"It is time, Mother," I said, and gently I took her old gnarled hands in mine.

"Take care, my boy," she replied, as she laid one of her hands on my head in a blessing. "Remember always that your home is here, in Waset, no matter where the path of life may take you."

I looked around the small mud-daub dwelling in which I had been born, and where I had lived most of my life. There were signs of poverty everywhere, and I felt sad when I recalled how much my parents had sacrificed in their own lives in order to ensure that I would have a good education and training as a wa'eb priest in the Temple of Mut. But life had improved a little for them ever since I had twice won the Min-pole contest in Gebtu. No one in living memory had ever achieved that feat before, and the High Priest of Min had honoured my parents by sending them, every month, a half-barrel of grain and two jars of palm wine.

"I will, Mother. And now I must go."

She nodded quietly, and turned back to the little open fireplace where she was cooking some unleavened bread, so that I would not see the tears in her eyes.

Outside, my father was waiting. He extended his good arm to bless me. The other dangled uselessly at his side. It had long ago been crushed in a boating accident. "May the gods protect and guide you, my son," he said as he hugged me. "You are the light of our old age."

"I shall be back, Father, as soon as the High Priestess permits it. Meantime, I must go. The barge will be waiting, and it would not do for me to be the last on board."

My father nodded. I wished him well, and long life, and then I set off down the dusty track that led through the town down to the river. What new adventures lay ahead of us all now, I wondered?