She had become a young girl, her step surer, her gaze sharper. She no longer asked only why the stars shone, but why men chose loyalty or betrayal, why wars never ceased, and whether the gods truly listened to mortal prayers.
Sometimes her questions unsettled me—they were grave, adult, though her voice still carried the softness of a child.
Yet even as her mind grew, my name remained the same word she had invented years ago. Mehet. She never called me anything else. And I never wished it to change.
A Talk with the Pharaoh
One evening, when voices in the courtyard had faded and the stars lay across the sky like scattered grain, the Pharaoh summoned me. I entered his chamber, where oil lamps burned and the murmur of the Nile drifted through the open windows.
The Pharaoh sat long in silence before he spoke:
"My daughter grows. I see it in her step, in her speech. She is no longer a child."
He stopped and looked at me, his gaze heavy. "You are always with her, Amenemhet. Tell me… has the time come?"
I knew what he meant. In Egypt it was spoken plainly: the blood of women. It was the moment when a child crossed into the world of adults.
Slowly I bowed my head. "Not yet, my lord. But it is near. Her body is changing. Soon that day will come."
The Pharaoh leaned back. For a moment he closed his eyes, as if my words brought both relief and sorrow. "When that time comes, she will no longer be only my daughter. She will be the heir of Egypt. All will watch her every step, every word. And you, Amenemhet…" he leaned toward me, "…you will see to it that she is prepared."
My Burden
When I left his chamber, my heart beat heavy in my chest. For years I had been her shadow. I had played the flute for her, told her stories, guarded her sleep. Now a new season was opening—one in which she would no longer be a child, but a woman, and I must stand beside her even in this transformation.
I stood by her bed as she slept and saw that she was no longer the small being who once hid behind my legs. Her face was lengthening, her eyes gleamed with greater gravity. Time was reshaping her, and I felt the Pharaoh was right—the day was near when the blood of women would come to her.
An Inner Struggle
There was pride in me—that I was the one the Pharaoh trusted—but also a weight pressing hard upon my shoulders. I had devoted my life to her protection. But now I realized I must begin to teach not only a child, but a future queen.
And in the silence I understood something else—that in the Pharaoh's eyes, I now belonged to her more than to him. My freedom, however limited, was bound more tightly still. No longer to temples or songs, but to her—to the woman being born before my eyes
To her, I had never been merely a servant. When she was a child, she gave me a name of her own invention, and that name replaced every title. She called me Mehet with the same naturalness with which others said "father" or "mother."
As she grew, she began to see me differently. When her mother instructed her to learn songs, she turned to me: "You teach me." When priests explained the gods, she looked at me: "Tell me, Mehet, is it truly so?" And when she was scolded to behave with dignity, she came to me and asked: "Why is dignity more important than laughter?"
In those moments, I felt that in her eyes I was not a slave but a teacher—the one who opened doors to the world, who showed her truth without the disguises of the court.
The Burden of Evenings
And yet, in the evenings, at her baths, my struggle was greatest. She spoke to me as to her guide—asking about myths, the stars, the temples I had once designed. Never did she command me as one would a servant. Instead, she looked at me with the respect a child gives a master of learning.
But her body was no longer that of a child. As water ran down her shoulders, as I handed her the linen to dry herself, as I helped her into the fine, transparent tunic she favored, my eyes and heart had to battle with what they felt.
To her, there was nothing improper in it. She saw me as she always had—the one who taught and protected her. But I knew the boundary was near. That if I did not act, one day I might cross something I must never cross
The Conversation with the Pharaoh
It was night, and the palace lay in silence. Only oil lamps flickered on the walls, and the sweet scent of resin lingered in the air. The Pharaoh sat on a low throne in his private chamber, leaning against the armrest, a cup of wine in his hand. I stood before him, hands clasped, head bowed.
"Amenemhet," he said after a long silence, "your eyes tell me there is something heavy upon your heart. Speak."
I drew a deep breath. "My lord, it concerns the princess."
