From the top he smiled down on her indulgently.
Sometimes she was still a child. At others she was a grave and dignified
woman. He was not certain which he preferred, but he loved her in both
moods. She rolled to a halt at the bottom of the dune and sat up, still
laughing, shaking the sand out of her hair. 'Your turn!' she called up
at him. He followed her down sedately, moving with the slight stiffness
of advancing age, keeping his balance until he reached the bottom.
He lifted her to her feet. He did not kiss her, although the temptation
to do so was strong. It was not the Arab way to show public affection,
even to a beloved wife.
She 'straightened her clothing and retied her hair before they set off
towards the village. They skirted the reed beds of the oasis, crossing
the rickety bridges over the irrigation canals. As they passed, the
peasants returning from the fields greeted him with deep respect.
'Salaam aleikum, Doktari! Peace be with you, doctor.' They honoured all
men of learning, but him especially for his kindness to them and their
families over the years.
Many of them had worked for his father before him. It mattered little
that most of them were Moslem, while he was a Christian.
When they reached the villa, Alia, the old housekeeper, greeted them
with mumbles and scowls. 'You are late. You are always late. Why do you
not keep regular hours, like decent folk? We have a position to
maintain.'
'Old mother, you are always right,' he teased her gently. 'What would we
do without you to care for us?' He sent her away, still scowling to
cover her love and concern for him.
They ate the simple meat on the terrace together, dates and olives and
unleavened bread and goat's milk cheese. It was dark when they finished,
but the desert stars were bright as candles.
'Royan, -my flower.' He reached across the table and touched her hand.
'It is time to begin work.' He stood up from the table and led the way
to his study that opened out on to the terrace.
Royan Al Simma went directly to the tall steel safe against the far wall
and tumbled the combination. The safe was out of place in this room,
amongst the old books and scrolls, amongst the ancient statues and
artefacts and grave goods that were the collection of his lifetime.
When the heavy steel door swung open, Royan stood back for a moment. She
always felt this prickle of awe whenever she first looked upon this
relic of the ages, even after an interval of only a few short hours.
'The seventh scroll,' she whispered, and steeled herself to touch it. It
was nearly four thousand years old, written by a genius out of time with
history, a man who had been dust for all these millennia, but whom she
had come to know and respect as she did her own husband. His words were
eternal, and they spoke to her clearly from beyond the grave, from the
fields of paradise, from the presence of the great trinity, Osiris and
Isis and Horus, in whom he had believed so devoutly. As devoutly as she
believed in another more recent Trinity.
She carried the scroll to the long table at which Duraid, her husband,
was already at work. He looked up as she laid it on the tabletop before
him, and for a moment she saw the same mystical mood in his eyes that
