Читать книгу Herotica 1 - Kerry Greenwood - Страница 12

Egypt 1920

Sweating in the desert all day meant that when the night came with its deep cold, Pierre Duclos settled happily into his routine of a brief wash in water warmed by the sun, a final glass of cognac from his secret cache, and a luxurious roll into his blankets. The Valley of the Kings was a baking scree of rocks too hot to touch during the day. At night the geology gave back its heat, and his little tent was pleasantly warm. His tent mate Sergeant Ciaran Paterson had not come in, doubtless carousing with the diggers. He would tumble in, late and intoxicated by kif, and Pierre would call him crapaud, a sot, and put him to bed. And Ciaran would demand a kiss, putting up his face like a child. And lately Pierre had kissed him. And enjoyed it far too much. It was no longer a jest between comrades, that goodnight kiss. Pierre had no idea what he was going to do about it, if anything, but his dreams, of late, had been heated and unclear, leaving him to awake sticky and puzzled. Paterson was stocky, rather sunburned and rough, with a massive scar from some native battle on his chest. Nothing like the scented, epicene youths of the Egyptian brothels which Pierre had visited when he first arrived. Paterson was one of Howard’s British soldiers, hired to secure the camp and the dig. He was upright and honest and would probably fell Pierre with the butt of that Lee Enfield if he made an approach to him. Yet he leaned into that one kiss, opening his mouth, offering himself to be explored.

And he was unaccountably desirable. Pierre shut his eyes resolutely and began to recite Arabic words in his head to disconnect his mind and sleep. But all the words he could remember were affectionate, Light of my eyes. My heart. My life. My friend...

Then he was abruptly asleep and dreaming. He rose on hawk’s wings into the sky, over the Valley of Kings, and flew until he settled on a red sandstone ledge near the main gate. There were hieroglyphs there, ancient graffiti. He read a complaint about how much the labourers ate, especially in garlic and radishes. He read a home hint about repelling rats with a plaster plug of cat fur. He looked to the cliffs and saw a tomb opening, and a man at the door, embracing another man.

Then he was back in his own body. There was a weight on his chest. The voice of a goddess, a dark and powerful female voice said, ‘Swear by all the Gods to find the tomb of Ptah-Hotep, and you shall have your heart’s desire.’

‘What?’ he blurred, trying to stay in the dream, feeling his body awakening.

‘Promise!’ urged the voice, and he said, ‘I promise,’ and then awoke.

There was indeed a weight on his chest. It was a black cat, scrawny, underfed and dusty. She reposed on his pyjamas as though by right. He sat up and she slid down to his lap, opened her green eyes, and looked into his.

He had never seen such a self-aware glance from an animal. Goddess. Right. Heart’s desire. Tomb. And this cat was her avatar, here to make sure that he did as he was bid.

He had better feed her, then. He called for bread and cheese, and a dish of the labourer’s broth. Cooled, the cat found it acceptable. She also ate most of his cheese, drank her fill of the fresh water, and fell asleep on his bunk.

‘Will you stay here, Oh Basht, Slaughterer of the Fiends of Evening, Lady of the Cunning Word, Keeper of the Door?’ he asked. She licked a paw in assent. She had a regal presence.

Ciaran woke, groaned, and noticed her.

‘Oh, no, cats as well as morning?’ he groaned.

‘Si grognan ce matin,’ remarked Pierre. ‘So grumpy in the morning! You would be happier in the morning if you didn’t smoke so much kif at night, my dear sir.’

‘Last night wasn’t kif, it was some local drink, apparently distilled from cornplasters. Is that coffee?’ asked Ciaran, weakly.

‘It is, and you shall have it, because I love you,’ said Pierre, which was not at all that he had been going to say. The cat pricked up her ears.

‘If you love me so much you’ll give me your only cup of coffee, you must love me indeed,’ said Ciaran. ‘So it’s only fair that I should love you, too, Light of my Eyes.’ He dragged himself into a slouching position. Pierre brought him the coffee and he gulped it, and the large cup of water which followed. Ciaran leaned on him quite unaffectedly. ‘It’s your fault I get so polluted, you know.’

‘Mine?’ asked Pierre, sounding very French. ‘Explique-toi!’’