His gaze sharpened at once. "Is she ill?"
"No," I bowed lower. "She is healthy, strong, and beautiful, as befits the daughter of the gods. But… she is growing. And with growth comes change. While she was a child, it was natural that I should help her in all things—her baths, her garments, her rest. But now…" I hesitated, searching for the right words, "it is no longer fitting that one man alone should tend to her. It is time she had her own handmaidens. At least two to belong to her."
The Pharaoh regarded me a long while, his eyes weighing every movement. "Do you say this because you feel weary? Or because the task lies beneath your dignity?"
I shook my head. "No, my lord. I have served her since her birth, and I will remain by her side as long as I draw breath. But I feel that if she is one day to stand before Egypt as queen, she must already now be surrounded by the order of the court, not only by my hands. She must learn to receive the care of women, not only from me. In this way, she will be prepared for her role."
The Pharaoh sipped his wine, thoughtful. "You know, had you not been here," he said at last, "I would long ago have given her at least two handmaidens. But I believed your presence was enough. You have been her shadow, her teacher, her counselor. I thought she had no need of others."
"And truly, she did not," I answered softly. "But now the time comes when it is no longer enough for her to be only a daughter who hides behind my back. She must be a princess, with her hair arranged each morning, dressed, prepared for the gaze of the court. If she does not learn this now, later it will feel a burden to her."
The Pharaoh sighed. His face was weary, but his eyes carried assent. "I see that you are right. You have always spoken the words I did not wish to hear, but needed to. Tomorrow I shall choose two girls from Memphis—young, obedient, capable. They will belong to her. You will show them how to care for her."
I bowed deeply, but inside I felt a relief I had not known in years.
"Thank you, my lord," I said.
The Pharaoh smiled—tired, but sincere. "No, Amenemhet. It is I who thank you. For without you, I would be a father blind to what is plain before his eyes."
New Handmaidens
As the Pharaoh had promised, two young girls were brought from Memphis. In their hands the princess transformed daily—hairstyles, garments, ornaments. Cleopatra delighted when they braided her long hair and tucked lotus flowers among the strands, laughing when they tried new jewels upon her.
Yet when the time for the evening bath came, her voice was always firm: "Leave us. Only Mehet will stay."
The girls bowed and withdrew. And each time, I felt the same weight—joy at her trust, and pain at what I was beginning to feel.
The Question
One evening, as I handed her the linen and she let drops fall back into the basin, I dared to ask:
"Why do you always send the handmaidens away? Do you not feel… uneasy with me?"
She turned, smiling in a way that made my heart stop for a moment.
"With them, I feel naked," she said without hesitation. "With you, no. You are Mehet. I love you more than anyone."
She rose, water streaming down her body, and embraced me—naked, natural, without shame. And before I could find words, with childlike playfulness she pulled me in, and together we fell into the basin.
Laughter and Play
Water splashed high, lamps flickered. Cleopatra laughed, settling atop me, pressing herself close. She seized the water vessel shaped like a harp and poured a stream over my head.
"Like this! You're soaked like a rat!" she cried.
I laughed with her, though within me a different storm was rising.
"Surrender!" she commanded, pressing her palm against my chest.
"Never," I answered with a smile.
"Then I'll drown you!" she shouted, trying to push me beneath the water.
I let myself sink, then surfaced again with a feigned gasp. She clapped her hands against the water and laughed: "See? I'm stronger than you!"
She raised my arm and declared: "Mehet is defeated!"
The Inner Struggle
I laughed, pretended to yield, but inside I felt I was losing in another way. Her body pressed against mine was like fire burning my skin. Her laughter, her hair slick with water against her face, her eyes shining—these broke me.
I was a eunuch; my body lacked what other men possessed. And yet I felt tension, heat, a stirring that should never have belonged to me.
She did not notice. For her it was only a game, pure trust. But for me it was a trial, one in which I had to control every breath.
The End of the Bath
At last she tired, resting her head upon my neck and whispering: "You are the only one with whom I can be truly myself