The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘He was arrested,’ Ani sighed. ‘The evidence was shown. He denied it at first, proclaiming his innocence. We had to…’ Ani coughed to hide his embarrassment, ‘we did not want the case to be brought to trial. As my colleagues have said, the prospect of scandal…’

  ‘I see.’ Amerotke scratched his chin.

  ‘The Rekhet eventually confessed and threw himself on Pharaoh’s mercy. We intervened and whispered in Pharaoh’s ear. The Rekhet was sentenced to life imprisonment at some oasis far out in the western Redlands.’

  ‘And what relevance has he to the deaths that occurred today?’

  ‘The Rekhet,’ Senenmut replied, ‘escaped from the Oasis of Bitter Bread about two months ago. He was apparently seized by a band of sand-dwellers, five of whom were sacrificed early today. They captured him as well as a merchant from Memphis, a dealer in skins who also worked for me. The sand-dwellers, in turn, were intercepted by an imperial squadron of war chariots.’

  ‘And?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘What the Tedjen, the commanding officer, didn’t realise was that during the fight with the sand-dwellers, the merchant was killed. In the ensuing chaos the Rekhet assumed the merchant’s identity. Most of the sand-dwellers were killed; the squadron returned to Thebes; the Rekhet slipped away. Only much later did the Mayor of Thebes, who dealt with the case, discover that the Memphis merchant had been killed whilst the impostor had disappeared. At the time little thought was given to him; he was just another prisoner who’d soon be captured.’ Senenmut moved his head. ‘Only after messengers were sent to Memphis and the prison oasis did we realise how important this escapee was. Even so, it did not directly concern us … well, not until now.’

  ‘But surely the Rekhet couldn’t enter this temple!’ Amerotke protested. ‘Reach the sacred wine, distil a potion?’

  ‘A possibility,’ Ani murmured. ‘He had lived here for years.’

  Amerotke stared into the middle distance and wondered idly what his wife and two sons were doing. They were probably in the garden of their mansion, bathing in one of the pools or nestling in the shade of a sycamore tree. And Shufoy, his manservant, that little dwarf without a nose? Amerotke smiled to himself. Shufoy was probably drunk, stretched out snoring in the servants’ quarters, or was he trying to trade some—

  ‘My lord?’

  Amerotke startled from his reverie and stared at Hatusu. ‘Divine One,’ he bowed, ‘now we are entering the Field of Dreams – what could be, what might be, what should be.’

  Hatusu nodded in agreement.

  ‘We have done what we can. One question.’ Amerotke raised a hand. ‘The peace treaty was sealed yesterday morning just after the dawn sacrifice, is that correct?’

  Ani and the rest nodded in agreement.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The three scribes followed the ritual. They were confined to the Chapel of the Divine Infant Horus, to spend the day in prayer and fasting before the treaty was blessed, made sacred.’

  ‘And who was in charge of them?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘I was.’ Maben raised a hand. ‘Though Minnakht advised me on the ritual!’

  ‘Did anyone else enter the chapel where the three priests were staying?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘I was involved with the preparations,’ Minnakht replied, ‘but I dealt solely with Maben here. I never actually entered the room.’

  ‘And you are sure,’ Amerotke insisted, ‘that the scribes ate or drank nothing tainted.’

  ‘My lord,’ Maben raised both hands, face beseeching, ‘I would take the most sacred oath. No food or drink entered that room; nothing untoward happened. True, the three scribes were hungry and thirsty, but they were joyful at the treaty they had sealed on the Divine One’s behalf. They were promising themselves the most sumptuous banquet and celebration—’

  ‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ Senenmut asked abruptly.

