He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [83]
Fear predominated when I failed to make out the impressive form of my husband among the men who clustered round the opening.
“What has happened?” I panted. “Where is Emerson?”
As I might have expected, he was in the shaft, which had now been emptied to a depth of almost six feet. The men made way for me, and Daoud took hold of my arm to steady me as I peered down into the opening.
“What are you doing down there, Emerson?” I demanded.
Emerson looked up. “Kindly refrain from kicking sand into my eyes, Peabody. You had better come and see for yourself. Lower her down, Daoud.”
Daoud took me firmly but respectfully by the waist and lowered me into the strong hands that were raised to receive me.
Emerson set me on my feet but continued to hold me close to him, remarking, “Don’t move, just look. There.”
I had not seen it from above, for it was not much different in color from the pale sand. “Good Gad!” I cried. “It is a sculptured head—the head of a king! Is the rest of it there?”
“The shoulders, at least.” Emerson frowned. “As for the body, we will have to wait and see. It will take a while to get the sand out from around it and a support under it. All right, Peabody, up you go.”
Daoud pulled me back to the surface. Ramses and Nefret were there; I told them of the discovery as Selim joined Emerson in the shaft. I knew my husband would trust no one else with the delicate work of extracting the statue. It had to be handled carefully for fear of breakage. Even stone—and this was limestone, a relatively soft material—might have cracked under the pressure of impacted sand.
Nefret was dancing with excitement, so I persuaded her to move back a few feet. “Which king is it?” she asked. “Could you tell?”
“Hardly, my dear. If there is an inscription naming the monarch it will be on the back or the base. From the style and the workmanship it appears to be Old Kingdom.”
“You are certain it is a royal statue?” Ramses asked.
“Of that, yes, I am certain. It wears the Nemes Crown and there is a uraeus on the brow.”
“Hummm,” said my son.
“I hate it when you make enigmatic noises,” Nefret exclaimed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Ramses raised his eyebrows at her—an equally enigmatic and exasperating sort of commentary. Before she could respond, Emerson’s head appeared. “Ramses!” he shouted.
“Sir?” Ramses hastened to him and gave him a hand up.
I could tell by Emerson’s flushed face and glittering eyes that he had momentarily forgotten everything except the discovery. He began barking out orders and the men flew off in all directions.
When we stopped for luncheon we knew the find was even more remarkable than we had hoped. It was a seated statue, almost life-sized and in superb condition.
“It’s Khafre,” said Nefret, who had insisted on being lowered to have a look for herself.
“What makes you think so?” I inquired.
“It looks like Ramses.”
Rendered temporarily speechless by a mouthful of bread and cheese, her brother rolled his eyes in a silent but eloquent display of derision.
“There is a certain resemblance to the diorite statue of Khafre discovered by Mariette,” I admitted. “Emerson, sit down and stop fidgeting! Have another cucumber sandwich.”
Avoiding my attempt to catch hold of him, Emerson bounced up and directed a hail of invective at a group of people who had approached the shaft. There were four of them, fitted out in tourist style with blue goggles and green parasols; the men wore solar topees and the women quantities of veiling, and all of them were trying to get past Selim and Daoud, who stood guard.
Emerson’s apoplectic countenance and carefully enunciated remarks sent them into rapid retreat.
“The curse of the working archaeologist,” said my husband, resuming his seat. “I wonder how many other idiots will try to