Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense by Elizabeth Peters

tentative plans of returning in the spring had been superseded by familial obligations.) Two days' digging had exposed the top of the walls of the chapel and the openings of several deep shafts that led to the burial chambers of the owner and his family. The roofing stones were gone-collapsed, I presumed, into the chamber below-and the whole upper part was filled with sand and debris. Since Emerson insisted upon sifting every square inch of this fill, emptying the chamber would take a long time. A long, boring time. Nefret took a few photographs, but there was nothing much for Ramses to do until and unless we uncovered reliefs and inscriptions. It was he who hailed us from his vantage point above the tomb. "Here comes Sennia at a dead trot. Looks as if she's found something. Prepare to be enthusiastic, Nefret." "Probably a camel bone this time," Nefret said. "It's time we stopped for a rest, Aunt-I mean, Mother. You've been crouching over that sifter for hours." She gave me a hand to help me rise-I am always a little stiff the first few days-it soon passes-and Ramses went to meet Sennia, who had outstripped Gargery by several yards. Swinging her up onto his shoulders, Ramses carried her to the shelter where Nefret and I had retired. "She's made an exciting discovery," he announced seriously. "But she won't show it to me." Sennia's clenched fist made a bulge in the front of her jacket. "He said it was for me," she explained. "But of course I will show it to you, all of you." "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