The old man, whose wound I was still treating, sat on a low bench in front of his house. Every day I cleaned and redressed his leg, applying a salve I had made from herbs I found along the Nile. The wound was slowly healing. The fever was gone, the swelling reduced, and he could stand, albeit carefully. It wasn't a miracle, but it was progress.
People in the street noticed. Some stopped to watch, others brought the old man bread or water. They whispered to each other that the man from afar knew things they did not.
And those whispers reached Heri.
---
On the second week, while I was changing the bandage, Heri appeared. Dressed in his white priestly robe, eyes narrowed, as though judging every move I made.
"Well, well," he said in a voice meant to sound kind but dripping with venom. "The old man still suffers. His leg is still weak. And you told the people you would cure him."
I looked up. "I never promised anyone it would happen instantly. The wound was deep and bad. But look – the swelling is gone, the pus has not returned, the fever is gone. That is progress."
Heri laughed, but there was no joy in it. "Progress? Your 'progress' means this man still limps. If we had treated him the way our people have for generations, he might already walk without pain."
The crowd that had gathered around us murmured. Some nodded at Heri's words, others looked at me with trust.
"Then show us," I replied calmly. "Demonstrate how you would treat him."
His lips curled. "It is not my task to fix your mistakes. But it is my duty to warn the people when someone brings foreign methods that corrupt our traditions."
I understood what he was doing—he wanted to turn the crowd against me.
"My methods are not foreign," I said firmly. "They are ways that preserve life. You would have cut off this man's leg to stop the rot. But I kept him whole. And he still sits here, alive and breathing."
The old man, who had been silent until then, lifted his head. "He is right," he croaked. "Heri wanted my leg cut off. This man gave me hope. I feel the healing. I am not dead, not crippled."
The crowd stirred. Clearly, Heri had not expected that.
His face darkened. "The words of a sick man mean nothing," he snapped. "And if you are right, if your method is better—let the queen herself judge."
He turned to the crowd. "Yes, let Sobekneferu see who speaks the truth. I will say this man deceives the people, and let her decide."
He didn't wait for my reply. He turned and left.
We all knew what it meant. The queen would summon me. And my deeds would be judged not just by the people, but by those who held power.
---
Three days later, two guards came. They said little. Only: "Sobekneferu calls you."
They led me into the palace. This time it was not a private meeting. Priests were gathered there, including Heri, along with several advisers. Sobekneferu sat on the raised platform, in a simple crown, no gold, only a staff in her hand.
Her eyes fixed on me. "It is said," she began, "that you heal people with methods not our own. It is also said that the old man with the wounded leg has not been helped, and that you only prolong his suffering. Is this true?"
I felt the weight of dozens of eyes. Heri smirked as though he had already won.
I drew a deep breath. "It is not true. The wound is healing. Slowly, but properly. His life is not in danger, and he will keep his leg."
Sobekneferu leaned on the armrest. "And can you prove this?"
"I can," I answered. "Bring him here. Let everyone see for themselves."
The hall stirred. Some priests muttered in disapproval, but Sobekneferu raised her hand. "Bring the old man."
---
An hour later they brought him. He limped, but he walked on his own. His wound was covered in clean bandages. His face was tired, but without fever.
Sobekneferu rose from her seat and descended to him. "How do you feel?" she asked.
The old man bowed as best he could. "I live, my queen. And I walk. This man did not cripple me. He saved my leg. I know it."
The hall fell silent. Heri's face paled, but he did not give up. "But his methods are foreign!" he shouted. "If we follow them, we forget our gods, our customs!"
I stepped forward. "They are not foreign. They are only different. The gods are not angered when a life is saved. The gods are angered when life is thrown away needlessly."
For a moment, silence hung in the hall. Then Sobekneferu spoke: "Heri, you speak of customs. He speaks of life. And I see that the man's leg heals. That is proof enough."
She turned to me. "Amenemhet, your ways will be watched. But as long as they bring life, not death, they have my permission. Continue."
Heri clenched his fists, but he could say nothing more. He knew he had lost this round.
---
After the audience, I left the palace. People watched me. Some smiled, others turned away. But I knew one thing—my place in this world had become stronger.
Yet I also knew Heri would not give up so easily. This was only the beginning.
When I left the palace, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, though my body was tired. It wasn't a victory to be celebrated, more a small step forward – but I knew Heri's power had been broken.
I made my way back to the house where I stayed. Neseret was sitting on the threshold, a basket of cloth in her hands. When she saw me, she immediately stood up.
"So you're back," she said, and in her voice was a relief she didn't even try to hide.
I nodded. "Yes. And this time it didn't end badly."
Her eyes lit up. "I heard what happened with that girl. People are speaking about it everywhere. They say Heri walked away defeated."
I sat down on the low step in front of the house. "The child lives. That is the only thing that matters."
Neseret knelt down across from me, resting her chin on her hand, and for a while simply looked at me. "I was afraid something would happen to you," she admitted softly. "Heri is strong, he has many followers. And you… you are alone."
I shook my head. "I am not alone. There are people who believe in what I do. And… I have you."
She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, but a gentle smile appeared on her lips. "Maybe more than you think," she whispered.
For a moment we just sat there in silence. The wind carried the smell of the river, children were playing nearby. It was a simple moment, without priests, without the throne, without intrigues. Just me and the woman who had given me shelter.
"I'm glad you're back," she said at last, her voice filled with sincerity I hadn't heard in a long time. "If you hadn't returned, it would have been…" She didn't finish the sentence.
"But I did return," I answered. "And tomorrow will come again."
Neseret smiled, placed her hand on my shoulder, and gave it a firm squeeze. "Then may tomorrow be better than today