Herotica 1. Kerry Greenwood

      ‘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.