4. Lachris

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Boy now resides in a side hall at the northwest corner of Queen Merit’s palace. On the way back, Boy easily extracted information about himself from Anaka, whose simple-mindedness made her predictable. Nominally, he was a dancer invited into the palace by Merit, but it was well known that those kept in the harem were the queen’s favorites.

In Queen Merit’s palace, there were many like him, living in the northwest palace of the garden under the guise of dancers, musicians, and bards. Yet these titles did not always correspond to their actual abilities. Merit never clarified the distinctions, but Anaka guessed they were assigned based on looks: the most beautiful were dancers, followed by musicians, then bards. After all, this dancer before her, though unable to dance, was undoubtedly the most beautiful.

Ai, now sixteen, was a slave Merit brought back from the Valley Festival two years ago and kept in the harem. To erase his slave stigma, he was taught reading, calligraphy, and manners, and only recently summoned to the palace front. He was not alone; a dozen others came with him, four or five stayed in the side hall, while the rest gradually left Merit’s palace. Anaka did not know where.

Boy surmised they were likely sent to the temple or other administrative institutions, much like himself. Merit, under the pretext of keeping male favorites, was cultivating fresh blood to infiltrate the state's operational system. This ensured she could replace old, disloyal powers at any time and maintain control.

The High Priest, the top authority in ancient Egypt after the Pharaoh, still had to kowtow to Merit even for small matters like arranging tutors for the Pharaoh, showing her overwhelming influence. This reality surpassed the historical record of the “Amon family controlled by Nit throughout their lives.”

Understanding his current position, Boy felt relieved. Since he was not close with Queen Merit and given the class differences, his exposure was unlikely.

“I’ve always wondered,” Boy began cautiously, recalling his bothersome headache, “why is a headache called a curse?”

Since Merit said he bore a curse, it had troubled him. Surely it wasn’t a serious disease…

Anaka was surprised: “You don’t know?”

Boy smiled wryly. “Everyone talks about it, but they’re afraid of me and won’t speak.”

Who “they” were, Boy did not know. He just made up stories when closing his eyes.

Anaka felt sympathy; slaves were despised, and even beautiful slaves shared the same fate.

“Imhotep walked among mortals healing his people. A greedy man stole the gods’ medicine to trade for gold and treasures. Imhotep was angered and decided to punish him,” she said devoutly.

Boy guessed Imhotep was the god of medicine and disease in Egyptian mythology.

“Anubis decreed death for the man, but Imhotep spared his life, instead cursing him to suffer over a hundred days of excruciating headaches annually, bringing misfortune to his descendants.”

Boy was speechless, unsure who was kinder.

Anaka looked at him pityingly. “It’s not your fault; it’s your ancestors’ wrongdoing.”

Boy smiled. “Thank you, that makes me feel better.”

A hundred days of headaches—modern medicine might call that a migraine.

At the northwest palace gate, Anaka took her leave.

The palace was vast, with three courtyards surrounding the garden. Though said to live in the northwest palace, Boy was assigned only a single room therein. Each door bore a name; he found his and returned to his quarters.

No slave servants attended him; residents likely managed their own lives.

The room was neat, windowsills and desks spotless, which pleased Boy. Yet out of habit, he tidied it himself, hoping for other finds.

Scrolls in the bookshelf were folk poetry collections, biographies of gods, and calligraphy practice sheets. The advantage of hieroglyphs was that handwriting could not betray the writer—at worst, the style changed.

Boy found nothing to prepare; the room was so clean it seemed the owner might leave at any moment, not even a penny hidden away.

He recalled that ancient Egypt had no currency, relying on barter, usually gold, silver, copper, or necessities.

He searched again.

Indeed, his pockets were utterly empty, no jewelry either. The clothes and accessories on Ai’s person were apparently all he wore to meet others.

The entire room exuded pure austerity.

Boy frowned at the standard papyrus scrolls, slightly disdainful, but decided to tuck them into his bag anyway.

Every little helps.

Merit wouldn’t mind a few scrolls.

By evening, faint aromas of food drifted through the air.

