'It's settled. Ten A.M. you must call me. By then I'll have a guarantee of immunity for you from the governor himself. Then you must come to the governor's palace and make your statement. And we do not leave without the passports.'
'Very well,' Ramses said. 'I leave you now. Wish me good fortune.'
'But where will you begin to search?' Julie asked. 'And when will you sleep?''
'You forget, my beauty. I don't need to sleep. I'll search for her until we meet here again before ten o'clock. Lord Rutherford, if this fails to work ...'
'It will work. And we shall go to the opera tomorrow night precisely as planned and to the ball afterwards.'
'That's absurd!' Julie said.
'No, my child. Do it for me. It's the last demand I shall ever make on you. I want the social fabric restored. I want my son to be seen with his father, and his friends; with Ramsey, whose name shall be cleared. I want us all to be seen together. I want no shadows over Alex's future. And whatever the future holds for you, don't shut the gate on the life you once lived. It's worth the price of one night's pomp and ceremony to keep that gate open.'
'Ah, Lord Rutherford, how you always amuse me and satisfy me,' Ramses said. 'In another world and another life, I used to say such inane things myself to those around me. It's palaces and titles which do such things to us. But IVe remained here long enough. Samir, come with me if you will. Otherwise I'm going alone now.'
'I'm with you, sire,' Samir said. He rose and made a ceremonial little bow to Elliott. 'Until tomorrow, my lord.'
Ramses went out first; then Samir. For a moment Julie couldn't move; then she rose out of the chair and went running out of the door after Ramses. She caught him in the dark stairwell at the rear of the wing, and once again, they held each other.
'Please love me, Julie Stratford,' he whispered. 'I am not always such a fool, I swear it.' He held her face in his hands.
'You'll go to London where you are safe, and you shall see me when this horror is finished.'
She went to protest.
'I do not He to you. J love you too much for that. I have told you everything.'
She watched him slip down the stairs. He put the headdress on again and became the sheikh before he went out into the darkness, one hand raised in a graceful farewell.
She didn't want to return to her rooms. She didn't want to see Elliott.
She knew now why he had made this journey; she had sensed it all along, but now she knew for certain. Following Ramses to the museum, that he had ever gone to such an extreme, astonished her.
On second thought, why should it astonish her? After all, he had believed; he had been the only one, other than Samir, perhaps, who believed. And so the mystery and the promise had lured him.
As she walked back to her rooms, she prayed he understood the full evil that had unfolded. And when she thought of any creature-no matter how evil or dangerous or cruel-being shut up in the dark, unable to wake, she shuddered and began to cry again.
He was there still, drinking the last of the gin as he sat in the overstuffed chair, so self-contained and elegant even in his drunkenness, hands curved around the cane.
He did not look up when she came in. He did not gather his strength to leave. She shut the door and faced him.
Her words came swiftly, without thought. But she made no accusations. She told him only all that Ramses had said. She told the tale of the food that could not be eaten, and the cattle that could not be slaughtered, the tale of the insatiable hunger and craving of the flesh; she told the tale of loneliness, of isolation; it all came in a rush, as she paced back and forth, not looking at him, not meeting his eyes.
And finally it was done and the room was still.
'When we were young,' he said, 'your father and I, we spent many months in Egypt. We pored over our books; we studied the ancient tombs; we translated the texts; we roamed the sands by day and by night. Ancient Egypt; it became our muse, our religion. We dreamed of some secret knowledge here that would transport us from all the things that seemed to lead to boredom and finally hopelessness.
'Did the pyramids really contain some secret yet undiscovered? Did the Egyptians know a magic language to which the gods themselves listen? What undiscovered tombs lay within these hills? What philosophy remained to be revealed? What alchemy?
'Or did this culture produce a mere semblance of high learning; a semblance of true mystery? We wondered now and then if they had been not wise, and mystical, but a simple, literal, brutal people.
'We never knew. I don't know now. I see now it was the quest that was the passion! The quest, you understand?'
She didn't answer. When she looked at him, he looked very old. His eyes were leaden. He climbed out of the chair, and came towards her, and kissed her cheek. He did this as gracefully as he did all things. That strange thought came to her again which had come so often in the past. She could have loved him and married him, had there been no Alex and no Edith.
And no Ramses,
'I fear for you, my dear,' he said. And then he left her.
The night, the silent empty night, with only the thinnest echo of the music below, lay before her. And all her past countless nights of good and dreamless sleep seemed like the lost comforts and delusions of childhood.
7
DAWN. THE great endless rosy sky spread out beyond the dim shadows of the pyramids and the roughened, disfigured Sphinx, with his paws sprawled on the yellow sand before him.
The dim shape of the Mena House lay still and quiet with only a few tiny lights in its rear rooms.
Only a solitary man, draped in black, rode his ugly camel across the horizon. Somewhere a steam train gave its deep, throbbing whistle.
Ramses walked through the sand, his garments blown back by the cold wind, until he came to the giant Sphinx and stood between its feet looking up at the ruined face, which in his time had been beautiful still, covered over in a fine casing of shining limestone.
'But you stand here still,' he whispered in the ancient tongue, surveying this ruin.
In the cool still morning, he let himself remember a time when all answers had seemed to him to be so simple; when he the brave King had taken life with a swift blow of his sword or his cudgel. When he'd struck down the priestess in her cave so no one else would possess the great secret.
A thousand times he'd wondered if that had not been his first and most terrible sin-to kill the innocent crone whose laughter still echoed in his ears.
I am not fool enough to drink it.
Was he truly damned for that? A wanderer on the face of the earth like the biblical Cain, marked by this great eternal vigor which separated him from all humankind forever?
He did not know. He knew only that he could not bear to be the only one any longer. He had blundered, he would blunder again. It was a certainty now.
Yet what if his isolation was meant? And every attempt would end in such disaster?
He laid his hand on the hard rough stone of the Sphinx's paw. The sand was deep and soft here, and the wind stirred it as it ruffled his robes, and tore at his eyes cruelly.
Again he looked up at the disfigured face. He thought back to the age when he had come here in pilgrimage and in procession. He heard the flutes, the drums. He smelled the incense again and heard the soft, rhythmic incantations.
He made his own prayer now, but it was in the language and the manner of those times which gave him some sweet childish comfort.
'God of my fathers; of my land. Look down on me with forgiveness. Teach me the way; teach me what I must do to give back to nature what I have taken. Or do I walk away in all humility, crying that I have blundered enough? I am no god. I know nothing of creation. And little of justice.
'But one thing is certain. Those who made us all know little of justice either. Or what they do know, great