  The judge shook his head. He had already decided what to do. When the meeting ended, he made his swift excuses and left, going down the outside staircase. He paused halfway and stared across the elegant temple precinct at the splendid array of beautifully coloured pillars, squares, fountains, sun pavilions, aisles and alleyways; flower-festooned walls, gold-capped obelisks soaring up against the light blue sky, the central temple itself and its surrounding chapels with their various stones, snow white, honey coloured or pink limestone. The late afternoon air was rich with the tangy smell of blood from the smoking sacrifices: this mixed with the incense fragrance rising from the miniature containers carved in the shape of boats, as well as the pungent farm smells from the stables and oxen sheds. Voices shouted. Cymbals clashed. The faint words of some hymn floated on the evening breeze. The sun was beginning to dip, the golden light in the sky turning red, coursing like lines of thread through white streaks of cloud. Acolytes and servants hurried by, chattering and laughing. Ipet-Sut, Amerotke reflected: a perfect place! Yet, he reminded himself, this was also a place of behen, murderous intent. The home of the Rekhet, the place of the Ari Sapu, the Books of Doom, a temple of dread where three high-born Egyptian scribes had been murdered to the anger and shame of Pharaoh and the humiliation of Egypt.

  MESETCH-I: ancient Egyptian, ‘hatred’

  CHAPTER 2

  Amerotke continued down the steps. He took directions from a passing servant and went down more stairs into the yawning caverns of the House of Death and its inner sanctum, the gloomy ill-lit Wabet, the Place of Purity. Once he had closed the door behind him, showing his seal to the guards, he realised how stifling the air was. Peering through the gloom, he could make out the sweaty skins of the Keepers of the Dead, who moved quietly through the murk, faces hidden by the jackal masks of Anubis. The bitter, salty smell of natron mingled with the perfumes distilled to conceal the ever-pervasive stench of corruption and death. Priests of both the chapel and the stole intoned prayers and psalms from the Book of the Dead: ‘I have come to thee, my lord of the Far West, to adore thy beauty; I have not done evil … Open, Spirits of the Light, the Gates of the West…’

  The corpses of the three scribes lay on the far side of the room, beneath a small window vent through which the only light poured. Their embalmment on the tilted slabs had already begun, stomachs slit with the sacred obsidian knife, entrails collected, heaped and slopped into the waiting canopic jars. The Keepers of the Dead had certainly been busy, working swiftly against the heat and the hideous effects of the poison the men had drunk. In the poor light, the faces of the corpses now appeared composed, as if comforted by the serenity of death, their limbs supple-looking and straight. Amerotke recalled their frenzied fits earlier that day.

  ‘My lord?’ The Overseer of the Dead came out of a needle-thin passageway to Amerotke’s right. An old, gentle man, he carried an asperges rod in one hand, in the other a small stoup containing water from the Holy Pool. He gazed narrow-eyed through the gloom and recognised Amerotke. ‘My lord?’ He bowed.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ Amerotke asked, gesturing at the corpses, ‘how they died?’

  ‘How they died, my lord? Something very evil.’ The Overseer took Amerotke by the elbow and led him closer to the three corpses. He removed the linen sheets exposing their stomachs, slit open, the skin thrown back like a flap. Amerotke put his hands to his face. Despite all the washing and the perfuming, there was still a horrid stench that made him gag. He turned away. The Overseer led him across to the other side of the room to stand beneath a window vent.

  ‘I have seen many corpses,’ Amerotke wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, ‘but that smell – it is more than just the stench of death.’

  ‘It is the rank odour of poison, my lord. Yet what it was or how it was administered I cannot tell. When the bodies were opened,’ the Overseer tapped his own stomach, ‘their innards were tainted and discoloured.’

  ‘And what could have caused that?’ Amerotke asked.

  The Overseer laughed. Putting down the asperges rod and the water stoup, he rubbed his hands t
ogether. ‘My lord, how many ways are there to kill a man?’

  ‘Have you heard of the Ari Sapu?’ Amerotke asked. ‘The Books of Doom?’

  ‘Of course,’ the old man replied. ‘I have been in this temple since I was knee high to a flower. I love this place. It is my home, my life. I…’ He caught the flicker of impatience in Amerotke’s eyes. ‘My lord, I apologise. To you this is a great mystery, but for me death holds no mystery: just three corpses, the ka of which are already travelling into the Far West. I am simply here to ease their way, like a midwife at birth, but yes, I’ve heard of the Books of Doom. You do know,’ he moved closer, ‘that our library holds a fragment of them? It was found many years ago. My lord, it might be worth reading.’

  ‘Anything else?’ Amerotke asked, gesturing back towards the bodies. ‘Anything you can tell me?’

  ‘I washed the corpses,’ the Overseer replied. ‘I have searched for any symptom, but…’ He shrugged.