‘I couldn’t lie in here and watch you sleep any longer, without touching you, so I sent myself out bravely into the desert to find some way of knocking myself out,’ explained Ciaran. ‘You kissed me, when I asked, but you never touched me.’

‘Mon cher,’ said his tent mate. ‘Had you mentioned that...’

‘You might have denounced me,’ said Ciaran. ‘Blimey, my head hurts! Get me some aspirin, Ha’bi’bbi, and tell me about the cat.’

‘I dreamed about the Valley of Kings, copain, and I dreamed the location of a new tomb,’ said Pierre, fetching aspirin and refilling the water cup. He dosed Ciaran and sat down on the tent floor next to his feet. ‘I read the graffiti on the cliff, I saw the tomb door open and two men in the adit. Then a voice said that I should promise to find the tomb of Ptah-Hotep, and I should have my heart’s desire, so I promised. When I woke up this cat was here, sleeping on my chest. And do I have my heart’s desire?’ he asked, trying to steady his voice.

‘If your heart’s desire is me, yes, you do,’ replied the soldier. ‘Tonight, when I have recovered, I shall prove it to you, my Light. For the present, am I too disgusting to kiss?’

‘You will never be too disgusting to kiss,’ replied Pierre, and demonstrated this. The cat went back to sleep, head on paws.

Supervisor Carter was pleased to allow his most promising French colleague leave to explore a little, even on the basis of a dream. Howard Carter knew about the importance of dreams. A dream had informed him that there was still a royal tomb to find. This prevision sounded promising. He had been concerned that Pierre Duclos, a pale, thin scholar, might find the desert conditions and the heavy work too taxing.

‘But you must not go alone, there are some rogue fellahin around, take a guard.’

Pierre knew just the guard for his expedition. He collected gear and food and water, for there was no water at all in the valley and the wells which the artisans had used had not been rediscovered. He also collected a donkey, a small one which had been recently beaten and needed some restful occupation, notified his soldier and picked up the cat.

‘I can’t leave you here, Majeste,’ he told her. These people are cruel to cats. And you ought to supervise: you need to be able to tell your mistress that I have carried out her wishes to her satisfaction.’

The cat climbed onto the donkey saddle without comment and they set out. Sgt Paterson took the leading rein. Pierre noticed, as they paced evenly along the ravine floor, that he was carrying his military pack, as well as his rifle and ammunition belt.

‘You could put your pack on the donkey,’ he suggested. Ciaran laughed.

‘It’s no weight for me, I’m used to it – marched all over the world with this knapsack – and she’s carrying enough. Bastards lambasted the poor little thing, she’s bruised.’

‘Should I carry my own things, Englishman? Your race cares more for animals than people, they say,’ teased Pierre.

‘Says a man who takes orders from a cat,’ responded the sergeant. Pierre admired his easy, comfortable pace. He did indeed look as though he could march around the world. ‘I nicked a sack of oats and hay for the little ‘un, and we won’t work her too hard, we ain’t in a hurry,’ observed Ciaran. ‘Couple of days rest and she’ll be all right. I fair hate the way these wogs mistreat animals,’ he added, as the donkey nosed him for another bit of ration biscuit.

‘They have no souls, it is said.’ Pierre took the sergeant’s hand in his own, pulling to slow him down, and then forgetting to release it.

‘Nonsense,’ protested Ciaran. ‘You’ve only got to look in her eyes and you can see she has a soul. Haven’t you, my angel? And your cat. She’s been watching me as if she was weighing up whether to give me a medal or put my name down for punishment duty.’

‘Then she is mistaken,’ said Pierre, relishing the feeling of the hard, calloused hand in his own, fingers holding just tight enough. ‘If you are condemned, then I am condemned as well, and She of Silences needs me to find this tomb.’

‘You Frenchies are so rational,’ sighed the sergeant. ‘We’re out of sight of the camp, out of sight of the sentries, too. You could kiss me again, you know.’

‘Yes, but I will deny myself that pleasure until we have reached good cover, and have found a place to camp. If we are seen by the English, it’s disgrace for both of us.’

‘I know,’ replied the soldier. ‘Has it always been like that? For men like us?’

‘Not in Ancient Egypt,’ replied Pierre. He released the sergeant and reached for a water bottle. The sun was beginning to bite. ‘There they had no moral objections at all.’

