Just then Harmin stirred and pointed. “Prince, please tell your captain to begin to tack towards the bank,” he said. “Those watersteps, there.” He was indicating the east bank, not the west, where there was little human habitation and the vegetation clung to a miserably small strip of land before the desert took over. Khaemwaset had never paid it much attention. But indeed a set of very small watersteps led up from the river into a grove of palm trees, and Khaemwaset glimpsed a smudge of white wall far beyond. He shouted a command and the barge began its ponderous sweep.
The house was indeed isolated. Between it and the mud sprawl of homes where the managers of the fields lived and worked for their aristocratic masters there must have been half a mile in each direction. Palms straggled along the bank, it was true, and one could easily miss their sudden cluster if one was not looking for it.
The watersteps had one mooring pole from which white paint was peeling. The barge nudged it, a sailor jumped out to secure the trailing ropes and Khaemwaset rose. Signalling to Amek, he invited Harmin to precede them, and without another word Harmin led them up the steps and along a dirt path that meandered happily through the dappling shade of the trees whose tall, smooth trunks smelled sweet and whose stiff fronds whispered high overhead.
The house was nestled in a small clearing. Khaemwaset noted at once that it had been fashioned of mud bricks, and seemed to lean into its environment with perfect harmony. The white-painted plaster with which it had been surfaced was missing in places. Five or six workmen were busy with fresh plaster and whitewash. Harmin apologized. “The house had been vacant and uncared for before we moved in,” he explained. “Mud is a good substance for the construction of a house, but it needs constant maintenance.”
I know of no nobles who would dare to live in a mud home like a peasant, Khaemwaset thought, intrigued. Not nowadays. If any of my friends or family had bought this property they would have torn down the construction immediately and ordered cedar from Lebanon, sandstone and granite from Assuan, gold from Nubia, to build something they considered suitable There is mystery here.
But he liked what he saw as they approached the entrance. He knew how cool mud bricks kept a house, and sure enough a slight draught of refreshing air came funnelling out to greet him from the small reception hall.
Harmin turned and bowed. “Welcome, Great Prince,” he said. He clapped his hands and a servant appeared, barefoot and clad only in a loincloth. “Would you like some wine or beer and perhaps a shat cake before you see my mother?”
Khaemwaset was quickly surveying the hall—the square, doorless opening to the passage beyond, the large, plain tiling under his feet. He was aware, as though a healing balm was stealing over him, that a comfortable silence reigned. The constant dull rumble of life that burgeoned on the west bank could not be heard. No neighbours disturbed this blessed peace with music or laughter. Even the low, light voice of the palms did not seem to penetrate. He felt himself loosening, all tension leaving his stomach, his shoulders.
Harmin had not missed Khaemwaset’s appraisal. He gestured around the room. “As you can see, we follow the old ways,” he told him, “and we do not apologize to anyone for doing so, Prince.”
It was as though he had read Khaemwaset’s mind. The walls were white but painted carefully with Nile scenes, desert animals and representations of the gods. Each scene was divided from the others by a painted date palm running from floor to blue-tinged ceiling. Cushions were piled in the corners. Three chairs of aromatic cedar, spindle-legged and delicate, ribbed in gold, stood about, and one long, low table of the same design on which stood a plain alabaster unguent jar for the anointing of guests and a clay vase that held thickly bunched late spring blooms. Two incense stands, stern in their rising simplicity, had been placed to either side of the inner doorway, and in niches beside them Amun and Thoth resided, the gold of their bodies gleaming dully in the pleasing, cool dimness.
Here there was no fussiness, nothing overly ornate, nothing imported. Even the air, carrying faintly the mixed odour of lotus flowers and myrrh, seemed completely Egyptian. Khaemwaset drew it into his nostrils with a deep breath. “No thank you, Harmin,” he smiled. “I will see your mother first. Amek, come with me as far as her chamber. Set your guard at this door.”
He saw Harmin’s glance flick over Amek’s bulk before the young man turned to the rear. Khaemwaset followed, his satchel in hand. I could live in this place forever, he thought as the feeling of well-being in him expanded. What work I could do! What dreams I could dream! But it might be dangerous. Oh yes, it might. I would gradually discard my duties to my father, to my Egypt, and sink into the past like a flower cast upon the bosom of the Nile. What kind of people are these?