The Poisoner of Ptah Read online

  ‘You don’t like us?’ one of the men growled, blocking his way, whilst the other slipped behind him. ‘You don’t like us?’

  ‘I don’t know you,’ the former prisoner replied.

  ‘But we know you,’ the man behind whispered in his ear. ‘You are the Rekhet. You can crop your hair, moustache and beard, but we’ve been watching you following the Lord Judge.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The escaped prisoner was aware of passers-by staring at them curiously.

  ‘Don’t you?’ The one in front poked him in the chest, then, leaning forward, plucked the Canaanite dagger from his belt. ‘We’ll look after that. You must come with us.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘It’s not a question, my friend, of wanting or not wanting. The Churat, the Eater of Vile Things, wishes to meet you.’

  The prisoner closed his eyes. He’d heard of the Churat, the nickname of one of the gang leaders in the slums of Thebes.

  ‘It’s a good walk,’ the man smiled, ‘into the Abode of Darkness. That’s where he rules, and he wants to talk to you. Now, you can either come with us, or I can,’ he pointed to the Medjay police standing in the shade of one of the brooding Sphinxes, ‘call them over and introduce you.’

  The prisoner gripped his bundle of sticks tighter. He knew resistance was useless; they’d taken his weapon. Both men were armed and resolute, and there was only one way he could escape.

  ‘Very well,’ he sighed, ‘I’m in your hands.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ the man behind him replied. ‘Now come on.’

  They walked a little further along the thoroughfare, one in front, the other behind, then turned down a street. The former prisoner knew where they were taking him. The Abode of Darkness was well named: a warren, a veritable maze of needle-thin alleyways, shabby housing and small dusty squares. Even the Medjay police and imperial troops were reluctant to enter that nest of vipers.

  ‘Keep hold of your bundle,’ one of the men joked, ‘so we know where your hands are. Don’t try to run away.’

  The escaped prisoner looked around. He realised how any attempt to flee would be brutally stopped, but he resolved not to enter the Abode of Darkness. He pretended to stumble and crouched down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The two men towered over him. ‘Are you ill?’

  The escaped prisoner shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘I’m not ill, just thirsty. I have not eaten and drunk for some time. For the sake of pity, I’ll go faster, there’ll be no trouble. Just a jug of cooling ale, that’s all I ask.’

  The men looked at each other and nodded. They went across to a wine booth, an awning attached to surrounding trees. It boasted a shady stall, some stained cushions, cracked stools and little tables. The former prisoner insisted on buying, offering the bundle of sticks he carried for a jug of ale and three cups. The wine master looked at the bundle, nodded and shrugged.

  ‘Might as well,’ he grumbled. He dipped a jug decorated with griffin heads into a barrel, drew it out and placed three beakers on the table. They were chipped and none too clean. The escaped prisoner picked up the jug, sniffed carefully, poured some of the contents into a cup and tasted it.

  ‘You call this good ale?’

  The wine master came back.

  ‘What’s the matter with it? It’s freshly brewed. You don’t like it, move on!’ He kicked the bundle of sticks. ‘But these are mine, you got what you asked for.’

  Muttering and groaning, the prisoner indicated the far corner just inside the entrance. He gave the three cups to one of his guards, picked up the jug, swirled it around, sniffed, put it back on the counter and, picking up a piece of papyrus reed, stirred it. Then he took the jug over to the table, filled all three cups, lifted his to his lips and mockingly toasted his two captors.

  ‘Gentlemen, I thought this was an auspicious day. What does the Churat want with me?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ one of them replied, ‘and we don’t care. Drink your beer and we’ll move on.’

  The prisoner got up and moved to the entrance as if savouring the cool breeze.

  ‘You’ll not think of running, will you?’ one of the men warned. ‘There are others of us outside.’

