In the years after the temple's completion, they no longer called me "that eunuch." I was the Pharaoh's architect. When I stood before the court with a new design, all knew that a line I drew could become a stone that would endure for centuries.
For the Pharaoh I drafted pylons in Memphis, a sanctuary to the god Re in Heliopolis, and smaller chapels along the borders where soldiers prayed for protection. Once he even entrusted me with the design of gardens at his palace—he wanted lotuses to bloom there all year, and I devised a way to bring water so they would never wither.
For each papyrus that pleased his eye, I was rewarded. Some would have squandered it—buying jewels, feasts, women. I could not buy women, and jewels were nothing but burdens to me. So I turned my rewards into something of lasting value.
I purchased land—small fields along the Nile. On them I had figs, dates, and vines planted. I kept a few cattle, donkeys, and two cows that gave me milk. Not hundreds, as the great lords possessed, but mine. Or rather—not mine, but the Pharaoh's. I was only the steward whose name appeared on the accounts.
The gardens I tended served another purpose. I gathered flowers, herbs, and roots. I learned which plants healed wounds, which soothed pain, which brought sleep. I began mixing my own salves and draughts. Soon word spread that the eunuch-architect could also heal. Once soldiers brought me a wounded man, and I stopped his bleeding with a brew from leaves others would have called weeds. From that day, they named me also "the one with the hands of a physician."
From the stables I learned of animals. Especially horses—nervous and proud, yet I could whisper to them until they calmed. One commander once told me: "You can tame stone and beast alike. That is a gift."
And the soldiers gave me more than horses. They taught me how war thinks. By night they scratched shapes of phalanxes and formations into the sand, and I sketched them onto papyri. They laughed at first that a eunuch wanted to understand battle, but when I proposed a better way to defend the bank of the Nile, they ceased their laughter.
Thus I grew. Not only as an architect, but as a scribe, a healer, a keeper of animals, a knower of plants, and slowly, a strategist.
And people began to speak my name. Not only at court, but among free Egyptians. When I entered the market, farmers nodded, for they knew that the eunuch who once lit lamps now designed temples and healed wounds.
But I never forgot—I was still a slave. All I possessed belonged to the Pharaoh. What belonged only to me was the wisdom I carried in my head. And that was a wealth no one could take away.
It was one of the quieter afternoons in the palace when I was summoned to the Pharaoh. There were no drums, no procession. Only two guards who led me into a private garden where the ruler sat on a stone bench. In his hands he held a cup of wine, and in his eyes was a weariness I had never seen before.
"Amenemhet," he addressed me directly. He no longer called me "slave." "Sit."
I obeyed. I sat on a stone opposite him, my head slightly bowed.
"For years I have watched you," he continued. "At first you were only a shadow carrying lamps. Then you gave me a temple more beautiful than any before. And then you showed me that your hands can heal and your eyes can see war. There are not many men like that."
He lifted the cup and drank slowly. "You are not free. You know this. But even a slave may have power—if he knows how to use it wisely. And you are wise."
The words struck me in the chest. It was not a command, not flattery. It was truth from the lips of the ruler himself.
"I want you at my side," he said. "Not only as an architect. As an advisor. You will be with me when I decide on war, on building, on offerings to the gods. You will be the one who tells me what others will not—or cannot—say."
I bowed my head. "My lord, I am your servant."
The Pharaoh smiled. "Yes. And now more than ever."
There was a silence. Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice. "One of my women carries a child. None yet know it—only I, and now you. When it is born, it will be not only of my blood, but of my hope. And you, Amenemhet… you will care for it. You will guide it and teach it."
I drew breath but did not answer. The words resonated in me like the beating of a drum. Me—a eunuch, who could never father a child—was entrusted to raise his.
"Do you understand?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, my lord," I whispered.
The Pharaoh set down his cup. "Then today you have taken on the greatest task of your life. Greater than building temples, greater than healing wounds. You will be guardian of the future."
For a moment his gaze passed beyond me, as if he already saw the child not yet born. Then he rose and left. The guards led me back, but my steps were heavy, as though I bore an entire temple on my shoulders.
That day I understood: I was no longer only architect of the gods, nor even advisor to the Pharaoh. I had become something I had never expected—the future teacher of royal blood.
A few days after my conversation with the Pharaoh, I was summoned not by guards but by servants from the inner chambers. They led me through corridors I had never before entered—quiet, fragrant with oils and flowers, guarded by women of the gardens. There, in the shade of delicate curtains, one of the Pharaoh's wives awaited me.
She sat on a low bench, dressed in a white linen robe that barely concealed the rounding of her belly. Her eyes, dark and weary, fixed on me.
"You are Amenemhet," she said softly. "They say you can heal. That you know herbs, and that your hands can stop bleeding and ease pain."
I bowed low. "I try, my lady."
She was silent for a while, then laid her hand on her belly. "I carry the Pharaoh's child. All tell me the gods will protect me. But I want to hear from you—that all is well. That I need not be afraid."
Her voice trembled, though she tried to appear steady.
I knelt beside her, gently placed my hand on her wrist, and felt her pulse. It was steady, strong. Then I leaned closer, listening to her breath. At last I drew back and smiled softly.
"My lady, your body is strong. The child grows in peace. There is no sign of danger."
Her shoulders loosened. "You speak the truth?"
"I swear by the gods and by my own name. Rest, take care of yourself, and all will go as it should."
For a moment, tears shone in her eyes. "Thank you, Amenemhet. You may be a eunuch and a slave, but your words have given me more peace than all the prayers of the priests."
I bowed again and withdrew, yet her gaze remained with me. That day I realized my task would not be only to build stones or to teach a child. I would be guardian of peace—for the mother, for the child, for the future.
And though I could never be a father, in her eyes I had, for a moment, seen the trust a woman gives only to the father of her child.