Nefertiti (25 page)

The man panicked. “There
is
a sculptor in the city, Your Holiness. He is well renowned. He is flamboyant, but his work is—”

“Just find him and bring him to me,” Panahesi seethed. He looked down at the image of Amunhotep as a Pharaoh no different in appearance than any other and lashed out with his foot, sending the carving toppling to the ground. “Don’t ever depict His Highness like this again. No one is like him. No other Pharaoh in Egypt can compare.”

I hurried to where Nefertiti and Amunhotep were walking. Men were working on an outer courtyard, raising pillars with carvings of the sun god etched into the yellow stone. So much work was being done by so many men. I stared across the courtyard—at the farthest end stood General Nakhtmin. He was staring back at me. Then Amunhotep moved toward him and his gaze flicked away.
What was he doing in Memphis? He belonged with the Elder in Thebes
. My mother, with her sharp eyes, had missed nothing.

“Was the general staring at you?” she asked.

I shook my head quickly. “No. I don’t know.”

She looked into my face. “General Nakhtmin is not liked by the king.”

“So I’ve been warned.”

“Do not think of falling in love with a soldier.”

I looked down sharply. “Of course, I’m not in love!”

“Good. When the time comes, you will marry a nobleman who has Pharaoh’s approval. It’s the price we all pay for the crown,” she said. I stared at her resentfully, thinking of her laughing with Amunhotep, and I wanted to say,
We?
But I shut my mouth firmly.

The next morning, Amunhotep burst into the Audience Chamber, startling the viziers and emissaries from Mitanni who had arranged themselves around my father’s table. Panahesi and Nefertiti followed on his heels, and Nefertiti passed our father a warning look. He stood at once.

“Your Highness, I thought you were riding in the Arena.”

The viziers and emissaries rose quickly to bow. “Your Highness.”

Amunhotep swept up the dais and sat on his throne. “The horses from Babylon have not arrived and I’m tired of Egyptian steeds. Besides, the High Priest of Aten has found us a sculptor.” He glanced across the room, at the foreign dignitaries with their curling beards. “What is this?” he demanded.

My father bowed. “These are the emissaries from Mitanni, Your Highness.”

“What do we care about Mitanni? Dismiss them.”

The men looked among themselves, passing nervous glances at one another.

Amunhotep repeated loudly, “Dismiss them!”

Immediately, the men rose to file out, and my father whispered calmly, “We will meet again.”

Amunhotep settled comfortably into his throne. Now that Pharaoh was present, a crowd had gathered in the Audience Chamber: the daughters of viziers and troupes of musicians. Panahesi, who had come from the building site to present the new sculptor to Pharaoh, stepped in front of the dais. “Shall we fetch the artist, Your Highness?”

“Yes. Bring him in.”

The doors of the Audience Chamber were thrown open and the entire court turned. The sculptor entered. He was dressed like a king, with a long wig of golden beads and more kohl than was usually deemed proper for a man. He came before the dais and swept a low bow.

“Your Most Gracious Highnesses.” He was beautiful in the way a woman is beautiful in her best jewels and henna. “The High Priest of Aten has said that your palace is in need of a sculptor. My name is Thutmose, and if it is so pleases Your Majesties, I shall render your images famous through eternity.”

There was an excited murmuring throughout the court and Nefertiti sat forward on her throne. “We want them to be like no one else’s,” she cautioned.

“They will not be like anyone else’s,” Thutmose promised. “For no other queen has ever possessed your beauty, and no Pharaoh has shown such courage.”

I could see that Amunhotep was wary of this man who was prettier than him. But Nefertiti was taken. “We want you to sculpt us today,” she announced, and Amunhotep added icily, “Then we shall see if you are as good as your reputation.”

The court rose, and Panahesi sidled up to Amunhotep as we walked through the halls of the palace. “I think Your Highness shall find him the best sculptor in Egypt,” he predicted.

A makeshift studio had been prepared for Thutmose’s coming. Panahesi held the doors open to the studio, with its open windows and tables cluttered with paints and clay. There was every tool of an artist’s trade available: reed pens and papyrus, bowls of white powder and crushed lapis for dye. An elaborate dais had also been built.

Thutmose proffered his hand to Nefertiti and escorted her up to her throne. The viziers whispered at this familiarity, but there was none of a man’s flirtatiousness in it. “What shall we do first, Your Highness? A carving into stone”—he flicked his free hand—“or a painted sculpture?”

“A sculpture,” Nefertiti ruled, and Thutmose nodded agreeably.

Nearly fifty members of the court took seats as if preparing to witness a troupe of dancers or a songstress with her lyre. The artist turned inquisitively. “And how would Your Highnesses like to be portrayed?”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Amunhotep replied, “As Aten on earth.”

The sculptor hesitated. “As both life and death?”

“As both female and male. As the beginning and the end. As a power so great none can touch its divinity. And I want them to know my face.”

Thutmose paused. “Just as it is, Your Highness?”

“Stronger.”

The court whispered. For a thousand years, whether a Pharaoh was fat or short or old, he had been depicted on temples and on tombs as young and slender, his kohl perfectly drawn, his hair immaculately coiffed. Now Amunhotep wanted his own face staring into the ages, his slanted eyes and narrow bones, his full lips and curling hair.

Thutmose inclined his head thoughtfully. “I will sketch you on papyrus. When it is finished, you can determine whether you approve of the likeness. If His Highness is satisfied, I shall carve him into stone.”

