Dawn came before the sky had time to blush pink. The courtyard still smelled of night's chill and damp dust, yet by the storehouses stood lines of men with ropes slung over their shoulders. On the ground lay rollers, sledges, and long measuring cords knotted at every cubit. Above it all, like the rudder of a ship, stood Panes—plain white tunic, no ornaments, a reed in his hand.
"Today the drawing becomes a wall," he said quietly, almost only to me. "And a wall being raised teaches even those who believe they know everything."
I nodded. My throat was dry; I thought of my papyrus with stars and lotuses, now being carved into stone. But today was not about flowers or stars. It was about stone moving, setting, and lasting.
Panes lifted the reed. "Overseers, to your posts," he called. "Bearers, ready the sledges. Stonecutters, check joints and mortar."
Voices rose like birds in a date palm crown. The guards raised their sticks, but Panes gestured for them to keep them low. "Today only time will strike," he said. "Not men."
The first block arrived—pale limestone, smooth as calfskin, massive as the silence of prayer. Ropes tied, rollers pushed beneath, sand spread. Overseers barked orders, and slowly, with effort audible in the air, the block began to move.
"How many cubits to the gate?" Panes asked without lifting his eyes from the stone.
"Thirty-three," I answered at once. "Four rows of rollers, one spare. At the third knot there's a hump in the paving—level it with sand."
"You heard him," Panes told the overseer. The man looked at me with a flicker of disdain—a eunuch giving orders to a bearded man—but said nothing. Sand spread, hump gone. The stone slid forward without pause.
At the gate they hesitated. A guard smirked at the early hour, but when he met Panes' eyes, his grin froze. The gate opened, ropes strained, sand sang its quiet song of friction, and the block entered like a whale into a cool sea.
"Leave the banners rolled," Panes said. "Let no wind meddle in the work."
Inside, in the hall to be, two elder builders waited with plumb lines and A-frame levels. On the ground lay the chalked lines we had marked in days past with cords and ash—our hidden language, a whisper of where a stone may stand and where lament would follow if set wrongly.
"Here," Panes pointed at a mark I myself had drawn. "We'll set the fourth pillar of the northern tract. Amenemhet?"
I knelt, brushed the sand with my fingers. "First carve the bed," I said. "Slightly concave—half a finger at center, so the mortar spreads from the heart."
"Stonecutters," Panes called, "do as he says."
The elder mason, scar down his cheek, glared at me. "By his… words?"
Panes did not turn. "By his words," he repeated flatly. "If it fails, the fault is mine."
That was enough. The scarred face hardened into focus, and chisels began their rhythm. Metal struck stone in a music I had come to love—flow, pause, flow. At last I raised my hand. "Enough. Sweep clean, then groove for the mortar."
Panes leaned closer. "How much mortar?"
"A hekat and a half," I said. "Three to one—sand and gypsum. Moist as a tongue."
He smiled faintly. "At last I hear you think with your hands."
As they mixed, I moved to the wall where the column bases were marked. "We won't raise today," I told Panes. "Just lay the fourth bed and bring the plan to the third knot. The eastern corner has weak ground—I suggest thin wedges left to settle overnight."
Panes thought a moment. "Agreed. And the approach for more blocks?"
"There's a choke in the alley behind the northern tract," I said. "Stack two sledges aside there—to clear a path so jar-bearers don't stumble into ropes."
"Signal it," he ordered, then turned to the overseer. "Follow his instruction."
The contempt faded once the block set true. The plumb line stilled, the A-frame shadow aligned. The scarred mason grudgingly exhaled. "It sits."
"Mark it in the record," said Panes. "Amenemhet—note mortar's moisture and time of setting."
I wrote in wax: Fourth northern pillar—concave bed, mortar hekat and half, set at first light. Settled—silent.
By midday the bearers carried crates of tesserae—fragments of limestone, basalt, and lapis. Their steps slowed, realizing carrying color was heavier than weight. A piece of blue slipped, scattering like a small rain. They bent to gather it.
"Leave it," I stopped them. "The blue will find a place tomorrow. Today I want to see the star pattern in the upper right field."
"The star pattern?" the scarred mason asked, now less hostile, more curious.
I traced a star in the dust—five arms, reaching halfway across the square. "Tips touch the edge but don't cross. Dark stone only on the outer rim, not inside."
The man nodded. "Understood."
As the first tesserae sank into mortar, a strange calm settled in me. Not pride—harmony. That what had been a drawing now breathed through other men's hands.
"East," came a call. Two bearers dragged a slimmer block for a lintel. Ropes creaked, sand scattered. I saw the angle wrong before the plumb line could.
"Stop!" I shouted, louder than the overseers.
