When I stayed in the city longer, I began to notice that people no longer looked at me only as an outsider. At first, it was just a hesitant nod, then a cautious smile, and finally, they started calling me over. At first out of curiosity, then with requests for advice.
It wasn't because I performed great miracles. No. It was the small things that changed life.
I saw a blacksmith blowing air into the fire, and when he stepped away for a moment, the coals cooled down. I told him to make a small hole and insert a clay tube through which he could blow while sitting. At first, he laughed, but when he saw the iron stay hot longer, he fell silent, and from then on he always did it that way.
To the weavers, I showed that if they stretched the warp threads on the loom tighter, the yarn tangled less. At first, they cursed that it was harder, but when they made a cloth that didn't tear, they realized it made sense.
To the farmers, I advised collecting rainwater in clay-lined pits instead of waiting only for the Nile's flood. They laughed, saying the water would vanish, but when they saw it last longer than they thought, they began passing the idea on.
But the greatest weight came from my knowledge as a healer. Here, illnesses were seen as punishments or signs. Priests advised sacrifices, but they rarely helped. When I appeared, people began to see that not everything came from the gods—that some things could be healed by reason.
Once they brought me a man with a wound on his arm. It was red, full of pus, and smelled foul. They were already preparing for his death. I cleaned the wound with water and herbs I knew, then wrapped it with clean cloth, changing the bandage every day. A week later, he was working again. People said I had driven out an evil spirit, but I knew I had only stopped filth from killing him.
Another time, they called me to a woman who had been in labor for two days and the child would not come. Her husband begged the priests for help, but they only chanted prayers. I didn't hesitate to act. I saw the child was turned wrong. I tried to guide it with my hand. It was hard, the woman screamed, but in the end, the baby was born. Weak, but alive. The village said I had touched the secrets of the gods, but it was only what I had seen before.
Step by step, I earned their trust. I wasn't a priest, I wasn't a soldier, but people started coming to me. First in secret, then openly.
The priests began noticing. Some only watched from afar, others came to me. One of them, young, asked me why I always used water on wounds. I explained that water washed away filth. He didn't understand, but he tried it too.
The elder priests weren't so friendly. They looked at me with suspicion. They knew I was taking their power. They were supposed to answer questions, to bring healing—and suddenly there was someone else showing different ways.
Once, a priest with a sharp voice came to me and asked:
"Who gave you the right to do what you do? You are not of our blood. You are no servant of the gods."
I looked him in the eyes and answered:
"Who gave me the right? The ones I helped. Everyone who can walk again, everyone who can breathe again. That is my right."
He didn't answer, only walked away, but I knew it wasn't over.
Not everything was tense, though. One evening, I sat by the fire with a man whose son I had saved after falling from a fig tree. He gave me a piece of bread and said:
"The queen must see this. We need men like you at the throne, not just among the common folk."
That was when I understood that my place would no longer be only in the alleys among the people. Word about me would reach higher. And there, it would be decided what came next.
---
The path from a stranger to someone trusted wasn't quick. It took many months.
I learned to speak in their tongue, even if some words I still had to translate in my head. I learned their customs—when they ate, how they celebrated, what songs they sang while working.
I learned not to speak too much at once. Every piece of advice I gave little by little, as if it was their idea, not mine. That way, I wasn't a threat but a helper.
And that became my greatest weapon. Not strength, not power, but patience.
I waited, knowing that one day, someone from the palace would summon me. And when a man came to me, thanking me for saving his son, I knew that time was close
Day later
They summoned me to the palace at dusk.
The messenger who came was not an ordinary servant, but a guard with a bronze spear and the bearing of someone who answered only to the throne. He did not ask; he commanded. Still, his eyes softened when he spoke. "The queen wishes to see the healer who works among the people. You will come."
I followed him through the narrow streets, past stone walls and torches that cast long shadows. The palace rose above the city like a dark shape against the red sky. It was not grand like the palaces of my time—it was simple, stern, built for strength more than beauty. But its weight pressed on me all the same.
Inside, I passed through a hall where guards stood on either side, silent as stone. Their eyes followed me, not hostile, but watchful. The air smelled of oil lamps and crushed herbs, and faintly of smoke from the offerings outside.
