The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘On sacred ground?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Ah, my lord, remember this was many years ago. Since then the temple has been enlarged and developed, but the legends claim that somewhere here lie the Books of Doom alongside the corpse of their author.’

  ‘You have read the extract?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Minnakht replied. ‘Most scholars in our House of Life have.’

  ‘Have you been a devotee of this temple for many years?’

  ‘Of course.’ Minnakht smiled. ‘Since I was a boy.’

  ‘And you have family here?’ Amerotke asked, curious about this benign-looking scribe.

  ‘I am a bachelor, my lord, but I have lived a good and full life, merry as any sparrow that nestles near the altar of the Lord Ptah. I have,’ he mused, ‘been Assistant High Priest; held most of the high offices in this temple.’

  ‘Did you know the Rekhet, the prisoner who escaped?’

  ‘Oh yes, vaguely.’ Minnakht paused, head cocked, as if listening to the songbirds in their silver cages as they began their liquid hymn to the approaching night. ‘He was a scholar, a quiet man, no family. He was immersed in his studies. I would never have suspected him. Indeed, I still find it difficult to accept what he really was, but there again,’ Minnakht shook his head, ‘the waters of the Nile flow smoothly yet they still run very deep. My lord, shall we go on to the chapel?’

  ‘No, no.’ Amerotke rose and stepped out of the pavilion. ‘You mentioned the Libyans. Come,’ he smiled back at his companion, ‘let us visit them.’

  Minnakht reluctantly agreed. He summoned two acolytes, young men training for the sanctuary, to lead them across to the Mansion of Ease where the Libyan envoys were lodged. The surrounding garden was guarded by officers from the Glory of Amun regiment. They shared this duty with the Libyans’ retainers, wiry, leather-skinned men dressed in loose-fitting robes and linen headdresses, the folds of which were brought across the nose and mouth to give them a sinister, rather secretive aspect. An Egyptian officer vouched for both Amerotke and Minnakht, and they were ushered up the steps and through the porter’s lodge into the vestibule, which was lit brilliantly by oil lamps glowing in multicoloured translucent alabaster jars. After a short wait, they were led into the central room, a grand, elegant chamber, its slender columns carved at the top and bottom with golden lotus flowers, and lit by clerestory windows. The walls were covered with eye-catching designs of flower garlands: lotus, poppy and the yellow bloom of the mandrake. At the far end, on a broad dais under one of the windows, the Libyans lounged in a circle on cushions, the tables before them crammed with platters and goblets. Nearby stood wine jars on stands decorated with flowers. Somewhere in a shadow-filled alcove musicians played softly on mandolins, harps and lutes. The Libyans were chattering amongst themselves. They fell silent as the officer hurried forward to announce the arrival of their unexpected guests.

  ‘Come, my lords.’ The Libyan in the centre stood up and waved them forward on to the dais.

  Naratousha seemed taller than he had done on the temple forecourt. He was certainly most relaxed, wafting his sharp face with an ebonite fan covered with gold and spangled with turquoises and cornelian, a personal gift from Pharaoh. More cushions were brought, goblets filled with the best wines from Imit and Abesh. Amerotke and Minnakht were invited to sit, and the Libyan war chief gestured at the silver and gold platters strewn across the tables containing a range of different dishes: melokhia, aubergine salad, hamine eggs, fish in hazelnut and onion sauce, chicken, calf meat in pepper sauce, semolina cakes and honey slices.

  ‘Eat, my lords?’

  Both guests tactfully refused. The Libyans, Amerotke concluded, staring round, had certainly eaten and drunk their fill. The cakes of perfume placed on their cropped hair had long dissolved in rivulets of sweetness down their cheeks, necks and bare chests. Despite the windows and side doors being open, the dais seemed stiflingly hot.

  ‘For the pleasure of your company, my lords,’ Naratousha grinned round at his companions, ‘we are truly grateful.’ He slurped noisily from his goblet.

  A mistake, Amerotke thought; a pretence to mislead them. The other Libyans might be drunk, but Naratousha was as sober as he was; he could tell that by the clearness of the man’s eyes and the preciseness of his movements. Yet that was Naratousha’s nature, sly and cunning, dangerous qualities in an inveterate hater of Egypt. Not for the first time that day Amerotke wondered why this war chief, with the blood of so many Egyptians on his hands, had come in from the Redlands to smell the earth, as they put it, the rich, papyrus-filled banks of the Nile. According to Senenmut, the Libyan had agreed to become ‘Pharaoh’s dog’ in return for gold, silver, precious stones and the right to trade with the great mines along the Horus Road through Sinai.

