Valerie stepped even closer, until she stood only a meter from him, but still he did not speak. Or perhaps he did and she could not hear him, for his lips moved slightly. She waited, oblivious to the anxious voices of her friends. Finally she touched him. She fl inched from the shock of the touch and the realization that he felt exactly like the pagan gods when they had touched her and opened her spirit to another place. But his place was a place of agony.

"I thought I was free of you," she said to him softly. "Now I have to believe in you again."

The man of sorrows held out his own hands which, like those of Rekemheb, held a light of their own. They trembled, and blood ran from the palms along his fi ngers. He rasped, "No. You only make it worse."

"I don't understand."

The Savior shook his head, feebly. "I am only a part of Him who lives also in His believers. But in his believers He is set against Himself, and His right hand smites His left." The voice was soft, but hoarse as if his throat, like every other part of him, was raw.

Valerie shook her head. Fighting between sects who claimed the * 221 *

same God was no revelation to anyone. "What has that got to do with us? We aren't Christians."

"You must tell them." He spoke slowly , his head thrown back slightly, forcing every word over the open sores of his mouth. "I was a teacher, a healer, a maker of wine and bread. I too was a Child in the temple." He paused a moment with closed eyes.

She couldn't tell if it was from the exertion of talking, or whether he was recalling a time of celebration rather than pain.

He opened his eyes again, and they were fi lled with tears. "The stories that men tell are not of my righteousness and joy , but of my martyrdom. They could have chosen the healer or the winemaker , but they pray instead to the cross that tortured me. They pray to this." The Christ touched his side where the ribs were visible under his translucent skin. Blood oozed from a long diagonal wound into the cloth around his hips.

"Tell them, please, to stop."

The stories that men tell . Valerie thought of the scribe god' s warning of the power of the word. She wondered if the two forms of god could ever talk to each other, whether Jehuti could solace him. No, she realized, the One God had torn himself away from all the others.

"Je suis desolee ," she said, in the language of her childhood prayers, with more piety than she had ever felt as a believer. "I will try to explain to people. Though I don't think they will listen."

He seemed to slump and his hands dropped to his sides. He looked up at her one last time, and she noticed what beautiful eyes he had, with lashes like a girl's.

"No, they won't," he whispered. "They want the martyr." Closing his eyes again, he withdrew , pressing his back to the rock of his Golgotha, the "place of skulls."

"Wait," she said, recalling the anxiety of her fi rst communion.

"Please. Are my sins forgiven?"

He looked at her for a moment, as if not comprehending the question. Then he shook his head. "I am not the judge," he said, and faded back into the rock of Calvary.

Finally, she heard their voices.

Najya laid a hand on her shoulder and shook her gently . "Come on, darling."

She led her the rest of the way out of the church, and it was not * 222 *

Vulture's Kiss until they stood before the portal that Valerie spoke. "Did you see him?

Did you hear what he said to me?"

Najya laid her arm around her back. "Whatever you saw and heard, we can analyze it later. I'm so tired I can't talk any more."

Auset shifted the quiet baby to her other shoulder . "Yes. I have a wet two-year-old in my arms, and I haven't slept in days."

Grainy-eyed and dazed, Valerie stepped between them and slipped her arms through theirs. In the cool predawn air, their physical warmth on both sides of her was a deep comfort. "Y es, for god's sake, let's go home."

* 223 *

52.

Remembrance Faaria leaned on her stick and peered with dim eyes at her brother as he shuffl ed from the courtyard of the newly fi nished mortuary of Husaam al Noori. Though he was older than she, age had been kinder to him, she realized. Well, he had also not borne six children.

She, on the other hand, now felt every one of her nearly seventy years and had been under a pall for a year since the death of Amhara.

"It's beautiful, Sharif. A pity it will stay empty though, while Husaam's bones lie some place in Jerusalem."

"Not completely empty. I've had the masons build a modest tomb in the back, a simple sarcophagus, for me. If I can' t lie by his side in death, I can lie by his monument."

"Fair enough. Though I think his spirit would have been content with less splendor. Since you have no children to spend all your money on, you can spend it on mine."

He took her arm and they hobbled together, two bent fi gures, back to the main road of the necropolis. "Your children are doing quite well, Faaria, and do not need me. Do not begrudge this tribute to Husaam, in whose household we both found someone who loved us. Besides, the money that I've earned all these years began with the sale of his great manuscripts. When I saved them from Jerusalem, I knew they had value, but I did not know how much."

