The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  Ipuye, a former sailor who’d even travelled on the Great Green, loved water, which he regarded as the greatest gift of the gods. He and his new young wife Khiat would often go swimming in the lake, eat, make love, sleep and swim again. He called his garden ‘the Paradise of the Far West’, and imagined that when he died, a very old man, his ka would go out towards the setting sun and enter the Green Fields of Osiris only to discover they were no different really from his own elegant garden.

  Ipuye intended to leave his paradise to his heirs, not die barbarously in it. Yet on that unfortunate day, the seventh of the second week of the third month of the Shemshu, he and his young wife Khiat were found floating face down in the pool, lifeless as the plucked petals bobbing around them. Saneb, the Kushite guard who found their corpses as the sun began to set, believed it was no accident: his master and mistress had died suddenly, brutally. The red-haired God of Murder had passed their way, stealthily slipping through that paradise to snatch two souls in his pointed net, two lives plucked before their time …

  * * *

  ‘Great are you, Your Majesty, Lady of the Two Lands. Your sacred hands exude the divine essence; you exhale the sweetness of the divine dew. Your perfume reaches—’

  ‘Oh shut up!’ Hatusu tore the oiled wig from her head and shook her close-cropped hair free. She undid the necklace and pectoral from around her neck, plucked the rings and bracelets from fingers and wrists, snatched off her silver-edged sandals and piled all these on the table before her. Then she glared at the astonished face of the young acolyte priest.

  ‘I am sorry.’ The Lady of the Two Lands put her head in her hands and stared at the young man nosing the ground before her. ‘I’m truly sorry.’ She sifted amongst the jewellery and tossed a precious ring at the startled priest, who caught it nervously. ‘A gift from your pharaoh,’ she murmured. ‘Even the gods become tired.’

  Hatusu glanced quickly at the two men sitting either side of her. Senenmut, with his clever tough face, his cheeks slightly reddened, snub nose sniffing the air, aggressive chin jutting out, was doing his best to conceal the fury seething within him at the blasphemy that had occurred in full view of the Libyans and the whole populace of Thebes. Hatusu could not deal with that. She had her own rage to curb. She glanced at Amerotke sitting on her left, serene, detached, and still garbed in his judge’s robes, though he’d removed all insignia of office. His face, she thought, could be described as harsh, with its deep-set eyes, sharp nose, and firm mouth and chin. Nevertheless, it was redeemed by those crinkle lines of laughter around his eyes and mouth, that soft, dreamy look, and the way his fingers kept touching the lock of black hair, oiled and plaited, that hung down the right side of his face, tied at the end with a piece of red-gold twine. Hatusu used to wonder why he grew that; most people regarded it as a sign of youth not appropriate for a mature man. She had learnt, however, that it was a fulfilment of a vow concerning some hideous tragedy from Amerotke’s youth. The judge had never discussed it, so Hatusu had never questioned him. Now she turned back to the waiting acolyte priest.

  ‘Tell my lord Ani and his assistants that Pharaoh will show her face to them.’

  The acolyte scrambled up and, head down, backed towards the door. Hatusu moved her cushion deeper into the alcove. Senenmut arranged more cushions along the floor before the slightly raised dais. Hatusu pressed her hot, sweaty back against the cold limestone wall and stared up at the shadows sent juddering by the flaming pitch torches. She had stayed in the Temple of Ptah after the tragedy had occurred, while Senenmut found this chamber, a secure room in a building belonging to the House of Scribes. It could only be approached by an outside staircase now guarded by members of the Imperial Bodyguard; a place where no eavesdropper or spy could lurk.

  The door to this simple, stark chamber opened and Ani and his assistants stepped in, approaching the circle of light where the cushions were heaped. They went to prostrate themselves.

  ‘My lords,’ Hatusu’s voice was low and warm, ‘welcome. No need for any ceremony, not now. I’ve had sufficient for one day.’

