The Silence of the Desert
On the fifth day, the desert changed. The wind had ceased, but the silence was heavier than shouting. No bird, no insect, no trace of animals. We walked, and the sand beneath our feet whispered as though it watched us.
Cleopatra kept to my steps. At first she was quiet, but at last she spoke:
"Why is it so silent here?"
"The desert has many faces," I said. "Sometimes it screams, sometimes it sleeps. But this… this is different."
"Different?" she echoed, and her voice trembled.
"As if something commanded all living things to be silent," I added.
She looked at me, and in her eyes for the first time I saw determination mingled with fear.
---
Stones That Move
A little further we came across a strange circle of stones. They were arranged in a pattern I did not know—neither Egyptian nor Greek.
"Shepherds?" she asked.
I knelt and touched the sand. "No. Shepherds would leave tracks that vanish like this. Look."
I showed her—the stones were shifting. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if they were breathing.
"Mehet…" she whispered, "they are alive."
"No," I replied, though my heart beat faster. "Not alive. But something moves them. And that something belongs to the gods."
She gripped my hand. Firmly, as she had when she was five years old. And I let her.
---
Talk by the Fire
When night fell, we sat by a small fire. The flames lit her face, no longer that of a child, yet not fully a woman—not in my eyes.
"Mehet," she began softly, "are you afraid?"
I smiled, but I did not answer.
"Because I am," she admitted. "But when you are here, it feels different. When I was small, I thought you were stronger than all the soldiers. And now… I still think you are."
I looked at her, and in my chest there was pain. If only she knew how many times I was only a fragile shadow, more frightened than anyone.
"I am not strong," I said at last. "I only know what must be done when the moment comes."
She leaned closer to the fire. "Then I will listen to you. Even when I am afraid. I swore it."
---
A Dream in the Desert
That night I did not sleep well. It seemed to me that figures stood over us—not men, not beasts. Women with the heads of birds, men with golden masks, bending over Cleopatra. One reached out a hand to touch her. I leapt up and seized her, though she was still asleep.
She woke, frightened, and whispered: "What is it?"
"Nothing," I lied. "Only a bad dream."
But when I looked at the sand beside her mat, I saw a mark—an imprint that no human could have left.
The Watcher in the Night
I looked at the imprint in the sand beside her mat. It was not human. Nor animal. It was a sign—that we were not alone.
At that moment I remembered the day years ago, when the Pharaoh placed his newborn daughter in my arms and said:
"Swear to me, by the gods, that this child shall never be left without protection. When I cannot be there, you will be her shield."
And I swore.
Now she lay beside me, no longer a child, but a princess. And I knew that to sleep would be betrayal. So I kept vigil, eyes on the desert, heart ready.
---
The Coming of the Temptresses
Out of the shadows of the dunes they came. Three figures, their bodies veiled in silks so thin the moonlight seemed to pierce through. Their hair was obsidian, their eyes burned like stars.
"Amenemhet…" they whispered.
Their steps left no trace. Their voices sank into my blood.
"You are not a slave," murmured the first.
"You are still a man," breathed the second.
"Take what is yours," lured the third.
---
Temptation
Their voices coiled around me, waking fire in my veins. I remembered that night long ago, when the Pharaoh's wife summoned me. It was then I learned that even without my "treasures," I could still be a man—able to feel, to enter, to give pleasure.
And now, as their breath brushed against my skin, as their breasts and hips glowed in the moonlight, my body betrayed me. It hardened, pulsed, demanded.
---
The Struggle
They could be mine. Three divine beings, fairer than any mortal women. I could forget the chains, the shame, the emptiness left within me.
But beside me she slept. Cleopatra. Her breath was calm, her brow untroubled. I had sworn to protect her.
And suddenly I knew—this was not a trial of flesh, but a trial of loyalty.
---
Refusal
I raised my hand and drove them back.
"No."
"Why?" hissed the first. "No one will ever know."
"We can give back what was taken from you," purred the second.
"Your body wants us. Why do you lie?" cried the third.
"No," I repeated. "Because I swore. And because… I love her."
I did not speak it aloud—only in my heart. She would never belong to me. She would never return my feelings. But that did not matter. The love I bore her was not for reward. It was for her safety. For the peace of her breath, even while the gods tested me.
---
Dissolution
Their faces hardened. Their eyes turned cold. Then their forms broke apart into dust of stars, carried away by the wind.
The air smelled of myrrh and smoke.
I sat down by the embers, my body aflame, my heart torn open. I looked at Cleopatra—she slept, serene, unaware.
And I knew I had endured. Not only because I was a slave who had sworn. But because I loved her—and my love was stronger than the pleasures of the gods, though I knew it would never be returned.