"Jerusalem," Faaria mused. "What a horror. I have almost erased the nightmare from my mind. And would have sooner if the vizier had not constantly called my husband to account for the loss of it."

"Idris ad Dawla could stand up to the vizier as well as any man, and no one would think to blame him for the Frankish savagery . He had the force of character to free us all from Frankish hands, even Amhara, whom they coveted," Sharif mused out loud. "And fate has been generous to us all since then, hasn't it? Idris ad Dawla honorably regained a place in the court and was given land for his service. That's a good ending to the story."

Faaria smiled at the stooped fi gure of her brother, who seemed to * 224 *

Vulture's Kiss always harbor optimism. Perhaps the books gave him another happier world to live in. "But the story is not ended. It never is. You know as well as I do that the Franks are marching now on Cairo, and there will be another battle before the year is out."

"The Franks have overreached themselves this time, though," he countered. "The caliph's army is strong. Moreover, haven't you heard of the great soldier from the East? Salah al Din, he' s called, and he is already on the march behind the invaders."

She shook her head. "I am too old now to worry about coming battles. I care only about my children and grandchildren now."

The servant stood by the horses, and after he handed the reins to Sharif, he helped Faaria into the saddle. When they were both mounted, Sharif took up the thread of the conversation.

"Yes, and all of them are doing well. Your sons are prosperous and your daughters have good husbands. I was worried for awhile about your oldest, Samia. She was just like you, a wild thing, and I thought she'd never marry. Idris got her settled down fi nally, but now her daughter is just as bad. What a lineage you have produced!"

Faaria laughed along with him. Yes, there was a sort of lineage of odd women. She had concluded as much herself when her granddaughter ,.

at the age of eighteen, refused to marry the fi ery young soldier her father had picked for her. When the reproaches began, Faaria realized they were the very same ones that had been made to her and then to her daughter, for being "wild." She knew, the way the men could never know, that all three of them-mother , daughter and granddaughter- preferred the tenderness of women.

The solution, as it turned out, was remarkably simple, once she had managed to convince the grumbling father . Given a suffi cient dowry-and a dowry from the house of Idris ad Dawla was always suffi cient-all they had to do was fi nd some mild clerk or merchant who would be content to let his young wife have her way . As long as she bore him a few sons over the years and did not publicly shame him, she could have her "tender friendships" as she wished.

Faaria felt a sudden pain in her chest and could not tell whether it was ailment or simply longing for Amhara. Oh, how she missed her.

She brooded on the thousand sweet nights that they had shared in ad Dawla's harem, fi rst as passionate lovers and then, in advancing age, as companions. If their husband sensed the intimacy between them, * 225 *

he never resented it, content, it seemed, with their constant tenderness toward him.

Amhara had done her duty and given birth to a son soon after they returned to Cairo and began what would be a lar ge and robust family.

Motherhood became her , though she never quite lost the melancholy over her lost infant. Faaria had caught her now and again staring into space, as if looking for a sign from the gods who had promised something and then failed her . And when Amhara had taken her last breath, a year ago, they had shared the same fi erce longing, that their two spirits would embrace again in the afterlife.

Finally they reached the house, and the two servants came to help Faaria from her horse. She asked for some tea to be brought to her room.Her sleeping room was cool, and she removed the hijab with a sigh.

The pain that returned as she sat down was probably the indigestion that plagued her . But if it was not, then things had an ur gency. With diffi culty, she knelt on arthritic knees and drew two chests from under her bed, one in ebony and one half its size in alabaster.

The wooden one was full to bursting with all her family , and it pleased her to see them all together there. Amhara's sons and daughters and her own, and on the top, the layer of grandchildren. Off to the side, wrapped separately, were those of the fi rst generation, carved in their maturity.

Samek had told Amhara of the spirit-the ka he called it-that returned to house in the image of itself. And so, in the faint hope of cheating death, Amhara had insisted that every one of their household, and everyone they loved, be carved in wood. Each one was taken upon their sixteenth birthday to the image maker to be recorded in a graven image. Sharif had heard of this practice and, though skeptical, he agreed.

He insisted however that likenesses be carved not only of Husaam, but also of his old white camel that had brought them out of Jerusalem.

Idris ad Dawla was there too, of course, in the splendid armor he wore when he saved them from the Franks. She had let the image maker carve the Frankish knight as well, according to her description. Though she doubted the murderous invader would go to the afterlife where the * 226 *

Vulture's Kiss kas of the virtuous dwelled, she wanted to record him. If there was judgement there, or retribution, she wanted him to meet it in the bloody cross-marked clothing of his army.

