The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘All this present business. What I think we should do is take our redoubtable standard-bearer of the Medjay for a few cups of wine and some tender sliced meat and fresh bread. Then perhaps we shall learn something.’

  Amerotke smiled, patted Shufoy on the head and got to his feet. The dwarf rose and slipped his hand into Amerotke’s. ‘I’m sorry, master,’ he murmured, ‘I mean about yesterday. I drank too much.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Amerotke replied. ‘Yesterday was yesterday. Today is today. Let us do what we have to.’

  A temple servant took them over to the House of Praise, then across a garden, though a door and down a passageway to Hutepa’s chamber, a small room, sad in many ways, full of mementoes of the dead girl. Amerotke stared down at the bed: the whispery veils which protected the sleeper at night against marauding insects had been pulled back. He looked at the headrest mantled in blue and gold, the sweat marks on it still evident.

  ‘Master,’ Shufoy asked, ‘what are we looking for?’

  ‘Search this chamber,’ Amerotke replied. ‘Don’t look for the obvious, but rather for something untoward that shouldn’t be here.’

  Amerotke sat down on the bed. The linen sheets over the broad flock mattress were rather grimy. This puzzled him. The rest of Hutepa’s chamber seemed a very clean, neat place, its walls painted with tasteful scenes of hesets singing or collecting flowers beside a pond, the floor polished, the reed matting spotlessly clean. He noticed the dried onion placed against a small hole at the bottom of a wall as a protection against mice. Pots of herbs were also placed to fend off insects, whilst a net covered the window as further protection against dust and flies. Pegs on the wall held carefully draped clothes and ceremonial robes. On one side of the room were ranged caskets and coffers with gable-shaped lids and handles in the form of mushrooms, all painted a pleasing ochre and framed with black and white lines. Amerotke asked Nadif to empty the contents of these on to the bed. The room was rather narrow, so he sent Shufoy to the House of the Dead to make further enquiries. Clothes and robes were taken off pegs, a faded garland from a nail on the door. Nadif emptied the chests and coffers, their contents spilling out: a sistra, bracelets of cornelian, necklaces of jasper, rings, a cosmetic mixing dish, a pair of gazelle-skin sleepers, a polished bronze mirror, kohl containers, ivory combs, jars of unguents and perfumes. Nadif then lifted across a rather large jewellery box lined with strips of ebony to give it the look of darkish timber and decorated with small squares of ivory and faience. He opened the lid, emptied its few contents on to the bed, then weighed it in his hands. Amerotke, intrigued, edged closer. Nadif drew his dagger and prised loose the bottom of the casket to reveal a hidden cavity, from which he pulled out two small scrolls of treated papyrus. These he handed to Amerotke. The judge unrolled them quickly, reading from right to left the carefully formed symbols around the skilfully drawn maps. Then he moved to the narrow writing desk against the far wall. The scribe’s tray resting on top was well stocked with reed pens, ink pots, pumice stones and small writing brushes. The inks were those of a scribe: green, black and red.

  ‘A scholar,’ Amerotke murmured. ‘Hutepa was well versed.’

  ‘Normal for a temple heset,’ Nadif replied. ‘Many of them are erudite, skilled in the arts of Thoth.’

  ‘But what was she writing?’ Amerotke asked. ‘And why?’

  The judge opened a folding stool and sat down so he caught the light from the window, then, with Nadif leaning over his shoulder, quickly perused both manuscripts. Hutepa had apparently written in a cipher known only to herself, but the maps she’d drawn were obvious. The title Akhet, The Horizon, written above one diagram, described the flatlands west of Thebes that stretched to the Place of Truth, the grey limestone valleys that housed the burial chambers of the pharaohs. Two great valleys dominated this area but there were other hidden, narrow ones. Amerotke knew the terrain very well. Hutepa had identified one of these, etching as the title the name Huaneka. Amerotke moved from scroll to scroll. Outside echoed the sounds of the temple, the lowing of cattle being driven to the sacrificial pens, the shouts of workmen, the faint singing of choirs, the chimes and melodies of practising musicians. He half listened to these as he studied the scrolls and realised that Hutepa hadn’t so much written in a cipher or code as abbreviated certain words and letters. At first he wondered who this Huaneka was, until he came across the phrase ‘widow of Ari Sapu’. It seemed Hutepa had been searching for the author of the Books of Doom, who’d lived in this temple some fifty years earlier and was apparently married to Huaneka. After he was caught and executed, his name damned for ever, his wife, apparently innocent of her husband’s crimes, had been left to live out her life as an honourable widow, a pensioner of the temple. They must have had no children, for Huaneka had lived by herself, bereft of a family tomb. However, according to Hutepa, the widow had used all her remaining wealth to rectify this, purchasing a sepulchre in what was now known as the Valley of the Forgotten. Hutepa had clearly located this tomb, giving precise details of its position.

  ‘But why?’ Amerotke asked.

  Nadif just pulled a face.

  ‘And why was Hutepa poisoned?’

  ‘Simple,’ Nadif replied. ‘She told me where the Rekhet was hiding. It was an act of pure revenge.’

