The day was very hot. Summer was advancing with the inexorable tread all feared, and Hori, bent over the oars and cursing under his breath, was soon bathed in sweat that ran into his eyes and rendered his hands slippery on the wood. The river was drying up slowly. Already its level had dropped appreciably from the previous month, and the water had begun to acquire the thick, oily texture of its lowest ebb. It flowed reluctantly in the direction Hori was going, but he strained every muscle he could, trying to work away his mood.
When he stopped briefly to mop his face and tie back the hair that was sticking to his cheeks, he was surprised to see that he had almost rowed himself past the northern suburbs. What now? he wondered. Shall I turn back? But he decided to go just a little farther, and set to again, though his shoulders ached and his legs protested. Father won’t like me to be out without a soldier, or Antef at least, he said to himself. It is rather foolish. I should at least have the royal colours flying somewhere on the skiff, so that these damned fellahin crowding the river do not shout and swear at me as I get in their way. If I pull for the eastern bank the traffic will be lighter.
He veered in that direction, rowing grimly, and had just decided to turn around, go home and order a heket of beer to drink in the garden when he glanced automatically behind him and saw Tbubui emerge from the very small cabin of a skiff little bigger than his own and step onto the land. Immediately his foul mood began to lift. Here was someone who could take him out of himself. Quickly he manoeuvered his craft towards the bank, shipping the oars and calling out, “Tbubui! It is I, Hori, son of Khaemwaset! Is this where you live?”
At his shout she paused and turned, seemingly not at all startled to be addressed in such a way. Hori’s skiff nudged her narrow watersteps and he scrambled to stand beside her. She was wearing a short, loose, one-shouldered sheath that left one breast bare, a fashion not favoured for many years, but after a surreptitious glance, Hori realized that the unclothed breast was hidden by a waist-length white gauzy cape. She was unshod. Gold anklets tinkled as she stepped back, smiling a greeting; “Why, it is young Hori!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing rowing in this heat? Come into the house and I will have a servant wash you. You are in a lather!”
He grinned, feeling foolish and irrationally annoyed that she had called him “young.” He saw himself at a complete disadvantage. “Thank you,” he answered, “but I can just as easily turn my skiff around and go home. I row often to strengthen my arms for the bow and my legs for the chariot.”
She ran an appraising eye over his sweat-drenched thighs and calves. “The exercise is obviously most efficacious,” she commented drily. “Do come and keep me company for an hour or two. My brother is away today and Harmin is rambling the city with Sheritra.”
Why so he is. I had forgotten, Hori thought. So I will be alone with her. Somehow I don’t think that Father would approve, but the prospect of a wash and some refreshments on this abominable day is most attractive. Besides, she will be entertaining. He bowed his acceptance and they mounted the steps together and started along the cool, palm-lined path to the white house that had so captivated Khaemwaset. I must stink, Hori thought as he tried to follow her light conversation through his embarrassment, and here she is floating beside me, her linens so pristine, her perfume like a cloud surrounding her. Myrrh, I think, and something else, something …
“Welcome to my home,” she said, and stood back to do him a formal reverence as he went in The coolness rushed to meet him and immediately his spirits began to rise
A servant came padding on smooth, silent feet, and Tbubui bade Hori go with him. “He is Harmin’s body servant,” she explained. “He will attend you in his room, and find you a kilt while your own is being washed. When you are ready he will escort you to the garden.” She left him without waiting for his thanks, and he followed the servant, looking curiously around the bare, whitewashed walls of hall and passage.
He was not as addicted to peace and quiet as his father, nor did he dismiss every new fashion in furnishing and domestic decoration, but the starkness of this house appealed to the solitary in him. He unconsciously breathed more deeply as he turned in through a plain cedar door and found himself facing a large couch marked at one end by a headrest of creamy ivory, a cedar bedside table inlaid with ivory on which stood a fat alabaster lamp, a jewel box, a wooden wine cup and, flung between them, an ostrich fan with a silver handle. An empty brazier huddled in one corner, and three plain tiring chests were lined up against one wall. A closed shrine stood on a pedestal beside the incense holder.