The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [186]
“That’s the one he had up,” Ramses said, indicating one of the blocks. “He didn’t bother replacing the mortar. Father, shall I …?”
“Watch your fingers,” Emerson grunted, handing him a small chisel.
At this demonstration of paternal affection tears came to my eyes—or perhaps I should say additional tears, since the irritation of the dusty air had caused all of us to weep like mourners at a funeral.
Ramses soon had the stone up. Emerson’s superb—I might even say godlike—forbearance continued. Under ordinary circumstances he would have removed bodily anyone, myself included, to get the first look at such a discovery. On this occasion he handed Ramses the torch and stood back.
Lying flat, Ramses pointed the torch down.
“Well?” I cried.
Ramses looked up at me. Dust and perspiration had formed a sticky mask over his features. It cracked a little around his mouth. “See for yourself, Mother. There is just enough room for you next to me.”
He held the torch steady as I stretched out prostrate upon the floor and peered into the cavity. At first I saw only a chaotic tumble of shapes, angular and rounded, rough and smooth. Then my astonished eyes and mind sorted them out. There were vessels of alabaster and granite inside a strange framework of crumbling wood and matting—a bed or couch, upside down and tilted to one side. Under it was another wooden surface—a coffin, I thought, though I could not be sure. All around were other scattered objects.
In silence, overwhelmed by what I had beheld, I let my noble spouse haul me to my feet and take my place. Everyone had a turn, including Selim; and then Emerson spoke. He was hoarse with emotion, or possibly with dust, but he spoke in the measured tones of a lecturer.
“You observed there are no small portable objects within arm’s reach. Time was short and he did not dare remove more than one stone. He took as much as he could get his hands on, including the legs of the funerary couch, meaning to finish the job this season.”
He avoided using Geoffrey’s name. We had all got into that habit.
“He just grabbed and snatched, didn’t he?” Lia said. “What a mess he’s made of it.”
“It wasn’t particularly tidy anyhow,” Ramses said. “It is obviously a reburial, and a hasty one. The thieves who attacked the original burial must have been caught before they finished their ghoulish task and the pious successor of King Khaba, if that was his name, decided to conceal what was left of the funerary equipment more securely. Er—do you agree, Father?”
“Quite, my boy, quite. And secure it remained, for over four thousand years, except for the natural processes of decay. They used cedar beams to roof the chamber and support the blocking stones, but the wood of the couch and coffin wasn’t as tough. They and any other wooden objects that may be down there will crumble at a touch.”
Lia began to cough, and David put his arm around her. “We are going out, Professor, if that is all right with you.”
“We are all going,” said Emerson. “Come along, Peabody.”
When we emerged into the daylight I felt as if I had traversed not only several hundred meters of space but forty-five centuries of time. The find was unique; no other royal burial of that remote period had been found. This one, though unquestionably incomplete, would solve the question of the pyramid’s owner, shed new light on the artistic and social attitudes of the time—and additional luster on the name of the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other era.
We tidied ourselves up a bit, for Selim, always efficient, had brought jars of water. Emerson gathered our men round. Even before he made his announcement I knew