  The former prisoner looked to the left and right. He could see no one, but there again … He lifted the cup to his lips and returned to argue with the wine master as if still not satisfied with the quality of what he had bought. When he heard the first groan, he looked over his shoulder. Both of his captors had their cups back on the shabby table and were clutching their stomachs. One of them slipped off his stool, going down on one knee. It was enough.

  ‘As I said…’ The prisoner lunged. He pushed the wine master aside, scrambled over the counter and out of the tent flap. Behind him his two former captors writhed on the ground, legs kicking, mouths open in silent screams as the poison coursed through their bodies.

  * * *

  ‘May the Gates of the Far West be opened. May your journey through the Am-duat be safe. May the Divine Ones welcome you into the Halls of Eternity. May the eternal Green Fields accept your ka…’ The lector priest’s voice rose and fell. Incense swirled. The Anubis-masked priests moved like ghosts through the murk. The fragrance of myrrh mingled with the stench from the entrails slopped into the canopic jars. Amerotke kept staring at the painting on the far wall of the Wabet. On his arrival at the temple he had been immediately ushered down here to inspect the three corpses which were being prepared for burial. He found the atmosphere oppressive, so the wall painting was a welcome relief. The work of the artist quietly mocked the orderliness of life, reminding Amerotke sharply of the frescos in Ipuye’s bedchamber. A small painting depicted a lion and an ibex playing senet; by the look on the lion’s face, he was winning. Amerotke recalled where he was, dismissed the distraction and glanced down at the three corpses on the slightly tilting embalming slabs. Ipuye was thickset and muscular; Khiat’s beautiful body was now slit open. Amerotke breathed his own prayer. Even though she was lovely in aspect, Khiat was nothing more than a child. Next to her lay the heset Hutepa, a comely woman, her finely etched face distorted by a hideous swelling which even the embalmers had found difficult to remove, the gruesome effect of the vile poison fed her. The others clustered behind Amerotke: Shufoy, ever inquisitive, head turning so he could recall everything he saw; Minnakht still whispering to the dwarf, despite the tut-tutting of High Priest Ani and the whispered pleas of Maben for silence. Hinqui was absent, Ani murmuring that his assistant was sickening though he did not know the cause.

  At last the lector priest drew his prayer to a close. More grains of incense were burnt and the Overseer took Amerotke and his companions down a narrow, dark passageway, then up some steps into a surprisingly bright chamber which served as his office. The Overseer gestured at the cushions piled on the broad wooden dais beneath the high window vent, its grille now removed so that light poured through on to the vivid wall paintings of fishermen hunting herrings on the marshes or the brilliant pageant of a garden pool fringed with sycamore and date-palm trees. On a table in the centre of the room stood a statue of the Man God Ptah in its wooden shrine, fruit and flower petals heaped at its feet. The Overseer accepted his visitors’ compliments on his good taste, made them comfortable and came swiftly to the point.

  ‘Hutepa,’ he declared, settling himself on his cushions. ‘Well, only the God Man himself knows how and why she was poisoned or who was responsible—’

  ‘The Rekhet?’ Ani interrupted.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the Overseer continued. He paused as the door opened and a servant ushered in Nadif, who’d excused himself from visiting the Wabet. The standard-bearer sat down on a stool to the right of the dais.

  ‘I tell you this,’ the Overseer continued. ‘Hutepa was killed by something as swift and as deadly as a bite from the most venomous snake, a potion that corroded her stomach. I’ve never seen the like before.’ He fished in the walle
t on his belt. ‘I have something.’ He handed Amerotke an oval wooden hand-clapper, the type used by temple hesets in their dances. Amerotke turned it over and inspected the rather faded painting of a dancer. ‘She died with that clutched tightly in her hand,’ the Overseer remarked. ‘So tight I found it difficult to remove.’

  Amerotke handed the item to Shufoy to keep.

  ‘And Ipuye and Khiat?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, well.’ The Overseer spread his hands. ‘The famous phrase: death is the brother of sleep. My lord, water filled their lungs and they drowned.’