She closed the ebony box and tied a cord around the hasp to hold it closed.

The alabaster chest was more precious for it held the image of Amhara. In the fi rst year of their new life in Cairo, while the terror of Jerusalem was still fresh in memory, they had offi cially renounced the Father God in whose name a river of blood had been shed. But of the religion of the gods they knew little, only what Samek had explained- that the spirit could live on after death as ka. What was required was simply a life of righteousness toward nature and if not a mummy, then a likeness, in which the ka could house.

Faaria couldn't remember how they had found the image maker in the souq, perhaps by accident. But once they knew his craft, they went, each one to make a likeness of the other , vying in precision and using their own hair.

She lifted the Amhara doll from the alabaster chest and kissed it tenderly. As always, it seemed warm to the touch, but then, her hands always warmed at the touch of her , even of her mere image. Faaria didn't know if a spirit lived in it, or ever would but, just in case, their two likenesses would lie together in a single casket. She placed the precious fi gure next to her own and closed the lid for the last time. After she pressed the hasp in place, she took a candle and coated it with wax to seal it, wondering if it would ever be opened and, if so, by whom.

"Jaddee, are you all right? Let me help you."

It was Leyla, her favorite rebellious granddaughter , bringing tea.

Faaria allowed herself to be helped to her feet and laid on her bed.

"I'm all right, dear. Look, there's something important you must do. Promise me you'll do it right away."

"Of course, Jaddee. I always do what you tell me."

She pointed to the two chests on the fl oor. "Take those to the image maker in the souq. You know the one I mean, the one who made the little statue of you on your last birthday. Don't let anyone take them from you. He'll know what to do."

Leyla looked puzzled for a moment, then embraced her . "Oh, Jaddee. I know you always do what's right for us." The look she gave through lowered eyelids told how much she understood about Faaria's * 227 *

hand in her recent marriage, and about what the two of them had in common. "I promise."

As the door shut, Faaria closed her eyes. The pain in her chest was more severe now. No, it was not indigestion. It seemed as if something struck her so hard she could not draw a breath. She thrashed a little, but made no other sound, only the softest whisper with her last exhalation.

"Amhara, habibti."

* 228 *

Vulture's Kiss

53.

Of Spirit and the Flesh Valerie and Najya lay together on the narrow hotel bed, facing outward as the midday heat penetrated sleep.

Valerie opened her eyes and licked already moist lips. She tried to lean back to let the air cool her damp throat but immediatel y hit the wall behind her . "Uff," she said. She rolled on top of Najya and lay for a moment in a long kiss, savoring the wicked pleasure of their two sweat-slick bodies. "Umm, I adore you, cherie, but I'm still going to be the fi rst in the shower." She threw back the clammy sheet.

Najya threw an arm across the small of Valerie's back, but not fast enough to keep her from sliding off and making for the bathroom.

Valerie climbed into the miniscule shower platform and stood lathering under the spray of water while it evolved from cold to lukewarm.

Soon, Najya stood in the bathroom doorway , her bronze body glistening with perspiration.

Valerie paused for a moment and let her glance slide over Najya's body like a caress. "Gods, you're so beautiful. You make me speechless."

"Speechlessness isn' t one of your qualities, habibti.

Anyhow, listen. It's daylight. We're awake and rational. Now , tell me the truth.

What did we see last night under the Church of the Sepulchre?"

"Believe it, cherie. You saw the kas of Yussif, Derek, and Rekemheb, and the Vulture Goddess of Upper Egypt."

Najya leaned against the doorjamb. "She' s stunning, you know .

Well, of course you know. You must be in love with her. I'd be. Although that seems like a form of insanity."

"She is, and I was, and it is. But there'

s more to Nekhbet, of course. And more of them. The gods, I mean. And when you see them all together, it's beyond anything you can imagine. Like a Bosch painting, Auset says." Valerie let the water spray deliciously into her face.

"I haven't absorbed last night's events yet. I mean, one part of my * 229 *

mind has recorded it, but the other part just goes on like before, denying the supernatural. That might be a kind of insanity too."

Eyes shut, Valerie spoke into the air in Najya's general direction.

"I think it's actually a kind of sanity. I managed to push the supernatural out of my consciousness, even after writing a whole chronicle about these gods. I went back to being a scientist-rational, empirical-just to be able to function. But then Nekhbet appeared and that whole underworld opened up again."

"Underworld. Yes, there would be one, wouldn' t there? You'll have to explain that place to me."