The next day, I went to the palace early. The guards let me in without trouble. They knew me now from the audience. They took me to a small room where the man lay on a low bed. His bandage was soaked, but the smell was less than the first day. Good.
"We change it," I said. I asked for clean water and cloth. They brought them. I used a little of my wine. I rinsed the wound, carefully removed dead tissue, spread a thin layer of honey, and tied it. The man hissed with pain but endured.
A scribe stood at the door, writing on a clay tablet. He watched everything I did. He said nothing. When I finished, he nodded.
"Tell the queen," I said, "the wound is healing. It must be dressed every day. The arm must stay clean. No mud, no dust."
The scribe noted it and left.
When I left the palace, a young priest was waiting. He gave his name as Kasa. His face was clean, his clothes neat, his eyes full of questions.
"I saw you yesterday in the city," he said directly. "People speak of you. I want to know why you use water and honey."
"I will show you," I said. "Come this afternoon to Neseret's house. See for yourself."
He came. He watched my hands as I washed a farmer's wound. He watched as I cleaned a child's eye. He asked:
"Why wine?"
"It kills what harms," I answered.
"Why honey?"
"It keeps the wound clean and moist. It heals faster."
Kasa nodded. He was not dismissive. He said: "I will try this in the temple for small wounds. If they don't drive me out."
"Don't let them drive you out," I told him. "Wash your hands first. Then touch people."
Kasa smiled. "That is not our custom."
"Maybe it will be," I said.
On the third day, the elder priest himself came, with two younger men behind him. They stood in the yard without greeting. The elder asked flatly:
"Who taught you this?"
"Old physicians in Alexandria," I answered. "And midwives."
"This city is not Alexandria," he said harshly. "This is the city of the queen. Customs do not change without the temple."
"I do not change customs," I said. "I wash wounds so they don't rot. I help a child breathe."
"Wounds are cleansed by smoke and words," he said.
"Smoke does not wash dirt," I replied calmly. "Words do not close a wound."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he said:
"They will call you. You will answer. Not me. Us."
I said nothing. I did not run. I stood in the yard and finished my work. The priests left.
Later, Kasa came quietly. "That elder's name is Heri. He has influence in the temple. He watches you."
"Let him watch," I said. "I have nothing to hide."
---
By those days, more people came. News spread quickly. They did not say "he healed me." They said "he helped me." That was enough. People came with sprains, cuts, fever, painful urination, and work injuries. Each one got the same instructions: water, cleanliness, rest, herbs later. If they had no cloth, Neseret gave them from the washed ones we kept.
Sometimes people brought food or small things. I never asked. When they gave, I took. When they had nothing, I asked nothing. I wanted them to know they could always come.
At night, I repeated to myself simple rules:
Always wash wounds with water, then cover.
Tools washed in wine.
Eye cleaning only with boiled water, cooled.
Fever = water, shade, herbs. No smoke in the face.
Broken bones – straighten, splint, tie. Rest.
Do not rub eyes, only wipe gently.
Births – warmth, calm, skin to skin, patience.
On the second visit to the palace, I again dressed the wound. The scribe noted everything. When I left, a steward told me: "The queen hears that the man lives. She is pleased for now."
"For now," I repeated. I remembered those words.
By the third visit, the man's wound smelled less. The healing had started. The scribe nodded again.
That night, Neseret asked me simply: "Why do you do this? Why help people when you ask nothing?"
"Because I know how," I said. "And if I know and do not act, it is wrong."
"Many know, and still do nothing," she replied.
"They are elsewhere," I said. "I am here."
She said nothing more.
---
By the seventh day, palace men came again. Not for the wound this time, but with a message:
"The queen wants to know if you have a place to work. If not, she will give you a small room near the storehouses."
"I stay in the house of Neseret," I said. "I work there. People know where I am. Call me only if needed in the palace."
"Good," said the steward. "We will tell her."
That night, three more people waited at the door. They no longer knocked. They knew the yard was open. They knew they would not be turned away.
The city remembered houses, not names. I was no longer just a man by the river. I was the man in that house.
In the following days, I kept treating the people. They already knew they could come to me if something went wrong, something they couldn't handle themselves. Sometimes it was small things – a cut hand, a rash on the skin, bad water. Other times it was serious – high fever, wounds from working with stone or cattle. I always tried to do my best.
But not everyone was satisfied. Heri, the man who had disliked me from the very beginning, was still waiting for a chance to shame me. And that chance came.
One morning, they brought a man with a deep wound in his leg. He had cut himself while working with stone. The wound was dirty and already beginning to rot. I knew that if I didn't clean it, the man could lose his leg.
I told him to sit down and prepared the herbs I had. I crushed them into a paste, mixed it with wine, and began to clean the wound. The man screamed in pain, but he had to endure it.
Then Heri shouted. "You'll kill him!" he cried so everyone could hear. "That's not how wounds are treated. You're only hurting him. If he stayed home and left it to the gods, the wound would heal by itself."
People began whispering. Some nodded at Heri, others just looked at me. I felt that if I didn't act now, I would lose their trust.
I stood up and turned to them. I spoke slowly so everyone would understand. "If the wound stays dirty, the rot will spread, and the man will die. You've seen it happen before, haven't you?"
A quiet "yes" came from an old woman. Another man also nodded.
I continued: "The gods gave us plants to use them. Water, wine, herbs – all these are gifts. When we use them, we help life. If anyone says we should not, let them show us another way to save his leg."
I turned to Heri. "Well then, Heri? Do you know how to do it better? Can you stop the rot without cleaning the wound?"
Heri stood silent. His face froze. The people waited for his answer, but none came.
Then I knelt down again and continued cleaning the wound. I showed them all that I was not afraid of responsibility. In the end, I bandaged the leg with clean cloth and said: "Every day, we must do this again until the wound closes. If we do, the man will walk. If not, he will die."
The people started talking among themselves. This time, though, they weren't doubting me – they were doubting Heri. And I knew he had seen that too.
---
That evening, when everything was quiet again, Neseret came to me. She brought some food – bread and dates. "You convinced them again," she said softly.
I smiled. "Not me. The truth. The people saw with their own eyes what happens when a wound is left untreated."
She handed me the bread. Our fingers touched, and I noticed she didn't pull away. She let the touch last a little longer. Her eyes looked into mine with silent admiration. She didn't say more, but that gesture said everything.
I sat down to eat, and she sat across from me. "People are talking about you," she said. "Some are afraid of you. Others think you are a gift. I only know that you do things no one else here can do."
I put the bread down. "It's not magic. Just experience. I've seen much, learned much. Now I just use it."
Neseret smiled. "Maybe. But even so, it feels different. When you're here, it's as if people have hope. And that's something they don't often remember in this place."
We sat quietly for a while. I could feel her gaze even when she tried to hide it. Sometimes she gently touched her neck, as if to cover her shyness. Then she stood and left.
---
The next day, I went back among the people. The man with the leg wound already looked better. The wound was cleaner, the swelling smaller. The people saw it. And although Heri still muttered something, no one was listening to him anymore.
I started noticing that even the priests were watching me. My name was spreading. What I did was no longer hidden. And I knew this was the beginning.
But for me, it wasn't just work. It was also the quiet of the evenings when I returned to Neseret. Her looks, her small gestures – the way she handed me a jug of water, the way she prepared a place for me to sleep. It wasn't an open confession, but it was clear she felt something for me.
And though I knew my heart was empty, I felt that these moments reminded me what it meant to be human among humans.