When I passed through the streets of the city, I felt dozens of eyes on me. To them I was a stranger – a man who dressed differently, who spoke their tongue in a strange way, who walked as though he saw further than an ordinary mortal.
I didn't stop. I needed no questions, no suspicion. I needed a place to be alone.
Outside the city I found a small hill, covered in reeds and shrubs. From there I had a clear view of the settlement, and it seemed right to sit there. The bustle of the streets was far enough, and only the wind kept me company.
I lowered myself onto a stone and rested my hands on my knees. The sun was sinking, painting the sky in orange and red, stretching the shadows of the walls.
I breathed deeply.
"Where do I even begin?" I said aloud.
The gods had sent me back in time. They told me I must help bring them into being, that without it Egypt would fall. But here, before my eyes, I saw no gods. I saw no powerful temples full of hymns and offerings – only raw stone, crude altars, and priests who themselves seemed unsure.
I was just a stranger. An eunuch turned servant, given a task no man like me should have carried.
I pressed my face into my palms. Her face rose in my mind – Cleopatra.
Her laughter when, as a child, she pushed me into the bath and laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks. Her anger when I tried to send her away from danger, and she forced me to yield to her will as princess. Her tears when I finally admitted I had once loved her.
And that last moment… when she kissed me, and I could not return it.
"Why did I only tell her at the end?" I whispered. "Why did I think it would help?"
Because I had nothing left to lose. The gods had stripped away my love. That was why I could speak the truth – without desire, without pain. Just words.
But now, far from her, I felt emptiness deeper than any wound.
"They all forgot me," I muttered. "That was their gift and their punishment. For them I never existed. For her too. And her fate… her fate they told me clearly."
My fists clenched. I could hear their voices in my mind: she would marry a man from Rome. She would bear his children. But she would end alone, stripped of power, and take her own life. Afterward they would call her greedy, selfish, cruel.
"And me?" I asked the empty air. "I sit here in the past, wondering if it's worth it."
I pressed my hand to the stone beneath me.
"The gods don't yet exist. Not as I knew them. Perhaps they are only faint voices, ideas in people's minds. And I'm to be the one to give them form, to give them strength. But why me? Why not another? Why an eunuch, a slave, a man who lost everything?"
I remembered the years in the Pharaoh's palace, repairing shrines, restoring temples. I thought it was only labor, nothing more. But maybe that was the plan. Maybe every stone I laid was a test.
The thought twisted in my chest.
"Or maybe none of it matters. Maybe I will change nothing. Maybe Egypt will fall no matter what I do. Maybe my path is only a long mistake."
I gave a bitter laugh.
"I left her. I gave her my truth only when it meant nothing. I lost her before I ever had her. And now I'm supposed to save a land that will never even remember me."
I lifted my eyes to the sky. The sun was low now, the sky red.
"If this is my task, then so be it. But you gods – you who aren't yet born, who wait for stone and sacrifice to give you shape – do you even know what you ask of me? Do you know what I've given up?"
Only the wind answered.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.
"Maybe I should start with a temple. Maybe I should go to the queen they call Sobekneferu. Maybe she is the key. But what if she isn't? What if one wrong step bends all of Egypt into ruin for centuries?"
I let out a harsher laugh. "How could I know? I'm no god, no prophet. Just a man told he has a purpose. And if I fail, then Egypt fails with me."
After a while I drew the feather of Ma'at from my cloak. I stared at it, long and hard.
"Cleopatra wore this. It was a reminder of truth. And now it's the only thing I have left. Maybe that's the sign – that truth is the only thing I must hold to. Not power, not love, not glory. Just truth."
I closed my fist around it.
"Yes. I will begin with Sobekneferu. But first I must know who she is. What rules this city. Only then can I show myself. Otherwise I'll be nothing more than another outcast driven away."
I stood.
Smoke rose from the city's hearths, the streets still loud even as day ended. The palace rose above the houses – plain, heavy, but clearly the place of power.
"This is the beginning," I said quietly. "And whether it has meaning… we'll see."
I stepped down from the hill and back toward the city.
When I returned from the hill back into the city, I realized I was not ready yet.
