I was born as Kheper, which means "the one who becomes." My mother told me it was the name of the scarab, the sacred beetle that rolls the sun across the sky. She said I was destined to become someone great. Back then she still believed that the gods listened to the prayers of the poor.
When my father sold me, the name Kheper remained by the Nile together with my childhood. To the slave traders I was nothing but "the boy," to the palace guards just "a piece of flesh."
At the court of Ptolemy I learned what it meant to be "safe." For the men who ruled, boys like me were a threat. Our eyes might stray toward the women of the harem, our hands might reach where they should not. So they led me into a small stone chamber.
There was no judgment there, no gods, only a eunuch with a cold gaze and a bronze knife. They ordered me to strip, tied my hands. I still didn't understand what was about to happen—until the pain tore me apart.
I screamed. Blood streamed down my thighs, my head spun. I felt something leave me forever. Not all of my manhood—they left me enough to survive—but they had taken my pride. They had taken my future.
When they untied me, I was no longer Kheper. A guard spat and said: "From now on you are Amenemhet—'servant of the god.' For the gods have already claimed you."
Amenemhet. A name that wasn't mine, a slave's name. It tasted like ash on my tongue. But I knew that if I didn't accept it, I would not live.
The first days in service were hell. The wound burned, the mockery of the other slaves burned even more. To the men I was no longer a man. To the women I was only a shadow, nothing to fear. To everyone else, I was lesser.
But I learned to watch in silence. Every day I noticed who bowed to whom, who avoided whom. I learned that power at court didn't only belong to the one wearing the crown, but also to those standing in the shadows.
And in that shadow, I was destined to remain.
After weeks of toil in the kitchens, one of the elder eunuchs noticed that I remembered things others forgot. Numbers, names, faces. He placed a papyrus and a reed in my hands. "Try," he said. My fingers were clumsy, but soon I could draw the sign for water, for bread, for god.
Every letter was an escape. Every sign meant I still had a future, even though they had stolen it.
And so Kheper became Amenemhet. The boy his parents had sold became a eunuch of the palace. And though I was only fourteen, in the eyes of the gods I was older than most men.
I didn't know what awaited me. Only that one day I would be more than just a servant.
At the court of Ptolemy XII, I was no one. Just another boy in a simple linen robe, without a name, without a past. My hands carried water, swept the corridors, brushed away dust that never vanished. There were dozens like me, and when one collapsed from exhaustion or a beating, another took his place.
No one knew my face. No one needed to know my voice. I was a shadow, and nothing more was expected of a shadow than to remain where it belonged.
And yet, I noticed everything.
Every day I watched the court. The king sat on his throne, surrounded by incense and gold, yet his eyes were weary. He had too many enemies and too few allies. Priests bowed low before him, yet whispered among themselves that his days were numbered. Roman envoys came and went, their faces cold as marble.
The women of the harem laughed as though eternity belonged to them. Their gowns smelled of oils, their breasts swayed with every step. I knew I could never touch them again. But I saw who did.
The guards thought a eunuch meant nothing. So they spoke freely before me. I heard their talk of thieves, of assassins, of priests who took more than they gave. I stored every word in my memory as if they were stones for a pyramid.
The hardest part was the silence. When no one notices you exist, you begin to doubt whether you even breathe. At night I lay on a hard cot, staring at the stars. I asked the gods why they let me live when they had taken everything that made a man a man. They never answered. But when dawn came, I rose again, ready to serve.
Thus the days passed. If you had asked anyone who I was, they would have said only: "one of the eunuchs." But I knew I was more. I was eyes that saw when others looked away. I was ears that heard when others kept silent. And one day, what I now only observed, I would use.
For now, I was a servant. Only a servant.
But even a servant can survive—if he remembers every word, every glance, and every shadow that falls across the court.