  ‘My lord!’ Naratousha broke off from chattering to Minnakht and leaned against the small acacia table in front of him. ‘My lord Amerotke, are you tired of our revelry?’ The Libyan spoke the Egyptian tongue with a clipped accent, using the lingua franca of the harbours along the delta.

  ‘Yes, I am, my lord. I’m sorry,’ Amerotke replied brusquely. ‘The deaths of our three scribes this morning…’

  The good humour drained from the Libyans’ faces and the hum of whispered conversation died abruptly.

  ‘You have found the killers?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Amerotke protested.

  ‘So why do you come here? We are not responsible. You have not come here…?’

  ‘No,’ Amerotke tactfully intervened. He watched as one of the Libyans grasped his wine cup by the rim. ‘I have come to inform you that the deaths are still a mystery.’

  ‘Ah, and you want to question us?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Do the deaths of the three scribes in any way interfere or diminish the peace treaty you signed with Egypt?’

  ‘Of course not. Does the Divine One…’

  ‘Of course not.’ Amerotke deliberately echoed the Libyan. ‘The treaty will be honoured, eventually.’

  Naratousha’s smile returned.

  ‘One more question.’ Amerotke picked up a beaker of cold water; he pressed this against his face and smiled at the Libyan.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Why the peace treaty?’ Amerotke asked. ‘I mean, why now?’

  Naratousha spread his hands expansively. ‘Egypt will set its borders where she will.’ He intoned the phrase like some wandering scholar in a dusty square, almost chanting the words as if to convey his secret mockery.

  ‘My question, my lord,’ Amerotke insisted, ‘was why now?’

  ‘The Divine One’s chariotry sweeps wider and further,’ Naratousha snapped. ‘We need to trade, to live in peace.’ He waved around. ‘To imitate the greatness of Egypt. Now, my lords, will you not drink?’

  Amerotke sensed he would learn no more. He took a few sips of wine, toasted the Libyans, nudged Minnakht and made his diplomatic farewells. Once clear of the house, he paused under the stretching branches of a sycamore. Darkness had swept in. The temple paths were now lit by cresset torches. They could see the pinprick of flames as temple servants hurried to light more.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Minnakht nodded back at the Mansion of Ease, ‘whether Naratousha is as innocent and naïve as he pretends.’

  Amerotke grunted in agreement. As they continued down the beaten sandy pathway, he became aware of how silent the temple grounds had grown. He also felt uneasy. He and Shufoy often had to thread their way through the foul, needle-thin alleyways of the Necropolis, the City of the Dead on the west bank of the Nile. Amerotke possessed what Senenmut called an almost animal sense of danger. The judge secretly believed this was the fruit of years of military training out in the great desert fortress at Buhen. Even in the peaceful Temple of Ptah, this awareness of danger could prick his heart. The night air was refreshing, the moon full, the stars hung like beautiful blossoms against the sky. Yet as Minnakht chatted about the Libyans, Amerotke felt his un
ease deepen. They left the shelter of the sycamores and were about to turn a corner when he abruptly paused and glanced round, startling his companion. Amerotke stared down the darkened path. Yes! He was sure he glimpsed a shadow, a fleeting figure, leaving the edge of the path and disappearing into the trees.

  ‘What is it?’ Minnakht asked.

  ‘Nothing!’ Amerotke turned back even as a night bird shrieked raucously from the trees behind him, and they continued on their way. He was certain that someone, soft-footed and watchful as a lynx, dogged their every footstep. But who? A priest from the temple, or one of the Libyans sent by Naratousha? Amerotke remained vigilant.

  They entered the walled garden which stretched in front of the Chapel of the Divine Infant. Torches glowed in the sconces fixed along the colonnaded front of the small temple. They went up the steps, through the half-open door and across a moon-washed courtyard into the hypostyle, or hall of columns. In the poor light of lamps and lanterns, priests were busy in the sanctuary at the far end, a rectangular chamber with numerous rooms off each side. Minnakht explained how these served as vestries or storerooms. The naos on the sacred table was closed; heaped around it were garlands and wreaths of cut flowers, piles of ripe fruit and platters of freshly baked bread so the priest could offer the Divine Horus Child a meal during the morning sacrifice.

