Beauty of Re

by Mark Gajewski

  “Is it true you founded the Place of Truth?” I asked Ineni. “That’s what Senenmut taught us when we were girls.”

  He nodded. “Under the direction of Amenhotep – life, health, prosperity, justified. He, and his mother Ahmes–Nefertari, are now worshiped in the village as gods. More than fifty years ago he tasked me with constructing his tomb, and that of his sister–wife Ahmose–Meryetamun. Hers lies on the hill just north of Djeser Djeseru. I still remember her coffin – ten feet long, covered with sheet gold, inlaid with faience and precious stone. Anyway, to build the king’s tomb I assembled many specialists – architects and stone masons and draftsmen and painters and carpenters and goldsmiths and countless other craftsmen. I settled them in a few existing houses that lined either side of the path we now ride, and added a dozen more, each with a door opening on the path, each extending perpendicular to it, so that the houses were arrayed almost like a fish bones along a spine. South of the village I built stables for the village’s cows and donkeys.”

  “My grandfather girdled the village with the wall?” Nefer asked.

  “Thutmose Aakheperkare. He built it because the costly materials and copper tools used by the craftsmen are stored within. And to limit traffic in and out of the village. You see, the first workers knew the location of Amenhotep’s tomb and its riches, and so couldn’t be allowed to wander the west bank of the river opposite Waset freely.”

  “The workers were imprisoned in the Place of Truth?” I asked.

  “Not at all. Those first specialists lived very good lives,” Ineni said. “Amenhotep and I knew there would be more tombs to cut for future kings, more temples to build in Waset, more per’aas and shrines, so we decided to keep those workers together so we could take advantage of their talents and experience. For all the generations since, fathers have taught their particular skills to their sons, and passed their positions in the village’s work gangs to them. Even the village’s houses have been handed down within families. But more than just those who work on the tombs and their families live in the Place of Truth – they must be supported – so there are water carriers, and gardeners to grow produce in the fields allocated to the village, and fishermen and woodcutters and a potter and washerman and storekeeper and cake maker and a man to make plaster so they can improve the interiors of their houses. There are even women who rotate among the houses to clean them several times each week.”

  “I commissioned many objects and decorations from these workers when I was God’s Wife of Amun,” Nefer said. “But I never thought to visit the village. The craftsmen always came to me.”

  “You are one of the few royals who has ever set foot here,” Ineni said.

  He directed our attention to the steep hillside west of the village. It descended from the base of a low vertical cliff to nearly touch the village wall, devoid of greenery, littered with loose stones. A network of paths, white with dust, switchbacked up the hill. “That hillside has been the villagers’ cemetery from the very beginning. See how the slope is peppered with tomb shafts and stone walls and ramps and mud–brick chapels and miniature pyramids and small white buildings with brightly painted doorways? Some of the tombs are elaborate, some mere openings cut into the hillside or clefts in outcroppings. The interiors of many have been magnificently decorated by the village’s craftsmen in their free time.”

  I stopped the chariot and we got out. We took to the path that passed along the eastern edge of the village, Ineni moving slowly, one arm linked in mine, using a cane with his free hand. “The village holds fifty or so houses, of mud–brick on stone foundations,” he told us as we walked.

  I noted that the rear section of each house directly abutted the wall. Their rooftops loomed over us. Shortly thereafter, we reached the village’s northern wall. It was pierced by a single gate, the only entrance into the village. A dark–skinned Medjay guard stood to one side. Ineni pointed to buildings on the high ground beyond that wall. “Those are the village’s temples, smaller versions of those belonging to Amun and Mut and Khonsu across the river at Ipet–Isut. Each is crammed with thousands of small stelae and statues of villagers, made of polished wood or fine white stone, left as offerings to the gods.”

  “And that path winding towards the mountain?” I asked.

  “It leads to the Great Place, about an hour’s hike away, up the hill and along its crest. Workers labor there eight of every ten days when tombs are being excavated. Of course, they have many feast days off too. When they’re working they don’t return to the Place of Truth at night; instead, they sleep in huts on a plateau half–way between the village and valley.”