Just before the turn in the path, a shot rang from the cliffs, then another. Sergeant Paterson shoved Pierre and the donkey back against the rock wall and levelled his rifle, searching the heights for targets. The cat rose to her paws and hissed.

‘One, south ten degrees,’ said Pierre steadily. ‘Another, fifteen, same cliff. More coming up.’

‘I see them,’ replied Paterson. ‘You know this path – anywhere we can take shelter?’

‘Nowhere – it was well chosen for an ambush. If this is goodbye, I regret nothing except that I have never made love to you.’

‘I regret getting drunk last night,’ said the soldier, never taking his eyes off his mark. ‘I would have stayed with you forever.’

‘I fear that this is as far as forever goes,’ said Pierre.

As more shots scarred the red stone and the cat wailed a loud, impatient howl, a thunder cloud descended from a clear hot sky and covered the ravine in mist. Pierre and Ciaran, astounded, did not move. They could see nothing. In the cloud were dreadful noises, a rising predator’s snarl which broke out into a full throated roar, breaking over them like a wave, harsh as a slap in the face: powerful. Ravenous. Personal.

Then it was gone: cloud, attackers, roaring. Pierre passed a shaking hand over his face and found it faintly damp. The cat, satisfied, sat down on the saddle again with a smug expression and began to wash mist off her fur. Ciaran slung the rifle and grabbed Pierre by the shoulders and kissed him, hard. Pierre moulded his body into the soldier’s embrace. They were both trembling. Finally Ciaran whispered against his lover’s neck

‘What was that?

‘That, mon amour, was Sekmet Blood Drinker, Sekmet the Destroyer, Sekmet Slaughterer of Men. Goddess of War. She is the lioness aspect of the Goddess Basht. Evidently the Goddess means for us to be able to carry out our task. Shall we move? I’m feeling a little... shaky.’

‘So is Angel and so am I,’ replied Ciaran. ‘The only person who isn’t terrified is that cat. Come on, we’ll find a bit of cover, have a brew-up, and it’s bikkies all round. Except for Her Highness, there.’

‘I have some dried fish which I think she will find palatable,’ said Pierre, and they moved away from the manifestation.

As a British soldier, Ciaran could make a small fire and boil water in any conditions. They sheltered under a dry wall and drank tea improved with cognac, recovering their nerve. Angel munched some hay. Bashtet accepted a small dried fish from Pierre’s hand. He stroked her as he awarded her the Goddess’ titles ‘Nefert, Neferti, Bashtet Tashery.’

She purred loudly for the first time, rubbing her face against his hand.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Ciaran, finished his tea and stamping out the fire.

‘Goddess, little avatar of the Goddess Basht,’ replied Pierre.

‘I think she agrees with you,’ said Ciaran. ‘Not much further, Angel,’ he assured the donkey. ‘Soon have you unloaded and rubbed down.’

Nightfall found them established. The tent was pitched, the donkey rubbed down and watered, tethered nearby with some hay in case of night starvation. Ciaran felt unreal, but not unsafe. After that supernatural cloud, he was sure that they were all under divine protection, and he had always longed for a god who could take instant action and, preferably, had teeth. Basht had accepted more dried fish and had vanished into the desert.

At last, at last, Ciaran could shed his clothes and lie down in the accepting embrace of his most beautiful lover. Pierre was slender and elegant and pale, everything he was not: he wondered that so scholarly a man could find a rough soldier so delightful. But as the caresses grew more intimate and the bodies slid closer together, he was sure that Pierre wanted him as much as he wanted Pierre, and that was, after many other lovers, finally and forever. In the darkness and cold of the desert, they were two bright lights, heart to heart, burning as steadily as Sirius, Sothis, the star of Horus, above. They wrapped themselves in their blankets and fell asleep, arms around each other.

In the morning, they rose and carried out the usual tasks. Basht returned for more fish and also nibbled the edge of a biscuit. She drank deeply, as though she had been adventuring during the night. She walked from one lap to the other, as the two men sat on a suitable rock, sniffing languidly at their mouths and then burrowing her nose first into one shirt and then the other. Then she gave a satisfied ‘Prr’t’ and sat down for a wash. She was beginning to look better. From a ragged dusty stray she was already filling out to be the sable beauty she would become.

‘What was all that about? A kit inspection?’ asked Ciaran.

