-one thousand. This number cannot be pressed down.”

”Whether it can be pressed down,” the old noble said, ”it must be pressed down.”

”Pressed how?”

”The ancient way.” The old noble ground his teeth. ”Slap the table. Tomorrow in the hall, everyone slaps it. Say it — the ancient way must not change. Whoever changes it is the sinner of Egypt.”

”Slap the table . . .” The tall thin man opened his mouth. ”Will it work?”

”If it will not work, it still must be done.” the old noble said. ”This is the last wall. When the wall falls, we people have nothing left.”

When he had said it, he walked on. But this time, his steps were much slower. The wind plastered his robe to his legs, like a flag gone wet.

”Sir,” the tall thin man followed behind and suddenly said, ”do you think . . . this law, can it truly not be stopped?”

The old noble stopped. He did not turn his head. After a long time, he said: ”Stopped or not, it must be blocked. Block it to the last moment.” He paused. ”We people — generation after generation — have lived on this. Without this, the family is gone.”

”But fifty thousand handprints . . .”

”Handprints,” the old noble said, ”can be pressed on today, and wiped off tomorrow.” He turned and stared at the tall thin man. ”Tomorrow, slap the table. The louder you slap, the more the palace’s heart will be thrown into disorder.”

”Yes.” the tall thin man answered, low.

On the reformers’ side, no one slept either.

Kamon gathered the guild’s craftsmen in the courtyard. He said: ”Tomorrow in the hall, we carry the petitions.” He paused. ”Three hundred and six rolls, one man to a roll, every roll heavy. When you carry them, keep your backs straight and your steps steady. Let the whole hall see — these handprints are not paper. They are the people’s hearts.”

”Master Kamon,” a craftsman asked, ”when we carry them up, what do we say?”

”Say nothing.” Kamon said. ”Set them down at the center of the hall. That is all.”

”Yes!” the craftsmen answered.

Under the lamp, Kes copied out the northern letter once more. When the copying was done, he dried the page, folded it, and set it at the handiest spot. He said: ”Tomorrow, I read this letter.”

”Read it.” Lu Zhu said. ”The soldiers of the north are a part of this law too.”

”And the letter from River-Bend Village.” Tia said. ”The white-bearded old man’s letter. Bring it too.”

”Bring everything.” Lu Zhu said. ”Tomorrow, one by one, lay it all on the table.”

The wind blew, gust after gust. In the courtyard of the Bureau, everyone went about his own work, and no one spoke the word ”sleep.”

That night, in the streets and lanes of the new capital, the word went around again.

”Did you hear? The petitions, more than three hundred rolls, and more than fifty thousand handprints.”

”More than fifty thousand! And what did the pharaoh say?”

”The pharaoh said — ’that is called the will of heaven.’”

”The will of heaven!” The listener was roused. ”Then the law is to stand?”

”Not yet.” The speaker lowered his voice. ”The old noble is still holding it to the death. Tomorrow, there is another day in court.”

”Still holding?” Someone was angry. ”Fifty thousand and more handprints, pressed into their very faces, and still holding?”

”They have land, and grain, and unpaid labor.” The speaker sighed. ”Once this law stands, how much unpaid labor do they lose in a year? Reckon it.”

”Then . . .” the man said, ”what can we who pressed the prints still do?”

”Wait.” the speaker said. ”Wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow, in the hall, the real test.”

”Wait!” the people of the lane said, in one voice.

In the market, the grain sellers, the vegetable sellers, the cloth sellers all spoke of the matter. An old grain seller said: ”I have sold grain all my life. This is the first time I have felt that the grain price, the wages, these days of ours — could be lifted a little by our own hands.”

”Lifted how?” someone asked.

”Handprints.” the old man said. ”Fifty thousand and more handprints. That weight is heavier than any scale weight.”

At the city gate, passing merchants brought word: ”Thebes — the whole city pressed. The chief officiant led them; even the surrendered men went.” The listeners sighed: ”Thebes’s four months of war were not fought in vain. The people’s hearts that came out of it — they have all turned into handprints.”

At last, the snow came.

The flakes fell fine, onto the stone ground outside the palace gate, onto the people waiting there. No one moved. They were like a stand of pines seeded in the snow, waiting, quietly, for tomorrow.

