“Even the few drafts moving through the room are hot. Oh, look, Huy! Merenra has somehow managed to find white water lilies and cornflowers for our tables! We simply must find someone who can make garlands. It’s polite to drape guests in necklets of fresh flowers.”
At once she bit her lip and cast an anxious glance in Huy’s direction. Huy knew what she was thinking. Thothmes’ sister Anuket was a skilled weaver of wreaths and festive garlands. Thoughts of her still filled his heart with longing and pain, and Ishat must be inwardly cursing herself for bringing her into his mind.
“If we keep adding to our household, we shall have to build more servants’ quarters and then Seshemnefer will have no room left for a garden,” Huy said lightly.
Ishat’s brow cleared. At that moment Heby came running into the hall, leaving a smattering of water droplets behind him.
“Am I late for the meal?” he panted. “Anhur took me swimming and we forgot to watch the passage of Ra. I’m sorry. At least I hung my kilt on a tree so it wouldn’t get muddy.”
Anhur had caught up to him. “They don’t seem to offer swimming lessons at Heby’s school. I gave him a lesson. He’s a fast learner.” He crossed his legs and sank calmly behind his little table, picking up the flowers lying on it and depositing them carefully on the tiles beside him.
“The river is very low, Anhur,” Huy said. “At this time of the year the shallows can be full of noxious things.”
Anhur nodded. “Don’t worry. I carried him out to where the current still flows, and when we had finished splashing about, I carried him back.”
“Anhur threw me in,” Heby exclaimed. “I lost my breath, but I didn’t panic. I can swim six strokes now without sinking!”
Merenra and his assistant were approaching with laden trays.
“It’s a good thing that we live far from the river. You must promise to stay out of the canals and swim only when you visit your brother,” Hapu told him. “Now go to the bathhouse and wash your face and hands with natron. You have pondweed in your hair and you smell rank.”
They dined on lentil soup and poppyseed bread, grilled goose in a garlic sauce, broad beans made fragrant with coriander, boiled cabbage sprinkled with cumin (a universal favourite), and sweet sycamore figs drowned in honey, all of it washed down with barley beer and date wine. By the time Merenra had cleared away the last empty dish, full night had fallen and the gusts of air reaching their flushed faces were cooler. Heby fell asleep sprawled across the cushions, his head in Itu’s crumpled lap.
Hapu leaned back unsteadily on his elbows. “Do you eat like this every evening, Huy?” he asked, a note of humour in his voice. “If you do, you will both be as fat as a couple of Delta cows before long!” His speech was slurred, his eyes slightly glazed.
“My father, you are drunk.” Huy smiled. “Good. Then Ishat and I have done our duty by you. Most of the time we eat simply, but if we have important guests, Khnit girds up her linen and produces a feast. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I look forward to more fresh fruits and vegetables when they come into season,” Ishat put in. “Kuku and pomegranates and grapes and those little brown plums. Melons and juicy cucumbers.” She yawned. “I thank the gods that we are not working tomorrow, Huy. I shall sleep the morning away.”
Her words gave Huy an immediate vision of her, barefoot and dressed in her one thick, patched sheath, slipping out the doorway of their tiny dwelling in the poorer district of Hut-herib at dawn to beg the day before’s bread and a jug of milk from the owner of the beer house next door, whose wall they shared. That was before Huy’s name had begun to be whispered among the sick and needy of the town, when all they had came from Methen and the temple’s kitchen.
“You can sleep for a week if you want to, dearest sister,” he replied through the sudden lump in
At once she bit her lip and cast an anxious glance in Huy’s direction. Huy knew what she was thinking. Thothmes’ sister Anuket was a skilled weaver of wreaths and festive garlands. Thoughts of her still filled his heart with longing and pain, and Ishat must be inwardly cursing herself for bringing her into his mind.
“If we keep adding to our household, we shall have to build more servants’ quarters and then Seshemnefer will have no room left for a garden,” Huy said lightly.
Ishat’s brow cleared. At that moment Heby came running into the hall, leaving a smattering of water droplets behind him.
“Am I late for the meal?” he panted. “Anhur took me swimming and we forgot to watch the passage of Ra. I’m sorry. At least I hung my kilt on a tree so it wouldn’t get muddy.”
Anhur had caught up to him. “They don’t seem to offer swimming lessons at Heby’s school. I gave him a lesson. He’s a fast learner.” He crossed his legs and sank calmly behind his little table, picking up the flowers lying on it and depositing them carefully on the tiles beside him.
“The river is very low, Anhur,” Huy said. “At this time of the year the shallows can be full of noxious things.”
Anhur nodded. “Don’t worry. I carried him out to where the current still flows, and when we had finished splashing about, I carried him back.”
“Anhur threw me in,” Heby exclaimed. “I lost my breath, but I didn’t panic. I can swim six strokes now without sinking!”
Merenra and his assistant were approaching with laden trays.
“It’s a good thing that we live far from the river. You must promise to stay out of the canals and swim only when you visit your brother,” Hapu told him. “Now go to the bathhouse and wash your face and hands with natron. You have pondweed in your hair and you smell rank.”
They dined on lentil soup and poppyseed bread, grilled goose in a garlic sauce, broad beans made fragrant with coriander, boiled cabbage sprinkled with cumin (a universal favourite), and sweet sycamore figs drowned in honey, all of it washed down with barley beer and date wine. By the time Merenra had cleared away the last empty dish, full night had fallen and the gusts of air reaching their flushed faces were cooler. Heby fell asleep sprawled across the cushions, his head in Itu’s crumpled lap.
Hapu leaned back unsteadily on his elbows. “Do you eat like this every evening, Huy?” he asked, a note of humour in his voice. “If you do, you will both be as fat as a couple of Delta cows before long!” His speech was slurred, his eyes slightly glazed.
“My father, you are drunk.” Huy smiled. “Good. Then Ishat and I have done our duty by you. Most of the time we eat simply, but if we have important guests, Khnit girds up her linen and produces a feast. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I look forward to more fresh fruits and vegetables when they come into season,” Ishat put in. “Kuku and pomegranates and grapes and those little brown plums. Melons and juicy cucumbers.” She yawned. “I thank the gods that we are not working tomorrow, Huy. I shall sleep the morning away.”
Her words gave Huy an immediate vision of her, barefoot and dressed in her one thick, patched sheath, slipping out the doorway of their tiny dwelling in the poorer district of Hut-herib at dawn to beg the day before’s bread and a jug of milk from the owner of the beer house next door, whose wall they shared. That was before Huy’s name had begun to be whispered among the sick and needy of the town, when all they had came from Methen and the temple’s kitchen.
“You can sleep for a week if you want to, dearest sister,” he replied through the sudden lump in
Similar Books
