Khaemwaset did so, and was soon intrigued. Wherever the man, his wife and their son appeared, their feet were in water. Sometimes it rippled in little white wavelets. Sometimes it flowed over several different kinds of fish, and once it was contained in bowls around the figures’ ankles, but whatever they were doing they did in water. “These people must have loved the Nile passionately to have decorated their tomb with so much of its blessing,” Khaemwaset whispered, the sibilance rushing in a small echo around the room. “And there is something else, Hori. This man was, I think, a physician like myself. Look.” He pointed to where several surgical instruments were shown beside a long panel of hieroglyphs. “The script is a prescription for the unconquerable AAA scourge, and beside it is a catalogue of spells for the subduing of disease demons.”
Together they wandered around the walls while Penbuy followed more slowly, his pen busy. Then Khaemwaset paused with a cry of satisfaction. In a tall recess, just before the gaping door that led to the burial chamber, stood two statues. The woman was tall and graceful, her eyes smiling out into Khaemwaset’s own under her short, old-fashioned granite wig and blue-painted headband. One arm was at her side. The other embraced the waist of her husband, a lean, also smiling man with a square face and mild expression, dressed only in a short kilt and sandals. One leg was outstretched in a stride, and in one hand he held a stone scroll. As in the rest of the tomb, the artistic work was of a fineness Khaemwaset had rarely seen. The eyes of the statues glowed darkly. The jewels around the woman’s neck were picked out in blue and red and the tassels of her sheath glinted with gold paint.
Khaemwaset bent to the plinth. “So,” he said after a moment. “We have found a princess, and presumably a prince, although I cannot read his name. The stone is scored through where it should be.”
Hori’s fingers stroked the gash. “This is not the work of vandals,” he said presently. “I think the plinth was damaged when it was being set up in here, and the workmen did not have time to repair it.” He stood straight. “Still, his name will be on his coffin.”
“I agree,” Khaemwaset affirmed. “She has a haunting name, the princess. Ahura. Very unusual. Now, Hori, can we date this find?”
Hori laughed. The sound slammed against the walls and the shadows seemed to convulse at its force. One of the servants cried out in fear and Khaemwaset, his momentary absorption forgotten, wanted to clap a hand over his son’s mouth. “Why are you asking me?” Hori chuckled. “I can merely assist you, O wise one. I think the dating will be almost impossible. The furniture is severe and simple, perhaps belonging to the age of the Great Pyramids, but the decorations resemble closely the beautifying that was done during the reign of my great-grandfather Seti. The coffins may give us more clues.”
Khaemwaset did not want to go into the other room and neither did the servants. They were clustered silently close together. Penbuy was lost in his work. “The statue of the prince has a scroll in its hand,” Khaemwaset said to Hori. “At least it looks like the symbol of pharaonic authority. That is very odd and might even be considered blasphemous, seeing that only kings may be represented with the sign of temporal power.”
But Hori merely nodded and gestured to the servants to proceed into the burial room. They hung back, their eyes wide, their faces pale under the flaring lights they carried. Khaemwaset, picking his way towards them, wondered if his expression held the same nervous tension. “It’s all right,” he said to them kindly. “Am I not the greatest magician in Egypt? Is my power not mightier than the powers of the dead? Give me a torch.” He swept one out of a shaking hand and with a conscious stiffening of his will strode through into the other room.
He almost dropped the torch, and had to stifle a cry. Directly before him, huge, as the flame revealed it, was Thoth himself, his ibis beak curved towards Khaemwaset, his wise bird’s eyes twinkling. In his right hand he held a pen and in his left rested a scribe’s palette. The whole life-size statue glowed with the warmth of animation, and as Khaemwaset’s pulse slowed he realized that it was plated over in solid gold. “Thoth,” he whispered, and stepping towards the god he knelt and prostrated himself, kissing the shining feet. Behind him an awed Hori was also performing his obeisance and the servants were standing in the doorway exclaiming, their fear temporarily gone.
Khaemwaset rose shakily, and it was then that he saw the coffin lids. They were leaning against the plain whitewashed wall to either side of the god, two slabs of solid, palely polished quartzite, and Khaemwaset stared at them stupidly. “But it is not possible!” he blurted. “No robber has been here. Why did the prince choose to lie uncovered?”