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PROLOGUE

The peasant was resting in the shade of a sprawling tamarisk tree, lying on his side with his head resting on his hand. The view was nothing special: fields of closely cropped stubble. But as the peasant gazed over them, he sighed in satisfaction. A few weeks ago, these same fields had been a sea of swaying wheat, golden ripe in the Egyptian sun. The gods had blessed him this year. The annual Nile flood had reached the perfect level, leaving behind a rich layer of silt. The seeding had gone to plan. The crop had pushed itself up eagerly and had ripened earlier than expected.

With great rejoicing, the peasant and his family had brought in the harvest and threshed and winnowed the grain. They had stored it in their mud-brick storage hut and shut the door. Then they had started to celebrate.

‘Let us give thanks to the gods!’ the peasant’s wife had cried. ‘We are going to eat well all year. We even have surplus to trade!’

The peasant had smiled to see her so happy. He smiled again now at the thought of it, and sat up. As he did so, some movement caught his eye. It was two of his sons, running full tilt in his direction.

‘Father! Father!’ Their voices were high with panic.

The peasant got up. ‘What is it?’ he called.

‘They’re everywhere! Thousands of them!’

‘It’s a plague!’

The peasant stood still. The vision of the golden wheat blowing in the breeze came into his mind, then vanished. ‘A plague of what?’

‘Mice, mice – they’re eating their way through the store hut! Come quickly!’

The peasant picked up his stick and ran. The boys had left the store hut door open, and inside, the grain seemed alive. All over it swarmed a seething mass of rodents, squeaking and scurrying, scrambling over each other in a united feeding frenzy. The peasant gave a howl of anguish and raised his stick. Wildly, savagely he thrashed at the mice, beating and beating until his arms burned with the effort. And still they swarmed – under his feet, around his ankles, now wriggling and writhing in terror.

Vaguely, the peasant was aware that the rest of his family had joined in. Neighbours, even. They used anything they could find – planks of wood, lengths of rope, smashing the furry creatures with great swinging crashes. Screams of children mingled with the squeaks and the desperate shouts of the adults . . .

At last it was over. The mice left alive fled out into the fields where they belonged. The peasant leaned against the store hut wall and stared at what was left of his harvest. How much? A quarter? A third?

He reached for the amulet that he wore around his neck. It had protected them for many years, but it had failed them now. He wrenched it loose and, in a gesture of utter despair, he hurled it to the ground.

He had not meant to break it; but, as destiny would have it, the amulet did not hit the soil, but a stone. The peasant stared down at what he had done.

‘It is a sign,’ he whispered.