  She pulled the thick drapes of her linen shawl closer around her shoulders, then leaned forward and gestured at the cushions. Ani and his two assistants, with as much dignity as they could muster, squatted down. The High Priest kept looking back at the door and the steps beyond. He was an old man, with keen eyes in a highly ascetic face, cheeks slightly sunken, his lower lip jutting aggressively out as if watchful for any insult, ready to protest his innocence at the horrors perpetrated in this temple earlier that day. Hinqui and Maben, his two nephews, adopted a more obsequious attitude. They were dressed elegantly in fine linen robes, gold-edged sandals on their feet, and they schooled their oiled fat faces into looks of sorrow. Hatusu studied these two carefully. In the main she did not like priests: ambitious, sly politicians with sanctimonious expressions that belied cunning ways and glib tongues.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Ani bowed, ‘it is good to look upon your face and my limbs exalt—’

  ‘I’m sure they do!’ Senenmut cut in drily, his harsh voice ringing eerily through that sombre room.

  Ani blinked away the insult. He secretly regarded Senenmut as a commoner, a peasant, a stonemason no less.

  ‘My lord, what do you want?’ Senenmut’s voice turned gentle. He gestured at the door. ‘There is someone else? You keep glancing back?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I mean Your Excellency.’ Ani diplomatically added Senenmut’s proper title as if he’d momentarily forgotten it. ‘Your Excellency, I beg you to include Minnakht, Chief Scribe of Ceremonies, in our discussion.’

  ‘But he wasn’t involved in the treaty-sealing or the drinking of the sacred wine afterwards,’ Senenmut snapped. He shook his head. ‘Everyone knows Minnakht is garrulous.’

  ‘He’ll hold his peace,’ Ani offered. ‘He might be of use.’

  Hatusu agreed, and Minnakht was ushered in. He was a smiling old man, sprightly in his walk, his moon-round face wreathed in good humour, merry-eyed, with a snub nose above slightly protuberant lips. He immediately prostrated himself. Ani pushed a cushion towards him, and Minnakht took his seat blinking like an owl startled by the light.

  ‘My lords…’ Senenmut paused to clear his throat. ‘Three priest physicians were murdered during a ceremony here at the Palace of a Million Years. A heinous crime has been perpetrated, a terrible sin committed.’ He glanced quickly at Hatusu, who sat staring impassively into the darkness. ‘The Divine One speaks with Kherou Ma’at, True Voice, when she demands the truth be known.’ He stared at Amerotke, who seemed lost in his own reverie. ‘What are the facts, Lord Judge?’

  ‘The facts?’ Amerotke shrugged. ‘We don’t yet know all the facts, only what happened. A ceremony was held. A peace treaty with the Libyan war chiefs was sealed. We were present to confirm it. There were hymns, prayers, chants and incense-burnings.’ He grew more decisive, as if clearing his own mind of distractions. ‘A bowl of sacred wine was offered. The Libyans drank and suffered no ill effects, neither then nor since. Our scribes from the House of Envoys did likewise, and within a short while all were dead! From the symptoms, the little I know…’ Amerotke paused, ‘the cause of their deaths must have been the wine. However,’ he chewed the corner of his lip, ‘the Libyans suffered no ill effects, the bowl was examined afterwards, the dregs were not tainted. There is no doubt that our three scribes were poisoned, but how?’ Amerotke nodded at Ani and his two companions. ‘The bowl was passed between the Libyans, back to High Priest Ani, then handed to the three scribes…’ His voice trailed away.

  ‘Who served the bowl?’ Senenmut asked.

  ‘I did,’ Ani replied. ‘I poured the wine; I gave it to the Libyans, then the three scribes.’

  ‘Could they have died from something they ate or drank beforehand?’ Senenmut asked.

  ‘Impossible!’ Minnakht retorted. ‘They had to undergo the Holy Fast in the Chapel of the Divine Infant; that’s an important part of the ritual. They were kept apart,
and did not eat or drink anything for a day before they sipped from that wine bowl. True,’ Minnakht spread his hands, ‘one of them may have been hungry or thirsty, eaten or drunk something secretly, but I doubt all three would violate such a sacred precept.’