Boy opened the window and saw small groups laughing and chatting as they passed through the garden, heading in the same direction. They seemed close.

All appeared to be in their early twenties, with refined features—neither pampered nor overworked. Their honey-colored skin glowed with vitality, and grouped together, they were a pleasant sight.

Their laughter was carefree and open, the picture of youth without sorrow.

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No servants were present in this courtyard. With so many people, there could be no one assigned to deliver meals and collect plates afterward.

Boy guessed the northwest palace had a cafeteria where residents dined together.

Their clothing was similar—white linen—with subtle differences in waistbands and jewelry. Boy noticed one wore the same attire and accessories as himself.

Sensing his gaze, one young man suddenly turned to look. Their eyes met across half the garden.

The boy had long black hair reaching his elbows, with braids framing his cheeks. Boy, somewhat face-blind to foreigners, thought they all looked alike.

This boy was different: his irises were pale gray, reminiscent of a gemstone—metallic gray spinel.

He seemed not Egyptian, though possibly mixed-race.

Such unique eyes, Boy thought.

But it was none of his concern. He withdrew his gaze indifferently, closing the window under the boy’s watchful eyes.

He would soon leave—better to avoid trouble.

Laughter outside echoed intermittently for two hours before fading.

Countless people passed Boy’s window, but as he guessed, Ai had poor relationships in the palace and no friends.

Of course—his empty room bore witness.

Friends often exchange gifts, but Ai’s room had none. The guest table held only a single cushion, showing no intention of hosting anyone.

He was clearly alone.

Boy could imagine Ai’s mindset: if ambitious enough, Ai would not seek camaraderie with those content to linger complacently by Merit’s side until death.

In modern terms, he rejected meaningless socializing.

The empty room confirmed it—this man was ready to leave at any time.

Either to soar if opportunity came, or to seek a new horizon.

Boy smiled faintly. Though he had never met Ai, he admired him somewhat.

Ambitious, always preparing for ambition.

Only now, in this room, did Boy begin to believe Ai was the powerful minister recorded in history—the politically ambitious Ai.

Though young and inexperienced now.

He felt no guilt for replacing him. If Ai had swapped bodies with him, Ai’s modern status and wealth would let him flourish far beyond Boy’s impoverished beginnings.

If Ai had died, Boy’s presence could carry on his ambition.

Yes, carry on his ambition.

Boy chuckled. Regardless of his true identity, he would be Minister Ai—he would not disgrace the name.

It was like achieving every possible ending in a game, yet craving another run.

Now he prepared for a different ending.

Whether minister or pharaoh, the challenge was tempting.

The next day.

Temple personnel arrived early at the northwest palace to fetch him. They expected to wait over an hour—slaves were known for tardiness and lack of discipline.

Yet contrary to expectations, he was ready. Though surprised, the temple men said nothing, casting a glance at the small box in Boy’s hand.

So few belongings—fitting their impression of slaves.

Slaves were born to pay for sins from past lives, selling even their lives to the demon Akhu.

What could such people possibly own?

When Boy left with them, the palace still slept; dawn was misty. The garden was heavy with dew, bending delicate flower buds low.

Passing the garden exit, Boy looked down. Blue lotuses gracefully awakened on water, slowly blooming. The petals shifted from deep blue to pale yellow at the core, adding a mysterious hue.

It seemed as if a god might emerge from the blossoms at any moment.

His mood was good; a smile curved his lips.

The smile lasted until he reached the pharaoh’s palace, where he carefully restrained it.

The pharaoh’s palace was ancient, repaired and rebuilt through generations of rulers. Even the finely crafted Merit palace did not compare to a tenth of its grandeur.

Tall and majestic, it loomed like a lurking beast at dawn, claws ready to strike. People walking within felt as small as grains of sand. Flickering torchlight lined the corridors; footsteps echoed, each step distinct.

The long corridor walls depicted the eight gods of the world’s origin and Amon’s creation, vividly illustrating the unique thousand-year-old Egyptian faith.

Temple staff led Boy to his new quarters.

The temple assigned him to a side hall called Mneu, befitting his status as a prophet, and provided four attendants.