  Minnakht led Amerotke across to one of the chambers that faced the naos. A keeper of the shrine came hurrying up and unlocked the door, then ushered them in and hastened to light lamps and lanterns. The chamber was bare: a few sticks of furniture, prayer cushions, and a table littered with pots and scraps of parchments. Amerotke glimpsed the palliasses, makeshift beds along one wall beneath a stele of a naked infant Horus. The young god, standing on a crocodile, held writhing serpents; above him was the grinning figure of Bes, the ugly household god. Amerotke suddenly experienced a sense of unnamed dread as he stared at that stele. A similar one had been etched on the wall of his bedroom when he was a young boy, yet it had not protected him or his younger brother against horrific tragedy.

  Amerotke steeled himself against the memories flooding back. He swayed slightly on his feet. He was tired, his belly nauseous; he could taste the acid at the back of his throat as if he had drunk poor wine or eaten tainted fruit. He should really go home. He wanted to be away from here. He forced a smile at Minnakht, then walked across to the table and stared down at the unguent, kohl and perfume pots standing next to a sheet of polished copper; this would have served as a mirror when the scribes prepared themselves for the ceremony earlier that day. He could see no sign of food or drink, nothing out of place. He picked up the various pots and sniffed at them, but detected nothing but the tinge of perfumed oil.

  ‘Who came down here, apart from the scribes?’

  ‘We did!’

  Amerotke spun round. Lord Ani and his two assistants, Hinqui and Maben, stood in the doorway. Maben looked distinctly agitated, Hinqui rather ill. The High Priest swept in, eyes darting to the left and right.

  ‘Lord Judge,’ he gestured, ‘this will have to wait. I have come from the Divine One. She has,’ Ani pressed the palms of his hands together, ‘retired for the night. My Lord Senenmut said you must be informed of what has happened. You must deal with it.’

  ‘Must?’ Amerotke queried. ‘Must deal with what?’

  ‘My lord,’ Maben stepped forward, ‘terrible news! It arrived late this evening. We’ve been searching for you.’ The priest glared angrily at Minnakht, as if holding him responsible for the delay.

  ‘What is it?’ Amerotke demanded.

  ‘My brother-in-law, the merchant Ipuye, a patron of this temple, he and his wife were found late this afternoon dead, drowned, face down in a lotus pool. They had been swimming…’

  ‘An accident?’

  ‘No, my lord. Standard-Bearer Nadif of the Medjay believes it was foul play.’ Maben spread his hands beseechingly. ‘That is all I can tell you. I’m going to the House of the Golden Vine myself. I wonder…’

  Amerotke walked through the door and out into the sanctuary. He caught the stench of blood from a recent sacrifice. He rubbed his stomach and stared at the doorway. Darkness had fallen.

  ‘The day’s lamp is burnt low,’ he murmured to himself.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Ani came into the sanctuary, sandalled feet slapping the floor, gauffered robes billowing out. He looked rather eerie, sinister, like something from a ghost story.

  ‘My lord, your servant Shufoy, the Nemma…’

  ‘Yes, he is a dwarf and my servant; he is also my friend. What is it, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ani smiled. ‘He’s just drunk, fast asleep. Two of my temple servants have taken him in a litter back to your house. I thought it was appropriate.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Amerotke now regretted his earlier testiness. ‘Maben,’ he called, ‘go to Ipuye’s house. Tell Standard-Bearer Nadif that I shall be there early, at the brilliant hour.’

  Amerotke made his farewells and left. He collected a walking cane from the porter’s lodge and made his way down through the temple concourse towards the postern gate to the right of the soaring pylons leading into the temple. He passed the main building, which was shrouded in darkness except for the oil lamps burning before the statues, spreading pools of light in the blackness. He recalled the glorious ceremony that had taken place there earlier, and the abominable sacrilege that had brought it to an abrupt close.

  A small boy holding a puppy scurried through the dark, shouting at his mother far in the distance. Amerotke watched him go and thought of Shufoy. He just hoped the little man had not been involved in any mischief here in the temple. Shufoy, despite his noseless face and wispy hair, always dreamed of becoming a powerful trader, which induced him to dabble his little fingers in all sorts of pots. Amerotke always wondered why. He just hoped Shufoy had not done the same today; he had a tongue more nimble than a scribe’s pen. The judge was tired of pointing out to his servant that whatever wealth Amerotke and his family owned, Shufoy could share. The little man remained obdurate.

