Ramses the Damned Read online

Could it have been Ramses II himself who blundered into that cave long ago? Could he have been the one who dared to drink the elixir to the dregs and strike down the helpless Marupa with his sword?

  Tales of ancient times told Bektaten nothing. But what of the talk now of “blue eyes,” the handsome blue eyes of the enigmatic Egyptian, and then that talk of Julie Stratford’s blue eyes—a remarkable result indeed of a fever she’d contracted in Cairo?

  Bektaten rose to stir the fire in the grate, and then to walk about the small stone-walled library before gazing out on the sea-carved landscape before her.

  Time had cooled her rage. It was true. And though the pain she felt for the loss of Marupa would never entirely go away, she had to admit to herself that she felt curiosity now more than a desire for vengeance.

  She settled in her chair once more and scarcely noticed when her beloved cat, Bastet, came into the room, sidling up to the chair to rub her back against its legs and to stir the folds of Bektaten’s long robe. Without looking at the animal, Bektaten scooped her up in her arms and kissed her, Bektaten’s long fingers massaging her fur and the bones beneath it.

  Bastet gazed up at her mistress with blue eyes—just as she had for the last three hundred years, ever since the day that Bektaten had given the cat the elixir. It was not a cruelty for such animals, Bektaten mused, not for those tender creatures who lived effortlessly in the moment, as all creatures should perhaps, enjoying each moment of being alive without memory or anticipation of anything more than a meal of fish or lamb, or a bowl of clean cool water.

  “There are times when I wish I knew no more than you know, my pretty,” said Bektaten, lifting the cat so that she might feel the silken fur against her cheek. “There are times when I wished I knew nothing.”

  Ramses the Damned. Mummy’s curse. Legends.

  Three thousand years had passed since Bektaten had knelt weeping in that cave, and the dread pharaoh of Egypt led his armies on their rampage on the banks of the Orontes River in the land of the Hittites. Surely he had learned much since then, just as Bektaten herself had learned. And maybe that was far more important than bringing the doomed king’s life to a close with a touch of the strangle lily. But then again, maybe not. Bektaten had more to study, more to ponder, more to learn about the man called Reginald Ramsey.

  16

  They gathered in the castle keep as dawn’s first light broke across the roaring sea outside.

  They had dressed the part of British gentlemen, her loyal servants, in shirt and tie and raglan overcoats and derby hats. Both men were so tall their clothes had to be tailored specifically for them.

  Her own height was the reason she preferred the swaddling of robes and linens to elegant garments. She maintained a trunk full of fashions suitable to every social occasion, a wardrobe befitting a member of a royal family on perpetual holiday. But when she enjoyed relative solitude, she had no patience for such ensembles, no patience for foundation garments her tall, slender figure did not need.

  The hats her men wore were an amusing touch. Far too small, teetering atop their heads like molded, ill-fitting crowns. As they began to recount what they had witnessed, she passed between them, removed their hats, and set them on the grand console table against the nearest stone wall.

  Now she would not be distracted from their words.

  Of the two men, Enamon had always been the more forceful. Aktamu, on the other hand, had a quiet, introspective nature complemented by his round, boyish face. Perhaps Enamon’s bent nose, a reminder of his mortal tilt towards physical confrontation, only made him seem more aggressive, or perhaps it was his age; he had been a few years older than Aktamu when they were made.

  But any mortal years which had once separated the two men made for a meaningless division now, Bektaten thought. Both had lived centuries. They were now equals in experience and acquired wisdom. And yet, this difference in temperament flared up every now and then, particularly when she asked them to work together on a mission of great importance. It seemed to exist in the very fiber of their beings, preserved forever in the elixir’s grip.

  “He is immortal, this Mr. Ramsey,” Enamon said. “I’m sure of it. His eyes are the very right shade of blue and he does not sleep. The windows of the house in Mayfair glowed at all hours and he made love to his fiancée throughout the night.”

  “And his fiancée?” she asked.