  ‘And you found no bruise or contusion, no evidence of poison or other violence?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Amerotke, in his silent walk through the city to the Temple of Ptah, had reflected carefully on what he’d seen in and around that pool.

  ‘Did you notice anything at all?’ he asked. ‘Dust on their hands or feet?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the Overseer replied. ‘Why, what are you looking for?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Amerotke sighed, getting to his feet, ‘I truly don’t.’

  Once they’d left the House of Death, Amerotke took High Priest Ani, Minnakht and Maben away from the rest into the shade of a holm oak. He took his fan from a pocket in his robe and wafted himself vigorously.

  ‘Poison,’ he began. ‘Minnakht told me how a legend persists that the Books of Doom, together with their author, lie buried here in grounds now covered by the temple precincts.’

  ‘A legend,’ Ani scoffed.

  ‘Minnakht?’

  The scribe’s jovial face broke into a grin. ‘The High Priest may be correct, my lord. You see, when the author of the Books of Doom was punished and executed, his name was removed from every document, tablet and inscription. He was damned, and so was his memory. No trace of him remains. However, the legend persists that somewhere in an underground tunnel or cavern near here lie both the corpse and his damnable books.’

  ‘And Hutepa?’ Amerotke asked abruptly. ‘Why should she be murdered?’

  ‘She was apparently friendly with the Rekhet,’ Minnakht declared. ‘Isn’t that correct, Maben?’

  The priest, distracted by his own problems and grief, simply nodded.

  ‘And?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘According to one source,’ Ani murmured, ‘she directed the Medjay where to arrest him. Standard-Bearer Nadif would know more about that than us.’

  ‘So,’ Amerotke snapped his fan closed and put it back in his pocket, ‘the Rekhet could have returned here and killed her as an act of vengeance?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Minnakht agreed, then shook his head. ‘I have spoken to Lord Ani about this, we should all be very careful. I am anxious about Hinqui. Is he sick due to some contagion, something he ate? Is his heart troubled, or is it the work of the Rekhet? Has he decided to deal out vengeance in the Temple of Ptah?’

  ‘Tell me something.’ Amerotke put his face in his hands and thought for a while.

  ‘Yes, Lord Judge?’ Ani tapped his foot, impatient to go.

  ‘According to you,’ Amerotke replied slowly, ‘the Rekhet was a priest physician whom some of his colleagues suspected. No, no, that isn’t right. His colleagues suspected simply that the Rekhet was someone at the Temple of Ptah, correct?’

  Ani nodded.

  ‘Userbati and his colleagues were poisoned,’ Amerotke continued. ‘Then evidence was found that pointed to a certain priest physician being responsible. He was arrested, more evidence was gained, and he was condemned. Is that correct?’

  Ani nodded.

  ‘So why did those priest physicians suspect the Rekhet was someone at the Temple of Ptah in the first place?’

  ‘Again, Standard-Bearer Nadif has more facts than we. One thing we did learn, my lord Amerotke, is that many of the Rekhet’s victims were prosperous, patrons of this temple, visitors to our holy places. Now, as you know, there are criminals in Thebes who can be hired for a few grains of gold or silver to carry out a wicked deed. One thing became constant: most, in fact nearly all of those poisoned had had dealings with the Temple of Ptah. They had either recently visited here or were closely related to someone who had. As I said,’ Ani pointed at Nadif, still standing at the top of the steps leading down to the Wabet, ‘he can tell you more than I.’

  ‘And we have your permission to search Hutepa’s room?’

  ‘Of course.’ Ani pulled his shawl closer round his shoulders. ‘My lord Amerotke, I have other duties.’ He, Minnakht and Maben bowed and left.

  Amerotke watched them go and waited for Nadif to walk across.

  ‘Well, Lord Judge,’ the standard-bearer stood hands on his hips, lips tight in anger, ‘I suppose you are going to insist that Ipuye and Khiat died of drowning, an accident?’

