The priesthood of Amun waited on the quay when Thutmose’s great blue-hulled war ship tied on its lines. They set up a chant of praise to the god as soon he appeared on deck, thanking Amun for extending his hand of protection over the king. A cloud of incense drifted across the clean-swept stone of the landing. The High Priest in his leopard-skin mantle raised an ankh on a gilded pole, praying fervently for the health of the Pharaoh, but Thutmose could not discern more than a handful of words over the chorus. A massive, ornate litter, open to the sky, waited to carry him to the palace. When he had received the blessings of oil and salt from the High Priest, Thutmose sank onto the litter’s throne with a sigh of relief. Hard as the seat was, it was infinitely more comfortable than his traveling cot and the tent he had called home during the long months of the siege. The familiarity of Waset was a balm to his troubled ka – its houses leaning close together like women gossiping at a well, its sounds of laughter and work and Egyptian voices, the sharp, rank odors of fish and still water, of refuse and industry.
