Anton Gill: City of the Dead

‘What will you do with this house?’ asked Senseneb.

Huy had asked himself that question. The answer depended upon many things. He had the chance of a new life in the south, but something made him reluctant to let go of the old. Was it just natural caution? He would return to Napata now. That was certain. Perhaps there an answer would come to him. It did not matter how long it took, there was no hurry. Ay had even told him he could practise as a scribe again. But now that it was possible at last, discontent stirred in a corner of his heart. He looked inwards at a picture of himself: a provincial scribe, living out his life by the river under the southern sun. It was a restful, calm, uneventful picture.

‘Ipuky, the Master of the Silver Mines, gave me this house. I will talk to him about what to do.’

‘Why do you need someone else’s advice?’

Huy took her hands, but he knew what the house meant to him. Still, he would not deny himself this chance of happiness. Happiness. Another word with no certain meaning. Another idea which constantly slipped around the next corner ahead of you. What had made him like this? Should he ask her to exchange vows when he still had such doubts? She was expecting him to.

He looked at her eyes, caught in the sunlight. Ra in his splendour visiting even this little corner of his world. From the harbour, they could hear a band, and cheering. The festivities were in their last day. The royal barge would soon be leaving with its escort for the new god-king’s state visit to the Northern Capital.

‘Will Kheperkheprure Ay be the father of a dynasty of peace?’ said Senseneb. Her voice showed her concern at the silence between them.

‘I do not know,’ said Huy.

They stood together, foreheads touching, their hands on each others’ shoulders, neither caring, after all, about Ay’s reign, or Horemheb’s victories, or anything else at all, in the world or in the future, except their own destiny.

Huy drew in his breath to ask her the question.