Architect of the Gods
Each day brought new tasks. The Pharaoh wished his name to echo in stone long after his death, and so he commanded me to design ever more monuments.
On the eastern bank of the Nile, I designed a sanctuary for Hathor—the goddess of love and music. Its reliefs bore the delicate shapes of cow ears, symbolizing her hearing, and its courtyard was adorned with columns carved like papyrus stems.
In the south, at Karnak, I drew plans for a great avenue of sphinxes to guard the path to the temple of Amun. Each sphinx was different, bearing details of the faces of priests and warriors who had fallen for Egypt.
Within Alexandria itself, I sketched designs for public baths—not for the nobles, but for the common people. I wanted them to feel that the waters of the Nile belonged to all.
My hands were often black with ink and dust, yet I felt that I was building not only with stone but with memory—memory that would speak of our age.
Poet Among the People
Yet I was not always drawing. At times, when I wandered into the streets, I sat among children and told them stories. Of how the Nile once rose as a great serpent to swallow the fields, but the gods tamed it. Of how the moon sailed the heavens in a silver boat, and the stars were drops of water that spilled from it.
People listened, laughed, clapped their hands. Once an old woman told me: "Your words are like bread. They feed even those who have nothing."
I began writing short poems—about lotus flowers, about the smell of baking bread, about the laughter of a child. These were not hymns for the gods, but songs for the people. And when they heard them, they carried them further.
Little Cleopatra
But most of my days were filled with her—the child I had sworn to protect. She could already stand, though she stumbled, and laughed when my hands caught her.
When she was restless, I took her out into the gardens. I showed her the cats playing among the palms, or the pigeons that perched on my shoulder. "Look," I told her, "these are your friends. Egypt is not only made of stone, but of life."
Sometimes I read to her from papyrus, though she did not understand. She stared at the letters and laughed as if they were pictures. And I told myself that one day, when she was grown, these words would belong to her.
At night, I played the flute until she slept. Her mother once whispered to me: "When she is with you, she is quieter than with anyone else."
And I felt then that my vow was not only duty. It was joy.
Time Flows Like the Nile
Three years since her birth passed more swiftly than I could have imagined. Just as the Nile returns each year to bring life to the fields, so too did little Cleopatra change with each passing day. She was no longer the infant I had once carried in my arms, but a child with steady feet, bright eyes, and laughter that could chase the shadows from any chamber.
The palace echoed with her laughter more and more. Sometimes, in the middle of an important council, the Pharaoh would turn his head aside when he heard his daughter's voice running down the corridor. Even the most solemn matters yielded to the sound of her steps.
First Words
Her first words were simple—mother, father, cat. She called the Nile "Nii," whenever she saw a map or when we walked near the river together.
And one day, as she ran through the garden and I caught her so she would not fall, she looked at me with the solemnity only a child can muster and called out:
"Mehet!"
I froze. I had never told her my name. I had never wanted her to know it. Yet she had found it herself—shortened, broken into a child's tongue, but hers alone.
From that day on, I was nothing else but Mehet to her. And when she laughed and called me by that name, I felt there could be no greater honor.
I never corrected her. My name belonged to the Pharaoh, to the priests, to the court. But to her, I was only what she had invented—and that was as it should be.
Her Curiosity
Cleopatra never stopped asking questions. Every day brought hundreds more.
"Why do the stars shine?"
"Why does the water flow?"
"Why does the cat always come back?"
And I answered. Not with complex words, not as a teacher in the temple, but as a man opening the world to a child. I drew a circle in the sand: "This is the moon, sailing its boat across the sky." I threw a stone into the water: "See the ripples? This is how a voice spreads when you speak."
I showed her my papyrus scrolls with drawings of columns, pylons, and statues. She stacked small bricks on top of each other and laughed when her little tower fell. "Why did it fall?" she asked. And I explained: "Because the foundation must be strong. Just as a person must stand on strong legs."
Games in the Garden
The palace gardens became our world. The cats that wandered between palms never feared her—they came as if they knew she belonged to them. The sandbox turned into our little construction site. We built small houses of stones and bricks. She decorated them with lotus flowers she picked and said: "This is my temple."
