Lauren Haney: Place of Darkness

They were standing on the upper terrace Bak had seen from afar, in reality a portico which, when completed, would span the front of the temple. The twin rows of columns, square in front, sixteen-sided behind, covered by roof slabs, were split into two segments by the wide gap in the center, yet to be completed. Two oversized painted statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut in the form of the lord Osiris had been erected against the two northernmost ex-terior columns. Similar images would be placed all along the portico, looking out across the valley for all the world to see.

Bak looked down upon the unfinished, lower colonnade he had glimpsed from the causeway. To either side of the ramp, which he assumed would ultimately be finished as a stairway, two rows of columns were being erected to form a portico. Just a few at each end had been built to their full height, with roof slabs in place. The roof of this lower portico, when completed, would form a broad, open terrace in front of the upper colonnade, which stood above and slightly behind the retaining wall that contained the earth on which the temple was being built.

In front of the lower colonnade, the sloping terrain had been leveled to form a flattish surface, a terrace of sorts. To the north, the high side of the valley floor and a part of the fairly steep slope at the base of the cliff were being cut away and a retaining wall built to hold back the hillside. Another retaining wall was being built to the south to hold in place the dirt and debris shifted from north to south to build up the low side of the terrace.

Raw stone newly taken from the quarry, and roughly shaped blocks whose purpose was impossible to guess, shared the terrace with stone cubes to be made into square columns, drums to become sixteen-sided columns, rectangular slabs for lintels and jambs, architraves and roof slabs.

Scattered here and there, sometimes singly and sometimes in groups, were dozens of statues of Maatkare Hatshepsut in various stages of sculpting, from roughed-out blocks of stone to nearly complete sitting or standing figures or images of reclining human-headed lions. To the east, where the terrace fell away to merge into the landscape, the remains of an old mudbrick temple, neglected and crumbling, was gradually being consumed as the terrace was extended.

Scattered among the stones were the craftsmen who were shaping and polishing parts of columns and statuary, and the workmen who provided unskilled labor. The skilled artisans dwelt in villages outside the valley along the edge of the floodplain, while the other men lived in huts built in a shallow hollow between Djeser Djeseru and the ancient temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. These men had come from throughout the land of Kemet, men whose crops had been gathered, leaving them free to serve their sovereign. They had been pressed into duty to haul stones, dig ditches, build walls, whatever they had to do to pay off their debts or those of the noblemen on whose lands they lived, or to repay with labor offenses against the lady Maat.

To either side of the terrace, men toiled at the retaining walls, those to the north cutting away the slope, those to the south shaping and placing the stone blocks. A ragged line of youths carried dirt and debris by the basketful from the high side of the terrace to the low. Other boys walked among the men with donkeys, carrying skins of water. Well over a hundred men and boys whistling, laughing, calling out to each other, or talking among themselves. None afraid of malign spirits, at least in the light of day.

A nearly naked man, a workman if the dust and sweat covering his body told true, raced up the rubble ramp down which materials were moved from the terrace to the men building the southern retaining wall. He sped through the clutter of stones, drawing every eye, silencing the laughter and talk. Clearly agitated, he stopped among the columns below. “Pashed! Sir! I must speak with you, sir. Right away!”

The architect looked at the workman and at Amonked, his face a picture of indecision. Amonked was an important man, while the workman’s message might well be as urgent as he appeared to believe it was.

“Go to him,” Amonked said. “We’ll await you here.”

Pashed hurried away with the workman, both soon to vanish behind the southern retaining wall.

“Another accident?” Bak asked.

“I pray not.”

They strode to the southern end of the unfinished colonnade and tried to see where Pashed had gone. Thanks to the vagaries of construction, they could look down upon a new shrine to the lady Hathor and the four men laying foundation stones, but the incomplete segment of wall that would close off the end of the colonnade blocked their view of the area along the base of the retaining wall. They saw a dozen or so workmen standing about, looking toward the wall and talking among themselves, but Pashed was nowhere to be seen.

With Amonked unwilling to intrude unless summoned, Bak resigned himself to waiting.

Standing on the edge of the terrace, he looked across the workmen’s huts to the ruined memorial temple of Nebhepetre Montuhotep. It was as he remembered it, yet vastly different. The mound of rubble in the center was lower, the remaining columns had decreased in number and fewer were standing, none to their original height. Two men scrambled among the ruins, and even from a distance he could see they were searching for stone that could be recut and reused. A small crew of workmen levered the blocks the pair selected onto wooden rockers, which they used to raise the stones onto sledges. These were towed by another team of men from the old temple to the new.

Amonked pointed toward the center of the ruin. “You see the mound of stones that might once have been a pyramid-

or whatever it was? The three rows of fallen and broken columns that once formed a covered walkway around the mound? The wall enclosing those columns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That, my young friend, is exactly the plan Senenmut started with. Same size, same shape, but set well forward of the older temple. Clearly his inspiration was not unique.”

Bak had the distinct impression that Amonked did not share his cousin’s affection for Senenmut.

“Was the building ever started?”

“Over a hundred men toiled here for several months.

When they went home to harvest their crops, he altered his plan. I’m not sure why. My cousin came out here, and perhaps she suggested something more worthy, more unique.”

“Sir!” The same workman who had come for Pashed stood among the columns below. “Pashed wishes you to come right away, sir. You and Lieutenant Bak. The matter is urgent, he said, most urgent.”

“Bata found a body in an ancient tomb.” Pashed flung a hasty look at a reed-thin workman who was shaking so badly another man had to hold a beer jar to his lips. The architect was standing in front of a rough hole in the sand that opened near the end of the incomplete retaining wall. He looked gray around the mouth, beleaguered. “A man struck down from behind.”

Bak knew no man long dead and buried would rouse such strong reactions. “The body is fresh?”

“So it looked to me.”

“Who is he?” Amonked demanded.

“I don’t know. I didn’t draw close. Nor did Bata, so he says.”

Bak thanked the lord Amon. With luck he might find some sign of the slayer. Or maybe he should thank the so-called malign spirit for holding back all who would otherwise have trampled over the scene.

“I’ll need a good, strong light,” he said, eyeing the dark opening.

The short, stout foreman responsible for building the wall, Seked by name, sent a workman off to get a fresh torch. The foreman’s grim expression and a tendency to rub the ugly scar running across his forehead betrayed his outward calm as a sham.