Months passed like the waters of the Nile—slow, but relentless. Each day had its rhythm, repeating with the precision of drums at the offerings. In the morning I walked to the accounting chamber, where Panes drilled me again and again to write the signs. Midday belonged to the building site—there I stood, observed, and silently repeated the proportions I had learned. Evening was for the lamps in the northern hall, and when the temple sank into silence, I sat on a mat and scratched more and more lines into wax.
My hands, once used only to the weight of jars, hardened from the reed pen. Black stains of ink seeped so deep into the skin they would never vanish. My eyes, which had once only looked to the ground, now learned to perceive every detail—a crack in a wall, a deviation in a column's curve, a pattern repeating itself.
Panes tested me without end. Not once or twice, but day after day. "How many steps in the courtyard?" "How many stars in the row on the ceiling?" "If a wall is six cubits and an opening three, what remains?" His questions fell quickly, and I had to answer without hesitation. Each answer was like a stone laid into a structure—if it fit, the wall grew. If not, I had to begin again.
This was no teaching of kindness. I was not his beloved student, but a tool he sharpened. Yet I felt something changing inside me. I was no longer a shadow walking blindly. I carried numbers, forms, and proportions within me that gave me a new meaning.
Thus the seasons of the Nile's flood and the dry times passed. Until one evening, when I expected another tablet of signs, Panes opened a great chest in the corner of the chamber. Its lid creaked, and inside lay a papyrus scroll, old and yellowed.
He placed it before me. As I unrolled it, I smelled the age—dried ink, dust, a trace of mold. The lines were faint, the signs blurred, many almost unreadable.
"What is this?" I whispered.
"The plan of the temple of Hathor at Dendera," Panes replied. "Older than three hundred years. Drawn by a man whose name is long gone. He was skilled, but time is stronger than a name. Now only this shadow remains."
He ran his finger along one of the lines. "The priests want this plan to be legible again. Not new, not improved. Only copied exactly. This is your task."
My heart leapt. Not numbers, not lamps—but an entire temple, even if only on papyrus.
"You will copy it cleanly," Panes continued. "Every line. Every sign. Faithful to the original. Add nothing, take nothing. Only precision. This is the trial of your patience."
I breathed deeply. It was more than a task—it was like touching the hands of builders who had lived long before me.
Panes handed me a fresh papyrus, smooth and white. "Here you begin. And you will not finish until it is worthy of the gods."
When I set to work that night, I felt I was stepping onto a new path.
The first days were the hardest. The unrolled papyrus lay on the table like a corpse—decayed, fragile, its lines fading into dirt and age. Often I had to lean so close I could smell the mold in my nose and feel the dust cling to my lips.
I studied each line until I was certain of its meaning. Then I transferred it onto the fresh papyrus. At first with trembling hand, later more steadily. Panes always told me: "Do not write quickly. Write so the gods will praise you when they see it."
I watched as the old lines became new—precise and smooth. It was endless work, patience-testing. Hours sitting at the table until my legs numbed, my back ached, and my eyes stung with tears.
Sometimes I made mistakes. A line crooked, a sign imperfect. Then I had to start again. Panes never allowed me to cover errors. "An architect who hides mistakes builds a wall that will fall. You must learn that a single wrong sign is like a crack in stone."
So I tried again and again, until I felt the reed pen become an extension of my hand.
After weeks I knew the whole plan by heart. I no longer needed to look at every line of the old papyrus—my eyes themselves told me where a column should stand, where a corridor should be, where the hall belonged. In my mind I walked through this temple as if it stood before me, not on the table.
But at the same time I felt something strange. The old plan was solid, but dry. It had everything a temple needed to stand. But it had nothing that breathed.
One night, as I worked after tending the lamps, I caught myself sketching a small lotus beside a column. It was not in the original—it was just a fleeting thought. But when I looked at it, I realized it was exactly like the flowers I had seen on the Nile waters. Beauty that the gods themselves had placed on the earth.
I quickly erased it, fearing Panes' anger. But the image stayed in my mind.
In the following days I continued. I copied the old plan faithfully, without deviation. Yet inside me grew the desire to try more. What would a temple look like if its walls spoke not only of strength but of beauty? If one entered and at once felt it was the house of gods who ruled not only over stone, but over flowers, stars, and river?
