Audience with the Pharaoh
When I was summoned, I knew it would not be an ordinary command. There were no crowds of officials, no drums or trumpets. Only me, the Pharaoh, and a few guards standing in silence like statues.
The Pharaoh was not seated in golden robes as when receiving envoys. He wore a simple cloak, and in his hand he held the seal with the feather of Ma'at. He looked not like a ruler, but like a man carrying an entire kingdom on his shoulders.
He looked at me and spoke quietly, yet firmly:
"Amenemhet. How many years has it been since you came to the palace?"
"Twenty-three years, my lord," I answered.
He nodded. "I remember when you were only a boy. Without a name, without a voice, just another eunuch among many. But you showed me eyes that saw more than stone. I remember the temple you repaired when everyone expected you to fail. I remember standing before your work and, for the first time, you spoke my name without fear."
He took a step closer, as if he did not want even the guards to hear.
"Since then you have given me more than anyone else. Temples that still stand while others have fallen. Ships that fly on the Nile faster than the wind. You cared for my wife when I could not. And when Cleopatra was born, it was you who first held her. Not me. You. You taught her to write, to read, to play. She gave you a name that only she uses."
For a moment I felt something rising in my throat that a slave should never have—tears. But I held them back.
The Pharaoh paused, then continued in an even quieter voice:
"More than once I told myself, if you were not a slave, you would stand beside me as a brother. But the world is not so. And yet—more than the priests, more than the generals, I trust you. That is why you will go."
He raised the seal of Ma'at and placed it into my hands. The metal was cold, but his gaze was burning.
"People whisper of the gods' punishment. They speak of breaths that suffocate men at night, of stones that change their place, of water that behaves strangely. The priests want more offerings, the generals want more blood. I want the truth. And you will bring it to me. Not as an architect, not as a healer, but as a wanderer. You will go to the people, sit at their fires, listen to them, and return with a word that is not a lie. Even if it wounds me. Even if it shames me."
I bowed deeply. "As you command, Pharaoh. If the gods grant me strength, I will bring you the truth."
In that moment, his face changed for an instant. It was not the expression of a king, but of a man laying down his burden. And I felt that even though I wore chains, even though I was a slave, his trust made me more than that.
---
The Shadow Behind the Curtain
As I bowed and left the audience, I sensed something I knew too well—the faint breath of someone trying to hide. The curtain did not move, but I knew she was there.
Cleopatra. No longer the child I had carried in my arms, but a seventeen-year-old princess. Her face and body had grown into her mother's beauty, yet her eyes still held the same fire she had carried since her first steps.
I said nothing. If I had, she would have rushed straight before the Pharaoh. And I did not want her father to know she had been listening.
---
Preparing for the Journey
I took only what was necessary: a cloak, a small knife, a waterskin, some herbs, and my flute. Anything more would have been a burden.
I left my animals with a boy from the harbor. "Care for them as if they were yours," I told him. He looked up at me with wide eyes and nodded. "Yes, master." The word "master" stung—because I was still a slave.
I departed before dawn. The guards barely noticed. I was meant to be a wanderer, not the Pharaoh's confidant.
---
The Desert and the Footsteps
I passed through several villages. I listened to women speak of breath in the night, to men who swore stones moved on their own, to old men saying the water no longer tasted the same. Each story was a piece of a puzzle, but not yet the whole picture.
On the fourth day in the desert, walking alone, I heard footsteps. Light, yet stubborn.
"If you're hiding," I said aloud, "you're doing it badly."
And from the sand, she emerged.
---
Cleopatra
Cleopatra stood before me, face dusty, hair tied with cloth. Her eyes bright, determined.
"Mehet!" she exclaimed—the name only she called me. "I'm going with you!"
My heart struck so hard it hurt.
"Princess!" I burst out. "This is not a game! This is not a bedtime story I once told you. This is the desert. Death!"
Tears shimmered in her eyes, but her voice was steady: "That is exactly why I must go! You spoke of heroes who walked where others feared. I want to see what you told me. I want to live it, not just hear it."
"Go back!" I shouted, anger burning in my throat. "This is an order!"
She raised her chin, her voice sharp with a tone I had never heard from her: "No. I am the Pharaoh's daughter. You are my slave. I order you—you will not send me back!"
Her words struck like a whip. They were true. She had power, I did not. And yet… they hurt, because between us there was more than commands.
I was silent for a long time, duty battling with something I could never speak aloud.
"Very well," I said at last. "You will come. But you will listen. If I say hide, you hide. If I say silence, you are silent. If I say run, you run. In the desert there is no second chance."
She took a deep breath and nodded. "I swear it."
---
By the Fire
That evening we sat by a small fire. I gave her bread and figs, and she ate quietly. When the sky filled with stars, I played a few notes on the flute—the same ones she had known since childhood.
"Mehet," she said softly, "why did my father send you?"
"The general would look only for enemies, even where none exist. The priest would look only for guilt. I seek balance. That is why he sent me."
She stared into the flames, her face solemn. "He knows you will tell him the truth, even if it hurts."
Her voice warmed me and wounded me at once. There was more trust in her than I deserved.
I looked at her. She was no longer the little girl I had once carried. She was a princess. And I knew I had to protect her from everything—even from my own heart.
Beneath the Stars
That night the sky was clear, and the stars seemed closer than I ever remembered. Cleopatra lay beside the fire, her hands folded under her head, her hair spread out across the sand. She looked as though the desert itself belonged to her.
"Mehet?" she called softly, not like a command but like a secret.
"Yes?"
"Do you remember when I was little and afraid of the dark?"
I smiled. "I remember. Every night you pulled at my hand and said, 'Play for me, or I won't sleep in peace.'"
She laughed and covered her mouth, as if embarrassed. "And you always played the same melody. I still know it."
She closed her eyes and hummed the tune. My throat tightened as I listened.
---
Her Memories
"I remember other things too," she continued. "I remember when I fell and cut my knee. Father was at war, Mother was ill, but you were there. I remember you always told me that even a Pharaoh's daughter may cry—but only when she is alone."
She stared into the fire, her face serious.
"And do you know? I don't remember my childhood with Father. I don't remember him teaching me. I remember you. You were always there."
Her words fell on me like stones. I was a slave, and yet—in her eyes, I was more.
---
His Reply
"Cleopatra," I said quietly, "that is not your fault, nor his. The Pharaoh carries Egypt on his shoulders. But I… I was only a shadow meant to keep you company."
"Not a shadow," she cut in sharply. "Never a shadow. You were the voice that told me the world is more than duty. You were the hands that lifted me up. You were… my teacher."
Silence fell between us. Then her voice softened. "And do you know what I thought, when I was small? That when I grew up, I would be like you. Wise, brave, and not caring what others said."
I looked at her—into eyes that burned with fire. She was no longer a child. And I felt myself breaking.
---
His Thoughts
What can I tell her? I am a eunuch, a slave, a man whose body was taken but whose soul still burns. All these years I have guarded her, taught her, kept pain from her. And now, sitting before me as a woman, my heart cries for what I must never claim.
"Cleopatra," I said at last, "if I have been your teacher, then learn this as my greatest lesson: a person never belongs only to themselves. Neither I nor you. I belong to my master. You belong to Egypt."
She turned toward me, her eyes blazing with defiance. "Perhaps I belong to Egypt, but my heart belongs to me. And I will decide to whom I give it."
---
Morning in the Desert
When dawn broke, we walked in silence. The wind was sharp, the sand heavy underfoot. Yet her steps were steady. She was no longer a princess playing at adventure. She was a woman walking beside me—and I knew that every step between us was changing our fate.