course. In his position, he had to. I do not know the name of his new Chief Wife, but I think that apart from her, he only maintains concubines. Most people think Ipuky is married to his work. He has the reputation of being a cold man, and appears to enjoy neither his power nor his wealth, though I find that difficult to believe since he works so hard to keep them.’
‘Are there children by his second marriage?’
‘I do not know them, nor how many there are.’
‘How old might they be?’
‘Certainly no older than eight. Still children.’
Huy paused, thinking. ‘And do you know anything of Ipuky’s other son — Paheri’s brother?’
This time Taheb was evasive. She tried not to show it, but she was not quick enough for Huy. ‘I don’t know. There was something wrong with him. I think the family managed to find him some kind of posting in a province in the north-west, towards the Land of the Twin Rivers. But no one has heard anything of him since the collapse of the northern empire.’
Huy knew better than to press her, and changed the subject. He already had enough to think about. ‘How are your own children?’
She looked at him archly. ‘Growing up. I am twenty-five. An old woman.’
‘Tell me that again in fifteen years. You will cause many sighs yet.’
‘You should have been a courtier.’
‘I did try.’
A scribe came into the courtyard timidly, his pen-box swinging from his left shoulder and a sheaf of documents in his hands, stained with red and black ink.
‘I am sorry,’ he said to Taheb, nodding carefully to Huy and bringing his arm across his chest in greeting. ‘These are the shipping lists you asked for. You said they were to be brought as soon as they were drawn up.’
Huy stood up.
‘There is no need for you to go,’ said Taheb.
‘Yes.’
She shrugged, standing too, taking the papers and nodding dismissal at the scribe. She came a little closer to Huy. ‘If only I could find you a job here.’
‘Long ago I wanted to be a boatman. Now I know I shall never have the skill. I cannot work as a scribe, and I am beginning to enjoy being free. How could I be useful to you?’
Taheb embraced him with her eyes again, but said nothing. Huy could not interpret the nature of that look. ‘I must ask you one more question. You knew Iritnefert a little?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘What was she like?’
There was a pause before she answered. ‘A fire in the wind,’ Taheb said.
FOUR
It was a slow process, needing the kind of patience he did not have, but at least Huy was spared the tedium of the cutters, whose sole job was to trim the reeds to a regular length, about the same as a man’s forearm. The next step was for the peelers to strip the reeds of their rind, cutting it off with sharp double-bladed knives made of flint. These two tasks completed, the exposed pith was cut into narrow strips like ribbons, which were then placed side by side on a large, perfectly-flat slab of limestone which was kept permanently damp by boys scattering water on it, ever-moving fingers flicking across from earthenware pots.
The slices were perfectly aligned, and then a second layer was placed across them at right angles. Huy’s job was to tamp this second layer down on to the first. With two other men he worked his way rhythmically across the sheet, beating the second layer gently with rounded mallets until the starches produced from the pith welded all the strips together to form a sheet, the size of the stone, of white papyrus. Once the process was completed, older boys, apprentice papermakers, came and dislodged the sheet, taking it away to the drying trestles, where it had to be carefully watched and removed after it had dried but before it began to turn yellow in the sun. In another part of the factory, the sheets were glued together to make large rolls, or cut into smaller pieces for letters and shorter documents.
Huy had taken the job after ten days of waiting hopefully
‘Are there children by his second marriage?’
‘I do not know them, nor how many there are.’
‘How old might they be?’
‘Certainly no older than eight. Still children.’
Huy paused, thinking. ‘And do you know anything of Ipuky’s other son — Paheri’s brother?’
This time Taheb was evasive. She tried not to show it, but she was not quick enough for Huy. ‘I don’t know. There was something wrong with him. I think the family managed to find him some kind of posting in a province in the north-west, towards the Land of the Twin Rivers. But no one has heard anything of him since the collapse of the northern empire.’
Huy knew better than to press her, and changed the subject. He already had enough to think about. ‘How are your own children?’
She looked at him archly. ‘Growing up. I am twenty-five. An old woman.’
‘Tell me that again in fifteen years. You will cause many sighs yet.’
‘You should have been a courtier.’
‘I did try.’
A scribe came into the courtyard timidly, his pen-box swinging from his left shoulder and a sheaf of documents in his hands, stained with red and black ink.
‘I am sorry,’ he said to Taheb, nodding carefully to Huy and bringing his arm across his chest in greeting. ‘These are the shipping lists you asked for. You said they were to be brought as soon as they were drawn up.’
Huy stood up.
‘There is no need for you to go,’ said Taheb.
‘Yes.’
She shrugged, standing too, taking the papers and nodding dismissal at the scribe. She came a little closer to Huy. ‘If only I could find you a job here.’
‘Long ago I wanted to be a boatman. Now I know I shall never have the skill. I cannot work as a scribe, and I am beginning to enjoy being free. How could I be useful to you?’
Taheb embraced him with her eyes again, but said nothing. Huy could not interpret the nature of that look. ‘I must ask you one more question. You knew Iritnefert a little?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘What was she like?’
There was a pause before she answered. ‘A fire in the wind,’ Taheb said.
FOUR
It was a slow process, needing the kind of patience he did not have, but at least Huy was spared the tedium of the cutters, whose sole job was to trim the reeds to a regular length, about the same as a man’s forearm. The next step was for the peelers to strip the reeds of their rind, cutting it off with sharp double-bladed knives made of flint. These two tasks completed, the exposed pith was cut into narrow strips like ribbons, which were then placed side by side on a large, perfectly-flat slab of limestone which was kept permanently damp by boys scattering water on it, ever-moving fingers flicking across from earthenware pots.
The slices were perfectly aligned, and then a second layer was placed across them at right angles. Huy’s job was to tamp this second layer down on to the first. With two other men he worked his way rhythmically across the sheet, beating the second layer gently with rounded mallets until the starches produced from the pith welded all the strips together to form a sheet, the size of the stone, of white papyrus. Once the process was completed, older boys, apprentice papermakers, came and dislodged the sheet, taking it away to the drying trestles, where it had to be carefully watched and removed after it had dried but before it began to turn yellow in the sun. In another part of the factory, the sheets were glued together to make large rolls, or cut into smaller pieces for letters and shorter documents.
Huy had taken the job after ten days of waiting hopefully
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