  ‘Tell me,’ Amerotke asked, ‘when you remove the entrails from the belly, you sometimes find the remains of a last meal?’

  ‘Empty!’ the Overseer replied. ‘The organs were stained and discoloured, slightly swollen as if scoured by some vile powder.’

  ‘And anything else?’ Amerotke insisted. ‘Anything on the corpses, their hands, around their mouths?’

  The Overseer shook his head. ‘Nothing, my lord; I mean nothing I could see.’

  Amerotke thanked the Overseer, then left the House of Death and walked up the steps into the courtyard. For a while he just stood enjoying the rays of the dying sun, welcoming the breeze, trying to rid his nostrils of the stench of corruption and the salty tang of the embalming chamber. He had indeed seen many corpses, but each experience was unique, bringing home the hideousness of death. He moved out of the shadows and stared up at the sky, which was now changing colour. From across the temple conch horns wailed, gongs clashed, the music of cymbal and lyre rippled melodiously as the temple musicians and choirs rehearsed a hymn for the morning sacrifice. He passed through a garden where a servant poured him a cup of clear water from a gazelle skin slung on a pole by its legs, a small pipe in place of its head. The servant directed him to the House of Scribes, where the archives and library were situated. The lower part of the House consisted of a series of small chambers standing off a passageway decorated with the insignia and signs of Thoth the God of Words as well as gruesome scenes from the macabre stories and tales so loved by Thebans. Amerotke recognised many of the figures: Sha, the malevolent creature of Seth, whose glare turned men to stone; the Saga, a loathsome hawk-headed creature capable of indescribable horrors.

  The priest librarian, the Overseer of Books, who came out to greet Amerotke, resembled an old peasant, with his leathery skin, and watery, evasive eyes in a crafty face. He reluctantly allowed Amerotke through the heavy cedar doors but kept staring at the water bowl in the far corner of the passageway, the trickle from which slowly measured the passage of time.

  ‘The light is fading,’ he grumbled.

  ‘But I’m not!’ Amerotke snapped. ‘The Lord Senenmut…’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ the librarian murmured, ink-stained fingers to his face.

  Amerotke told the old man what he wished to see.

  ‘The Ari Sapu fragment!’ the librarian gasped. ‘Oh dear, I thought of that myself today when those scribes…’ and, muttering to himself, he led Amerotke into a square stone chamber with a window grille high in the outer wall. Shelves ranged round the chamber, and beneath these were linen bags and reed baskets for storing manuscripts; cavities had also been burrowed into the wall to hold small scrolls and rolls of papyri.

  ‘A dusty place of forgotten memories,’ the librarian murmured as he approached one of the wall cavities and drew out a copper tube. He pulled back the lid and shook out the document, a roll of papyrus about two hands long and the same wide.

  Amerotke took this out to the west side of the library so as to catch the fading light. He sat on a limestone bench and closely studied the carefully drawn hieroglyphs. It was only an extract, yet as he read it, a deep chill of apprehension seized him. He had dealt with sinister sorcerers and warlocks, the lords of the secret powders and potions, Masters of the Dark. Thebes also abounded with apothecaries, physicians, conjurors and cunning men who would for a little wealth dispense the most deadly venom. There were even guilds of poisoners, professional assassins, but this? Amerotke continued to study the extract carefully. It provided detailed descriptions of certain poisons and how to create them, potions he had never encountered before: rare minerals extracted from rocks and crystals, plants and herbs not found along the Nile, the juices of certain snakes and insects which only thrived deep in the lush jungles beyond the cataracts hundred of miles to the south. The collection, distillation, symptoms and effects of these poisons were objectively described, in a way very similar to an architect explaining the cutting of mud bricks and the building of a house.

  Amerotke startled as he heard a sound. He glanced up, shading his eyes against the light with his hand. ‘What!’ He got to his feet, aware of how cool the evening had grown.

