Herotica 1. Kerry Greenwood

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СКАЧАТЬ Egyptian drew his fine woollen cloak over the two of them, so that they should not feel the teeth of the fire. Marcus Corvinus wrapped Imhotep in a fast embrace.

      ‘It is an honour,’ he gasped, as darkness crept over his sight, ‘to die with such a devoted scholar’.

      Imhotep prayed while he could still form words, then snuggled into the Roman’s body. To die was to return to one’s mother, to go back to the source of all comfort. To die was to sleep the deepest sleep of all.

      They slept. The fire roared overhead, licking up words, Greek and Egyptian and Latin, eating knowledge, consuming wisdom, leaving nothing behind but a Roman victory and a thick layer of ash.

      Imhotep woke, which was a surprise. Surely they couldn’t have survived that inferno! He was still lying with his Roman, under the cloak Imhotep’s father had woven for him. But there was no sound or heat outside the shelter of the cloth.

      He lifted one corner and exclaimed, ‘Isis! Hail, Lady, Keeper of the Door of the Underworld!’

      ‘If you wish,’ replied the tall, elegant, onlooker. He had a golden aura around his curly head, a white robe and long, white wings.

      Strange, thought Imhotep, Isis is supposed to be a Goddess. This is a God of some sort. I don’t recognise him. And I know all of the Ennead.

      ‘Are you Thanatos?’ croaked Marcus Corvinus, waking and leaning on his Egyptian’s shoulder. Odd, he thought, Thanatos, God of Death, is supposed to be a dark angel.

      ‘I can be Thanatos if you require,’ replied the figure. His voice was even and musical. And patient.

      ‘We died, didn’t we? In the fire?’ reasoned Imhotep. ‘I didn’t think we could survive that, Marcus.’

      ‘No, ’Hotep, we evidently didn’t survive. And, if you would be so good, Honoured Celestial Being,’ Marcus and Imhotep levered themselves to their feet, creaking in every muscle, ‘I regret that I have no sacrifice to offer, but could you tell us where we are?’

      ‘This is The Library,’ replied the God. ‘And I am the Library Angel. Come along, now, you need to bathe, and then there will be a feast in your honour.’

      ‘A feast?’ asked Imhotep, following the angel, an arm around Marcus’ waist as the Roman’s was around his shoulders.

      ‘Well, of course,’ said the angel. ‘You saved the Treatise on Surgery and the Homeric Hymns. Naturally there would be a feast. Here is the bath. Someone will come with some refreshments and some clothes, if you would like to wear them. Then you may rest until I come to fetch you. People find the transition tiring, when it has been so,’ the angel shuddered, ‘violent.’

      Marcus and Imhotep staggered into the bath. It was a series of large, steamy, tiled and painted rooms, where they were immediately surrounded by a crowd of nude boys and girls who stripped off the burned remains of Imhotep’s cloth and sat them down on chairs to be scrubbed with a strange substance which foamed; and tasted, when Marcus tried it, very flat and unpleasant. But it smelt divine, of the cypress trees at the Serapeum, the Daughter Library where the remainder of the scrolls should be safe.

      The bath creatures – Imhotep observed that they had little wings, which sufficed to lift them a few cubits above the ground – washed them very thoroughly, humming and singing to themselves in a manner reminiscent of bees. They gave off harmony, a sense of happiness and a sweet scent, like honey. But they did not speak.

      When Imhotep and Marcus Tullius Corvinus were rinsed as clean as the newborn, the humming attendants ushered them out of the washing room and conducted them down the steps into a sumptuous bath, into warm water which was so mineral rich that they were buoyed up. Marcus caught Imhotep’s hand and they floated together, linked, staring up at a ceiling which was made of immeasurable space, powdered by a million stars.

      ‘I don’t hurt anymore,’ commented Marcus. ‘All those little burns and bruises are gone. And you, my devout scholar?’

      ‘Yes, I feel completely unharmed. Is this your afterlife?’ asked Imhotep. ‘If so, it was very kind of you to invite me to come with you. It’s lovely.’

      Marcus shivered and pulled Imhotep into the curve of his body.

      ‘No, my afterlife is both tedious and frightening. Not a good place at all. And to test the hypothesis, in my afterlife you can’t remember what it was to be alive. And I remember everything.’

      ‘So do I. This isn’t the Field of Reeds either, though don’t think I’m complaining. And did you recognise the Library Angel? And those little winged children?’

      ‘No, I haven’t studied much comparative religion,’ replied Marcus. ‘But you’ll stay with me? You don’t want to leave me to go to the Field of Reeds?’

      ‘I’ll stay,’ promised Imhotep. He relaxed in the warm water, feeling the ache of his loss dissolving in the water. ‘I would not be able to go there, anyway. My body must have been burned to ash in the fire; no mummified body, no Field of Reeds.’

      ‘That seems unjust,’ commented Marcus. ‘I think I like this afterlife better than either.’

      ‘Yes. And, do you know, Marcus, even though I’m definitely dead, I’m hungry and thirsty. Can we get out and find some of those refreshments of which the angel spoke?’

      ‘An excellent notion,’ replied Marcus.

      The refreshments were a fine loaf of wheat bread, a plait of honey-poppyseed cake, several cheeses, a variety of fruits and a large jug of wine. Marcus looked around for a mixing bowl and a water jug, did not find them, tasted, and smiled. He filled two cups.

      ‘This is wonderful,’ he said to Imhotep, as they sat on a pile of pillows on a warm wooden floor in a hall hung with tapestries. ‘It would be a crime to dilute it. Drink with me?’ he asked, looking into the Egyptian’s dark eyes. ‘I don’t know how long this is going to last, if we’re dreaming so as not to feel the fire, but I want to eat and drink, and then I want to make love with you, most beautiful of scholars. Before the spell changes. Before it all turns to ash.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Imhotep, biting into a red fruit which trickled juice down his chin. Marcus leaned forward and licked it up. It tasted wonderful. ‘But this has a more permanent feeling than a dream. This is certainly a Heavenly fruit,’ he said. ‘This is nectar and ambrosia, and I would make love to you for all the time there is, until the ending of the world.’

      They lay together gently, slowly, not altogether believing that each touch was real. They mouthed the divine grapes, sucking sweet juice from each other’s skin, kissing through an aeon, caressing and holding. Each caress seemed to be magnified, their skin sensitised by the cleansing, and when they cried out together the winged attendants heard, and sent up a humming paean of joy.

      Marcus laughed, looking down into Imhotep’s face. He kissed him. Imhotep tasted of grapes and flowers.

      ‘If it all ceases, and we go into the dark,’ he told his fellow scholar, ‘it will have been worth dying to embrace you.’

      ‘I love you, Marcus. I treasure your love. And I saved the Treatise on Surgery, and you saved the Homeric Hymns, so it was worth our lives.’

      ‘It was,’ agreed Marcus. ‘But I had not СКАЧАТЬ