When I finally finished the faithful copy, Panes reviewed it and nodded. "Good," he said curtly. "It is true to the original. As it should be."
But inside me a voice would not be silent. So I took another blank papyrus and began to draw again. This time not as a slave ordered to copy, but as one who now saw with his own eyes.
My lines were the same as the original—walls, columns, gates. But between them I placed something more. On the floor mosaics—lotus and papyrus as if they grew from the Nile. On the ceiling star patterns, like those I saw during my night watches. At the entrance I sketched a small garden—date palms and flowers from which priests could take offerings.
I worked on it at night, while all others slept. The lamps burned dim and I drew lines none would expect. It was not Panes' task; no one had ordered it. It was my own desire.
And the more I drew, the more I felt the temple come alive. It was no longer only a plan of walls and columns. It was the image of a house where the gods would gladly dwell.
When I laid down the last line, my heart pounded like after a run. I did not know what to do with it. If Panes saw, he might be angry. But if I hid it, it would be as if I denied myself.
So I decided I would show him both.
In the morning I laid out both papyri on the table—the first, precise and faithful, the second, in which I had let my hand and heart speak. Inside me pride wrestled with fear. Panes was a man of law, of numbers and precision. What would he do when he saw I had crossed his command?
When he entered, he did not look at me, only at the table. He took the first papyrus, bent over it, and his eyes followed the lines. They were clean, straight, the signs legible. His hand passed over the surface as if feeling the firmness of stone, not the softness of papyrus.
"Precise," he said at last. "Faithfully copied. This is how the old is renewed. This is work fit to show the priests."
His voice was calm, without emotion—as always when he was satisfied.
But then his gaze stopped on the second papyrus.
For a moment his face changed. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed. He reached out as if hesitant to touch something that should not exist. But then he picked it up and unrolled it.
He was silent for a long time.
His eyes moved across the lines, the lotus flowers on the walls, the stars on the ceiling, the small courtyard with the garden. His finger traced the ornamental details, as though he could not believe I had drawn them.
"This… you made this?" he asked at last, very softly.
I nodded, my heart beating in my throat. "Yes, Master."
"Why?"
I drew breath. "Because a temple without beauty is only stone. The gods gave us lotuses, stars, and trees. Why should they not have a place in their house?"
Panes fell silent. His face unreadable. The chamber was hushed, only the distant shouts of porters filtering in. I felt I had signed my own sentence.
But then Panes laid the papyrus down, looked at me, and in his eyes was something I had never seen before. Not only sternness. A spark of wonder.
"Amenemhet," he said slowly, "your hands have learned precision. But your eyes have touched what most never see. You have not merely copied a temple—you have given it life."
I held my breath. It was not a cry of praise, not open glory. But in Panes' mouth it was more than any applause.
"I never asked you to draw flowers or stars," he continued. "But you did. That means your soul is not only that of a pupil. It is the soul of an artist."
Then he rolled up both papyri. "Tomorrow we will go to the priests. We will see what they say. But remember—what you have done can be the beginning, or the ruin. Beauty is a gift, but also a burden. Learn to bear it."
That night I could not sleep. My body was weary, but my mind burned. What if the priests rejected my plan? What if they laughed? Yet deep within I felt it was too late to retreat. Once I had drawn the lotus and the star, I could not go back to bare lines.
And so I waited for the next day.
The next day Panes led me into the great hall where the priests gathered for important decisions. It was a place where the air smelled of incense and where a whisper carried as clearly as a shout. On the walls hung images of the gods, their eyes watching every movement of mortals.
Five elder men sat at the table. Their heads were shaved, their garments spotless, golden necklaces resting on their chests. They were the ones who decided how temples would be built, what would be repaired, what left to crumble.
Panes laid a rolled papyrus before them and bowed. I stood behind him, hands folded, eyes lowered. I felt sweat trickle down my back.
"This is a copy of the old plan of the temple of Hathor at Dendera," Panes said. "The original was damaged, but now it is legible again."
He unrolled the first papyrus—my faithful copy. The priests bent over it. Their eyes followed the lines, their fingers tracing them.