“Lord Prophet, please bathe and change,” the temple staff said respectfully, without a hint of condescension. “At the end of Arent hour, when the sun fully rises, I will come to escort you to meet His Majesty.”

Boy noted the word Arent, unfamiliar from his guide, pondering the era’s way of measuring time. He thanked them happily, and the staff bowed slightly before leaving.

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Of the four attendants, two were regular palace staff, the other two assigned by the temple.

The palace attendants were thirteen or fourteen years old, the temple ones slightly older—around sixteen or seventeen. Likely due to simple diets, the youths were thin but their wheat-colored skin still glowed healthily.

Ai’s body probably had good genes; at sixteen, he was the tallest by half a head.

Boy’s gaze swept over their faces but he did not introduce himself. Instead, he nodded to the palace attendants: “Help me prepare the bath.”

Then he looked at the temple attendants and casually pointed to the palace’s guest room. “Wait here.”

The temple pair agreed in unison, exchanging a glance.

Just as the High Priest said, Boy would inevitably trust the palace attendants over the temple ones.

Boy disliked being waited on. Though he called two attendants, he only let them wait outside the bath.

They looked puzzled, unsure why the prophet did not ask their names, inquire about the palace, or even exchange a word. His attitude seemed cold.

About an hour later, the temple staff returned.

Boy donned the prophet’s robes provided by the temple. Though called prophet’s attire, it was similar to his previous clothes, differing only in jewelry.

A collar set with turquoise and carnelian, a gold armband bearing a vivid winged scarab.

In Egypt, the scarab symbolized rebirth and creation, a guardian figure of great cultural importance.

Its presence on the prophet’s jewelry signified the pharaoh’s respect.

Boy recalled reading online that the scarab was essentially a sacred dung beetle.

In Chinese, it was literally called the “dung beetle.”

He scrutinized the armband long before slipping it on, then turned the scarab design inward.

Out of sight, out of mind.

For the journey, he did not bring palace attendants but chose the two temple men.

Though all were teenagers, even the two temple attendants could not hide their surprise. This was not what they expected.

Boy glanced around, smiling kindly. “How should I address you?”

The taller temple youth said, “Bat.”

The smaller one said, “Bal.”

Boy nodded, understanding.

The palace attendants grew increasingly uneasy, fearing they had displeased the prophet and might be replaced.

After leaving, they cleaned the palace thoroughly, polishing Boy’s chamber until it gleamed.

Meanwhile, Boy walked toward his audience with the pharaoh.

Though still within the palace complex, Mneu was nearly an hour’s walk from the pharaoh’s residence.

Whether the palace forbade vehicles or the temple intended to assert dominance, Boy was made to walk the entire distance.

Accompanying him besides the temple staff who fetched him were two others from the temple.

Besides the pharaoh himself, only palace servants and temple personnel could roam freely inside the pharaoh’s palace.

Boy did not ask questions, smiling easily as he followed.

Though a lawyer by profession, his fitness and breathing techniques let him endure well.

By the end, the temple men were exhausted—staggering, flushed, clothes soaked through, wringing them would yield half a bowl of water.

Boy’s complexion was paler still, sweat only faint at his temples.

Compared to their disheveled state, he appeared composed.

At noon, they reached the Temple of the Gods where the pharaoh resided.

All exhaled in relief.

Passing through the palace gates, drawing aside the curtain painted with Ra, Boy saw for the first time the boy pharaoh famous in later ages for his curse—

Raheris Amunhotep.

Only ten years old, smaller and thinner than his peers, seated on a golden throne that seemed like a mountain of gold behind him.

He wore an exquisite, heavy pharaoh’s crown. Though young, his features were delicate and sharp, eyes lined deeply with kohl. Dark gold irises silently observed the newcomers, his small face stern.

Strong guards flanked him, behind them eight handmaidens holding peacock feathers stood in line.

Even a powerless pharaoh had to maintain appearances—provided his suspended feet could reach the ground.

Boy’s gaze roamed over the child. His eyes resembled a cat’s; his arms were as slender as a cat’s too—modern medicine would call it developmental delay.

He clicked his tongue softly.

So weak.