Men froze, ropes taut. Panes only looked at me, no anger. "Why?"
"Wrong center," I said, steadier. "One rope a finger higher. If they release, the block will slip, break its corner. The sand beneath settled."
"Fix it," he said.
I knelt, found the hollow, tucked a pinch of sand here, another there. "Now. On three breaths. One… two… three."
The block rose, groaned, then settled silent as a child's sleep.
The plumb smiled. So did the A-frame.
"Note the hungry sand in the east alley," Panes said. "Tomorrow we lay firmer bed and cut a drain."
"Yes," I answered, writing: East alley—hungry sand, add gravel, drainage channel.
The sun rose higher, voices thickened. From the courtyard came the smell of beer for the workers, laughter broken by cries of pain, but sticks stayed low—Panes' morning vow held.
A priest arrived, tablet in hand, to watch. He paused at the mosaic star set by the scarred mason. He looked at me, then at Panes. "This is… your new thing?"
Panes did not flinch. "It is what the temple will bear, and what the gods will see."
The priest said nothing, but smoothed a star's edge with his finger, and smiled so faintly you might miss it if you weren't listening for every breath. Then he left.
"West," called an overseer. "Bring another block!"
By then my forearms ached from cords, but my mind was clear. The western bed was damp; dew had pooled. "Let it breathe," I said. "Spread it, let the sun touch the bottom."
"No time," snapped a young overseer.
"Time to break a wall?" Panes asked evenly. "Follow him."
The man bowed his head, scattered the sand. Half an hour later the bed shone dry, the block fit perfect.
Toward afternoon I inspected the garden plots at the entrance—holes for date palms. Two boys with hoes waited. "Not here," I said, moving them a cubit left. "Shade must fall on the bench at midday, not the back of the neck."
"How do you know?" one asked.
"Because I've been here at night, and I know where the cool stands," I said. They nodded as if I'd spoken of the gods.
By late sun Panes asked for the tally. "How many beds ready?"
"Four north, two west, one east," I reported. "Tomorrow we raise the first columns—if all bases arrive. And we'll need stronger stakes for barriers—the crowd is thickening."
"Stakes come with the evening cart. Bases?"
"Two here, a third on the way—but the rope on its sledge is frayed. Send replacement ahead."
"Do it," he said.
I sent a boy with fresh hemp rope. An hour later we heard his voice before we saw him. The rope coiled like a snake, and the third base slid into the yard as if it knew us.
"We end today at bed seven," Panes declared as the sun dipped. "No heroics, no needless wounds. Tomorrow we'll be wiser than today—if we remember today."
He looked at me. "You have it all?"
"All," I said, raising the wax tablet. Covered in notes: hungry sand, star mosaic, concave bed, mortar measure, shade for benches. More than record—it was the map of a day.
When the yard emptied and even the last rope stilled, we stood by bed four—me, Panes, and the fresh stone still warm from men's hands.
"Tell me," Panes broke the silence, "what was worst today, and what was best?"
The question startled me. I drew a breath. "Worst—the east alley's hungry sand, and the rope on the lintel. Best…" I looked at the star in its mortar, "…that craft accepted beauty without choking."
Panes glanced at the star, then at me. "A good day," he said. "Tomorrow I'll set you to the column raising. You won't pull—you'll give the voice. A man who sees must one day speak so others trust his eyes."
"And will they?" I asked, too bold to stop the words.
"Not all," he said. "But it is enough if the stone believes."
I smiled. Not pride—understanding. Each day is only another stone to convince.
That night among the lamps of the northern hall, their flames steady as morning, I poured oil, trimmed wicks. The silence asked me for the day—and the silence answered: the temple remembered. In its walls lingered our steps, in its beds our breath, in its star a touch of tomorrow.
When I lay down, my legs ached, my fingers throbbed, but my head was clear. I saw tomorrow's column already: where the rope would tremble, where the sand would hunger, where to add a finger of mortar, where only to lay a hand.
"Tomorrow," I whispered, "tomorrow the stone will listen."
And for the first time in my life I felt that if the gods had left me without what makes a man a man, perhaps it was so I could learn to hear what others drowned with their own shouting. Stone. Shadow. Light.
The Day of Stones had ended. And the temple had moved a cubit closer to the future.
Years passed like sand that knows no rest. The temple grew step by step, block by block, day by day, until the empty courtyard became the gleam of a stone hall.
First rose the pillars. Each was like a new trunk of the world, which had to be persuaded to stand. I remember the first—when they pulled it up, the ropes groaned, men roared, and I led their breath with my own voice. "One, two, three!" and the column lifted, slowly but firmly. When it finally stood upright, I felt I was no longer just a shadow, but a voice the stones themselves obeyed.