At the far end, upon a seat of carved stone, sat Sobekneferu. She wore no crown, only a simple diadem across her brow, and her dress was linen, plain but flawless. Her face was calm, unreadable. Only her eyes—sharp, weighing—moved as I approached.
"Come closer," she said. Her voice was steady, low, but it carried across the chamber.
I bowed, lowering myself to the stone floor. "I obey."
She studied me for a long moment before speaking again. "They say you heal the sick. That you mend wounds priests call cursed. That you speak words no one taught you."
"I only use what I know," I replied carefully.
"And where did you learn it?" she asked, leaning forward. The question cut sharper than a blade.
For a moment, silence filled the hall. Guards shifted slightly, their spears glinting in the torchlight. She was not asking out of idle curiosity. She wanted to know if I was a danger, a liar, or something worse.
I chose my words slowly. "I traveled far, my queen. Lands beyond the desert, beyond the rivers you know. There I saw healers who cleaned wounds with water, not incense. I saw women who knew how to bring children safely into the world. I carried what I learned with me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Far lands? Few return from them alive. And yet you come not only alive, but with knowledge even my priests do not hold."
I lowered my head. "Perhaps the gods allowed me to see these things, though I am not worthy to claim it. Perhaps it is only that I watched closely while others looked away."
The queen was silent. Her gaze lingered on me, heavy. Then she gestured to a guard.
A man was brought in, limping. His leg was wrapped in linen, stained dark. When they unwrapped it, the flesh beneath was swollen, red, oozing. The smell filled the hall. I heard whispers among the courtiers—curse, punishment, death.
Sobekneferu's voice was calm. "My priests say he will die. That his flesh rots because of a spirit that clings to him. If you claim to know another way, show me now."
The man groaned in pain, clutching the seat they set him on. I knelt, ignoring the whispers around me.
"Bring me clean water," I said. The guards hesitated until the queen nodded.
I washed the wound carefully, removing the filth. The man whimpered, but I kept working. I pressed herbs I carried in a small pouch—crushed leaves with a sharp scent—into the wound and wrapped it with fresh linen torn from my own garment.
When I finished, I stood. "He will live if the bandages are changed each day. If the wound is kept clean. The spirit that clung to him was filth, nothing more."
The hall murmured, half disbelief, half fear. The queen raised her hand and all fell silent.
"You speak against my priests," she said slowly. "Yet you act with certainty."
I bowed my head. "I do not speak against them, my queen. Only for life. If I am wrong, the man will die. If I am right, he will walk again. Judge me then."
She leaned back, her eyes unreadable. "And if I allow this, what do you seek in return?"
I hesitated. This was the true test. To ask for nothing would make me seem weak. To ask for much would mark me as ambitious.
Finally, I said: "I seek only to serve. Give me a place where I may work—where I may help your people. Nothing more."
Her eyes softened, though her voice did not. "You speak humbly. Too humbly, perhaps. But I will allow it. If this man rises again, you will remain here under my protection. If not… you will not see another dawn."
I bowed deeply. "As you command."
She dismissed the court, but as I turned to leave, her voice called me back.
"One more thing," she said. "If you have traveled as far as you claim, then you know things we do not. Speak truthfully now: do you believe the gods are with us? Or do you believe, as some whisper, that we are alone?"
The hall grew still. Even the guards seemed to hold their breath.
I lifted my head and met her gaze. "I believe the gods watch. But they do not give freely. They wait to see what we build for them. If we give them temples, rituals, honor—they will answer. If not, they remain silent."
For the first time, I saw the queen's lips curve—barely, but enough. A trace of a smile.
"Then perhaps," she said, "you and I are not so different."
She raised her hand. "Go. We shall see if your words are true."
I bowed once more, then left the hall. The torches flickered behind me, and the murmur of voices followed like a tide.
Outside, I exhaled for the first time since entering.
I had spoken carefully, revealed just enough to gain trust, not enough to reveal the truth—that my knowledge came from elsewhere, from times and hands no one here could imagine.
But I knew this was only the beginning. I had placed one stone. Now the foundation would follow.