"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!"