I broke away from my guards, throwing myself at the nearest servant who held a lamp. Before he could react I yanked it from his hands and blew out the flame. I spat on my fingers and pinched off a bit of the blackened wick. Then I dropped to my knees and began to scribble across the floor. Every man in that small room gaped at me. They must have thought I’d lost my mind. I ignored their stares and whispers. I wrote on. I had to choose my words with care; the little bit of burnt wick wouldn’t last forever. When it crumbled into black ash in my fingers, I spat on them again and wrote more. And when that was gone, I dipped one fingertip into the lamp’s spout and scrawled my words in oil.
The men leaned closer, reading as I wrote. When I was done, I sat back on my heels and waited for them to read it all: I swear by Ma’at, my hands are clean of blood. My dress proves nothing. Anyone could have taken it. Prove that this is Ta-Miu’s blood. If she is dead—Bast forbid it!—show her body. Let her wounds accuse me. I say she lives. All cats roam. Wait five days. Her return will prove that I am innocent.
The muttering began, though only among the vizier and the nobles. The priests kept a stony silence.
“Five days … that seems reasonable.”
“Cats do go wandering everywhere.”
“Were we shown the cat’s body? I’m so sleepy, I don’t remember.”
“I think you would have remembered that. But the girl is right: Anyone could have taken her dress and smeared it with any kind of blood.”
“What about that paw print?”
“A live cat can leave paw prints, too. We mustn’t act hastily. She’s the favored niece of Pharaoh’s Great Royal Wife. Do you want to tell Queen Tiye—may she live!—that we condemned a member of her family on such chancy evidence?”
With an inarticulate roar of rage, the priest who’d brought me hurled his clay lamp into the center of what I’d written. Flames erupted and raced across the puddled oil. I screamed and jumped back while servants rushed past me to stamp out the fire. When they were done, my words were only a slick, black smear on the floor.
He showed a demon’s face to the vizier and the nobles. “Dogs!” he shouted. “Is this how you deal with a case of sacrilege? You fear a mere woman more than you fear the anger of a goddess!”
The vizier’s lips tightened and he stood his ground. “Queen Tiye is not a ‘mere woman,’ nor is Princess Nefertiti. She is the chosen bride of our crown prince. When Pharaoh entrusted me with the office of vizier, I swore to serve the living god by upholding his justice. If sacrilege has been committed, the guilty one will be punished, no matter how highborn or powerful he—or she!—may be. But until we have better proof than that rag, I refuse to give my approval to any action against this girl.”
“As do I,” Thutmose said quietly. I looked at him with grateful eyes. How changed he was from the cold, suspicious person I knew! Maybe … maybe it’s done him some good to be free of his mother’s shadow, I thought. It was an unexpected change, but I wanted to believe it. I needed to believe it. I was alone and in peril and afraid, confused by my inability to speak clearly when my life depended on it. In my fear, I clung to any hint that Thutmose had found a kinder heart the way an ant clings to a straw when the sacred river sweeps him away.
The other nobles murmured their agreement with Thutmose and the vizier. They, too, wanted more proof. Isis be praised!
The priest glowered at them all. “So be it.” He turned to one of his attendants. “Bring him now.”
The second priest moved swiftly from the room and came back leading a boy almost past the age for wearing the braided youth-lock. The women’s quarters teemed with children exactly like him, though he was a little pudgier and fairer-skinned than most. Even so, we might have encountered one another a score of times, and I never would have been able to pick him out of a crowd.
Despite the hour, when most children were deeply sunk in sleep, the boy didn’t look at all drowsy. His eyes were bright and keen, like a well-bred hound’s when the hunt was on. When he glanced in my direction, I thought I saw a glint of hostility as well, but why would a boy I’d never seen wish me ill?
“My lord vizier,” the priest said as pleasantly as if his recent outburst had never happened. “Your proof is in the mouth of this lad. Hear him.”
The vizier and the nobles looked as confused as I, but they motioned for the boy to speak. He stepped forward and bowed to Thutmose before he began.
“Hail, my brother. I am Meketre, son of our divine father, Pharaoh Amenhotep—may he rule forever!” His prim, mannered words would have sounded more natural coming from the priest’s mouth. “Last night, I had a dream in which the god Amun himself appeared and warned me that my father’s life was in great danger, as was your own. He showed me a vision of a garden in the women’s quarters where thirteen sycamore trees grow. It’s set apart, a place the royal physicians sent my father’s wives when they suffered from con-contagious sickness.” He stopped, flustered for having tripped over that word, and looked at the priest.
“Yes, we’re listening,” the man said harshly. “Go on.”
Meketre recovered his poise and continued with his testimony. “The healing rooms are empty now. Everyone in the women’s quarters knows this, and we all thank great Amun daily for his mercy. But when I came there, obeying the god, someone was in the garden.” He pointed one shaking finger at me.