"Clean," said one.
"Precise," added another.
"Thus the work of the ancestors is preserved," concluded a third.
They all nodded in approval. Their faces remained calm, without surprise—as was proper.
I thought Panes would stop there, roll the papyrus, and leave. But he did not. He lifted the second scroll.
"And this," he said slowly, "was drawn by the same pupil. I did not ask for it. He made it himself."
The priests raised their brows. Curious, some with a trace of disapproval. But when Panes unrolled the second papyrus, silence filled the hall.
On the table lay the temple I had seen in my dreams—walls and columns as in the original, but adorned with mosaics, stars, flowers, and a garden.
At first the priests only stared. One folded his hands on his knees and did not move. Another leaned so close the folds of his robe spilled across the table. A third studied for a long time the pattern of stars I had drawn on the ceiling.
"This… is not a copy," muttered the elder with the deep voice.
"No," Panes replied. "It is a new vision of the old."
The priests looked at one another. In their eyes there was no laughter, but something heavier—surprise. They were silent for a long time. Then one asked: "Who drew this?"
I felt my breath stop. Panes did not point to me. He only said calmly: "My pupil."
"A eunuch?" asked another, clearly aware of who I was. In his voice was doubt, as if questioning whether something so lofty could come from one so broken.
"Yes," Panes answered without hesitation.
Silence fell again. Then the oldest, seated in the center, placed his finger on the flowers by the wall. "It is… bold. A temple must be strong, not adorned. And yet… there is something here that draws the eyes."
"The gods love flowers and stars," another said. "Why should they not be here too?"
"But it is his work," a third objected. "Not the work of the ancestors."
"The ancestors too were once new," Panes said quietly.
The words dropped into the hall like a stone into water. None answered them.
The priests gazed at the papyrus for a long time more. At last the eldest rolled it up and set it aside. "We shall see," was all he said. "Perhaps the day will come when we return to this."
Their faces stayed calm, but in their eyes I saw that I had touched them. Not as a slave, not as a shadow, but as someone who could bring a new vision.
When we left the hall, my heart beat faster than ever before. I knew I was still nothing—but for the first time I felt I might become something more.
After the meeting with the priests I walked as if in a dream. Their faces had remained calm, but in their eyes I had seen that I had touched them. And though they spoke nothing openly, I felt that my lines, my flowers, and my stars had stayed with them.
The following days were a trial of patience. Panes said nothing of what had happened. He taught me as before—numbers, proportions, inspection of walls. Not once did he mention the papyrus with the flowers. I began to think perhaps the priests had set aside his words and returned to the old plan.
Until one evening, when I returned from tending the lamps, I found Panes in the chamber, standing over a new block of stone etched with fresh lines.
"Come here," he said without looking up.
I stepped closer and looked. On the stone were the same lines I had drawn on the second papyrus—the garden, the mosaics, the stars.
"They will use it," Panes said.
My heart stopped for an instant. "My plan?"
"Not yours," Panes corrected me. "Theirs. Your hands drew it, but from this moment it belongs to the temple. Remember this—nothing you make for the gods is yours. It belongs to the gods."
I stood there speechless. I saw how the stone-cutters had already begun transferring my lines onto the walls. My flowers, my stars, my dreams.
"It is a great honor," I whispered.
Panes looked at me. In his eyes was not only pride, but also gravity. "An honor that can raise you… or break you. Beauty is a powerful weapon, Amenemhet. People love it, but they also hate it. They envy it. And the one who creates it bears its weight."
He sat down and studied me with a long gaze. "The ancestors built temples so they would stand strong. You have added beauty. That means one day you will stand among them—not as a slave, but as a builder. But remember—the priests are like stones. Some will support you. Others will crush you, if you place yourself wrongly."
His words cut deep. I knew he was right. I already felt the stares of the other eunuchs, who envied Panes' favor. If the priests decided I had crossed a line a slave should never cross, my path would end before it began.
Yet despite the fear, I felt something else—pride. For the first time in my life I knew that something I had created would touch the gods. That my hand would be seen not only by men, but by those who looked down from above.
And when that night I once again walked among the lamps in the northern hall, their light seemed brighter than ever before.