Then came the roofs—massive lintels bridging spaces like bridges between earth and sky. Each carried a weight to crush mountains, yet settled perfectly into place. Panes once whispered to me: "A roof is not only stone above the head. It is the sky, and you must hold it, so it does not fall on men."
Mosaics bloomed between the stones. First small stars in the corners, then whole fields of lotuses, opening as if alive within the walls. At first the workers grumbled that it was needless labor. But when they saw the walls glow with color, they began singing songs that they were carrying flowers for the gods.
The garden at the entrance changed with each season. At first only pits in the sand, then young trees that had to be watered daily. A strong wind once broke half of them, but new ones were planted. A year later they already cast shade on the benches, exactly as I had once dreamed.
And the stars… oh, the stars. The ceilings filled with the patterns I had drawn in silence of night. Gold and blue stones were set in constellations. When lamps were lit in the hall, the stars glimmered so that even the toughest workers forgot their curses and gazed upward in awe.
Year after year, the temple changed. And I changed with it. I was no longer only a eunuch robbed of manhood. I was no longer only a shadow recording numbers. My hands grew in certainty, my voice could lead hundreds of men. Panes began asking me: "What do you propose here?" and I had answers he accepted.
At last came the day when the final stone slipped into its bed. The sound of chisels faded. Ropes hung slack, sand once more became only sand, not a tool. The workers laid aside hammers and hoes, and the temple stood.
I entered the great hall and felt I was walking into another world. The pillars stood like a forest whose crowns bore a ceiling filled with stars. On the walls gleamed lotuses that would never close. The garden at the entrance whispered with leaves, the water in basins reflected light so that it seemed the Nile itself had entered the temple.
It was the labor of hundreds of hands, sweat, and blood—but in every part I felt myself. My eyes, once blind to everything but dust, now saw dreams from papyrus turned into stone.
That evening Panes stood with me in the silent hall. "Amenemhet," he said, "this is a house that will stand longer than our lives. And you have left more in it than you know."
I did not answer. I only placed my hand on the cold pillar stone. And I knew that even if my name vanished, the touch of my hand would remain here forever.
But Panes was wrong in one thing—my name would not vanish so easily.
For the day of the temple's opening was drawing near. And with it, the eyes of those who would decide whether a shadow could become a name standing beside the stone.
The day of the temple's opening came with the scent of incense drifting from the courtyards before dawn. It was no ordinary morning—the air itself felt different, as if the gods had descended to see what had been born of human hands.
The temple was ready: pillars washed and oiled, mosaics polished with cloths, the garden watered with Nile water so the leaves shone with freshness. The workers stood aside in rows—dirty, exhausted, yet proud that their sweat and blood had become something greater than themselves.
The priests arrived first. In white robes, with shaven heads and the amulets of the gods on their chests, they entered the hall slowly, their steps measured, their faces of stone, their eyes sharp. All prostrated themselves, save Panes and I, who stood by the entrance.
The elder priest raised his hand, and the others spread out. One bent to a pillar, laid his hand on its surface, traced the groove with a finger, testing its smoothness. Another lowered a plumb line, watching if the shadow fell straight. A third opened his tablet and noted down numbers—width, height, proportion.
Their voices were short and cold:
"Precise."
"Solid."
"In proportion."
Panes only nodded. My palms sweated with tension. Everything was correct, and yet I knew they expected more.
Then came the mosaics. The priests stopped beneath the ceiling and lifted their heads. Stars of lapis and gold glittered in the light of lamps. For a moment, silence filled the hall. One priest, who had spoken least until then, murmured: "Stars… inside a temple."
Another answered: "As if the gods had carried the heavens within."
Their voices were no longer cold. They were softer, slower, as if they too felt they were touching something greater than stone.
At the walls their eyes caught the lotus patterns. They paused, running their hands over them. One priest, known for his sternness, whispered: "Never have I seen stone bloom like this."
And in the garden at the entrance, when they saw the shade of the trees falling precisely across the benches, they lingered longer than expected. "Shade that shelters, not burns," the eldest said. "That is the sign of a good house of the gods."
When they all gathered back in the hall, no one spoke at first. Their faces stayed composed, but in their eyes burned something else.
Then the eldest, who led them all, said: "This temple is not only strong. It is not only correct. It is beautiful. And that is more than we expected."
Another priest added: "It is the finest temple I have ever seen."
The words fell into the hall like drops of rain on parched earth. The rows of workers drew breath, though none dared whisper. I stood still, my heart racing.
Panes did not move a muscle. He only bowed and said: "The temple stands. May the gods receive it."
But I knew this was only the beginning. For after the priests, someone else was yet to come—the one whose gaze weighed heavier than all their words combined.
The Pharaoh.