  An older man was waiting beside the gate next to the Medjay. He came forward to greet us. He bowed low. “I am Baki, foreman of the left gang in the Place of Truth. I will conduct you to my lord Kha,” he said.

  We followed him into the village, through the gate. A single dusty street ran more than one hundred yards through the center of the village, so narrow that I could stand in the middle of it and nearly touch the houses on either side. It was roofed, so that the street was like a tunnel. Though the roof provided shelter from the sun it cut off the breeze, and so it was sweltering inside the village. I was soon drenched with sweat.

  “Every house in the village opens onto this street,” Baki told us. “Each house is four rooms deep, with a twenty–inch thick common wall between them. Some houses have been owned by the same family for generations. Some of the larger families have acquired several adjoining houses.”

  The red–painted doors of most houses were open, and I peered inside as we passed. Faces stared back curiously from what I assumed were reception rooms. Every one of them was crowded, their inhabitants talking excitedly – no doubt about us. Children dashed back and forth between houses and in and out of the open doors. A few cats slunk along the walls. I noted a few craftsmen laboring over what I took to be grave goods.

  “In their spare time the villagers work on commissions from priests and nobles in Waset,” Ineni explained. “They barter their various skills for fine food and furniture and clothing and other luxuries. And, of course, the craftsmen barter with each other as they create their own tombs – a stone mason will excavate the tomb of a painter in return for having his own tomb painted, for example.”

  Halfway down the street a man waited before a newly–painted red wooden door. He came forward when he spotted us.

  “It is good to see you again, Kha,” Ineni said in greeting.

  Kha bowed very low. “The honor is mine, Ineni, that you should visit my humble home.”

  “I bring with me the King’s Wife Neferure, and the King’s Great Companion Meryetneith,” Ineni said, sweeping his hand towards us.

  Kha bowed once again. “Majesty. Lady. Please, enter.”

  We passed through his doorway. Ahead of us, to the left, were three stone steps leading to a domestic altar that held paintings and stelae and sacrificial plaques and busts that I assumed were Kha’s ancestors. A false door was directly behind the altar. Kha saw me staring at it.

  “The false door is used by deceased family members to visit my home,” he said.

  Kha ushered us through the reception room and into the living room, its roof supported by the trunk of a palm tree resting on a stone base. His wife and several children stood shyly to one side. They fell to their knees before Nefer. She smiled and told them to rise.

  “I’ve heard tales of your beauty, Majesty,” Kha’s wife said. “They truly do not do you justice.”

  Nefer smiled again. Even at thirty–eight she still turned heads wherever she went.

  Sunlight slanted through small slots in the roof and reflected on the whitewashed interior walls. We all took seats, Ineni and Nefer and I on chairs with soft woolen cushions, Kha and Baki on a low mud–brick bench along one wall. One of Kha’s younger daughters brought each of us a cup of wine. It was honeyed; the workers were certainly well paid. As I sipped I looked around the house. The walls and floor were all plastered
and covered with colorful painted scenes, mostly of gardens and papyrus thickets rich with wildlife. Brightly colored textiles hung on sections of the walls and lay atop the bench. There were other signs of prosperity – small stools and chairs, a bed, wooden boxes, storage chests, tables, cabinets, baskets and fans and footstools made of reeds and rushes, sleeping mats. Every item was richly decorated.

  “You appear to live well, Kha,” Nefer said, also surveying her surroundings.

  “By His Majesty’s grace,” Kha answered. “As overseer of construction in the Place of Truth, I receive provisions directly from your husband’s bounty. I have used the excess to barter for these luxuries.”

  “Your wall paintings are exquisite,” I said.

  “Created by the same craftsmen who decorate the royal tombs and the gods’ temples,” Kha said. He indicated one blank wall, nodded to Nefer. “I had it freshly plastered yesterday. A craftsman will carve and paint upon it a scene that will commemorate your visit here today, Majesty. In all my life, no member of the royal family has ever entered the Place of Truth. I, and my descendants, will remember and treasure this day always – particularly your presence here among us.”