And at that hour, in a lane of the new capital, the first roll of the three hundred and six was being carried through the dark, step by step, toward the Bureau. The man carrying it was the centurion back from the northern border.

”This roll,” he said, ”the soldiers and the people behind the border wall asked me to bring it.”

”Why so late?” Kes asked.

”The trade road cuts in and out,” the centurion said, ”and the letters travel slow. But it came, in the end.”

Kes took the letter over and opened it. On the envelope, the dust of the north still clung to the folds. It was the very letter he had sent out months before, and waited for every day of those months — the answer to what the soldiers of the north truly thought. Inside was Horenheb’s own hand — no, Seb’s hand, with Horenheb dictating, line by line. The letter said:

”Half the soldiers of the border were pressed away in the busy season. If this law stands, the wall of the north will only stand firmer. Horenheb seconds it.”

Under the letter were a few small lines added by Seb: ”Teacher, the soldiers of the north, hearing that the law is to be made, all said good. They said: we have fought half a lifetime of wars, and this is the first time we have heard that after the war, we can still make it back in time for our own spring plowing. For these four words alone, the soldiers of the north all accept this law.”

Kes read the letter three times. Then he raised it high and said: ”The letter from the north has come!”

”It has come!” The whole courtyard shouted.

In the snowy night, the shout shook the snow loose from the tops of the walls.

Tia took the letter and read it under the lamp, word by word. When she had read it, she folded it and put it into the wicker trunk: ”Tomorrow, this letter goes up to the hall.”

”Up to the hall.” Lu Zhu said. ”The soldiers of the north are petitioners too.”

”Right.” Kes said. ”They cannot press handprints. But their words weigh more than handprints.”

The snow fell heavier and heavier, flake upon flake.

Outside the palace gate, the waiting people had not scattered — not one of them. Some had gathered a small fire and sat around it in a ring. The firelight shone on the snow, and on the faces of the people, red with the cold. Now and then someone spoke a few words; more often, they simply looked, quietly, toward the direction of the palace gate.

”Tomorrow,” an old man said, ”it is tomorrow.”

”Tomorrow.” the person beside him answered. ”This law should have its ending now.”

In the courtyard of the Bureau, the lamps were still burning.

Lu Zhu heard Asaf and Tia go through tomorrow’s statements once more. When they were done, he said: ”Good. We go by this.” He paused. ”Tomorrow, carry all the petitions up to the hall. Three hundred and six rolls, not one left behind. Let them see what the people’s hearts are.”

”Can they all be carried?” Hapy asked.

”They can.” Kamon said. ”The guild’s craftsmen, one man to a roll.”

”Good.” Lu Zhu said. ”We do not quarrel. We lay it out. Lay it out for them to see.”

”And this.” Tia patted the wicker trunk lightly. ”Four years of accounts, four months of blood, fifty thousand handprints. All of it is here.” She paused. ”Tomorrow, this trunk walks its last stretch.”

”Its last stretch,” Asaf said, ”walk it to the end.”

The night deepened. The people scattered to rest. Lu Zhu walked alone into the courtyard and looked up at the snow. The flakes fell on his shoulders, a thin layer. He reached out, caught one, and watched it melt, slowly, into a point of water in his palm.

”This snow,” he said in a low voice, ”falls well. A seasonable snow promises a rich year.”

”Chief Builder.” Asaf had come out at some point. ”Tell me — tomorrow, can it be done?”

”It can.” Lu Zhu said. ”The people’s hearts have arrived, and the will of heaven has arrived. What remains is whether that one man nods or not.”

”And if he does not nod?”

”If he does not,” Lu Zhu said, ”the people’s hearts are still there. The will of heaven is still there. Sooner or later, he will nod.” He turned. ”But I hope it is tomorrow. The people have waited for this day too long.”

”Too long.” Asaf repeated it, and looked up at the snow too. The snow fell white on both their shoulders, layer after layer.

The snow has come down. On the snow-covered ground outside the palace gate, the people still stand, like a stand of pines seeded in the snow. Three hundred and six petition rolls, fifty-one thousand handprints, are pressing down on the pharaoh’s table. The old noble’s last wall has begun to crack. But in the hall, there is still one battle of table-slapping to be fought. At first light, it is the endgame. And at this hour, in the snow, the northern letter lies in Kes’s arms, inside his robe, still warm with his body heat.

(End of Chapter 8)