The drums struck deep, and the temple trembled. It was not the rhythm of labor known to haulers and masons. This was the sound of power—slow, majestic, proclaiming the arrival of the one man whose gaze weighed more than all the measurements, plumb lines, and numbers.
The Pharaoh.
The procession entered the gate like a wave. Bearers carried banners with divine emblems, soldiers marched with gleaming shields, musicians blew silver trumpets. Incense hung thick in the air, so dense that even the sunlight filtering down seemed golden.
And in the center, beneath a canopy of gold and purple, walked Pharaoh Ptolemy. His face was stern, his eyes hard, his stride slow but inexorable. Around him the entire court fell silent—no one dared breathe too loud.
All fell to the ground. Faces pressed into dust, arms outstretched. I too bowed low. Only Panes remained standing, head inclined—one of the few permitted such honor.
The Pharaoh stepped into the great hall. When he reached the starry ceiling, he stopped. Above his head shone blue and golden mosaics, pieced together over years. The lamps lit them so that it seemed the very heavens had opened.
For a moment, silence so deep filled the hall that I heard my own heartbeat.
Then the Pharaoh raised his hand and touched the wall, where a lotus bloomed in stone. His fingers lingered on the petal as if testing whether it was alive. Then he spoke a single word:
"Beauty."
The word rang like the toll of a bell. The workers drew sharp breaths, the priests looked at one another. No one doubted that in the Pharaoh's mouth this was the highest of blessings.
Panes stepped forward. All expected him to claim the honor for himself. But he bowed and said, clear and unwavering:
"Lord, my hands built, but my eyes did not create this. It was not I who placed stars upon the ceiling and lotuses on the walls. It was Amenemhet, my pupil."
The words fell into silence like a stone into water. All eyes turned to me. I—a eunuch, a slave, a shadow. My knees shook, but I remained kneeling, forehead pressed to the ground.
"Amenemhet," the Pharaoh repeated slowly, as if testing the name on his tongue. "Stand."
I obeyed. My hands trembled, my breath was heavy, but I rose.
The Pharaoh studied me from head to foot. In his gaze there was neither pity nor disdain. There was scrutiny—like a man judging a new tool.
"You are the one who drew this house?"
"Yes, my lord," I answered, so softly I feared he would not hear.
He nodded, then gestured. Two bearers brought forth a tray, upon which lay a heavy golden necklace and a silver chalice inlaid with turquoise.
The Pharaoh placed the necklace upon my shoulders and set the chalice in my hands. "This is the honor given to the architects of the gods. From this day you will not dwell among the eunuchs. You will have your own house—the House of the Scribe and Architect—where you shall live and create. Your eyes belong to the gods, but your hands will build for me."
My knees gave way and I fell back to the ground. My face pressed into the dust, my throat clenched, my eyes burned. I was no longer a shadow among dozens of others. No longer to sleep on a mat among eunuchs. From this day I had my own place, my name, my honor.
The Pharaoh turned to Panes. "This man is your pupil. Your wisdom has been proven in raising him. You are a good teacher."
Panes bowed his head. "Lord, the temple is strong because it stands on two—my hands, and his eyes."
The Pharaoh smiled. "Then let him serve in my house. Architect, artist, and the one who knows how to listen to stone."
The procession moved on, the drums thundered again, but I remained kneeling until the last echo faded. The necklace weighed heavy, the chalice trembled in my grasp.
Panes leaned close and whispered: "Remember this day—not for the gold they placed on you, but because you were born anew. Not as a slave, but as a man whose name will outlive his body. Yet the higher you stand, the stronger the wind that strikes. Be ready."
And I knew he spoke true. That day I gained honor, a home, and a name. But with it also the burden—that I must grow wiser than all, if I wished to survive among both gods and men
That evening, after the ceremony and the drums, I was led to my new dwelling. It was a modest house on the edge of the royal gardens, with a courtyard, a workshop, and a sleeping chamber. Not large, but entirely my own.
Compared to the bare hall where I had slept for years among eunuchs on a hard mat, it was another world. Here was a table for papyri, jars of pigments, space for tools, and even a small terrace from which I could see the palms in the garden.
When I entered, they placed on the table the Pharaoh's gift—the silver chalice, in which the flame of the lamp shimmered. The heavy golden necklace still weighed on my chest until I removed it. I set it beside the chalice and for a while watched how they shone together.
I sat on the bed, for the first time in my life only my own, and realized that though I had a house and honor, I was still a slave. Not a slave of the court anymore, but a slave of the Pharaoh himself. My master was no longer a warden, but the man who held the life of Egypt in his hands.
I touched my hands. They were calloused from ropes, stained by ink from papyri. And I remembered.
The day when I was fourteen and sold into the palace. The moment they took my manhood so I would pose no threat. The first lamps I lit in the northern hall. The first mistakes, for which I was punished. And Panes, who nevertheless chose to teach me.
And now I was twenty-two. Eight years had passed like water, and I was no longer a boy. No longer a shadow.
But not yet a free man.
I placed my hand on the wall of stone. It was cold, yet firm. My name was not carved into the temple, but the Pharaoh had spoken it before priests and men. And that was a seal no chisel could erase.
I extinguished the lamp, lay on the bed, and listened to the silence. I knew that tomorrow a new task would come—for he who is given a house and honor is given also more work. But that night, for the first time, I slept not as a shadow, but as a man whose name was borne by the temple of the gods.
The first morning in my new house had a strange taste. I awoke to the rustle of leaves from the royal garden, not to the snoring of dozens of eunuchs beside me. The air smelled of damp grass and incense from the temple carried on the wind.
I stepped out onto the small terrace. Sunlight reflected off the water in the basins of the garden and lit the white walls of my house. It was modest, but clean—and most of all, silent. In the courtyard stood a jar of water for washing; on the table lay fresh papyrus and jars of ink.
Shortly after sunrise, two scribes and one overseer came to show me the space where I would work for the Pharaoh. They led me into an annex by my house. It was a room with high walls, a single small window, and many empty shelves.
"This is your workshop," said one of the scribes, a young man with a sharp voice. "Here you will draw plans and prepare designs that go directly to the Pharaoh."
But his eyes did not linger on me long. It was clear he disliked that a eunuch—someone he would have dismissed as nothing only yesterday—now had a room of his own to design for the ruler.
"And this," added the overseer, opening another door, "is the room for tools and materials. Whatever you need, you will send a request. You are no longer bound to the supplies of the eunuchs."
The words sounded neutral, but the tone carried bitterness. I heard the unspoken: You, a slave, now have more than we do.
When they left, I remained alone in the workshop. I ran my fingers over the empty shelves, imagining them filled with my drawings, patterns, and models. It was an emptiness calling to be filled with creation.
I sat at the table, unrolled papyrus, and felt my hand reach for the calamus. I drew the first line—not a plan, not a pillar, only a simple wave. And that wave became the flow of the Nile carrying ships toward the temple.
At that moment I realized I was no longer just the pupil copying Panes' drawings. I was the one who would create my own.
But joy had its shadow. That very day the whispers began. When I stepped into the garden, I heard eunuchs passing by. They muttered: "The one who not long ago lit lamps now sits like a lord." And priests who passed me smiled too tightly, as if to say: We will see how long this lasts.
I closed the door of my workshop and sat in silence. My own house, my own room, my own workshop—I had all of it. But I knew that with it I had also gained new eyes watching my every step. Not friendly eyes, but envious and sharp.
And so I told myself: "I must be not only better, but wiser. For in this house, it will not be work that kills me, but envy."