The months passed, and life in the palace settled into a new rhythm. The Pharaoh's wife recovered from childbirth, and I was by her side—not as a lover, but as the one who brought her healing herbs, massaged her body with oils, and assured her that her strength would return. At times, when we were alone, she looked at me with a smile full of gratitude, yet also carrying a quiet memory of the nights we had once shared. She no longer summoned me as often—not because she did not want me, but because she no longer sought only fleshly pleasure. She needed peace, and I gave it to her.
The child, her daughter, grew as swiftly as the rising waters of the Nile. When she cried, I would take up my flute and play a gentle melody. She would cease her sobbing and listen. It was as if she understood the sound was meant only for her. When she slept, I stood by her cradle, watching as though guarding a divine creation.
I had sworn that I would always be by her side whenever she needed me—and for me, it was no empty promise. Every breath she drew was proof that my life had purpose. I regarded her as my own child.
Meanwhile, the Pharaoh had not forgotten his decision. He entrusted me with the building of new temples—shrines to Isis and Osiris, meant to become the heart of Alexandria. When I showed him the plans, he leaned over the papyrus and his eyes lit up. "This is more beautiful than I had hoped," he said. And I knew I had given him more than a drawing—I had given him a vision that would endure for centuries.
But I was not only an architect. He began to bring me to audiences, to councils, to meetings with generals. I sat quietly, listening, but when he asked for my opinion, I dared to speak. Sometimes he only nodded, at other times he smiled—and I knew my words had shaped his decisions.
And then there were the moments that belonged to no one but him and me. In the gardens, by ponds filled with lotus blossoms, he would hand me the flute. "Play," he said curtly. And I played. The music drifted through the palms, over the water, and up to the stars.
The Pharaoh closed his eyes, listening in silence. When I finished, he opened them and after a pause said, "You play better than I do." He pretended to be annoyed, yet in his gaze was peace. From then on, he commanded me to play whenever he wished to be alone and free from the burdens of rule.
It was then I realized that though I was a slave, I lived a life I could never have imagined. I stood beside a man I admired—and though I could never say it aloud, I regarded him as a friend. I had beside me a woman who had given me more than intimacy. And I held in my arms a child I had sworn to protect as my own.
And in all of this, I felt joy that I had become what I was—a slave who had found, in chains, a path to things that no free man could ever dream of.
Life in the palace moved in its own rhythm—one day I stood beside the Pharaoh at his audiences, another I walked among the stones and masons building the temples I had designed. I often took papyrus and sat beneath the columns, sketching details of mosaics and pylons. Some days I inspected the foundations, others I spoke with foremen about how to lay the stones so they would endure for centuries.
But I was not only an architect. My house, given to me by the Pharaoh, became a refuge for animals. I had cats that came to me of their own accord—people said they were sent by the goddess Bastet. I kept pigeons, which I fed with grain, and even a dog, a gift from a soldier of the Delta. Each day I cared for them with my own hands. With them I felt a peace I found nowhere else.
Yet the greatest part of my heart belonged to the child—the little princess I carried in my arms when she was restless, and lulled to sleep with the music of my flute. When the handmaidens could not soothe her, they gave her to me, and I would hold her. The moment she heard my music, she ceased her crying and opened eyes that glistened like the dark Nile at night.
The Pharaoh, though a man of power, changed in her presence. He looked upon her as though he saw not only the continuation of his line, but his own redemption. Once he told me: "In a year's time, I will present her to Egypt. All must see that the gods have granted me an heir who will be great."
On the night before the celebration, the palace was like a beehive. Servants hurried about with bowls of spices, wine, and oils. Amphorae of Cretan wine, Nubian spices, and honey from Sinai were brought to Alexandria. In the kitchens, geese stuffed with dates and nuts roasted, whole lambs turned over the fire, and bakers prepared hundreds of loaves flavored with honey and sesame.
Foreigners arrived as well—envoys from Greece, merchants from Phoenicia, even messengers from Rome, who presented a carved ivory statue of the goddess Venus.
