Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [20]
“What’s this?” Emerson demanded.
She took her hand out of her coat, opened her fingers very carefully, and put the other hand under the object to support it. It covered both small palms—a piece of limestone, rounded at the top, approximately six inches long by four across. Several figures in low relief occupied the upper portion; several lines of hieroglyphs ran horizontally under them, ending in a ragged break.
“Very nice,” said Emerson, smiling. “Where did you find it, Sennia?”
“There.” She gestured. The stone went flying, and Ramses caught it deftly in mid-air.
“One of the gaffirs gave it to her, I expect,” he said, examining the lines of hieroglyphs. “Quite an attractive . . . Hmmm.”
“What is it?” Emerson asked.
“It appears to be genuine.”
We had all assumed the miniature stela was one of the fakes that are turned out by the hundreds to be sold to gullible tourists. The so-called guards often indulge in a spot of private excavation—and who can blame them, considering their pitifully small wages—but fond as they were of the child, none of them was likely to give her something they could sell.
We crowded round. “What does it say?” I asked.
Ramses blew sand out of the incised lines. “ ‘Adoring Amon-Re, Lord of the Silent, who hears their prayers—’ ”
“How can he hear their prayers if they don’t talk?” Sennia asked.
“True prayer comes from the heart, not from the lips,” I explained, seizing the opportunity to instill a bit of religious instruction. “As it says in Scripture, the hypocrites pray on the street corners where they may be seen, but the true believer enters into his closet and speaks in secret to the Father—”
“Quite,” said Ramses, who, like myself, had been watching his father and had seen the signs of an imminent outburst. “In this case, Little Bird, the silent people are the poor and humble, who dare not address the powerful nobles who rule their lives. So they pray to Amon-Re, who is . . .” He looked again at the inscription. “ ‘Protector of the poor, father of the orphan, husband of the widow—that I may see him in the course of every day, as is done for a righteous man; said by . . .’ The rest is missing. The figures above represent Amon enthroned, with an offering table in front of him and a kneeling figure—that of the offerant, one presumes. A pity his name isn’t given.”
Emerson snatched the object from him and subjected it to a close scrutiny. “Damned if I don’t think you are right,” he exclaimed.
“Emerson,” I murmured.
“Er,” said Emerson. “That is one of the words you are not to repeat, Sennia.”
“Damned, you mean?” said Sennia, in her high-pitched chirp. “I know.”
“Show me which of the men gave this to you.”
“He didn’t give it to me, I found it,” Sennia said indignantly. “He only told me where to dig.”
“Show us,” Ramses said. “Please.”
“You really like it, then?” Sennia asked, beaming at Ramses. Children are not as dense as we think. She could tell the difference between the polite thanks she usually received and this concentrated interest. “It is important? Would you like it? I will give it to you, and look for more if you want me to.”
“No, Little Bird, you found it and it is yours. I will keep it for you if you like. Now show me where it was.”
We all went with them, for this little mystery had captured our imaginations. Holding Emerson’s hand, Sennia led our caravan to a rubbish dump southwest of our line of tombs. Some of these mounds were twenty or thirty feet high, formed of the debris removed from various excavations. I remembered this one quite well; it had been the scene of a nasty accident the year before.
“You didn’t let her go up there, did you?” I demanded of Gargery, who had not been able to get a word in before.
“No, madam, and I had the deuce of a time preventing her,” said Gargery in injured tones. “Madam, the fellow who helped her find the thing was just one of the guards; he never offered to touch her even and he was very polite,