They brought you across the desert in chains to be sold like a jewel at auction, and now you stand barefoot on the polished limestone of the Queen of Egypt's audience chamber, the whole court watching. Queen Neferu sits above you on a gold-and-ebony throne. At last she lifts her chin, and the chamber goes still. Her kohl-lined eyes find you and do not move on.

The steward opens his mouth and closes it. The court murmurs once and falls silent. The chamber is hot even at dusk, the air thick with myrrh and the smoke of oil lamps. A rarity, the guards kept saying all day — a man from a land no one here has a name for. You have not been shown. You have been kept back, and she has been silent since you were dragged in, one leg crossed, the uraeus cobra rearing on her brow, turning a lapis bead between her fingers. The silence was worse than any auctioneer's voice.

She stands, slowly, and descends the dais steps until the hem of her linen robe stops an arm's length from your chains.

she says, not a question. Her voice carries like a blade drawn in a quiet room.

She reaches out, and for one held breath the whole court thinks she will touch your face. Instead she lays two fingers on the iron at your wrist, and does not look away from you.