This piece of historical fiction is inspired by the record of a strike in Egypt in 1157BCE, under the reign of Ramses III.
At first, it was just a sound: Just a small noise, a trembling. At first, it went unnoticed by most people. If any heard it, they didn’t think much of it, and left it alone. But it grew. And if you put your ear to the source, it would seem like a great rumbling from the earth, the warning sign of a schism which would split the earth like dry lips gaping, and then swallow everything. It didn’t grow in the usual way a sound does, through steadily increasing volume, but more and more people agreed they could hear it.
On the tenth day of the second month of winter in the 29th year of Pharaoh's reign, the artisan workers of Deir el Medina walked into the Valley of the Kings and asked for their wages. Walking past the five guard posts situated around the tombs, they walked up to their two foremen, and said, ‘Give us our grain. We didn’t get it last payday, and it’s been 18 days and no sign of it. So pay up.’
There’s no historical record of exactly how the foremen reacted. It was probably the same as any supervisor or manager in that situation: with an incredulous laugh. ‘What are you doing?’ They say. ‘Stop this nonsense, come inside.’ For a moment, there is silence in the Valley of the Kings. A few awkwardly kick at the sandy ground as they wait for it to dawn on the foremen that the artisans will not be working today. The foremen stare, dumbfounded. They leave, along with the deputies and proctors. The workers sit, and wait a while for their employer's response.
Some of them observe as they sit that the Valley feels hollow today. Without the sound of their labour, all that is left is either silence, momentary whistling breezes of the wind, or the small sound on everybody’s mind. As they had finished each day of building tombs for the Egyptian royalty, many of them felt pride watching the project make progress. But not anymore. Today, they don’t feel proud.
The foremen come back. With an unusual mix of nervousness and indignant anger underneath their professional exterior, they attempt to calmly persuade the artisans once again to return to work. It is now 30 minutes since the day’s shift was supposed to begin. ‘Please come back. This is the work of the Pharaoh. Would you turn your backs on him?’ These words are spoken with the sense of a violated sanctity, as if blood had been unjustly spilt in the temple. It is no small thing to accuse their fellow countrymen of this. Surely the shame will make them waver. But nobody moves. The foremen leave, defeated. The workers eventually get up, and make their way to the tomb of Thutmose III, where they spend the night.
Over the next day or so, the artisans march through the valley several times. The guards at the various posts throughout the necropolis wonder if they should make any attempt to stop them. One or two young ones, looking to impress their superiors, suggest they beat a few, in order to intimidate the rest. Why, if a few or more should even die, who would mourn unloyal curs like these? But their more experienced fellows only needed to give one retort: ‘If we kill them, who will build the tombs?’
On the second day, worried that the cessation of labour had gone on so long, the scribe Pentaweret brings 55 cakes, paid for by the administrators from one of the local bakeries. If it was food they wanted, then surely this offering would sate them. The workers don’t say anything other than customary thanks. They take the cakes and eat them, then continue marching. That afternoon, Pentaweret took a long time walking back to the administrators’ office to tell the others his ‘cake feast’ idea was a waste.
The workers spent periods over the next day arguing in the entrance of Ramses II’s temple. Nobody knows exactly what they quarrelled over. Probably the same things workers have argued over whilst striking for thousands of years since. Discussions on compromise, militancy, strategy, and general Egyptian politics may have echoed in the tomb halls. The arguments put forth by belligerents, bellowed at their comrades, likely hummed with the resonance of the other sound, that everyone definitely agreed existed but nobody would name. Imagine for a moment, an artisan looking at the campfire they have made on the ground. He listens to the wood crackle in the flames - the sounds make him think of his fellow workers. Something is born tonight, a burgeoning awareness. The sound takes on a deeper vibration and can no longer be pushed to the back of the mind. It will not be ignored.
On the twelfth night of the month and third day of the strike, the administrators get the police involved. In the interior of Ramses II’s tomb, the workers meet with the two chiefs of police, two gatekeepers, and the scribes Pentaweret and Hednakht. One of the police chiefs, Mentmose, decides that they will have to also get the mayor of Thebes involved, as he is the only local official with access to the State granaries. For now, they will listen to the workers' demands.
The workers say to the gathered officials: ‘Hunger and thirst have driven us to this; there is no clothing, there is no ointment, there is no fish, there are no vegetables. Send to Pharaoh about it, and send to the vizier, our superior, that we may be fed and well-supplied.’ Hoping to avoid getting Pharaoh or his advisors involved at all, the scribes, with the help of the Mayor of Thebes, secured the ration of grain for the previous month, about twenty one days late. The workers divvy up the rations and then leave, only saying that they will be on strike again tomorrow. The scribes watch them exit, as dumbfounded as their underlings were a few days ago.
