Disbelief. One God?
Westminster Abbey. They walked together under the high arches. Such splendor. She showed him the cenotaph of Shakespeare.
'Not the house of God,' she said, 'But the place where we gather to talk to him.' How explain Christianity? 'Brotherly love,' she said. 'That is the basis,'
He looked at her in confusion. 'Brotherly love?' Keenly, he watched the people around him.
'Do they believe this religion?' he asked. 'Or is it habit alone?''
By late afternoon he was speaking coherently in whole paragraphs. He told her that he liked English. It was a good language for thinking. Greek and Latin had been excellent for thinking. Egyptian, no. With each new language he had learned in his earlier existence his capacity for understanding had improved. Language made possible whole kinds of thinking. Ah, that the common people of this era read newspapers, crowded with words! What must the thinking of the common man be? 'Are you not the least bit tired?' Julie asked, finally. 'No, never tired,' he said, 'except in the heart and the soul. Hungry. Food, Julie. I desire much food.'
They entered the quiet of Hyde Park together, and despite his disclaimers he did seem relieved by the sudden timeless trees around him, by the vision of the sky through branches as it might have been seen at any moment or from any vantage point on earth.
They found a little bench on the path. He fell into silence watching the strollers. And how they stared at him- this man of powerful build with his fiercely exuberant expression. Did he know he was handsome? she wondered. Did he know that the mere touch of his hand sent a frisson through her which she tried to ignore?
Oh, so much to show him. She took him to the offices of Stratford Shipping, praying that no one would recognize her, and led him into the wrought-iron lift, and pressed the button for the roof.
'Wires and pulleys,' she explained.
'Britannia,' he whispered as they looked out on the rooftops of London; as they listened to the scream of the factory whistles, to the jangling of the tram bells far below. 'America, Julie.' He turned to her excitedly, clasping her shoulders, his fingers surprisingly gentle. 'How many days by mechanical ship to America?'
' 'Ten days, I believe. One could be in Egypt in less time than that. A passage to Alexandria is six days.'
Why had she said those words? His face darkened ever so slightly. 'Alexandria,' he whispered, pronouncing it as she had. 'Alexandria still stands?'
She led him to the lift. So much more to see. She explained there was still an Athens, still a Damascus, still an Antioch. And Rome, of course there was Rome.
A wild idea had come to her. Hailing a hansom, she told the driver: 'Madame Tussaud's.'
All those costumed figures in the wax museum. Hastily she explained what it was, a panorama of history. She would show him American Indians, she would show him Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun-creatures who had brought terror to Europe after Rome fell.
She could not envision the mosaic of facts being created for him. His equanimity amazed her more and more.
But they had been in Madame Tussaud's only a few moments when she realized her error. His composure crumbled at the first sight of Roman soldiers. He recognized the figure of Julius Caesar instantly. And then in disbelief he stared at the Egyptian Cleopatra, a wax doll which bore no resemblance to the bust he had cherished or the coins he still possessed. But her identity was unmistakable as she reclined on her gilded couch, the snake coiled in her hands, its fangs just beneath her breast. The stiff figure of Mark Antony stood behind her, a characterless man in Roman military dress.
Ramses' face coloured. There was something savage in his eyes as he turned to Julie, then looked back at the printed labels beneath this display.
Why hadn't she realized these figures would be here? Why hadn't she remembered? She caught his hand as he backed away from the glass. He turned around, almost stumbling into a couple who blocked his path. The man said something threatening, but Ramses didn't seem to hear it. He was hurrying towards the exit. She ran after him.
He appeared calmer when she reached the street. He was scanning the traffic. He reached out for her hand without looking at her, and together they proceeded slowly until he stopped to watch the workmen on a construction sight. The great cement mixer was churning. The sound of hammering echoed against distant walls.
A faint bitter smile passed over Ramses' lips. Julie hailed a passing hansom.
'Where shall we go now?' she asked. 'Tell me what you want to see.'
He was staring at a beggar woman, a ragged figure in broken-down shoes who extended her hand now as she passed.
'The poor,' he said, glancing at the woman. 'Why are the poor still here?'
They rode silently through cobblestone streets. Strings of laundry closed out the damp gray sky. The smoke of cooking fires rose in the alleys. Barefoot children with soiled faces turned to watch them pass.
'But cannot all this wealth help these people? They are as poor as the peasants of my land.'
'Some things don't change with time,' Julie said. 'And your father? He was a rich man?' She nodded. 'He built a great shipping company-ships that carry merchandise from India and Egypt to England and America. Ships that circle the world.'
'For this wealth, Henry tried to kill you, as he killed your father in the tomb.'
Julie stared straight forward. It seemed the words would strip away every vestige of control she had. This day, this adventure, it had carried her to the heights, and now she felt herself descending. Henry killed Father. It was near impossible for her to speak.
Ramses took her hand in his.
'There should have been enough wealth for all of us,' she said, her voice strained. 'Enough for me, for Henry, for Henry's father.'
'Yet your father dug in Egypt for treasure.' 'No, not for treasure!' She looked at him sharply. 'He dug to find evidence of the past. Your writings meant more to him than the rings on your ringers. The story you told, that was his treasure. That and the painted coffin because it was a pure thing, from your time.'
'Archaeology,' Ramses said.
'Yes.' She smiled in spite of herself. 'My father was not a robber of tombs.'
'I understand you. Don't become angry.' 'He was a scholar,' she said, a little more gently. 'He had all the money he needed. If he made a mistake, it was that he left his company to his brother, and to his nephew, but then he paid them so very well.'
She stopped. She felt weary suddenly. Beneath the euphoria, she had been ever mindful of what happened; and the pain had only begun.
'Something went wrong,' she whispered.
'Greed is what went wrong. Greed is what always goes wrong.'
He was looking out the window at the dull, broken windows above. Foul smells rose from the puddles and from the doorways. The stench of urine, and decay.
She herself had never been in this part of London. It saddened her; it exacerbated her own pain.
'This Henry should be stopped,' Ramses said firmly. 'Before he tries again to hurt you. And your father's death, surely you want it avenged.'
'It will kill my uncle Randolph when he finds out what happened. That is, if he doesn't already know.'
'The uncle, the one who came this morning with such fear for you-he's innocent and is afraid for his son. But cousin Henry is evil. And the evil is unchecked.'
She was trembling. The tears had risen to her eyes.
'I can't do anything now. He's my cousin. They're my only family. And when something is done, it will have to be in a court of law.''
'You are in danger, Julie Stratford,' he said to her.
'Ramses, I am not a Queen here. I cannot act on my own.'
'But I am a King. I always will be. My conscience can bear this burden. Let me act when I see fit.'
'No!' she whispered. She looked up at him imploringly. He pressed his arm against her, gently, then reached as if to embrace her. She held steady. 'Promise me you will do nothing. If something happens, it will be on my conscience too.'