  ‘I agree,’ Amerotke replied. ‘So the poison must have been put in by the Libyans.’ He smiled thinly at Ani. ‘Or by you.’

  ‘Divine One,’ the High Priest objected, ‘may the Spirits of the Morning be my witnesses.’

  ‘Why should Lord Ani even be suspected of such an abomination?’ Hinqui protested. ‘Maben and I were there, close to the bowl. We helped pour the wine in. We saw nothing.’

  Maben, sitting on the other side of Ani, nodded in agreement.

  ‘Both jug and bowl have been closely examined,’ Hinqui continued. ‘No taint, no potion or powder were discovered.’

  ‘Silence!’ Senenmut held up a hand. ‘Are you certain the jug has been examined?’

  ‘Of course!’ Minnakht replied.

  ‘I did that myself,’ Amerotke intervened. ‘The dregs were poured out and given to a dog mixed up with its feed; no ill effects were observed.’

  ‘The Libyan chieftains,’ Hatusu whispered, ‘don’t know which mask to hide behind.’ She stared straight at Amerotke, her beautiful eyes, ringed with kohl, gleaming like those of a hunting cat.

  ‘Divine One?’ Senenmut spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘and so I am. I do not think I should have to account to desert wanderers, sand-dwellers or Libyans, or be humiliated in their presence.’

  ‘Hush!’ Senenmut hissed, then abruptly recalled the presence of the priests and bowed in apology for contradicting Hatusu. ‘If the Divine One—’

  ‘The Divine One,’ Hatusu retorted, ‘was commenting on the Libyans. They do not know which mask to put on, that of victim or aggressor. Naratousha, whom I do not trust, claims that the poisoned wine may have been meant for him and his comrades. I pointed out that the wine was not poisoned, whilst others might allege that the poison came from him.’

  ‘Did it?’ Senenmut asked.

  ‘It is possible,’ Amerotke replied. ‘Naratousha was the last to hold the treaty bowl before handing it back to Ani.’ He pulled a face. ‘A sleight of hand? The conjurors and scorpion men perform tricks just as skilful in the marketplace.’ He paused. ‘But if so, why? Why would the Libyans poison three scribes? To break the treaty? It was they who asked for it.’ He shrugged. ‘However, I fully accept the Divine One’s suspicions: Naratousha cannot be trusted.’

  Minnakht leaned forward and whispered in Ani’s ear.

  ‘There is one other possibility.’ Ani raised his head. ‘Your Excellency?’

  ‘The Rekhet,’ Minnakht grated.

  ‘The who?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘His real name cannot be mentioned,’ Ani replied, frowning at Amerotke as if the judge should have been aware of that.

  ‘His name is amongst the Kherit,’ Ani explained, ‘the damned.’

  ‘Explain.’ Hatusu’s voice was clipped. ‘Lord Judge Amerotke may not have been involved in that case.’

  ‘It occurred during the reign of the—’

  Hatusu didn’t wait for Ani to finish. ‘About four years ago,’ she began, ‘during the last years of my half-brother’s reign…’ Her words were rushed; few, including her, liked to refer to her husband–brother who had died abruptly in mysterious circumstances. ‘At that time,’ she continued, her voice rising, ‘hideous poisonings took place throughout Thebes. Indeed, the number of deaths, especially amongst the lords, was scandalous. Ah…’ She smiled coldly at Amerotke’s look of recognition.

  ‘Divine One,’ he murmured, ‘I now remember it well.’

  ‘Tell him.’ Hatusu waved to Ani.

  ‘As the Divine One says, horrid poisonings took place. People wondered who the killer could be. He apparently dispensed subtle, secret poisons the like of which had never been known before.’ Ani paused and Amerotke sensed the horror behind his words. The chamber seemed colder, the juddering shadows more fearful, the flame and torches not so powerful. They were all, Amerotke reflected, despite their status and power, vulnerable human beings, gathered in this stark, ill-lit chamber to ponder and reflect on sudden and brutal death. He certainly recalled the case in question. Murder often stalked the stinking alleyways and broad avenues of the city. Husbands tired of wives, wives tired of husbands, business rivals turned on each other. Assassins could be hired to wield the knife, thrust the dagger, pour the poison or loose the arrow. The Rekhet was different: philtres and potions given to the powerful of Thebes, all of them dying in mysterious circumstances.