  One of Kha’s older daughters appeared with a platter of sweet cakes, which she distributed among us. As I munched mine I noticed stairs ascending to the roof at the very back of the house. I could see blue sky through the opening. To the left of the stairs was a door leading to a kitchen yard. It held a small oven from which smoke curled. Next to that door were a few stairs descending to a small cellar. I saw the tops of large earthenware jars, doubtless for food storage. Between the living room and the rear of the house was a storage room, with large earthenware pots set in the floor, most likely full of grain and beer. The house’s massive water jar stood there also. It bore a portrait of Bes, the demigod linked to the well–being and protection of pregnant mothers and children and music and dancing and sexual indulgence. Bes was a dwarf with a mask–like face, lion’s ears and mane, broad nose, tongue hanging out of his mouth, short arms, bandy legs, and an exposed penis. Another room held a number of beds.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Kha asked when everyone finished their cake.

  “His Majesty wishes construction to begin on his tomb in the Great Place,” Ineni said.

  Kha clapped his hands with delight. “It is unusual for a king to wait so long into his reign. Usually, he begins his tomb right away, immediately after his ascension to the throne. But in His Majesty’s case, that was three decades ago.”

  “The king has been somewhat occupied beyond Kemet’s borders,” Nefer said in an understatement.

  “I had hoped to work with you once more, Ineni,” Kha said somewhat gleefully. “It has been long since we constructed a king’s tomb,” he told Nefer.

  “Actually, His Majesty has put the project under Neferure’s control,” Ineni said. He shook his head ruefully. “I’ve grown old, Kha, too old to climb about in the Great Place every day and deal with the dust and sun and heat.”

  I did not miss the glance exchanged between Kha and Baki. No doubt they had no stomach for dealing directly with a woman. Nefer saw the glance too.

  “Ineni will guide me in all things,” Nefer said diplomatically, used to such attitudes. “I will look to you as well, Kha. I will take advantage of your experience. Yours too, Baki.”

  Both seemed flattered.

  Nefer stood and began to pace. “We are charged with constructing a magnificent tomb, those of us in this room,” she told everyone, her eyes flashing. “As you are aware, my husband has conquered Retenu and Setjet. No king has ever been so powerful. His treasury is overflowing with tribute and plunder. And Kemet has become wealthy from expanded trade as well.” She looked directly at Kha. “His Majesty has placed no limit on spending for his eternal home. We will skimp on nothing, spare no expense. His tomb must be far larger and grander and more elaborate than any built so far.”

  Kha broke into a wide smile, mirrored by Baki’s. “The workers in the Place of Truth will be ecstatic when they learn that, and eager to begin. Has a site been selected?”

  “You and I shall do so,” Nefer told him. “We shall go to the Great Place tomorrow.”

  “In the meantime, I will begin drawing up the plan for the tomb,” Ineni said.

  “This very day I will see to collecting the supplies we’ll need, and sharpening the copper chisels, and assigning the workers who will labor for His Majesty,” Kha said.

  “Good,” Nefer replied. “By the time the king returns from his current campaign in the North his tomb must be well underway.”

  ***

  “Here’s the entrance to your tomb, Majesty,” Nefer said as Thut and Kha and I came to a halt on a narrow ledge high up the wall of a gorge in the southeast section of the Great Place. I struggled to catch my breath. The floor of the narrow valley lay more than a hundred feet below us and, at age thirty–nine, the climb upward had not been easy for me, nor Nefer. Thut, of course, had taken the climb in stride. Only a few weeks removed from his latest military campaign, he was as active and strong as ever. He showed no sign of slowing down.

  An opening gaped darkly in a vertical flat wall of rock. The sounds of copper chisels striking soft stone rang from deep within a long corridor. Men in filthy kilts, drenched with sweat, carried reed baskets full of stone flakes and chips past us, the baskets resting on their shoulders. They snaked down the hillside and, at the bottom, dumped the fragments onto a slowly–growing mound. A scribe sat nearby, recording each load on a sheet of papyrus.

  “As you can see, Majesty,” Kha said, indicating the mound, “everything is counted in the Great Place – the number of baskets of rubble carried from the tomb, how many wicks are handed out to light the oil lamps, who was given the expensive copper tools, who returned them. The scribes track wear and tear of the tools as well – did you know that ten copper–pointed chisels are worth as much as a worker’s annual grain ration?”