  “She wears dark glasses much of the time. The newspapers say that she experienced a fever in Egypt that changed the color of her eyes. We are almost certain that she is indeed immortal.”

  “But there is something else,” Aktamu said, his voice a soft whisper next to Enamon’s confident baritone. “We were not alone.”

  “What do you mean by this?” she asked.

  “There were others watching the house,” Aktamu continued, “they did not see us, but we saw them. I followed them. Enamon remained behind so as to collect a full night’s report on the house in Mayfair, as you instructed.”

  “The fracti of Saqnos? Here, now?”

  “We don’t know. Perhaps not.”

  “What did you see when you followed these others?”

  “It was one man who led me to others. He drove with great speed. I followed him to a vast estate halfway between London and the area they now call Yorkshire.”

  Aktamu’s facility with the map of this island was good and helpful. When she had taken several long sleeps in the past, she had set her beloved assistants free to explore the world. So Enamon and Aktamu had spent some time here, while she had not. This would be valuable.

  “And this man, he was immortal?” she asked.

  “It was dark and the hour was late,” Aktuma answered. “But this estate, it is known and it has a name. Havilland Park. A grand place. Sprawling, with high gates. And others were arriving.”

  “Arriving? How do you mean, Aktamu?”

  “Beyond the gates, I glimpsed a driveway filled with cars. Various types. The lights in the estate’s front rooms were ablaze even at the late hour. And another car arrived shortly after the man I followed. A man and a woman, elegantly dressed. I was too far away to see their faces. Had there not been so much activity, I would have scaled the walls and explored further. But this seemed a risk. I thought to consult you first. Perhaps you wanted to take a different approach.”

  Aktamu cast a glance at the slinky, gray cat rubbing itself against Bektaten’s ankles.

  “This is good, Aktamu,” she answered. “This is wise.”

  Bektaten scooped the cat up into her arms, ran her fingernails along the length of its spine with a pressure that made it purr and lick the fingers of her other hand. How she loved this creature.

  “These people of Havilland Park,” Aktamu said. “We recognized them as people we had seen in the streets of London, spying on Ramsey and his paramour as well. They gather at a late hour. They are either immortals, or people so caught up in the planning of something, that they find sleep impossible.”

  “Or both, my queen,” Enamon offered.

  “Indeed.”

  For a long while, none of them spoke. The sound of the surf crashing against the rocks below made for a kind of meditative chant that allowed Bektaten to absorb what she had been told.

  “He is the thief,” she finally said. “Ramses the Great is the thief of the elixir. I know this now. The sword that killed my beloved Marupa was powerful, bronze. I should have seen it. I was too fearful of Saqnos. I should have seen that Ramses the Great’s near century of life was only the beginning.”

  “You did see it, my queen,” Aktamu encouraged. “That is why we are here now.”

  He was being generous. She had seen it only recently.

  And so, apparently, had someone else.

  “We will learn what we can of these people of Havilland Park,” she said to them. “But first, my garden. It is time to plant my garden.”

  They nodded, and departed.

  * * *

  Bektaten watched them from the second
floor of the keep, from the room she’d taken as her private quarters. One window faced the restless sea; the other, the courtyard below. There Enamon and Aktamu planted her seeds in the large patch of exposed soil that had been waiting for them when they arrived. Several days before, they had smoothed out the edges of the broken stones until they formed the shape of a rectangle. If it hadn’t been for the hunched-over, laboring forms of both men, the soil would have looked like a dark hole in the earth itself, framed by the care of a human hand.

  The seeds, which had once traveled in satchels on their shoulders, now resided inside an ornate, jeweled box. They had retrieved them from her new library in the adjacent tower.

  Enamon was keeping notes of the location of each plant, even though they would all be able to recognize them once they blossomed.

  And they would blossom in only a few moments’ time.

  In the crook of Bektaten’s arm, Bastet purred. Ah, such sublime contentment.

  Once they were finished planting, both men turned and looked up to the window.

  With a nod, she gave them permission to continue. Aktamu picked up the cup of elixir she had blended for them, tipped it ever so slightly, and walked down the center of the soil patch, raining drops to his left as he went. Then he made a return trip, and did the same to his left again.

