CONTINUATION

...Anteus...

I entered the humble house of the old man, my fingers lightly touching the walls as I passed. The walls are rough against my touch, brown and cream colored. It is probably made out of unbaked mud bricks and clay, there are traces of sand here and there, hinting that even the inside of the houses in Egypt aren't safe from the sands.

The more that I looked around, the more I'm in awe. It is very decorated and colorful, more so in the inside. There are different pigments of paint was etched on the walls, creating beautiful patterns.

This is what Greece lacked. I thought.

I let my hand fall from the walls as I stepped further into the room, my fingers trailing along the painted walls. The pigments glowed faintly in the dim light, reds and blues etched into flowing lines that seemed to move if I stared too long. Hieroglyphs wound between them like whispers, their shapes alive with meaning I could not yet grasp. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of bread and smoke, a welcome reprieve from the merciless sun outside. 

Menophis moved with quiet ease, his steps unhurried, as though the rhythm of the house itself guided him. He set a clay jug upon the low table, then began arranging food: flat bread baked golden, bowls of dates and figs, olives glistening with oil, and a dish of salted fish whose sharp fragrance mingled with the sweetness of fruit. 

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to a woven mat. His voice was calm, steady, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to welcoming strangers. “Eat, Anteus. Egypt is best understood with a full stomach.” 

I lowered myself onto the mat, the cool shade wrapping around me like a cloak. My fingers brushed the bread, its surface warm and soft.

The bread was warm in my hands, its crust rough, its scent earthy. I tore a piece too quickly and the flavor was earthy, simple, yet filling, crumbs scattering across the mat, and flushed at my own clumsiness. Menophis noticed, of course, his eyes crinkled with quiet amusement. 

“Boy, you eat like a man who has not seen bread in weeks,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, worn by age. 

I laughed softly, embarrassed. “Perhaps I haven’t...ship food is hardly worth remembering.” Menophis chuckled in response, shaking his head before tasting his own bread as well.

“This bread,” I murmured, chewing slowly, “it tastes of the land itself.” 

Menophis nodded, his eyes glinting with quiet pride. “It is made from the grain of the Nile’s gift, with every year the river floods, leaving behind rich soil.”

I reached for a fig, its sweetness bursting against my tongue, richer than any I had tasted in Greece. “In my homeland, figs are rare, a delicacy, they seem abundant here” 

“They are,” Menophis replied with a smile. “The Nile feeds us well. It gives grain, fruit, fish. It gives water to the fields and strength to the people. That is why we honor it as we honor the gods.” 

I listened, fascinated, my gaze drifting to the painted walls once more. “In Greece, the sea is our lifeline. It carries us to other lands, but it also takes lives. Here, the river seems gentler.” 

Menophis chuckled, shaking his head. “Gentle, yes, but also demanding. The Nile must be respected. If its floods fail, famine comes. If they are too strong, homes are lost. It is both gift and trial.” 

I tore another piece of bread, thoughtful. “So Egypt lives by the rhythm of the river.” 

“Exactly,” he said. “The Nile is our heartbeat. You learn to live that way the longer you stay here.”

We ate in silence for a while, the sounds of the marketplace faint beyond the walls. The bread filled me, the figs sweetened my tongue, and the salted fish reminded me faintly of Greece. Yet everything here felt richer, heavier, as though carrying centuries of memory. 

Then, perhaps to ease my awkwardness, I began to speak. “My father used to tell me stories at the table. Of Odysseus, who wandered the seas for years before finding his way home. He was clever, stubborn, always finding a way out of trouble. I admired him because he endured.” 

My eyes wandered again, noticing the quiet of the house. No voices of children, no footsteps of others. Only Menophis and the hum of silence. I hesitated, then spoke gently, careful not to intrude. “Your home feels peaceful. Do you live alone?” 

Menophis’ smile lingered, though his eyes softened. “Yes. My sons trade in other cities now, and my wife has gone to the gods. This house is mine, and the voices you hear are only those painted on the walls.” 

I bowed my head slightly, my voice low. “I see. Forgive me for asking, I meant no intrusion.” 

He waved a hand, dismissing the heaviness. “Do not worry, the silence is often at space for memory. And now, it is space for a guest.” 

I smiled faintly, touched by his words. “Then I am honored to be here.” 

Menophis gestured to the hieroglyphs etched around us. “You must've noticed them” I nodded, following his line of sight.

“These are prayers and blessings. My wife painted some of them before she passed. She believed the gods would hear her more clearly if her words were written on the walls.” 

I lowered my gaze, respectful. “She must have been wise.” 

“She was,” he said softly, his voice carrying both pride and sorrow. “And now her words remain, even when her voice does not.” 

Menophis poured more water, his movements unhurried. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, I will show you the temple. There, you will see how Egypt speaks to its gods. And perhaps, you will begin to understand what it offers.” 

I lowered my gaze, gratitude swelling in my chest. “Thank you, Menophis. For your home, your food, your words. I will not forget this kindness.” 

I tore another piece of bread, savoring its earthy flavor. The hieroglyphs on the walls seemed to watch me, their painted lines alive with meaning I could not yet read. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the painted walls. 

And I realized, as the taste of figs lingered on my tongue, that my journey had truly begun, not on the ship, not on the shore, but here, in the quiet home of Menophis, with bread in my hands and stories waiting to be told. 

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