“And for me?” Nefertiti pressed eagerly.

“For you I shall be faithful to life.” Thutmose smiled. “Since nothing could ever improve Her Highness.”

Nefertiti settled back in the throne that had been prepared for this day and looked satisfied.

We watched as the sculptor’s reed pen worked the papyrus, two dozen eyes critiquing his movements on the wide bronze easel at the center of the chamber. As we waited for a figure to emerge on the paper, Thutmose entertained us with the story of his life. It began with a dreary boyhood in Thebes, a life of toil. His father was a baker, and when his mother died he took her place at his father’s ovens, pressing loaves and kneading dough. The women who came in stared at the boy with dark hair and green eyes, and the men looked, too, especially the young priests of Amun. Then one day a renowned sculptor came into his father’s bakery, and when he saw Thutmose at the ovens, he saw his next model for Amun.

“The famous sculptor Bek asked if I would model for him. He would pay me, of course, and my father said go. He had seven other sons. What did he need with me? And when I arrived at his studio, I found my calling. Bek trained me as his apprentice, and in two years I had my own studio in Memphis.”

He stepped back from his papyrus, and we all saw that he was finished.

The viziers at the front leaned forward as one, and I craned my neck to see what he had drawn. It was an image of Amunhotep’s face, his leonine features half covered in shadow. His eyes were bigger than they truly were, his chin longer and more threatening. There was a quality about his face that made him seem both female and male, both angry and merciful, both ready to pronounce and ready to listen. It was a haunting face, powerful and striking; the face of a man with no equal.

Thutmose turned the easel toward Pharaoh, who sat forward on his throne, and we held our breaths to hear his pronouncement.

“It’s magnificent,” Nefertiti whispered. Amunhotep looked from the image on the easel to the face of the young sculptor who had sketched it.

“I can begin filling the image in with paint, if that would please Your Highness.”

“No,” Pharaoh said firmly, and the court held its breath. We looked to Amunhotep, who had risen from his throne. “There is no need to paint. Carve it into stone.”

There was an excited murmur in the studio, and my sister ordered jubilantly, “A pair of busts, and we shall place them in the Temple of Aten.”

Chapter Thirteen

Peret, Season of Growing

WHEREVER NEFERTITI WENT, Thutmose was made to follow. He was told to sketch the royal couple in every aspect of their lives, and my mother thought it was shocking how he was even allowed to sit next to the dais in the Audience Chamber.

My father demanded, “How do we know that we can trust him?”

Nefertiti laughed. “Because he’s an artist. Not a spy!”

Even Pharaoh was entranced by this slight young artist. With his scrolls always at his lap, Thutmose studied Amunhotep while the king played at Senet or careened around the tracks of the Memphis Arena. I watched from the tunnel of the Arena as Thutmose seated himself near my mother, and she smiled as he complimented her eyes.

“Is there anywhere he isn’t permitted?” I challenged, and Nefertiti followed the direction of my gaze. Merit strapped a pair of leather gauntlets to my sister’s legs, though she was several months pregnant.

“Only our chamber,” Nefertiti admitted. “But I think Amunhotep will change his mind.”

“Nefertiti!
You aren’t serious?”

She smirked a little.

“In your
chamber?
”

“Why not?” she asked brazenly. “What is there to hide?”

“Then what is there that’s private?”

She thought a moment, then put on her helmet. “Nothing. Nothing is private in our reign, and that is why we shall be remembered until the last days of Egypt.”

I followed my sister through the tunnel to the Arena. A chariot was waiting for her, already fastened to two massive steeds. Thutmose held out his arm to help me up into the tiers. I hesitated, then grasped his hand. It was smooth for an artist who worked with a chisel and limestone.

“The Sister of the King’s Chief Wife,” he remarked, and I thought he would go on to compliment my eyes, but he remained silent, studying me. For once, there weren’t two dozen ladies surrounding him. Amunhotep had wanted to ride early this morning, and the rest of the court was tucked warmly in their beds. I shivered, and Thutmose nodded.

“So you came to watch His Highness as well.” He looked meaningfully around at the empty tiers. “You are a dedicated sister.”

“Or a foolish one,” I mumbled.

He laughed, then leaned closer and confided, “Even I wondered whether I should leave my bed this morning.”

We both looked at Amunhotep in his dazzling chariot, racing Nefertiti and his trained Nubian guards. Their shouts of joy could be heard over the snorting of horses and the pounding of hooves, and the sounds carried high above the walls of the Arena. Our breaths fogged the chill morning air and a chariot came to a sudden halt before the low wall next to Thutmose. Amunhotep shouted joyously, “This morning I want a sketch of myself in the Arena!” He took off his helmet and his dark curls pressed wetly against his head. “We will carve this morning’s image into a limestone relief.”

Thutmose picked up a papyrus sheaf and stood quickly. “Of course, Your Highness.” He indicated the lofty columns of the Arena. “I will sketch your chariots gilded in the rays of the winter’s sun. See where it filters between the columns to make an ankh?”

We all turned, and for the first time I noticed the rough shape of an ankh on the dusty floor of the ground.

Amunhotep gripped the side of his chariot. “Eternal life,” he whispered.

“Etched in the sand. The gold of electrum chariots,” Thutmose envisioned, “and beneath them, the blazing ankh of life.”

I stared at Thutmose, who was not all flattery and talk. I looked again at the symbol of eternal life created by the interplay of shadows and sun and couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t noticed it before.