Sometimes I told her: "When you grow up, you will build temples for the gods." She laughed and covered her mouth with tiny hands.
Music
One day I brought her a small flute. I taught her to blow into it, though at first it made only rough bursts of sound. She grew angry when it would not play, stamping her little foot—but then laughed and tried again. When at last three clear notes came, she cried out with joy.
From then on, we played together—she making simple sounds, I weaving melodies. It was music no one else heard, music of two souls—one small, one forever in shadow—yet joined as one.
Stories Before Sleep
In the evenings I read or told her stories. Of how the god Re sailed the sky in his boat and fought the serpent Apophis. Of how Isis searched for the pieces of Osiris. But also my own tales—of a cat who wandered into a temple and became a goddess, of a bird who carried dreams across the desert.
She tried to repeat the stories, twisting the words and inventing her own endings. Sometimes the god chose to sleep instead of fighting, or the serpent Apophis began to dance. We laughed together until her eyes grew heavy.
Her Affection
At times, when the handmaidens came to take her, she would hide behind my legs and refuse to go. When I left, she ran after me calling: "Mehet, Mehet!"
Once, as I put her to bed, she held my hand and whispered: "Stay." And I stayed. I sat beside her bed, listening to her breathing until she slept.
A Talk with the Pharaoh
Later that evening the Pharaoh summoned me. He stood at the window, gazing at the Nile. "I see she has grown attached to you," he said. "And that is good. I want you to teach her. Not only to walk and play. Teach her about Egypt. About the gods, the people, about what it means to rule. Her heart must be wise, not only her hand strong."
I bowed. "I will guide her, Pharaoh."
In that moment, I understood that my role was no longer simply to protect. It was a path—from the stones I drew, to the words I wrote, to the child who was to become more than all else.
Cleopatra grew—no longer the small child who stumbled at every step, but a girl with keen eyes that remembered everything I told her. She learned quickly, her mind like dry earth that absorbed every drop of water.
Each day I was with her—at morning when she woke, at midday when she studied, at night when she slept. I taught her the signs of hieroglyphs, showed her how to recognize herbs in the garden, explained to her how to draw simple plans.
But I began to feel the weight. I had scarcely any time for my animals, feeding them only in haste. My flowers withered in the garden, for I could no longer water them as I once had. My architectural drawings lay unfinished upon the table.
Bound by Duty
I began to understand that the Pharaoh had bound me to her with invisible chains. I was no longer fully his advisor. When he spoke with his officials about temples or wars, often others stood in my place. I was meant to remain always at her side.
And so, though I had been a slave since the age of fourteen, I had never felt so captive as I did now. It was a strange bondage—not cruel, not painful, but unyielding.
Talks with the Pharaoh
Only at night, when all was quiet, did the Pharaoh sometimes summon me. We would sit together in his chamber or on the palace terrace. At times he poured me wine and spoke of his burdens.
"My own officials betray me," he said once. "The Greeks despise me, the Romans mock me, and the Egyptians endure me only because I bring them temples."
I listened, but I no longer had counsel as I once did. Tired, worn, I only answered at times: "You must endure, Pharaoh." And he nodded, as if even that small word was enough.
Talks with the Queen
His wife, Cleopatra's mother, also confided in me at times. We sat in the garden while the child slept.
"I feel myself aging," she said one night, her hand pressed to her face. "My beauty does not shine as it once did. I am no longer to him what I was. But my daughter is all that will remain of me."
I did not know what to say. So I simply nodded and answered: "But to her, you are everything. When she calls you, there is a love in her voice no one else can claim."
She smiled, though her eyes carried sorrow.
Change in My Heart
Cleopatra still called me Mehet. Never anything else. And I knew I had become her shadow—but a shadow that had drifted away from all else.
Sometimes I stood at the threshold of my house, looking at my animals and my garden, and felt they had lost me. Sometimes at night I recalled the times when I built temples and the people sang my songs. Now I had only one child, who had claimed me more than I could ever have imagined.
But when she wrapped her small arms around me and fell asleep with Mehet upon her lips, I knew that even if I remained bound forever to this duty, it was worth it.