  ‘Am I wealthy?’ he’d declare, pointing to the scar where his nose had been. ‘I lost that. I was sent to the village of the Rhinoceri and appealed to you, Lord Judge, who eventually saw justice done. You cleared and exalted my name.’

  ‘But I never got your nose back!’ Amerotke would joke.

  ‘Not as important as my name, master. One day I must repay you.’

  Amerotke smiled, lost in his own thoughts. He was halfway down the lane, thin as a ribbon, that ran between the various temple buildings when he heard a sound. He made to turn, only to feel a barbed blade prick the side of his neck.

  ‘Lord Judge,’ the voice hissed, ‘I mean you no harm.’

  ‘So why the blade?’

  ‘Prudence.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Why, my lord, the one they call the Rekhet.’

  ‘And you’ve come to proclaim your innocence?’

  ‘Would that make any difference?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very good, Chief Justice in the Hall of Two Truths. In that case, just look, listen, recall and reflect.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘The truth,’ the hoarse voice whispered, ‘the deaths.’

  A sharp, shrill whistle pierced the darkness behind them. Amerotke was gently shoved forward; when he whirled round, there was nothing. He started back but glimpsed the slit-like alleyways leading off the lane to both right and left. The Rekhet could have gone either way. Amerotke breathed in deeply, calming his excitement, then turned and strolled down the lane to the postern gate.

  * * *

  The heset girl Hutepa, responsible for the shrill whistle, stayed hidden in the shadows and watched Amerotke disappear in the gloom. She wiped the sweat from her face. Only when she thought it was safe did she run back through the darkness to the House of Praise and the security of her own small chamber at the back of the building. As she cl
osed the door behind her, she noticed the cup of wine she’d left. Absent-mindedly she picked this up and cradled it, smiling as she drank. She lowered the cup, stared at the dishevelled bed and went across to sit down. As she raised the cup for a second sip, she abruptly remembered: the cup had been empty when she’d left; who had refilled it? She rose swiftly to her feet, but the poison was already working within her. Violent cramps attacked her, hideous shooting pains. She dropped the cup and staggered towards the door, but the pain was so intense she collapsed to her knees. In her dying moments, Hutepa suspected who was responsible. Stretching out, she seized a pair of castanets from the top of a coffer, and held them tight even as she died.

  THES: ancient Egyptian, ‘a tissue of lies’

  CHAPTER 3

  Amerotke stared round the beautiful hall of the House of the Golden Vine. Its floor was a polished glaze. All round were eye-catching wall frescos celebrating the life and legends of the Great Green, where sea monsters sported around fat-bellied ships gliding through gold-edged blue waves. Above these a relief done in light green depicted birds of every kind: lapwings, sparrows, green-ribbed siskin, grey doves with black collars, all wheeling and turning between coppery rays of sunlight. Amerotke stared up at the ceiling, which was painted a restful pastel shade. He certainly felt little serenity emanating from those sitting or kneeling on cushions around him. To his right was Standard-Bearer Nadif of the Medjay police, thin and wiry, with the sharp eyes and deft movements of a hunter. On Amerotke’s left was a sleepy-faced, heavy-eyed Shufoy, who rocked on his cushions as he tried to disguise his rumbling belly. The others were members of the House of the Golden Vine. Meryet, Maben’s sister and that of Ipuye’s first wife, was a very pretty but hard-faced woman of slender build, lustrous eyed with a petulant mouth. Next to her sat Maben, then Hotep, the captain of the dead merchant’s Kushite bodyguard. Hotep was black as night, tall and muscular, his oiled hair closely cropped, a cornelian necklace round his neck, bare chested with a fringed linen kilt; an ornamented war belt, holding club and dagger, lay heaped on the floor beside him. A former member of the Medjay police, he kept smiling at Nadif, though in truth there was little to smile about. The House of the Golden Vine was in mourning. Fires had been damped, lamps extinguished, stoves and ovens lay cold. Ipuye’s household had enacted all the customary rituals: ash and dust strewn on hands and faces, no welcoming water for guests, beakers of drink or platters of food. Now that Nadif had delivered his sombre report, the atmosphere had grown even more oppressive.