The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [84]
Nefret, who prided herself on her ability to brew the thick dark Turkish coffee, started another pot; Selim leaned back and lighted a cigarette; Daoud gave me a questioning look.
Ramses was soon back, carrying the box in which we had stored the artifacts. Emerson pulled up a small table and drew one of the lamps closer. He unwrapped the objects and passed them one by one to Selim, who examined them carefully before handing them to Daoud.
“You are right, Father of Curses,” Selim admitted. “They are as good as any fakes I have seen. There is no mistake in the writing?”
“No,” said Ramses. “But—” He broke off as Cyrus came back to the table.
“Took me a while to find it,” he explained. “Can I see those?”
He inspected them as closely as Selim had done. “All right, I give up,” he said at last. “What’s wrong with ‘em?”
“Nothing,” Ramses said. He lined them up on the table: two scarabs and a small statue of a male figure wearing a strange tight-fitting garment and an odd little skullcap. “We got the leftovers,” he said. “The best pieces were snapped up as soon as they appeared on the market, which was, as nearly as we can determine, in late spring of last year. The scarabs, like the one that was stolen from us, are made of faience. Molded, in other words, from a substance that isn’t difficult to manufacture. It would not require a great deal of artistic talent to take a mold from a known piece and change certain details that would add to its historic value.”
“What is your point, Ramses?” I asked.
“Only that that sort of artifact could be produced by a person who knew the history and the hieroglyphs but who would not have to have unusual artistic talent. So could the figurine. It is carved of alabaster, a relatively soft stone, and the simplicity of the forms of the garment and cap make Ptah perhaps the easiest of all the gods to sculpt. The face and hands are conveniently scratched and worn, you observe, and the scepter he carries has been broken off.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Cyrus, you look like the cat who has swallowed a canary. What is it?”
“I admire your reasoning, young fellow, and I sure hate to knock it down,” Cyrus said. “But maybe you’d better have a look at this.”
Carefully he unwrapped the cotton wool enclosing the object. At first glance there was nothing particularly impressive about it—a small, rather lumpy seated figure carved of a brownish substance. Before I could get a closer look, Emerson rudely snatched it from Cyrus’s hand.
“Hell and damnation,” he remarked and handed it, not to me, as I might reasonably have expected, but to Ramses.
“Let me see!” Nefret, less conscious of her dignity than I, came up behind Ramses and leaned against him so she could look over his shoulder. “I don’t understand,” she said, after a puzzled look. “What is so remarkable about it?”
“Would you care to see it, Mother?” Ramses asked. Very gently he lifted the little hand that rested on his shoulder and leaned forward.
“The dealer said this was from Abdullah’s collection?” Emerson asked.
“Yep.” Cyrus grinned.
“It is ivory,” Ramses said. “The image is that of a king wearing the White Crown and the close-fitting mantel assumed during certain ceremonies.”
“How old is it?” I asked, intrigued. “Or rather, how old is it supposed to be?”
“No doubt about that,” Ramses said. “There is a line of hieroglyphs on the base. No cartouche—they didn’t use them at that date—only a royal title and a name. The Horus Netcherkhet.”
“Zoser,” said Cyrus. “Third Dynasty, builder of the Step Pyramid. There’s only one other statue of him known. Well, Emerson, my friend?”
Emerson reached for his pipe. “Vandergelt, I apologize. This would have taken me in too. The details of costume and technique, even the hieroglyphs, are entirely accurate for the period. How he aged the ivory I don’t know; put it through a camel, perhaps. How much did you give for it?”
“Less than it was worth if it’s genuine, far too much if it isn’t.” Cyrus’s