The Mummy (Ramses the Damned 1)

He had drawn his sword. "Give it to me!" he had roared.

She had not been frightened; she had only smiled.

"What if it kills you, my rash Egyptian? No human being has ever drunk it. No man, woman or child."

But he had already seen the altar, seen the cup of white liquid. He had seen the tablet behind it covered with tiny wedgelike letters.

He stepped up to the altar. He read the words. Could this possibly be the formula of the elixir of life? Common ingredients which he himself could have gathered from the fields and riverbanks of his native land? Half believing, he committed it to memory, never dreaming that he would never forget.

And the liquid, ye gods, look at it. With both hands he lifted the cup and drank it down. Somewhere far off he heard her laughing and laughing; it echoed through the endless chambers of the cave.

And then he'd turned, wiping his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes wide as the shock coursed through him, his face throbbing, his body hardening as if he were in his chariot before the battlefield, on the verge of raising his sword and giving the cry. The priestess had taken a step backwar

ds. What had she seen? His hair stirring, writhing, as if lifted by a swift breeze; the grey hairs falling away as the strong brown hair replaced them; his black eyes fading, turning the colour of sapphires--the stunning transformation that he would verify later when he held up the mirror.

"Well, we shall see, shan't we?" he had cried, his heart pumping fiercely, his muscles tingling. Ah, how light and powerful he'd felt. He could have taken flight. "Do I live or die, priestess?"

Stunned, he stared at the London street before him. As if it were only hours ago! The moment whole and entire, and he could still hear the flapping of those wings against the grate. Seven hundred years had passed between that moment and the night he'd entered the tomb for his first long sleep. And two thousand since he'd been awakened, only to go to the grave within a few years again.

And now this is London; this is the twentieth century. Suddenly he was trembling violently. Again, the damp smoky wind stirred the feathers of the grey dove that lay dead in the street. He walked forward through the sludge and knelt down beside the bird and scooped it up in his hands. Ah, fragile thing. So full of life one moment, and now no more than refuse, though the white down fluttered on its warm, narrow little chest.

Oh, how the chill wind hurt him. How the sight of the dead thing pierced his heart.

Holding it in his right hand, he drew out the half-full vial of the elixir with his left. He pushed open the hinged cap with his thumb and poured the shimmering liquid over the dead creature, forcing one heavy drop after another into its open beak.

Not a second passed before the thing quickened. The tiny round eyes opened. The bird struggled to right itself, its wings flapping violently. He let it go, and up it went, circling as it soared beneath the heavy leaden sky.

He watched until it had disappeared from sight. Immortal now. To fly forever.

And another memory came, silent and swift as an assassin. The mausoleum; the marble halls, the pillars, and the gaunt figure of Cleopatra running beside him as he walked on, faster and faster, away from the dead body of Mark Antony lying on the gilded couch.

"You can bring him back!" she screamed. "You know you can. It's not too late. Ramses. Give it to us both, Mark Antony and me! Ramses, don't turn away from me." Her long nails had scratched at his arm.

In a rage he'd turned, slapped her, knocked her backwards. Astonished, she'd fallen, then crumpled into sobs. How frail she'd been, almost haggard, with the dark circles beneath her eyes.

The bird was gone over the London rooftops. The sun grew brighter, a shocking white light behind the rolling clouds.

His vision blurred; his heart was pounding thickly in his chest. He was weeping, weeping helplessly. Ye gods, what had made him think the pain would not come?

He'd wakened after centuries in a great luxurious numbness; and now that numbness was thawing, and the heat of his love and his grief would soon be wholly his once more. This was but the first taste of suffering, and what was the blessing, that he was alive, heart and soul, again?

He stared at the vial in his hand. He was tempted to crush it, and let its contents drip from his fingers into this foul and rutted street. Take the other vials out someplace far away from London where the grass grew high surely, and only the wild flowers would witness; and there pour all the liquid into the field.

But what were these vain fancies? He knew how to make it. He had memorized those words off that tablet. He could not destroy what was forever engraved on his own mind.

Samir left the cab and walked the remaining fifty yards to his destination, hands shoved in his pockets, collar turned up against the driving wind. Reaching the house on the corner, he went up the stone steps and knocked on the peeling door.

A woman draped all in black wool opened the door a crack, then admitted him. Quietly he entered a cluttered room where two Egyptians sat smoking and reading the morning papers, the shelves and tables around them covered with Egyptian goods. A papyrus and a magnifying glass lay to one side on the table.

Samir glanced at the papyrus. Nothing of importance. He glanced at a long, yellow mummy, its wrappings still quite well preserved, lying carelessly, it seemed, on a nearby shelf.

"Ah, Samir, don't trouble yourself," said the tallest of the two men, whose name was Abdel. "Nothing but fakes on the market. Zaki's work, as you know. Except for that fellow...." The man pointed to the mummy. "He's real enough, but not worth your time."

Nevertheless Samir took a closer look at the mummy.

"The dregs of a private collection," Abdel said. "Not in your class."

Samir nodded, then turned back to Abdel.