Free The Mummy or Ramses the Damned by Anne Rice Page A

prodded again. Had seriousness ever been so seductive?
    “Can’t possibly be Ramses the Great, my dear,” he said. “But then you know that.” He studied the painted lid of the coffin again, and once more the body nestled in its dusty swathing. “An excellent job, I must say that. Not many chemicals were used; no smell of bitumen whatsoever.”
    “There is no bitumen,” Samir said suddenly. He had been standing on Elliott’s left and Elliott had not even seen him.
    “And what do you make of that?” Elliott asked.
    “The King has given us his own explanation,” Samir said. “Or so Lawrence told me. Ramses had himself wrapped with all due ceremony and prayers; but he was not embalmed. He was never taken from the cell where he wrote his story.”
    “What an amazing idea!” Elliott said. “And have you readthese inscriptions yourself?” He pointed to the Latin as he translated: “ ‘Let not the sun shine on my remains; for in darkness I sleep; beyond all suffering; beyond all knowledge.…’ Now that is hardly an Egyptian sentiment. I think you’ll agree.”
    Samir’s face darkened as he looked at the tiny letters. “There are curses and warnings everywhere. I was a curious man until we opened this strange tomb.”
    “And now you’re frightened?” Not a good thing for one man to say to another. But it was true. And Julie was merely enthralled.
    “Elliott, I want you to read Father’s notes,” she said, “before the museum gathers up everything and locks it in a vault. The man doesn’t merely claim to be Ramses. There’s a good deal more.”
    “You’re not referring to the nonsense in the papers,” he asked her. “About his being immortal, and loving Cleopatra.”
    Strange the way she looked at him. “Father translated some of it,” she repeated. She glanced to the side. “I have the notebook. It’s on his desk. Samir will agree with me, I think. You’ll find it interesting.”
    But Samir was being dragged away by Hancock and some other fellow with a brittle smile. And Lady Treadwell had accosted Julie before she could go on. Wasn’t Julie afraid of the curse? Elliott felt her hand slip away from his. Old Winslow Baker wanted to talk to Elliott right now. No, go away. A tall woman with withered cheeks and long white hands stood before the coffin and demanded to know if the whole thing might be a practical joke.
    “Certainly not!” said Baker. “Lawrence always dug up the real thing, I’d stake my life on it.”
    Elliott smiled. “Once the museum has these wrappings off,” he said, “they’ll be able to date the remains successfully. There will be internal evidence of age, of course.”
    “Lord Rutherford, I didn’t recognize you,” said the woman.
    Good Lord, was he supposed to recognize her? Someone had stepped in front of her; everyone wanted to see this thing. And he ought to move, but he didn’t want to.
    “I can’t bear to think of their cutting him open,” Julie said half in a whisper. “This is the first time I’ve seen him,” she said. “I didn’t dare to open the case on my own.”
    “Come along, darling, there’s an old friend I want you tomeet,” Alex said suddenly. “Father, there you are! Do get off your feet! Do you want me to help you to a chair?”
    “I can manage, Alex, go on,” Elliott replied. The fact was, he was used to the pain. It was like tiny knives in his joints; and tonight he could feel it even in his fingers. But he could forget about it, entirely, now and then.
    And now he was alone with Ramses the Damned, with a lot of backs and shoulders turned to him. How splendid.
    He narrowed his eyes as he drew very close to the mummy’s face. Amazingly well formed; not desiccated at all. And certainly not the face of an old man, such as Ramses would have been at the end of a sixty-year reign.
    The mouth was a young man’s mouth, or at least that of a man in his prime. And the nose was slender, but not emaciated—what Englishmen call