  ‘The perpetrator of these abominations,’ Ani explained, ‘came to be known as the Rekhet, the Poison Demon. Who he was and how he dispensed his flow of death, no one knew. Rumours flew thick and fast like starlings, yet the truth remained hidden. People claimed it must be a physician, someone who knew the secret of the powders.’

  ‘And so the finger of accusation was pointed at this temple,’ Amerotke murmured, ‘the House of the Man God Ptah, the Physician, the Healer.’

  ‘Precisely!’ Ani wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘A group of powerful priest physicians began to study the various deaths. People can and do die of a wide range of ailments; suspicions can be raised but proof is very difficult to find. Nevertheless, they had their suspicions. One of them, Userbati, who was also Scribe of the Waters, a very ambitious man, came to me. He provided no names but he mentioned that this Rekhet, this Poison Demon, may have found the Ari Sapu.’

  ‘The Books of Doom?’ Amerotke questioned quickly. ‘I thought they were fable.’

  ‘So did we,’ Ani confessed. ‘They were supposed to have been written many years ago by a skilled master poisoner, a sorcerer. The Ari Sapu are a compendium of all the poisons known under heaven: potions, philtres and powders which could freeze a man’s heart or send his soul into the desert of dreams. Userbati believed the Books of Doom had re-emerged and that the Rekhet,’ Ani leaned forward, face glinting with sweat, ‘not only owned them but was one of us. You see, my lord Amerotke, Userbati claimed the Ari Sapu had always been here, hidden in this temple. He was supported in his allegations by a few of his colleagues.’

  ‘Be more precise!’ Senenmut snapped.

  ‘I will be!’ Ani retorted heatedly. ‘Userbati, a man full of his own importance, did not tell me much. Instead he invited his colleagues to a special supper in his priestly office to discuss the matter. The meal was cooked in the temple kitchens.’

  ‘And all were poisoned!’ Amerotke intervened. ‘I remember the scandal.’

  ‘The alarm was raised after a servant found them sprawled in the dining chamber,’ Ani explained. ‘I immediately ordered Userbati’s possessions to be searched. A scrap of papyrus was found containing a curse: “Ama-asht – the Eater of Abominable Things”. This was repeated time and again, and beside it was the name of a leading priest physician. We believed him to be the Rekhet. Our guards searched the man’s quarters here in the temple, and a cabinet of poisons as well as pouches of gold and silver were found. More importantly a sehura, a curse dedicated to the Watching Faces, and invoked against Userbati, was also discovered. The priest physician was arrested by Nadif, standard-bearer in the Theban police. He and the Medjay conducted other searches. The priest physician could not explain the cabinet of powders, Userbati’s papyrus, the curse, nor the wealth he’d so secretly amassed.’

  ‘It was a great scandal,’ Maben intervened.

  ‘Confidence in our temple,’ added Minnakht, ‘would have been shattered.’

  ‘More than that,’ Maben retorted. ‘Everyone now knew about the poisonings,’ he shrugged, ‘partly because my brother-in-law, the merchant Ipuye, had posted a great reward for the Rekhet’s capture.’

  ‘Why?’ Amerotke asked curiously. ‘I know of Ipuye, a leading trader who has done much to develop trade with Punt, even with the islands in the Great Green.’

  ‘During the
time of the poisonings, the reign of the Rekhet,’ Maben replied, ‘Ipuye’s wife mysteriously disappeared. Some claimed she had run away; she has never been seen since. Ipuye believed she was poisoned.’

  ‘By whom?’ Amerotke stirred, intrigued by this widening tale of death.

  Maben simply shrugged.

  ‘And the Rekhet?’ Senenmut glared at Ani.