The next day, I decided I couldn't keep it inside anymore. I needed to talk to someone I trusted. So I went to Karem. He was sitting in the courtyard, sharpening his sword, and he noticed me right away.
"You look like you've got something heavy on your mind," he said, setting the stone aside. "Sit."
I sat across from him. For a while, I stayed silent, not knowing how to begin. Then I took a breath and spoke directly: "Karem, I have to show you something. But promise me what I say stays between us."
He raised an eyebrow but nodded. "All right. Speak."
I hesitated, then looked him straight in the eyes. "Think back. Since you've known me… have you noticed anything strange?"
He frowned, rubbing his jaw. "No… maybe just that you always seem to have more sense than most men. But otherwise? No, nothing strange."
"Look harder," I said quietly. "How many years has it been since we met?"
"Eight," he answered without hesitation.
"And now look at me. Do you see anything different? Age, face, body?"
Karem froze. He studied me closely, and his eyes slowly widened. "Wait…" he muttered. "That's impossible. You haven't changed. At all. I've aged, gotten stronger, picked up scars… but you… you look exactly the same as the day we met."
I nodded. "And that's my problem. I realized long ago that I can't die like others. We've seen that on the battlefield together. But this—not aging… that's different. That's something I can't hide forever. People will notice. And then… what?"
Karem stayed silent, his face serious. Then he sighed. "If you hadn't pointed it out, I never would've noticed. I saw you every day and took you as you were. But you're right. As more years pass, it'll become obvious."
"And that's what scares me," I admitted. "It's good that I can't be killed. That protects me, and it lets me protect others. But immortality without aging… that's a curse. What do I do when people start whispering? When they start believing I'm not human?"
Karem put a hand on my shoulder. "Don't speak about a future no one's seen yet. You're right, it's a problem. But maybe there'll be a way to cover it. Maybe fate will lead you to an answer. Until then… you're not alone. I stand with you."
He stared at the ground for a moment, then that typical smile crept onto his face—the one he used when he wanted to lighten a heavy moment. "You know what? Maybe you should try what most men do when life weighs them down. Go to the women. Ease yourself, forget for a while… at least then you wouldn't think about not aging."
I shot him a sharp look. "No. That's out of the question."
He lifted his hands like he was surrendering. "Fine, fine, just a thought. But honestly… you can't be serious all the time."
"I can't waste time that way," I answered flatly. "You know that."
Karem sighed, his smile turning a bit sour. "Then at least don't refuse me this. Wine. Or beer. We have plenty, and you know in this land life doesn't run without it. Just once, sit and drink with me. Not as a councilor, not as a teacher… but as a friend."
I hesitated, but his look was honest, almost pleading. At last, I nodded. "All right. But only a little."
"Only a little," he laughed. "That's what everyone says before waking up on the ground."
He stood, offered me his hand, and added: "Come, I'll find a jug of the best beer the storehouses have saved. And tonight you'll drink with me, whether you want to or not."
Karem gestured toward the doorway. "Wait here," he said, and left. A few minutes later he returned with a clay jug and two cups. He set them on the low table and poured the dark liquid, which carried a strong smell.
"Here," he handed me a cup. "And no excuses. Tonight you'll forget your worries."
I took the cup. "I told you, just a little."
"Sure," he smirked, raising his own. "What do we drink to?"
"What do you say?" I asked.
"To the fact that we're still alive," he answered without pause. "After all we've seen, that's reason enough."
I nodded, and we both drank. The taste was bitter, but not unpleasant. I felt it slide down my throat and warm my stomach.
Karem took a big gulp and sat closer. "You know, Amenemhet, sometimes I feel like you carry the whole weight of Egypt on your shoulders."
"Because I do," I said calmly.
"Maybe," he nodded. "But even so… you're still just a man. And men need to breathe. Laugh. I fear before every battle, but I know afterward there'll be a moment like this. Beer, a friend, a little peace."
We sat quietly for a time, both sipping from our cups.
"You're right," I admitted finally. "But I don't know if I can allow myself that."
"Tonight you can," Karem smiled and refilled both cups.
This time, I didn't refuse.
We sat across from each other, cups between us. The beer smelled strong and disappeared in slow sips.
"You know," Karem said with a sigh, leaning back against the wall, "when we sit like this, I almost forget who you are. But then I see you with the Pharaoh, or at council, or leading us in battle… and I know it eats at you."
I stayed silent, drinking slowly, tasting the bitterness.