  She had taught them long ago that they must never speed through this process. They must never let the ceaseless march of their lives numb their sense of the elixir’s magic. And so, as if on cue, the two men stood to the side and watched quietly as the first green shoots emerged from the previously barren dirt. They held their ground as the first leaves unfurled, the first blossoms taking shape amidst these rustling beds of green.

  Life, she thought. Within this elixir, life itself. It does not kill us and make us anew. It unleashes us. It makes life itself limitless and unrepentant.

  A few minutes later, the men came to her quarters. In one hand, Aktamu held a single flower: five thick orange petals, the ends curling in on themselves, a tangle of yellow stamens. Bektaten settled into the nearest chair, her cat on her lap, as she accepted this gift. She pinched off the end of the stamens and ground them into a fine paste on her fingers.

  For this test, she needed only a tiny amount.

  At the scent that emerged from the flower, Bastet sat up suddenly, eyes alight, as riveted as she would have been by a freshly caught fish. What did the cat truly feel? Bektaten wished she could know.

  Bektaten lifted two pollen-smeared fingers to her face, drew a quick line across her lips and down her chin.

  The cat went to work immediately, licking the pollen away from Bektaten’s chin and lips as Bektaten smoothed more along its coat.

  After several seconds of this ritual, after the pollen had been absorbed by both of their skins, Bektaten was staring at herself through the cat’s eyes. This never failed to humble her, and overawe her. The two of them had made this connection many times before, and each time, the purring creature came away more docile and attentive to humans; more bonded with Bektaten’s every mood and need. Something close to a loving familiar of pure heart. Indeed, through the miracle of the angel blossom, she had made many fearsome creatures her loving and attentive companions.

  Bektaten ordered the cat off her lap with a silent, mental command. It obeyed and she found herself gazing at her feet, Enamon’s feet, then Aktamu’s feet as he backed slowly out of the dear creature’s path. To the window she sent the cat, and up onto the ledge so she might have a view of the fully grown garden below.

  What a sight the newly born plants made, even by way of the cat’s vision—great stalks and blossoms rustling in the ocean breeze.

  Silently, she commanded the cat back to her lap.

  Once it returned, once she found herself gazing up at her own ageless face, she reached up and smoothed the pollen from her own lips and cheeks. Odd, a little dizzying, watching herself perform this task. And it would take a bit of time for her system to absorb the blossom’s pollen entirely, at which point the connection between her and Bastet would be broken.

  For now, she sat cradling the cat on her lap, waiting for the miracle to fade. She told the cat to reposition itself, so Bektaten would not be forced to stare at herself as if through a mirror. The cat obeyed.

  “Is she still a clever creature?” Enamon finally asked.

  “Yes, Enamon. Very much so. She will have much to tell us in time.”

  And who knew how much more Bastet could do in time? Who knew what great discoveries awaited Bektaten and Bastet in the future?

  * * *

  When they came to her, she had just finished reading her journals from the time when Ramses II ruled Egypt.

  It had reawakened her vast store of memories from that period. Her search for Saqnos had taken her far and wide during that time, but rarely into Egypt, for she had heard nothing from Egypt to indicate Saqnos was there. Were there signs she had missed even as she recorded them? Ah, so much to ponder. But not now. Now was the time for the conjugal blessing of this new abode.

  When her men appeared, silently, determinedly, she was ready for them.

  Hungry for them.

  She led them into her bedchamber, where there could be no doubt of her intentions, as her bed had been strewn with flower petals, and incense burned to perfume the air.

  Years had passed since the three of them had last lain together, and it seemed a miraculous thing, how effortlessly they came together now.

  She allowed them to remove her turban and smooth her dark hair. She allowed them to strip away her robes, and then to remove their own.

  Three splendid immortal bodies, embracing one another in the shadowy candlelight, ready to sink down into the bower of flower petals and pillows.