‘I think she wished to know if we were truly together,’ replied Pierre, caressing her whiskers. The Goddess has some purpose in choosing us, you know.’

‘Fair enough, I never argue with goddesses,’ said Ciaran swiftly. ‘Have some of this cake, it’s the last I have. My mother sent it.’

‘Very good fruitcake,’ said Pierre. ‘Have you thought what will become of us? Shall we live in your country, or in mine?’

‘I hadn’t thought,’ confessed Ciaran. ‘I’m a soldier. It doesn’t do to take long views if you’re in my trade. No, what’s there for me in Devon? I’d never make a farmer, that’s why I joined the army. You?’

‘We might stay here,’ Pierre had been thinking about this. ‘Men loving men is not illegal here. I have a taste for my father’s trade, which is antiquities. What say to setting up business in, say, Cairo? You shall be my bodyguard, the master of my house, and my escort when we are travelling. And lie with me every night? Perhaps?’

‘That sounds...’ Ciaran lost words, and kissed Pierre very gently, allowing his lips to linger on his lover’s soft mouth.

‘Yes?’ asked Pierre.

‘Yes,’ said Ciaran.

They found the tomb in the afternoon. The seals were untouched.

‘What’s written all down the door?’ asked Ciaran. Basht sat impatiently at Pierre’s feet, just like a house cat waiting for some dim human to recognise the signal and open the door.

‘It’s a curse, a very comprehensive curse, against opening the tomb,’ replied Pierre.

‘What shall we do?’ asked the soldier, twining his lover’s fingers in his own.

Pierre put their joined hands against the clay seal, and it crumbled to dust, taking the curse with it. The door swung open, groaning a little against the wind blown sand. Bashtet flicked inside, as though it was her own house, and sprang onto one of the two sarcophagi in the tomb.

The walls were festooned with vines. Fresh as the day they were painted, globes of delicious grapes hung eternally within reach of the two men, overseeing the picking, eating the fruit, supervising the pressing and maturing, tasting the wine. They sat at a table together, saluting one another, and the table was laden with a fine feast.

‘He is Ptah-Hotep, Great Royal Judge. This is not a royal tomb. M’sieur Carter will be disappointed,’ commented Pierre, scanning the inscriptions.

‘This bloke, he’s got reddish skin, he’s bigger than the other bloke, he’s pale and thin,’ gloated Ciaran. ‘What does it say about them?’ he begged Pierre, who was still reading, kneeling down, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.

‘That is Kheperren, he was a soldier with General Horemheb. His, yes, lover, his lover he lived with all his life, that is Ptah-Hotep.’

‘A soldier and a scholar,’ said Ciaran. ‘And there they are, lying in the reeds, making love, just as we did. Face to face.’

‘Justement,’ replied Pierre Duclos.

‘So it’s all right,’ said Ciaran, eyes alight. ‘We’ve happened before, we’ll happen again. It’s all right, us.’

‘Yes,’ said Pierre Duclos. They embraced in the tomb, between the two monuments. ‘We’re all right, mon coeur, we’re forever all right.’

ADVICE TO TRAVELLERS - THE BLUE GUIDE

If you wish to buy antiquities while in Cairo - and who does not want some fragment of Egypt to take home to Surbiton or Berlin? - then you should direct your steps to the emporium of Monsieur Pierre Duclos in Alexander Street. The shop has only a small sign, but do not let that dissuade you. Monsieur Duclos has antiquities and copies to suit the smallest budget, and riches and treasures for the largest. His shop is an old house, in which visitors may sit in the former seraglio, drink mint tea in the cool shade of the vines and listen to a learned discourse from M. Duclos.

A noted antiquarian, M. Duclos specialises in objects from the 18th Dynasty. His partner, M. Paterson, is always an interesting speaker, especially when talking about his sanctuary for abused animals. A donation can be left with him. Visitors may also see the latest generation of the famous Duclos Basht, a breed of night-black cat now famous in Egypt. M. Duclos discovered the orginal Bashet in the Valley of the Kings. She was, fortunately, in kitten at the time, as no wild sire has been found. The breed is elegant, svelte, and perfectly black, with a velvety coat and spring green eyes.

M. Duclos will allow some bargaining, but his prices are already fair, and he will not indulge in any sharp practices. We at Blue Guide thoroughly recommend his establishment.