"I've told you before," he went on. "You're not like the others. Maybe you never will be. But sometimes I think… if you let yourself go, even just a little, maybe life would be easier for you."
I looked at him. "And what would that bring me? A moment's joy? And then years of pain when it's gone? I… I can't have what others can. For me it would just be a memory that breaks me."
Karem frowned, thinking hard. Then he threw back his cup in one go. "That's the worst part," he said. "You're right. Even if you let someone in, one day you'd just watch them age and leave. And you… you'd stay."
Slowly, I nodded. "Exactly. That's why I keep my distance. Because if I didn't, I'd pay a higher price than anyone else."
Karem ran a hand through his hair and stared into his empty cup. "It's like a curse," he murmured. "A strong weapon, but the worst punishment."
"It is," I agreed. "And that's why I must live differently than others."
We sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant sounds of the city and the night. There was understanding in it. He knew he could never truly guide me on how to live. And I knew he'd never lie and say it wouldn't hurt.
Finally, he lifted his cup as if there was still something in it. "Then here's to you lasting through it. To you not losing your mind before your path ends."
I lifted mine and nodded. "And here's to you never doubting that your years matter."
We both laughed. Bitter, but honest.
But the cups weren't empty anymore. Karem had brought another jug, and now we were both leaning against the wall, heads heavy, voices loose.
"You've got a good tongue when you drink," Karem laughed, slapping my shoulder. "Otherwise you're too damn serious."
I rolled my eyes and chuckled. "And you're too loud when you drink. The whole city knows you're drunk before you even open the tavern door."
Karem roared with laughter until he nearly toppled over. "So tell me something from your… old life. Not the heavy things. Something funny."
I thought for a moment, took a sip, then nodded. "All right. When I first came here… remember how I tried speaking your language?"
"I remember," Karem grinned. "You spoke like a child choking on bread."
"Exactly," I laughed. "Once, I tried asking a woman for the way to the temple. But instead of 'temple,' I used the word for 'latrine.'"
Karem burst out laughing. "No! You didn't!"
"I did," I said, serious even as tears of laughter stung my eyes. "She showed me the way—straight to a pit full of filth. And like a fool, I went, thinking I'd find priests there."
We both laughed so hard we couldn't breathe.
"And then what happened?" Karem gasped.
"Then I met an old man there," I continued. "He looked at me, nodded, and said, 'So the gods finally sent help here?' And I told him, 'Yes, the latrine god sent me!'"
Karem clutched his stomach and fell sideways. "Enough, I'll die laughing!"
I laughed too, covering my face with a hand. "I still don't know if he understood me, or if he just thought I was insane."
We laughed until we both had hiccups, then leaned against the wall again, still smiling.
"You know," Karem said, wiping his eyes, "you should tell stories like that more often. Then people would see you're not just the serious counselor, but also a man who can be… normal."
"Normal," I echoed, chuckling. "Maybe for a moment. But only a moment."
Later, when I saw our cups were empty and Karem was leaning heavier against the table, I raised my hand.
"Enough," I said. "If we stay longer, we'll say things best left buried."
Karem snorted but nodded. "Maybe you're right. Or maybe you just don't want me to hear more than I should." He smiled, though his eyes were heavy.
I stood, patted his shoulder, and let him head home. My own steps dragged as I walked. It had been a long time since I drank like that, and my head spun more than I liked to admit.
When I entered Neseret's house, she was standing there with her hands on her hips. Her eyes were narrowed, her face tense.
"Amenemhet," she said sharply, "what were you thinking? Drinking with soldiers like a boy, and coming back here as if you'd lost your senses?"
I stopped, trying to stand straight. "I drank," I admitted. "Maybe more than I should have."
"Maybe?" she repeated, folding her arms. "Do you know how it looks? Like a man who cares for nothing. And you're the one the Pharaoh relies on!"
I stepped closer and took her hands. I felt her tense, angry, resisting. "Neseret," I said softly, "forgive me. I didn't mean to disappoint you. You know I care for you. More than you know."
Her eyes widened, anger flickering. She started to speak again, but when I embraced her, she stiffened, then slowly exhaled.
"Amenemhet…" she whispered, no longer angry. "It just worries me. I'm afraid of what you'll do one day."
I pulled her closer. "Don't be. I'm here. I'll never hurt you. Or your son."
Her body softened, her head resting against my chest. I felt her breath slow, her anger fading.
"All right," she murmured at last. "But if you come back like this again, I won't forgive you."
I smiled faintly. "I won't test that. I promise."