Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [59]
“That blank stretch of wall between the two statues,” Emerson said. “Have a closer look at it.”
Ramses started in that direction and then paused, as the beam of the torch framed a painted chest covered with miniature scenes as bright and precise as those in an illustrated codex. Ramses moved carefully round it, emitting low murmurs of admiration.
“Curtail, if you please, your aesthetic instincts,” Emerson growled. “Look at that stretch of wall.”
The truth dawned. It made even the discovery of a second room filled with treasure pale by comparison. What else could the noble figures guard except the body of the god-king himself? Did his burial chamber lie beyond that seemingly blank wall?
“As usual, your instincts are correct, Father,” Ramses reported. “There’s a doorway, blocked and plastered, with seals stamped all over it. It hasn’t been breached.”
Emerson shot back, “Look behind the basket and the other objects piled against the wall.”
The basket to which Emerson referred was of good size, a circular basin shape, atop a pile of withered reeds. Gently, using both hands, Ramses removed the basket and pushed the reeds aside.
There was no opening, but even at a distance one could see that an area several feet across, at the juncture of wall and floor, was of a different nature. The outer layer of plaster was missing. There was no mortar between the stones thus disclosed. It was clear that some of them had been removed and then hastily replaced.
“Blast and damn,” said Emerson. “Carter.”
“How do you know?” I asked. “It might have been the ancient thieves.”
“The priests would have replastered the opening,” Emerson said. “Since the damage has already been done, we may in good conscience repeat it. Take the loose stones out, Ramses, and have a look. What’s in there?”
After a moment Ramses said in a hushed voice, “It looks like a wall of solid gold.”
Emerson could contain himself no longer. Breathing hard, he lowered himself to the floor inside and picked his way to the north wall. Since he had not specifically forbidden me to do so, I followed. Peering through the newly opened space, I saw what seemed indeed to be a wall of gold, reaching almost to the ceiling and leaving only a narrow corridor alongside.
“What is it?” I cried.
“A funerary shrine,” said Emerson, on hands and knees, looking in. “See the doors? And the wretches have been here too,” he added passionately. “There are footprints in the dust.”
“Then we may also proceed,” I exclaimed.
“The opening is too small for me,” said Emerson. “I will not enlarge it.”
“Emerson.” My voice was scarcely louder than a whisper. Emerson turned his head and smiled at me. “All right, Peabody. Your turn.”
With painstaking care I stepped down to the floor of the inner chamber, which was several feet lower than the other. Before me stood two great gilded doors, adorned with decorative hieroglyphs on a background of blue faience. They were closed by a wooden bolt.
I reported this to Emerson, who said, “Open it. I don’t doubt Carter already has.”
The bolt slid smoothly back and the doors parted enough to allow me to see within. “I can’t make it out,” I gasped. “A framework—gilded—bits of brown, rotten cloth, sewn with gold rosettes—”
“A canopy,” said Emerson. “The cloth was a funerary pall. What else?”
“Another shrine, I think. Various objects on the floor—bows and sticks leaning against the walls…Someone has cleared a space in front of the doors of the second shrine.”
“Carter,” said Emerson, like a swear word. “Did he open those doors too?”
“I can’t see…No, Emerson, he did not. The doors are closed in the usual way, with cords wound round the handles and a dab of mud over the knot. It’s stamped with the necopolis seal—and it is intact.”
“He does have some scruples left,” said Emerson. “All right, come out of there, Peabody, and close the doors of the outer shrine. We will leave everything precisely as Carter left it.”
“The walls are painted,” said Ramses, also on hands and knees, his head twisted to see up. “A funerary procession,