  ‘No, Standard-Bearer, I’m not!’ Amerotke clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I trust you, Nadif, you are sharp witted and keen eyed.’ He tapped the policeman on the chest. ‘I also trust your heart; it is pure, it speaks the truth. I believe you are correct: Ipuye and Khiat were murdered.’

  Nadif gazed back in amazement, so startled that Amerotke laughed.

  ‘Do you recall the lotus pool at Ipuye’s house?’

  Nadif nodded.

  ‘What was scattered on the tiles around the pool as well as on the pathway between the pool and the grass verge?’

  ‘Lapis lazuli,’ Nadif replied slowly. ‘It is put there for decoration, as well as to give wet bare feet a better grip on the tiles.’

  ‘On those two corpses,’ Amerotke asked, ‘did you find on hand, foot or leg any trace of lapis lazuli?’

  Nadif, eyes staring, mouth open, gazed at a point behind Amerotke’s head.

  ‘By the Lord of Light,’ he breathed, ‘no, I didn’t.’

  ‘And neither did the Overseer of the Dead,’ Amerotke added. ‘Standard-Bearer, think about that lotus pool. You went through the wicket gate and into the pavilion. Where were the corpses?’

  ‘In the pavilion, lying on the floor, out of the heat of the sun.’

  ‘What else was there?’

  ‘The jug, the wine cups. I remember examining them first.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Some robes, jars of oil, linen cloths … yes, and reed sandals.’

  Amerotke nodded. ‘Ipuye and Khiat would have worn the sandals from the house to the pool. They had to cross paths which would have hurt their feet. Now think, Standard-Bearer, this is very important. I have asked this before. Did you detect any lapis lazuli on the feet of the victims or in the pool?’

  Nadif closed his eyes, swaying slightly as if listening to the birdsong in the branches above him.

  ‘No.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I remember distinctly looking for any discoloration of the skin, particularly on the fingers or the back of the neck, but I saw nothing. Both bodies had been taken from the water and placed in the pavilion.’

  ‘And the water itself?’

  ‘There was a little lapis lazuli dust floating on the top.’

  ‘I saw that too,’ said Amerotke, ‘but we don’t know if it was caused by the barefooted guards running across the path and plunging into the water to drag out the corpses.’

  ‘But I’m certain.’ Nadif raised a hand. ‘I’m positive. I saw no lapis lazuli on the victims; in fact the soles of their feet were clean.’ He scratched a bead of sweat from his chin. ‘I follow your logic, Lord Amerotke. If Ipuye and Khiat took off their sandals and walked into the pool, some of that gold dust would have lodged in the skin of their feet. We found none. Consequently it’s possible that they were dead before they ever entered the water, being simply carried there by their killer. Yet how he managed to climb that fence and gain entrance without being seen or raising the alarm is just as mysterious. But there again,’ Nadif shrugged, ‘perhaps they did enter the pool and the lapis lazuli was washed off.’

  Amerotke nodded and glanced away. He felt as if such evidence was nothing more than straw on the water, yet he did not wish to alienate this sharp-wi
tted Medjay. Amerotke himself secretly sensed that something was dreadfully wrong about those deaths. They weren’t accidents. Nadif’s contention that such a coincidence could ever occur was a powerful argument. But how could they prove that Ipuye and Khiat’s deaths were an unlawful slaying?

  ‘Nadif,’ Amerotke decided to put on the bravest face possible, ‘I need your help. First we should search Hutepa’s chamber; perhaps we might find something.’

  He walked across and crouched before Shufoy, who squatted on the grass half dozing. ‘Little man,’ Amerotke whispered, ‘have you recovered from the wine you drank yesterday?’

  Shufoy opened his eyes. ‘Oh yes, master, I’m just thinking.’

  ‘About what?’ Amerotke asked.