  ‘My lord, I’m sorry.’ Minnakht stepped into the shade, the hunched librarian trailing behind. ‘Lord Ani said you might wish to inspect the Chapel of the Divine Child, where the three scribes stayed until the ceremony.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Amerotke stared up at the sky. The streaks of coppery red had broadened, mingling with the wispy white lines of cloud. He stretched his neck to savour the evening breeze, then handed the papyrus back to the librarian, thanked him and followed Minnakht across the temple grounds. They walked along colonnades where servants of the Mansion of the Gods lingered to gossip, past shrines and statues, through gardens shaded by sycamore, fig, persea and terebinth. Willows were also plentiful, a cascade of greenery as if the trees were bending down to drink the glinting water from the canals which fed the pools, fountains and miniature lakes of the temple. In the shade of these trees stood cone-shaped beehives as well as elegant sun pavilions where drink was stored for those who sheltered there.

  At first they walked in silence, Minnakht acting as if he was in total awe of the Lord Judge. Amerotke smiled to himself as the Chief Scribe’s natural garrulousness emerged and he began to chatter about the affairs of the temple.

  ‘How do you think they died?’ Amerotke immediately regretted his harsh interruption.

  Minnakht stopped his gossiping, his face puckered in surprise. ‘Lord Judge, you want my opinion?’

  ‘I’d value it!’

  ‘Well,’ Minnakht squinted up at the sky, ‘it must be the Libyans.’

  ‘But how?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘The scribes were in good heart this morning. True, Lord Judge?’

  Amerotke agreed.

  ‘Well,’ Minnakht pushed his face closer and whispered, ‘it must be the bowl. Remember, my lord Amerotke, the bowl was held by Naratousha; he handed it back to Lord Ani, who gave it to our three scribes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I remember,’ Minnakht continued excitedly, ‘Ani and our three scribes held the bowl in the palms of their hands, but the Libyans, as is their custom—’

  Amerotke caught Minnakht’s excitement. He’d seen Libyans and desert wanderers drink; they’d often grasp the rim of the cup or beaker. Shufoy also did that. Amerotke closed his eyes. ‘Naratousha and his colleagues held that bowl—’

  ‘They did,’ Minnakht broke in, ‘they held it by the rim.’

  Amerotke opened his eyes. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Not only me,’ Minnakht continued, ‘but Lord Ani. He declares that when he handed the bowl back, Naratousha held the rim with both hands. So you see, Lord Judge…?’

  ‘He could have had his hands dusted with some venom, some evil potion, and coated the rim of the bowl,’ Amerotke concluded. ‘Something lethal, swift as a poisoned arrow. Of course that part of the rim held by Naratousha would then be offered to our scribes; to move it around co
uld be construed as an insult, Egyptians refusing to drink from that part of the bowl held by Libyans. But is there a poison so powerful that a mere smear…?’

  ‘I do not know,’ Minnakht replied, ‘but there are mixtures, so the physicians tell me, where a small drop can kill in a few heartbeats. The Redlands hold scorpions and snakes that can kill in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘Do you know anything about poisons?’

  ‘A little!’ Minnakht laughed. ‘I’m more priest than physician. I also know something about the Ari Sapu.’

  ‘What is their history?’

  Amerotke took Minnakht by the arm and led him over to one of the sun pavilions decorated with blue and yellow climbing flowers. It was furnished with a bench along which a quilted flock had been stretched.

  ‘The Books of Doom,’ Minnakht began, making himself comfortable, ‘are no legend. About fifty years ago a priest physician decided to go on a journey. He was a man of the night, a dark soul with a curious heart. He travelled beyond the cataracts, into the dense jungles south of Nubia. Many thought he’d died, but some years later he reappeared and resumed his duties as a priest, physician and scholar. He soon won a reputation for healing, but that was during the hour of Ra when the Eye of the God was upon him. At night, however, this creature of the dark would creep into the city with poisons he’d concocted and feed them to the Maar, the wretched ones. He’d then carefully observe the effects and symptoms of the various potions.’ Minnakht paused, screwing up his face to recall this sinister history. ‘Afterwards he’d return and make more entries in his great work, what is now called the Books of Doom.’

  ‘And?’

  Minnakht pulled a face. ‘The poor always die like flies, but the number of poisonings amongst the wretched rose dramatically, their corpses found in the derelict huts and shabby tenements and slums. The Mayor of Thebes became concerned; riots were imminent. Eventually the murderer was captured. He was put on trial and buried alive with his books,’ Minnakht waved his hand across the gardens, ‘somewhere here in the Temple of Ptah.’