During the height of the Eighteenth Dynasty in the New Kingdom of Egypt, the land was ruled by the mighty Pharaoh Amenhotep II. Among his many sons was a young prince named Thutmose, a youth of extraordinary vigor, piety, and skill. Though he was a prince of the royal blood, Thutmose was not necessarily the primary heir destined for the throne; he lived his days in the courtly shadows of his older brothers. However, Thutmose possessed a restless spirit that often drew him away from the bustling city of Memphis and the administrative centers of the Nile valley, leading him instead into the vast, silent reaches of the Western Desert.
Thutmose was a renowned charioteer and an expert hunter. He spent his hours training with the bow, racing his horses across the gravel plains, and pursuing the desert fauna—lions, gazelles, and wild cattle—that roamed the edges of the Giza Plateau. To the young prince, the desert was not a wasteland but a sacred space, the domain of the gods and the resting place of the ancient kings who had built the massive pyramids that rose like artificial mountains against the horizon. Even in Thutmose’s time, these pyramids were already well over a thousand years old, relics of a distant and glorious past.
On one particular day, the sun was at its zenith, casting a relentless, golden heat across the sands of Giza. Thutmose had been out since dawn, exercising his horses and competing with his companions. As the midday sun began to beat down with a ferocity that made the air shimmer, the prince grew weary. Seeking respite from the blinding glare, he turned his chariot toward the massive limestone figure that sat at the edge of the pyramid complex: the Great Sphinx. At this time in history, the Sphinx was not the fully visible monument we see today. Centuries of neglect and the shifting winds of the Sahara had caused the desert sands to pile up against its massive frame, burying the lion-bodied statue up to its neck and shoulders. Only the enigmatic head, wearing the royal nemes headcloth and the uraeus serpent, rose above the yellow dunes.
Thutmose dismissed his attendants and lay down in the narrow strip of shade provided by the Sphinx’s giant head. The coolness of the shadow and the rhythmic breathing of the desert wind soon lulled the exhausted prince into a deep and heavy slumber. As he slept, the mundane world of sand and stone faded away, and his spirit was touched by the divine. In the stillness of his sleep, the Sphinx began to transform in his mind. It was no longer a silent statue of stone, but the living manifestation of the god Harmachis (Horemakhet), the ‘Horus in the Horizon,’ who was also Khepri, Ra, and Atum—the eternal sun god in all his phases.
The god spoke to Thutmose, his voice like the low rumble of a distant storm or the rustle of the dry reeds along the Nile. 'Look upon me, my son Thutmose,' the deity said, his eyes burning with a light that surpassed the sun. 'I am your father, Harmachis-Khepri-Ra-Atum. It is I who shall give to you the kingdom of the earth, the crown of the North and the South, and the throne of the living. To you shall belong the wealth of the Two Lands, the tribute of every foreign nation, and a long life of years.' The prince, though asleep, trembled at the majesty of the voice. The god continued, his tone turning from a promise to a plea: 'The sand of the desert, upon which I sit, is now pressing upon me. It chokes my limbs and covers my form. I have waited for you to do that which is in my heart, for I know that you are my son and my protector. Approach me, and I shall be with you, and I shall lead you to your destiny.'
When the god finished speaking, the vision began to fade. Thutmose felt the weight of the promise and the heavy responsibility of the god's request. He awoke with a start, the desert sun now lower in the sky, casting long, purple shadows across the plateau. The words of the god Harmachis echoed in his mind with a clarity that no dream could possess. He looked up at the weathered face of the Sphinx, seeing it no longer as a mere relic of the Old Kingdom, but as his divine father who had personally reached out to him from the depths of time. He understood then that his path to the throne was not through political maneuvering or the death of his brothers, but through a sacred pact with the gods themselves.