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He gave a short bitter laugh as he looked at her. "Have you seen this?" He looked back at the museum. "Poor fool. He never knew that he was buried in Ramses' tomb."

"But who was he?" Her heart quickened. Too many questions on the tip of her tongue.

"I never knew," he said quietly, eyes still moving slowly over the building as though he were memorizing. "I sent my soldiers to find a dying man, someone unloved and uncared for. They brought him back to the palace by night. And so I ... how do you say? Made my own death. And then my son, Meneptah, had what he wanted, to be King." He considered for a moment. His voice changed slightly. It deepened. "And now you tell me this body is in a museum with other Kings and Queens?"

"In the Cairo Museum," she said softly. "Near Saqqara, and the pyramids. There's a great city there."

She could see how this was affecting him. Very gently, she continued, though she could not tell whether or not he heard:

"In ancient times, the Valley of the Kings was looted. Grave robbers despoiled almost every tomb. The body of Ramses the Great, it was found with dozens of others in a mass grave made for it by the priests."

He turned and looked at her thoughtfully. Even in great distress, his face seemed open, his eyes searching.

"Tell me, Julie. Queen Cleopatra the Sixth, who ruled in the time of Julius Caesar. Her body lies in this Cairo Museum? Or here?" He turned back to the dark building. She saw the subtle changes in him; the high colour again in his face.

"No, Ramses. No one knows what became of the remains of Cleopatra."

"But you know this Queen, whose marble portrait was in my tomb."

"Yes, Ramses, even schoolchildren know the name Cleopatra. All the world knows it. But her tomb was destroyed in ancient times. Ancient times were those times, Ramses."

"I understand, better than I speak, Julie. Continue."

"Nobody knows where her tomb stood. Nobody knows what happened to her body. The time of mummies had passed."

"Not so!" he whispered. "She was buried properly, in the old Egyptian fashion, without the magic, and the embalming, but she was wrapped in linen as was fitting, and then taken to her grave by the sea."

He stopped. He put his hands to his temples. And then he rested his forehead against the iron fence. The rain came a little heavier. She felt chilled suddenly.

"But this mausoleum," he said, collecting himself, folding his arms and stepping back now as if he meant to say what he had to say. "It was a grand structure. It was large and beautiful and covered with marble."

"So the ancient writers tell us. But it is gone. Alexandria contains no trace of it. No one knows where it stood."

He looked at her in silence. "I know, of course," he said.

He walked away from her down the pavement. He stopped under the street lamp and gazed up into the dim yellow incandescent light. Tentatively, she followed. Finally he turned to her, and put out his hand for her and drew her close.

"You feel my pain," he said calmly. "Yet you know so little of me. What do I seem to you?"

She reflected. "A man," she said. "A beautiful and strong man. A man who suffers as we all suffer. And I know things ... because you wrote them down yourself and you left the scrolls there."

Impossible to tell if this pleased him.

"And your father read these things, too," he said.

"Yes. He made some translations."

"I watched him," he whispered.

"Was it true what you wrote?"

"Why should I lie?"

Suddenly he moved to kiss her, and again she backed off.

"Ah, but you choose the oddest moments for your little advances," she said breathlessly. "We were talking of ... of tragedy, were we not?"

"Of loneliness, perhaps, and folly. And the things grief drives one to do."