  Only moments before, she had been reading of her experiences of lovemaking from three thousand years ago. She found the experience unchanged. When one is immortal, she had written, one does not claim the touch of another in a desperate way. One is not fearful of losing it and so one does not seek to contain or restrict or describe it in language that must fail.

  “Take me,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Take me and make me forget the tragic heat of mortal lovers, the taste of death that always comes with their kisses, the taste of loss that darkens their embrace.”

  They lifted her and laid her down on the soft scented bed.

  Aktamu kissed her, his tongue passing between her lips, his fingers caressing her nipples, caressing the underside of her breasts. At once, she was heated through and through, loving the weight of his hips against hers, loving the pressure of his organ against her nether lips.

  She abandoned herself to him utterly as he rode her until she was crying out in that divine agony that was always so like pain.

  “My Enamon,” she said, groping for the other man with her eyes closed.

  And now came these familiar hands, so much rougher than those of Aktamu, and these harsh kisses, Enamon’s hands beneath her, lifting her, as he penetrated her, his breath filled with broken whispers, My mistress, my queen, my beloved and beautiful Bektaten.

  Roused again, unable to hold back, Aktamu took her face in his hands and drew her away from his companion, but that companion would not relinquish her and she felt Enamon’s mouth on her belly, and then on her left breast. She felt his tongue on her nipple, and his fingers groping through her hair. Aktamu sought to pull her closer, Enamon to drive her passion to the peak.

  She delighted in this tangle of their bodies, in being utterly lost to their contest with each other to possess her, lost to their frantic efforts to vanquish her with pleasure, to conquer her completely as they might never do in life. It thrilled her, this helplessness at the hands of those whom she commanded day in and day out, this surrender to those who worshipped her with an awe she had never fully understood.

  Aktamu pulled her up to her knees, embraced her from behind, holding her breasts roughly for Enamon to suckle, and she collapsed against them, all sense of ti
me and place lost to her, all burdens released.

  And we are this, this only, this ecstasy that flesh can give to flesh.

  With each shattering orgasm that followed, there came visions to her, visions of the garden rustling in the courtyard below, with its great shoots and blossoms brought to life by the same elixir that had turned what was once for her, long ago, a painful and perfunctory ritual—into an unbridled celebration of the body and soul.

  These immortal lovers knew the map of her body, the map of her senses, better than any god who might have claimed credit for her creation. These immortal lovers understood her hunger, her endurance, as no mortal lover ever could.

  Life, she thought again. Life made ceaseless. Life made unrepentant.

  All this from the elixir.

  All this a reminder of why the elixir must be protected forever, why this glorious magic must never ever be stolen from her again.

  Finally, it was finished. They lay together, silent, spent, and divinely empty of all longing. In a little while they would bathe together, and dress one another. But for now, they nestled against one another in sublime exhaustion. And in the ancient language of Shaktanu, they confided endearments, pledges of everlasting loyalty, kisses of pure affection, and soft laughter and tears.

  “Sealed in ecstasy,” murmured Aktamu in his deep baritone voice.

  “Bound to you forever,” said Enamon.

  Suddenly she was sobbing, shaking with sobs. She pushed her face into Enamon’s neck. “Beloved, beloved, beloved,” her hand all the while clutching the back of Aktamu’s neck.

  “My precious one,” Aktamu said. “All that I am is yours.”

  Enamon kissed her closed eyes. “Your slave, always and forever. The true slave who has given you his very soul.”

  In the hours that followed, they became her servants once more.

  After the long and leisurely bath, they braided her hair.

  They gathered small handfuls of the springy mass of tightly curled strands and made them into long thin braids—carefully threaded with fragile glistening gold chains studded with the tiniest pearls. It was a laborious task, so many fine long braids to be woven, but these two males did it as patiently and lovingly as had her mortal female servants of old. And when they brought the mirror to her so that she could see the finished result—ah, the perfection and clarity of these modern mirrors—she felt she was gazing on an Egyptian queen of times long before Ramses, when so many noblewomen had worn their hair in this style. Around her head they put a final circlet of hammered gold, a weightless crown.