  “They are a temptation?” Thut asked.

  “A very great temptation. Scribes also keep records of the presence and absence of each worker.”

  Thut surveyed the valley below us. It was crawling with men. Smoke rose from a small forge where copper points were being resmelted and sharpened. Men were carrying supplies from a couple of mud–brick huts. More smoke rose from bread ovens. Food was being prepared on long tables for the midday meal. Several overseers were huddled around an ostraca containing the tomb’s plan. “The scribes must be very busy.”

  “They are indeed, Majesty.”

  Though Nefer had overseen several construction projects since the discussion with Thut during his visit to the harem – temples at Dendera and Esna being the largest – his tomb was our first project in Waset. By now, Thut obviously believed, whatever hold Nefer had once had on those priests and officials who lived here had dissipated. So she and I had spent weeks in this valley, along with Kha, after our initial meeting in the Place of Truth, surveying possible sites for the tomb. It had been good to be back at Waset, away from the royal harem for at least a while, reunited with Aachel and Hori and their seven daughters. I had missed the per’aa and town and valley I’d grown up in. And even the desert, a little. Though the per’aa was a far different place from the one I remembered. Its unfriendly officials, who’d been appointed by Iset, were suspicious of Nefer and me and watched us constantly. Everyone within the per’aa’s confines that Nefer and I had grown up with was either dead or had been replaced. Only the two of us were still the same, as close as sisters, a miracle, really, after all we’d been through.

  Directly across from us the sun shone brightly on the loose white stone that carpeted the western slope of the valley. There was not a bit of green anywhere in my sight. To our left Re illuminated Qurn, the great pyramid–shaped mountain that loomed close to a thousand feet over our heads. We were still in shade, for Re had not yet climbed high enough to peer over the eastern cliffs of the valley.

  “Why
this site?” Thut asked.

  “For security,” Nefer replied. “There are only two major tombs in the Great Place so far – father’s, and the one constructed for our grandfather, which he shares with my mother.” Nefer dared not speak Hatshepsut’s name. Even now that set Thut off. “Their tomb is almost directly north of us, in another side gorge. Ineni built it in secret but, of course, since so many attended grandfather’s funeral, its location became known. That tomb is closer to the valley floor and more accessible than yours will be, for it’s nearer the normal path into the valley. Father’s tomb is right over there” – Nefer pointed about a hundred feet down the slope to the southwest – “but, as you can see, yours is up a much steeper slope, and its closest access is the path over the hill that leads to Djeser Djeseru. That path is guarded at all times.”

  I scanned the crest of the cliffs that surrounded the valley. Medjay were stationed at strategic locations, keeping watchful eyes on the tombs of the kings. Should someone attempt to rob a tomb at night the sound would carry upward, and they would be apprehended. Or so I’d been assured.

  “As you can see, Majesty, the entrance of your tomb lies in a gully,” Kha added. “In centuries to come, rainwater will pour over the cliffs and wash down stone and debris, and the entrance will be covered over. It should be safe for eternity from anyone who would do you harm.”

  “I expected to see more workers engaged in the digging,” Thut said.

  “There will be, Majesty,” Kha hastened to assure him. “Two gangs have been assigned to work on your tomb, a left and a right, each with a dozen workers headed by a foreman. Each gang is responsible for a side. Currently, masons are chipping stone from inside the mountain using copper chisels and wooden mallets, only one or two men in each gang at a time doing the cutting because, as you can see, the space between the walls is narrow. Those who do not wield the chisel are carrying the debris from the tomb. Since the stonemasons have not yet progressed very far into the mountain their work is still being lit by sunlight, but once they dig deeper they’ll use bowls of oil with linen wicks to light the depths. A wick burns for four hours. When it sputters out the workers take their lunch break, then light another wick, work four hours more, and are done for the day. They work eight days on and two days off with, of course, numerous holidays. Working within the tomb is miserably hot and humid, in thick choking dust. The sharp limestone edges cut and bruise; sometimes ceilings collapse if the rock is not good. Supervisors paint control marks on the tomb walls and ceilings to keep the stone masons on track. They use carpenters’ squares to check for right angles, plumb bobs for verticality, and strings to measure length.”