In the catacombs it had begun! The old priest had told the tale, and they all laughed at supper. An immortal slumbering in a deep rock tomb, Ramses the Damned, counsel to dynasties past, who had gone to sleep in the dark in the time of her great-great-grandfathers .
And when she'd awakened, she'd called for him.
"It is an old legend. My father's father told it to him, though he did not believe it. But I have seen him with my own eyes, the sleeping King. Yet you must be aware of the danger."
Thirteen years old. She did not believe in such a thing as danger; not in the ordinary sense; there had always been danger.
They walked together through the rough-cut stone passage. Dust fell from the loose ceiling above. The priest carried the torch before them.
"What danger? These catacombs are the danger. They may cave in on us!"
Several rocks had fallen at her feet.
"I tell you I don't like this, old man."
The priest had pushed on. A thin baldheaded man with stooped shoulders.
"The legend says that once awakened, he cannot easily be dispatched. He is no mindless thing, but an immortal man with a will of his own. He will counsel the King or Queen of Egypt, as he has done in the past, but he will do as he pleases as well."
"My father knew of this? "
"He was told. He did not believe. Neither did your father's father, or his father. Ah, but King Ptolemy, in the time of Alexander, he knew, and he called Ramses forth saying the words: 'Rise, Ramses the Great, a King of Egypt needs your counsel.' "
"And he returned, this Ramses, to his darkened chamber? Leaving only the priests with the secret?"
"So I have been told, as my father was told, and that I should come to the sovereign of my time and tell the story.''
It was hot, suffocating, in this place. No coolness of the deep earth here. She did not like to go any further. She did not like the flickering of the torch; the evil light on the rounded ceiling. Here and mere were marks on the walls, scribbles in the ancient picture language. She could not read them; who could? It made her afraid, and she loathed being afraid.
And they had taken so many twists and turns that she could never find her own way out now.
"Yes, tell the Queen of your time the tale," she said, "while she is young enough and fool enough to listen."
"Young enough to have faith. That is what you have; faith and dreams. Wisdom is not always the gift of old age, Majesty. Rather, it is sometimes the curse."
"And so we go to this ancient one?" She had laughed.
"Courage, Majesty. He lies there, beyond those doors."
She'd peered ahead. There were a pair of doors-enormous doors! Layered over with dust, and covered beneath the dust with inscriptions. Her heart had quickened.
"Take me into this chamber."
"Yes, Majesty. But remember the caution. Once waked he cannot be sent away. He is a powerful immortal."
"I don't care! I want to see this!"
She'd gone ahead of the old man. In the dancing glow from his torch she'd read the Greek aloud:
"Here lies Ramses the Immortal. Called by himself Ramses the Damned, for he cannot die. And sleeps eternally, waiting the call of the Kings and Queens of Egypt.''
She'd stepped back.
"Open the doors! Hurry!"
Behind her, he had touched some secret place in the wall. With a great grinding the doors had slid back slowly, revealing a vast unadorned chamber.
The priest had raised the torch high as he entered beside her. Dust, the clean pale yellow dust of a cave unknown to the wild beasts or the poor wanderers and haunters of hills and caves and tombs.
And there on the altar, a gaunt shriveled being, withered limbs crossed on his breasts; brown hair wisps about his skull.
"You poor fool. He's dead. The dry air here preserves him."
"No, Majesty. See the shutter high above, and the chains hanging from it. It must be opened now."
He had given her the torch, and with both hands tugged upon the chains. Again, the grinding, the creaking; dust filling the air, stinging her eyes, but then high above a great iron-bound shutter had opened. Like an eye into the blue heavens.
The hot summer sun poured down upon the sleeping man. Her eyes had grown wide; what words were there to describe what she had seen, the body filling out; reviving. The brown hair flowing from the scalp, and then the eyelids, shuddering, eyelashes curling.
"He lives. It's true."
She'd thrown aside the torch and run to the altar. She'd bent over him, as far as she dared not to shade him from the sun.
And the brilliant blue eyes had opened!
*' Ramses the Great, rise! A Queen of Egypt needs your counsel."
Motionless, silent, staring up at her.
"So beautiful," he had whispered.
She stared out at the square before Shepheard's Hotel. She saw the city of Cairo coming to life. The carts, the motor cars, moved noisily through the clean paved streets; birds sang in the neatly trimmed trees. Barges moved on the smooth river water.
The words of Elliott Rutherford came back to her. "Many centuries have passed . . . modern times . . . Egypt has had many conquerors . . . wonders such as you cannot imagine."
Ramses stood before her in the Bedouin robes, weeping, begging her to listen.
In the dark place of glinting glass and statues and coffins on end, she'd risen up, in pain, her arms out, crying his name!
The blood had poured down his shirt where they'd wounded him. Yet he'd staggered towards her. Then the second shot had struck his arm. Same evil pain that the one called Henry had given to her, same blood and pain, and in the murky morning light, she'd seen them drag him away.
I can't die now. Isn't that right?
Ramses had stood at the door of her bedchamber. She'd been crying, a young queen in torment. "But for how many years?"
"I don't know. I only know you cannot give up all this now. You don't know the meaning of what I offer you. So let me go. Use the knowledge I've given you. I'll return. Be sure of it. I'll return when you most have need of me, and then perhaps you will have had your lovers and had your wars and had your grief, and you will welcome me."
"But I love you."
The bedroom of Shepheard's Hotel was awash in blinding light; the furnishings vanished in the pulsing glow. The soft curtains touched her face as they blew out past her. She leaned forward over the windowsill, drowsing; her head swimming.
"Ramses, I remember!"
In the dress shop, die look on the woman's face! The serving girl screaming. And the young man, the poor young man who had looked down and seen the bone!
Ye gods, what have you done to me!
She turned, staggering away from the light, but it was all around her. The mirror was ablaze. She went down on her knees, her hands on the warm green rug. She lay down, tossing, turning, trying to push away the fierce power that penetrated her brain; that penetrated her heart. A great pulsing vibration had caught her entire form. She floated in space. And finally lay still in the great vibrating drift, the hot light blanketing her skin, an orange fire against her eyelids.
* * *
Elliott sat alone on the deep veranda. The empty bottle sparkled in the light of the morning sun. He dozed as he lay against the cushioned back of the chair, mind now and then wandering. Fasting, drinking, the long sleepless night, all had sharpened him and left him slightly mad; it seemed the light itself was a miracle streaking the sky; it seemed the great glossy silver car rumbling up the drive was a joke of sorts; and so was the sunny gray-haired man who climbed down off the high seat and came towards him.
"I've been with Winthrop all night." "You have my sympathies."
"Old man, we have an appointment at ten-thirty to clear everything up. Can you manage it?"
"Yes. I shall manage it. You may depend upon me. And Ramsey can be there if ... if ... you've obtained full immunity."