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