The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [147]
I had not told him of my discovery. The ring bezel was in my pocket even at that moment. I seemed to feel it pressing against my breast—which was nonsense, because it was very small and light. Had I followed the dictates of my archaeological conscience, I would have left it behind, safely enclosed in a box labeled with the location and date of the discovery. I cannot explain or defend the idle fancy that told me I must keep it close, like an amulet warding off danger.
The old demonic, animal-headed gods of Egypt had been proscribed by the heretic king, but it is easier to pass edicts than enforce them when that which is forbidden appeals to passionate, deep-seated human needs and desires. Our earlier excavation had turned up evidence that the common people had not abandoned their beloved household gods. Sobek was a crocodile god whose chief center of worship was in the Fayum, far to the north. It was the first time any representation of him had been found at Amarna, but his presence was no more surprising than that of Bes, the grotesque little patron of matrimony, and Thoueris, who protected pregnant women. But for me to come upon the crocodile god’s image there, after narrowly escaping another deadly threat… Is it any wonder superstition fought with reason in my mind?
First the snake, now the crocodile. Did the third fate still threaten us? If the traditions of myth and folktale held true, it would be the most dangerous of all.
The men had to spend most of the day clearing the tomb entrance, which was choked with fallen rocks. Some were of considerable size, and the sloping scree had been hardened by repeated flooding and drying into the consistency of cement. It was I who pointed out to Cyrus that we must sift through this debris. Water must have poured into the tomb through the opening above, and through other apertures as yet undisclosed, on more than one occasion, and objects might have been flushed out onto the slope.
Only Cyrus’s good manners—and, I would like to believe, his respect for my professional expertise—prevented him from objecting vigorously to this procedure, for it took a great deal of time. It was late in the day before the wisdom of my methods was proved. The broken fragment we discovered would certainly have been overlooked by careless excavators.
It was only a piece of alabaster (more properly calcite), five centimeters long and apparently shapeless. The credit for recognizing its importance must go to Feisal—who, of course, had been trained in my methods. He brought it to me, smiling in anticipation of praise. “There is writing on it, Sitt. You see the hieroglyphs.”
The excitement that suffused every inch of my being when I read those few signs was enough to overcome, for the moment at least, all other considerations. Summoning Cyrus with a piercing cry, I indicated the broken inscription. “ ‘The king’s great wife Neferneferuaten Nefertiti.’ It is part of a shawabti, Cyrus—a shawabti of Nefertiti!”
“A ushebti?” Cyrus snatched it from me. I forgave him this momentary lapse of courtesy; like myself, he understood the import of the words.
Ushebtis, or shawabtis, were strictly funerary in nature. They were images of the dead man (or woman), animated in the afterlife to perform services for him and work in his stead. The wealthier an individual, the more of these little statues he possessed. Fragments of many ushebtis bearing the name of Akhenaton had turned up; Emerson had found three more the previous day, in the royal tomb. But this was the first I had seen or heard of with the name