I learned a lot the first time I died. I was 240 years old, and by that point thought myself impervious, so it came as quite a shock to me.
One hot night in 1192 I was taking a walk in the garden of my host. I was on holiday in Marrakech, Morocco and it was too sweltry to sleep.
After the dusty and carnivorous smells of the marketplace, it was a comfort to breathe in the jasmine that created a border of white blooms.
I bent to squeeze a toadflax bud and watched with joy as its violet petals exited their hiding place. 240 years had not robbed me of wonder.
Standing again, I knew someone was behind me. I turned to find a beauty with almond eyes in a long silk garment smiling at me. I turned red.
My tongue stumbled over an introduction. "I know who you are," she said. I asked her source of knowledge. She did not respond, but moved in.
"You are much more handsome than I imagined," she said. Then her arm was around me, her leg between my own pair. My loins responded eagerly.
She shuddered against me in pleasure. I dared to reach up and touch her soft breast and then I felt it: a burning in my back. No, a ripping.
The knife tore up my back. "Did you think an abomination such as yourself could walk unnoticed among God's children?" she demanded, smiling.
I have suffered several violent deaths, mostly at the hands of religious fanatics, but I learned to allow the pain to bring me back to life.
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