Over the next few days, Mentmose attempts to de-escalate the situation. Playing the part of sympathiser, he walks with the workers as they complete their routine march around the valley, and even helps organise a sit-in inside the temple of Seti I. After that, he orders barley and beer for each man who is striking. But the workers keep striking.
By the seventeenth day of the month, the royal court had begun to notice the progress on the tombs had come to a halt. Not wanting to give artisans an inflated sense of importance, Ramses III’s Master of Horses comes to see them, and asks what they want him to relay to Pharaoh. He also tells them the Mayor of Thebes is staying the night nearby, and that later today they will have the rations of grain for the month. Everyone higher up who is involved sleeps that night with the content belief this will be the end of the matter. The workers receive their rations. They ask if next month’s are certain but receive either no response or half-answers from the scribes. They take their grain and go home. The very next day, they go back on strike. The sound that has not stopped this entire time continues, growing in tone and pitch and transforming into something else entirely.
By the time the strike enters into the third month of the year, the guards have started getting aggressive. Three captains come to intercept the artisans' sit-down strike in one of the temples, and tell them to leave before they get violent. One of the workers, Mose, spits at them and says, ‘If I am made to leave, I will not sleep until I have prepared to rob a tomb, so I can pay your master's thievery back in kind!’ The captains don’t know what to make of this statement, but ask the workers to leave again. They eventually do, but not before they ask that a proctor comes to see them in the village. The scribes send a proctor, and when he comes back, he tells them the workers are no longer striking just for their own hunger, but also because they have a serious accusation to make. It is a long collective statement, alleging corruption at a deep level amongst the administration of the tombs. The proctors record their statement, and when the scribes receive it they put it aside for a few days before throwing the papyrus sheet away.
By the end of the fourth month of winter, the matter comes onto the agenda of To, Ramses III’s vizier. The artisans are asking to speak with him. But he is busy with other matters of State. Deeming tomb builders to be unworthy of his time, he writes a simple response for the other Chief of Police, Nebsemen, to pass on.
Nebsemen reads it out for them as they stand outside one of the valley's gatehouses - ‘So says the vizier: 'I apologise for not being able to meet with you all. I assure this is not for no reason, but because there is nothing to bring you. You may say: 'Do not take away our rations!' But I was not recently promoted to Vizier to take rations away. I may not give you what you want - I regret to inform you there is nothing in the granaries - but I shall give you what I have found.' One of the scribes, Hori, gives them a half-ration.
The workers all know what ‘nothing in the granaries’ means: a kind of primitive embezzlement. Grain, if kept in good storage, does not go missing. The sound they all hear accumulates more and more variations and notes, this time taking on the sharp reediness of suspicion. The most recently employed scribe, Amennakhte, is overzealous in his new role and threatens them with conviction if they go to the vizier again.
By the time the strike enters the first month of summer, the workers still have no guarantee of a ration. Talk amongst the scribes is that they will eventually have to concede defeat. Hunger can only take you so far, and eventually it will drive you so mad as to accept even the most paltry of crumbs from the masters’ table. They advise each other to relax.
On the 16th day of the month, a workman called Penanuke asks to speak to Amennakhte and a sympathetic foreman, Khonshu. He says, ‘When I took this role, I had to swear an oath of fealty to Pharaoh: I am an artisan of the tombs. I will not ignore what I hear. I will not see any damage in the great and deep places and conceal it. Any flaws in the structure have to be fixed, or it all comes down. I come as a representative of my fellow workers to say: The whole structure is weak. The scribes are embezzlers and thieves who strip stones from the tombs and sell them, who take livestock meant for the temples. They are adulterers and exploiters. We refuse to live like this any more.We are hungry for a different type of kingdom. Now either you tell the Pharaoh, or his Vizier, or we will.’
When the other scribes heard this, they panicked, their attempts to save themselves from the oncoming inquiry into corruption seeming like the death throes of some gravely wounded animal. Ramses might ignore missing grain, but theft from his predecessors? From his own temples? No, he would not take that lightly at all. Where did those artisans get the nerve to say this? How did it come to this? Everything was on a precipice now, all in danger of falling apart.
The historical records do not say what happens next. Nothing else about these artisans remains. But for a moment they stood up against an Empire, and through their actions threatened to throw the whole order into chaos. For a moment, the future was as a shining sun god. And if you strain your ears, you too might notice the same groans and murmurs reverberating through the structure. Can you hear it? It begins as just a single noise. That’s all it takes. The sound of an empty stomach, rumbling.
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