from the one he had lorded it in, Huy wondered how he would get on. He found himself hoping that the man would succeed in his plan to take a knot of followers remaining faithful to the Aten — if they existed — out to the deserts which, he had heard, extended to the east of the Great Green, and form an outpost of the new religion there.
Huy had lived a more realistic life. He remembered the release he had felt when he had first heard the teachings of Akhenaten, which had cut away the rotten trappings of the old beliefs, festooned as they were with the cynical speculation of the priests. Now, though, having to live again in a world where ideals were something to be discussed by intellectuals and certain priests, but never applied, as they would have got in the way of Horemheb’s programme of reform, Huy found his feelings dulled. Unable to accept again the superstitions he had discarded, nevertheless with time and misfortune he found himself turning back to the three deities who had guided his early life, and helped him through his harsh apprenticeship as a scribe: the reasonable Thoth, ibis-headed, god of the scribes; Horus, son of Osiris; and the protector of the hearth, Bes — the little god of his childhood.
As he reached his door he found his thoughts turning once more to the urgent problem of putting food in his belly, and a part of his mind registered with pleasure that these thoughts were at last supplanting the ones in which he alternately pined for Aset and visited unholy vengeance upon her. As for his former wife, Aahmes, she had become a shadowy figure who sent him a letter from the Delta every new year, at the midsummer opet festival, with news of his favourite son, Heby. He tried to imagine how the boy would look now that he was nine. In her last letter, Aahmes had spoken of a new marriage. Huy tried to imagine her going through the simple ceremony with someone else, and could not. What seemed most real was that Heby would have a new father — someone who was there, instead of a remote figure several days’ sail upriver.
He was grateful to Taheb for having sought work for him through Merymose, and wondered if he had been unduly mistrustful of her. Perhaps she had begun to realise that she had been the victim of an unhappy marriage, rather than simply the cause of one. After her husband’s death she had borne herself with a mournful dignity which had done her standing no harm, and taken the funeral food to the tomb herself with a regularity and devotion which would have shamed women lamenting better-loved partners. Now he had met her again, he found a different woman — and the one who was now emerging was the one with whom, ironically, Amotju could have been happy.
Huy entered his house, and its drabness both depressed and reproached him. He scratched together some lentils and nebes bread, and found a small jar of black beer and a clay straw to suck it with, thinking of the contrast between last night’s dinner and this. After he had eaten he lit a small oil lamp to dispel the gathering gloom, and by its light fought off the silence by indulging in some desultory tidying, which consisted of gathering together assorted scrolls of papyrus and articles of clothing scattered about, and dumping them into two chests — one for each. He dropped the wig into the papyrus-chest, wondering what he would do with it, and whose head it had adorned before Nubenehem had come by it. Thinking of that, he made a mental note to burn it in the morning.
Finally tiredness overcame him and he went out into the yard to fill the water jars for his bath. Then he climbed the steps to his bedroom, stripping off his kilt, and lay down stiffly.
He expected to fall asleep quickly, but his heart would not let him. For no reason that he could think of, the image of Nubenehem’s customer, the furtive man in the brothel, came back to him. Why was he familiar? And why was such a well-dressed man using a brothel like the City of
Huy had lived a more realistic life. He remembered the release he had felt when he had first heard the teachings of Akhenaten, which had cut away the rotten trappings of the old beliefs, festooned as they were with the cynical speculation of the priests. Now, though, having to live again in a world where ideals were something to be discussed by intellectuals and certain priests, but never applied, as they would have got in the way of Horemheb’s programme of reform, Huy found his feelings dulled. Unable to accept again the superstitions he had discarded, nevertheless with time and misfortune he found himself turning back to the three deities who had guided his early life, and helped him through his harsh apprenticeship as a scribe: the reasonable Thoth, ibis-headed, god of the scribes; Horus, son of Osiris; and the protector of the hearth, Bes — the little god of his childhood.
As he reached his door he found his thoughts turning once more to the urgent problem of putting food in his belly, and a part of his mind registered with pleasure that these thoughts were at last supplanting the ones in which he alternately pined for Aset and visited unholy vengeance upon her. As for his former wife, Aahmes, she had become a shadowy figure who sent him a letter from the Delta every new year, at the midsummer opet festival, with news of his favourite son, Heby. He tried to imagine how the boy would look now that he was nine. In her last letter, Aahmes had spoken of a new marriage. Huy tried to imagine her going through the simple ceremony with someone else, and could not. What seemed most real was that Heby would have a new father — someone who was there, instead of a remote figure several days’ sail upriver.
He was grateful to Taheb for having sought work for him through Merymose, and wondered if he had been unduly mistrustful of her. Perhaps she had begun to realise that she had been the victim of an unhappy marriage, rather than simply the cause of one. After her husband’s death she had borne herself with a mournful dignity which had done her standing no harm, and taken the funeral food to the tomb herself with a regularity and devotion which would have shamed women lamenting better-loved partners. Now he had met her again, he found a different woman — and the one who was now emerging was the one with whom, ironically, Amotju could have been happy.
Huy entered his house, and its drabness both depressed and reproached him. He scratched together some lentils and nebes bread, and found a small jar of black beer and a clay straw to suck it with, thinking of the contrast between last night’s dinner and this. After he had eaten he lit a small oil lamp to dispel the gathering gloom, and by its light fought off the silence by indulging in some desultory tidying, which consisted of gathering together assorted scrolls of papyrus and articles of clothing scattered about, and dumping them into two chests — one for each. He dropped the wig into the papyrus-chest, wondering what he would do with it, and whose head it had adorned before Nubenehem had come by it. Thinking of that, he made a mental note to burn it in the morning.
Finally tiredness overcame him and he went out into the yard to fill the water jars for his bath. Then he climbed the steps to his bedroom, stripping off his kilt, and lay down stiffly.
He expected to fall asleep quickly, but his heart would not let him. For no reason that he could think of, the image of Nubenehem’s customer, the furtive man in the brothel, came back to him. Why was he familiar? And why was such a well-dressed man using a brothel like the City of
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