Yes, I knew my purpose – to find Sobekneferu, the ruler of this time, and begin the task the gods had placed into my hands. But I also knew that if I went to her now, without preparation, it would end badly.
I only half-spoke their language. I knew the words, but the forms were different – shorter, harsher. It was like hearing my own tongue, but centuries younger. Just a few sentences were enough for them to realize I was a foreigner.
And then there were their customs. I did not know how they made offerings here, how they honored the gods, what order ruled their society. Perhaps it was entirely different from the one I knew. If I started speaking like a man from the future, they would think me mad or a liar.
No. First I had to learn.
"Before I begin, I must be like them," I told myself quietly. "First the language. Then the customs. Only then can I speak of temples and gods."
---
The next day I began simply. I walked through the market, listening, watching.
A fish seller shouted: "Fresh! From the river!" I understood the words, but his accent was sharper, the sound rougher. Another man sold cloth, women bargained for prices. Every sentence was a lesson for me.
I began storing the new forms and new words in my memory. Some I whispered under my breath, trying to shape them the way they did. People gave me strange looks, but they left me alone.
I knew the best way to learn a language was through work. So I offered my help. At the gate, men carried sacks of grain. I pointed to my shoulders and said: "Help." At first they laughed, but when I lifted one sack easily, they nodded.
All day I carried grain, listening to their conversations. I learned that they called a "house" by a different word than in my time. That their word for "king" was not yet "pharaoh," but only "nesu" – ruler.
By the evening, when I sat down at the well, I felt I understood a little more. Not everything, but enough to know I was learning quickly.
---
On the third day I went to a workshop where men shaped tools. I watched their hands, their instruments – hammers, chisels, ropes. Some were cruder, but the principles were the same.
I pointed to a chisel and asked: "What do you call this?" The man laughed, spoke the word. I repeated it. He laughed again and nodded.
That was how I learned – each day new words, new objects, new phrases. When I helped with the work, they gave me bread or a little beer. It wasn't much, but enough to survive.
At night I slept by the river. No one offered me a house; I was still a stranger. But they no longer looked at me with suspicion. More like a curiosity who tried.
---
On the fourth day I understood I needed to know their rituals as well. So I went back to the temple.
The priests chanted around the altar, where stood grain and a jar of water. It was not the chant I knew – no rhythm, no precise words. More a murmur, repeated again and again.
I studied them. I noticed each began the ritual by smearing ash on his forehead. That the sacrificial bread was broken into three pieces, not two as in my time. That after the chant, they knelt only once, not several times.
These small differences mattered. If I knew them, I could speak their language – not just with words, but with customs.
---
By the fifth day I realized that though I was a foreigner, people were growing used to my presence. Children no longer hid from me; one girl even brought me a fig. Men I worked with sometimes explained a word or showed me how to tie a rope knot.
Every such moment was a victory. Not because I felt welcome, but because I was becoming part of their world.
---
On the sixth day I sat by the fire with two older men. They spoke of the Nile. I caught words like "flood," "field," "grain." Slowly I joined in, asking simple questions. They laughed, corrected me, but with patience.
I was learning not just language, but how they thought. For them, the Nile was everything – life, death, divinity. Every sentence returned to it somehow.
That was when I understood: if I wanted to lay the foundation for the gods, I must begin with the Nile. It was their bloodline, their link.
---
On the seventh day I could already form full sentences. Still clumsy, but people understood. When I asked about Sobekneferu, two men at the gate frowned. The word "queen" they spoke sharply, with both reverence and fear.
"She… powerful," one said. "Hard. Fear and respect."
That was enough. Sobekneferu was a ruler both feared and believed in. A good sign.
---
When I returned that evening to the hill overlooking the city, I knew the first step was done.
"I am not ready yet," I told myself, "but now I know how to begin."
I had to master their tongue, every word. I had to know their rituals, their customs, their way of thought. Only then could I go to Sobekneferu.
If I didn't, I would end as just another foreigner, chased away. But if I became one of them – at least on the surface – then I could bring what I had learned in my own time.
And perhaps that way I would fulfill the task the gods had given me.