Chapter Twenty-Three
THEBES, EGYPT
“Your Majesty, we offer this artwork to you today for your approval,” Djau states, his typically steady, booming voice a little quieter and less forceful than usual.
Djau is the head of the largest and most prestigious artistic studio in the Egyptian kingdom—one that had been passed down from father to son for more generations than anyone could count—and I’ve always found him to be comfortable and steadfast in our dealings.
The heavily bearded, ornately robed man in his third decade of life had managed the sculpture and painting for my father’s vast building enterprise, and his father had overseen the artwork for the pharaoh who preceded my father, and so he is well-trained in dealing with royalty and the demands of tradition.
Yet today, Djau’s demeanor appears somewhat different.
It seems my project has presented a fresh challenge.
“I could have seen the object once you have installed it. You needn’t have gone to the trouble of bringing it here,” I say.
This particular monument will decorate the edifice of a mortuary structure that’s been under construction since the day Thutmose II ascended the throne.
But, in truth, the idea for this commission is mine alone.
It is no coincidence that I scheduled this appointment while my husband is on a hunting excursion.
“Well, Your Majesty.” He takes a deep breath. “As we began carving the design into the stone, certain less-than-common elements of the composition became clear,” he says, signaling his men assembled at the back of the audience chamber.
Ah, I think, how artful this man is in his speech as well as his chisel.
Sculpture, painting, and carving are all created according to very specific precepts to best capture the magic, or heka, of the subject, and have been for thousands of years.
Plants, flowers, animals, humans, kings, even gods are depicted with similar motifs, order, and outlines, in themes that are instantly recognizable to viewers as scenes from the afterlife, images of the pharaoh fulfilling his duties to the people and the gods, or daily Egyptian life.
Even the pigments selected to color the carvings have specific meaning: black is affiliated with both life and death; green symbolizes the afterlife; yellow means the sun; blue translates to birth and renewal; and red indicates destruction or fire.
Deviation from tradition simply is not done.
Djau’s servants begin walking down the long aisle approaching the throne, carrying an enormous rectangular stone slab.
Although the men do not hesitate in their step, their arms tremble, and they are sweating at the exertion required to move this mass.
Once they reach the dais, they stand the enormously heavy object upright so that it faces me and Mother, who sits at my side.
At nearly twice Thutmose II’s height, a vividly painted and sculpted limestone slab looms over us.
My mother and I stand up from our thrones and draw closer to read the story from top to bottom and left to right or right to left, depending on the direction in which the subjects are facing.
Intricate, expert carvings, organized into bands, emerge from the surface of the limestone to show Thutmose II offering his devotion to the god Amun, with me at his side.
“It is beautifully rendered.” I speak the truth. Although I know Djau’s vast staff is responsible for the initial carvings and ink outlines, the masterful painterly details and fine sculpture work are all done by his hand. And no one has more skill.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he says with a low bow.
“Yes indeed.” My mother echoes my compliment. We are both sidestepping the unspoken question that brought Djau here.
“My deepest gratitude for your kind words, Queen Ahmes,” he says, but his mouth has not yet closed. He is weighing his next words with great care. “I simply want to make certain that the composition meets your expectations.”
I study the central carving. On the left, Thutmose II and I stand side by side making offerings to the gods.
The more typical presentation would have me as smaller or lower than Thutmose II; hierarchical scale—where the size of figures denotes their power and importance—is key in art.
But I want the stela to reflect my power, and so I made this unusual request. But I also need to establish that Thutmose II’s legacy is beyond dispute, not only from his own direct tie to Thutmose I but also mine.
We must always be prepared for threat by relatives of my father’s predecessor Amenhotep I.
My mother squints as she stares at it, and I cannot tell if she’s trying to examine it more closely or if she’s disapproving.
The expression is the same. I open my mouth, about to issue an edict about the propriety of this image, when a voice sounds from behind Djau’s men who are holding up the stela.
Presumably it is the next supplicant in line.
“If I may approach the dais, Your Majesties, I believe that I can draw your artist’s attention to precedent for the composition, so that no one will ever dare question the queen’s wishes.” The deep, resonant voice echoes throughout the chamber.
I am surprised by this interjection. Very few of my citizens would have the audacity to upend the order of my audience chamber. But I am also intrigued by this man who would risk punishment to protect me and my desires—even though a queen hardly needs her citizens’ protection.
Not to mention I would like to hear about his precedent.
Certainly I have seen renderings where a queen is depicted as the same size and on the same level as her king—and in a few cases the gods—but the more examples I have at my disposal the better.
It would allow me to refute any objections—by Thutmose II, by his family, by court members desirous of sowing division, by priests, or even by citizens—that this stela presents a queen on the same level—literally and figuratively—as her pharaoh.
I nod at Nedjem, who calls out, “Queen Hatshepsut grants you permission to approach.”
Keeping his eyes on the limestone floor, the man walks down the aisle toward the thrones.
Djau steps to the side to allow the barrel-chested, unusually tall man in simple robes to stand before us.
He drops to his knees, and says, “My name is Senenmut, son of your loyal subjects Ramose and Hatnofer, and I am an official from the town of Armant. I came to the open audience today to put before Your Majesty an issue related to the raising of funds for Thutmose the Second’s mortuary project, but then I overheard your discussion. ”
“So it seems, and you deemed it proper to interrupt,” my mother comments, her tone dry and impatient. “Are you going to share these wondrous insights about ‘precedent’ with us?”
“Of course, Your Majesty, it would be my honor.” He rushes to answer. “As part of my work, I travel widely, and not only throughout my own region. I have the occasion to visit many temples in addition to our own Temple of Montu-Re and so have become familiar with the carvings elsewhere—”
“We are well acquainted with our country’s temples,” my mother snaps.
Senenmut doesn’t flinch at this outburst. I am impressed. There aren’t many citizens who could maintain their composure in the face of my mother’s disdain. I find myself asking, “What have you discovered in these carvings that would be beneficial to me?”
“For my own purposes, I have catalogued the most impressive stelae and monuments, and there are several examples of queens being depicted as the same size as the pharaoh.”
This news heartens me. “This is most interesting,” I announce. “And helpful.”
His forehead now touches the floor in a position of abject loyalty and deference. “Your Majesty, it has been my life’s honor to serve you in this way.”
“Djau, I would like this man to take you to see these carvings he has catalogued, and if they are as he represents, then you may proceed with its installation.
“I am the queen, and I know that I do not need anyone’s approval for the composition I’ve ordered. Certainly not from Djau and certainly not from one of my citizens. But having this precedent at my disposal can only help with my plans.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I face the other man. “What is your name again?”
“Senenmut, Your Majesty.”
“Senenmut.” I pause. How apt is his name, I think, as it means “mother’s brother” and suggests loyalty, which he has clearly demonstrated today. I could put this loyalty to good use in my court.
Turning to this man, I say, “After you finish taking Djau to the temples, please return to Thebes with your belongings. The gods have need of you here.”