Morning of the Celebration
From dawn the sound of trumpets, drums, and sistrums filled the air. The people gathered before the palace—longing to see the princess, even if only for a moment. In the courtyards, garlands of lotus, palm leaves, and papyrus were hung, each checked by my own hand to ensure their symmetry upon the pillars.
At the gates stood priests in white robes, chanting hymns to Isis and Hathor, to guard the child. From the temple of Osiris they brought forth the sacred Apis bull—a sign of fertility and life.
The Pharaoh's Arrival
When the Pharaoh appeared in golden robes, the crowd fell silent. He walked slowly, with dignity, beside him his wife carrying the princess in her arms. I followed just behind, flute in hand.
"Egypt," the Pharaoh called, "behold your daughter, gift of the gods!"
The priests lit incense, musicians struck a hymn, and the people roared with joy. The child, as if sensing the power of the moment, began to cry. And I played. A soft, soothing melody drifted across the courtyard. Her cries ceased. The people saw and whispered: "It is a sign from the gods."
The Feast and the Gifts
After the ceremony came the feast. Tables bent beneath the weight of food—geese, fish, flatbreads, dates, pomegranates, figs, and wine. Musicians played as dancers from Thebes swayed with sharp movements of the hips, drums guiding their rhythm.
The envoys offered gifts:
The Phoenicians gave purple garments,
The Nubians brought gold and ebony,
The Greeks, carved amphorae,
The Roman envoy, the ivory Venus.
Each offering was laid at the Pharaoh's feet, proof that Egypt had an heir whose name would be known even beyond its borders.
After the Celebration
When the sun set and the guests departed, only we remained—the Pharaoh, his wife, the little princess, and I. In the quiet of the garden, the Pharaoh took his daughter in his arms, looked to me, and said:
"You see, Amenemhet, today Egypt has seen its future. And you were there. I will never forget that when my daughter cried, your tones brought her peace. You are her shadow, and her voice."
The Celebration in Full Splendor
The palace courtyards trembled with music. Drums, harps, and flutes played without pause, dancers swayed like the waves of the Nile. Tables bent beneath the weight of food—geese stuffed with dates, bowls of pomegranates and figs, jugs of wine from Crete. Priests chanted hymns, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and roasted meat.
The Pharaoh sat in a place of honor, his wife beside him with their little daughter in her arms. Guests bowed, offered gifts, and recited praises.
I stood nearby, ready should I be needed. Yet I felt the noise and glitter pressing down on me. This was not the Egypt I loved. True Egypt was not in golden bowls or foreign silks. It was out there—in the streets, among the people who lived by the work of their hands.
Slipping into the Streets
Quietly, I slipped out through a side gate. No one noticed—in that noise, even a cry would vanish. I passed the guards, who knew me well, and stepped into the streets of Alexandria.
There the celebration was different. People drank cheap wine from clay jugs, beat rough drums whose rhythms were raw but honest. Children ran between stalls, laughing, with pieces of bread dipped in honey clutched in their hands. Men sat by fires, women danced with bare shoulders, their laughter louder than any hymn in the palace.
Among the Common Folk
I walked among them, and no one looked at me as a eunuch or as some curiosity of the court. To them, I was just another man in a dark tunic.
I sat beside an old merchant selling olives and bread. He handed me a piece as if I were his neighbor, not a stranger. "Eat," he said. "Today is a feast, even for you."
The air smelled different here—of smoke, dust, and sweat. But in that scent was truth. Here, I felt Egypt.
I tossed a few coins to a musician playing the flute. He smiled at me with a toothless grin and played a melody I remembered from childhood—a simple folk tune. I listened and realized this was the music that held the country together. Not the lofty hymns of the palace, but these humble notes that everyone knew.
The Return
Late at night, as the stars bent low over the city, I returned to the palace. The court still feasted, guests shouted and drank. I slipped back to my place—in the shadow beside the Pharaoh.
But in my heart, I carried something else. I knew that if I was to teach the child who would one day rule, I must show her both—the splendor of the palace and the truth of the streets. For only one who knows both faces of Egypt can truly reign