In the north-east corner of the plot stood another building which turned out to be his workshop, containing a large open space with rooms and passages leading off it. Light entered directly from the clerestory windows below the raised roof. He bellowed at his students and apprentices to leave and they hurried out obediently. On large tables and stands several works were in progress, recognizable body parts-fingers, hands, cheeks, arms, torsos- appearing from the hewn stones criss-crossed with rough black marks. But I was truly amazed to see, ranged along a shelf that ran the full length of the walls, countless white/grey plaster casts of heads-young, middle-aged and old, various classes-so detailed, so truly lifelike: the bristles of the chin, the delicate eyelashes of a girl, the warts and spots of an old woman; the wrinkles of time, the lines of character-all perfectly reproduced. Each head had its eyes closed, as if dreaming together of another world, a far-world beyond time.
‘I see you take an interest in my heads.’
‘They are so lifelike, one wonders when they will open their eyes and begin to speak.’
He smiled. ‘They might have interesting things to say to us.’
We sat together on a gilded bench in the corner of the room. Drinks were brought to us. Thutmosis sipped slowly and carefully from his cup, and I sipped from mine. A rich, deep red. Khety replaced his on the tray. I savoured mine, even though it was still early in the day for wine.
‘From the Dakhla Oasis?’
Thutmosis turned the jar towards him and read the marks. ‘Very good. Do you mind if I sketch you while we talk? My hands are only happy when they are working.’
He began to draw, his eyes roving over my face, his brush apparently working quite independently, for he never checked the marks he was making. First I asked him about his relationship with the Queen.
‘Can I call it a relationship? She is my patron, and, sometimes, muse.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She is my inspiration. I cannot put it better than that. I am the maker of her images, which is to say, with her consent I have the honour to embody her living spirit in the materials of stone and wood and plaster.’
‘I think I understand.’
‘Do you? It is a perpetual mystery to me.’
‘Perhaps you could explain, in layman’s terms, how it all works. The creative process.’
Thutmosis sighed, and continued to sketch. ‘The Queen believes it matters to work from life. In the past, makers have been limited to embodying the virtues and perfections of the dead. Why? All those works are simply respectful copies, only remotely connected to their inspiration in life. All those enormous statues, so epic, so political, and so very uninspiring-unless you consider awe the only emotional response of value in art. And no doubt they were fat and crass and silly as people, but lo, here they are, with the physiques of gods, all muscle and wealth and contempt! Let’s be honest, it’s limited. Don’t you think?’
He put aside his sketch and, shifting his position, began another. I was becoming an artist’s model. I was starting to feel uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Yet I was curious to see how he had portrayed me.
‘But you don’t work that way?’
‘No, I cannot. It turns the image-maker into nothing more than a social servant. The artist is completely anonymous. The work is formulaic, generic. Nefertiti is right: these are the dead forms of the past. You see, my ambition is not to
He looked at me expectantly, hoping I would join him in his enthusiasm. I sipped my wine.
‘May I ask how you proceed to create an image of the Queen? Where do you start?’
‘We would have private sittings over many hours, many weeks. She would sit here and I would work directly from life. A life study.’
‘And you would talk?’
‘Not always. I would not assume her wish to converse, and also I cannot chat when I am working. The concentration is intense. It sounds pretentious to say so, but one is barely in the world. Time passes swiftly. Suddenly the light will be fading, there will be more grey hairs on my head, the Queen will be smiling at me, and there under my hands-a likeness. An image. A form.’
Which was all a clever way of not answering my question.
‘And the Queen, how does she pass this time?’
‘She thinks, she dreams. I love that. To recreate her in the act of thinking, the mystery of the mind in motion…’
‘So you do not recall what you talked about? Or how she seemed at the last sitting?’
‘She was very quiet.’
‘Unusually so?’
He looked directly at me. ‘Yes, I would say so.’
‘And what were you working on?’
‘A superb bust. My finest work, I think.’
‘May I see it?’
He put down his sketching and considered my request carefully. ‘Do you have the proper permissions?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘I can show them to you if you wish.’
‘No-one has seen this work in progress except the Queen herself. She would not wish it to be made public. It is a private piece. It is so newly finished that she had not yet had time to send for it, before…’
‘Yes?’
‘What do you think has happened to her? I fear the worst. Everyone is saying she has been murdered.’
‘I do not know. But everything you tell me might help. Anything.’
I watched him carefully. There was a sudden, intense look of pain on his face.
‘I sensed she felt she was in some kind of danger.’
‘What do you mean?’
He paused, and looked at his restless hands as if they were two highly trained animals. ‘A woman of her intelligence, her power, her beauty, her position…her popularity.’
‘Is popularity a problem?’
‘It is when you become more popular than your husband.’
Dangerous words. He looked at me, acknowledging the trust he was placing in me.
‘It was Akhenaten himself who sent for me to investigate the Queen’s vanishing.’
He gave me a quick look but said nothing more.
‘It would help me greatly if I could see this latest work.’
‘Would it? I see it might. Yes, if it helps. I’ll do anything I can.’
We moved deeper into the heart of the house. Here it was cooler. Permanent shadows lay upon the walls and floors. At the undistinguished door of what seemed a simple storeroom he stopped, broke the seal and untied the cord from the bolts. He pulled open the door, which was heavily built within a stone frame. He lit a lamp and we entered.
Inside, the room was lined with wooden or stone shelves, its walls constructed of stone blocks. The air was dry, dusty. Beyond the little penumbra of the lamp the room disappeared into pitch black. He lit sconces, and gradually, one by one, in the flickering light, dim shapes-cowled under sheets, some on shelves, others as big as human beings, children or adults-crowded the room. I felt I was in the Otherworld itself. Thutmosis set the lamp on a shelf and brought down one of the shapes. Reverently he set it upon a small circular table. Then deftly he slid the sheet off the form and revealed to us-a wonder. He revolved the table, showing us the figure from all angles, enjoying our astonishment.
I knew her at once. The hair was worn bold, under a dark blue crown. It gave her an exceptional authority. The poise was intelligent, powerful, self-possessed, with a remarkable equilibrium and purity. The skin had a bloom of life as if capable of changing expression, with the pale clarity of someone who lives always within the affluent protection of shade. High cheekbones, and a face of grace and sensibility. The lips red, strong, intense. And one
