On a night when the moon stood high above Alexandria, the Pharaoh summoned me. His face was grave, his eyes restless.
"Amenemhet," he spoke, "the time has come. My wife is in labor. There is no one else to whom I would entrust her life and the life of my child. You have never failed me—therefore I ask you now, be with her."
I bowed low to the ground. "My lord, I will do all that is within my power."
They led me into her chambers. The air was heavy with the scent of oils and sweat. Handmaidens rushed about, their faces pale with fear. On the bed lay the Pharaoh's wife, her body writhing in pain, her hair plastered to her brow.
I knelt beside her, laid my palm upon her hand. "Breathe with me," I said softly. "Do not fear. The child will be born, and you will live."
I ordered warm water, clean linen, and the herbs I had grown in my own garden—mint to calm her, flax oil to ease her body, lotus blossoms for their fragrance, so her mind would not fix only upon the pain.
Hours passed. Her body strained, her cries mingled with the prayers of the handmaidens. Sweat poured down my brow, yet I kept my voice steady. I guided her breath, placed warm compresses, massaged her belly, whispered words I recalled from old texts on childbirth.
Then came the moment when the birth halted. Her breath grew weak, the child seemed unwilling to come. The women began to weep.
"Silence!" I commanded. "No one will weep. The mother must feel strength, not fear."
I took her face in my hands. "Listen to me," I told her. "You can do this. Once more. With all your strength."
And she cried out, her body arching… and the child was born.
I received her in my own hands—a girl, slick with blood and water, crying with a voice that filled the chamber. I wrapped her in clean linen and laid her in her mother's arms.
Tears streamed down her face as she smiled. "My child… my daughter…"
I knew then she held in her arms one who would one day change history. But to me, she was simply a fragile being that breathed and lived.
When I stepped before the Pharaoh, I bowed low and lowered my head. "My lord, it is a daughter. She lives. And your wife is safe."
The Pharaoh rose, his voice firm. "Amenemhet, today you have given me more than a temple, more than a ship. You have given me the life of my daughter. From this day forth you are not only my counselor, not only my architect. You are my right hand."
The Pharaoh still stood in the chamber as I placed his newborn daughter in his arms. His gaze softened—for the first time I saw not only power upon his face, but pure fatherly love.
"Amenemhet," he spoke in his deep voice, "I have already told you—you will be by her side. I want you to teach her everything you know. Your knowledge, your craft, your wisdom. She must grow into a woman whose name Egypt itself will carry."
I bowed my head. "My lord, it shall be my duty and my honor."
Then I dared to lift my eyes. "But allow me to swear more. Not only will I teach her. I swear I will protect her—from anyone who would seek her harm. I swear my life will stand between her and danger, until the gods themselves take my breath away."
The Pharaoh studied me for a long time, as though searching my very soul. At last he nodded. "That is an oath only one can give who no longer belongs to himself, but to his purpose. If you keep it, your name will stand beside hers in the songs of ages yet to come."
I bowed even lower, my heart pounding like temple drums. In that moment I knew my life was no longer my own.
I stood there—slave, eunuch, counselor—and swore to guard the child who did not yet know even her own name, yet was destined to one day rule the world.
And in the shadow of the gods, I felt my vow had been heard.