  ‘So,’ Amerotke smiled at the standard-bearer, ‘the Rekhet escapes from his prison oasis and returns to Thebes bent on vengeance. But why should he kill three scribes, or even Ipuye and Khiat? We don’t know. He also visits the heset who played a prominent role in his arrest and poisons her wine. She drinks it, so vengeance is carried out, yet…’ Amerotke plucked at the linen sheets and, leaning down, smelt the sweat heavy on them. ‘Did Hutepa make love to her killer? She was a graceful, sophisticated heset, an intelligent woman able to read, write and study. Look at her possessions: this chamber exemplifies her finesse, her elegance, yet this bed…’ He grasped the grimy sheets. ‘Undoubtedly someone lay here, dusty, sweat stained, tired. A man? Did he sleep? Did they make love? What sort of person, Nadif, would do that? When you and I return home tonight we will bathe, wash off the dust and anoint our bodies.’

  ‘A fugitive?’ Nadif asked.

  ‘Precisely!’ Amerotke agreed. ‘Our escaped prisoner has to keep himself hidden. He cannot be glimpsed in galleries or passageways, out in gardens or crossing courtyards, so he slips in here. Hutepa must have allowed him in and offered her bed, either to sleep in, make love, or both. So why did the Rekhet kill her? Moreover, even more strange, why was this heset so intent on searching the history of the widow Huaneka? Finding out where her grave was? Did she go out there and visit that tomb? Nadif, we shall certainly do so.’

  Amerotke paused at a knock on the door. Shufoy came in.

  ‘I asked the Overseer of the Dead,’ he announced. ‘He assures me he found no gold dust on the feet, hands or corpses of Ipuye or the lady Khiat. He did add that it could have been washed off by the water. Having said that,’ Shufoy continued, ‘the Overseer says such dust often lodges between the toes, yet he found no trace of it whatsoever.’

  ‘Thank you, Shufoy,’ Amerotke replied absentmindedly. ‘Perhaps I’m clutching at straws; it’s certainly not proof.’ He glanced at Nadif. ‘I still agree with you. The deaths of Ipuye and Khiat are truly mysterious—’

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ Shufoy intervened, ‘Minnakht and Maben want to see you again. They said they’ll wait for you outside.’

  ‘No they won’t,’ Amerotke declared. ‘Tell my lord Minnakht and Maben that I will see them later in their quarters. I have other business to attend to.’

  ‘What business?’ Nadif asked. Amerotke went across and opened the door; he looked out and came back to the bed.

  ‘Help me to put these away.’

  He took the small scrolls and put them in the pouch he always carried on his belt. The rest of the meagre jewellery was returned to the caskets, the clothes re-hung. As they tidied up, Amerotke told Nadif exactly what had happened the previo
us evening; how the Rekhet had approached him just as he left the temple. Nadif, squatting on the floor, heard him out.

  ‘Tonight, Standard-Bearer, what are you doing?’

  ‘Roast goose,’ Nadif replied. ‘My wife has promised to make me a dish I’ll never forget.’

  ‘Leave that.’ Amerotke went over and sat down near the standard-bearer. ‘Come for dinner at my house, I need to discuss matters with you. But first,’ he helped Nadif up, ‘we have a librarian for you to talk to.’

  TEKHAR: ancient Egyptian, ‘frightening’

  CHAPTER 5

  They left the heset’s chamber and went out into the busy temple grounds. Pilgrims were queuing up for various shrines and chapels. Visitors stood to gape and stare; acolyte priests moved amongst these trying to help. From the coolness of the colonnades, the temple police kept a watchful eye on the proceedings. A group of beggars, their thin-ribbed bodies clothed in rags, were being marshalled into an orderly line before the great double doors of the granary, where stewards prepared to deal out measures of free grain. The sun was now at its full strength, dazzling off the limestone walls and the red-basalt copper-tipped obelisks. Workmen balancing on planks were shouting as they worked on stripping the courses off a wall in preparation for new ones. They stopped to whistle and shout as four pretty temple girls, ankle bracelets jingling, walked saucily by, balancing on their heads plaited reed baskets containing offerings for some altar: conical loaves of bread, the dangling heads of dead waterfowl, and gleaming green vegetables. An overseer shouted angrily. The girls, hips swinging, passed on and the labourers resumed their work. The tap of mallet and copper chisel drifted out on the dusty air. Priests walked by, shaven heads gleaming, the skirts of their voluminous robes folded over their right arms; on their chests, the square pectorals of office shimmered in the sunlight.

  Amerotke and Nadif fought their way through the throng. They became lost, and a servant had to take them over to Minnakht’s office chamber, which was situated in a small, wall-enclosed courtyard, a soothing, pleasant place containing a fountain splashing merrily, surrounded by a grassy verge and flowerbeds rich in colour. In each corner of the courtyard stood a water clock: conical blue vases decorated with astrological signs and symbols with twelve red lines drawn around the outside. At the bottom of each vase was a carving of a baboon, sacred to Thoth, and between its feet a specially cut hole so the water inside could trickle out one section at a time to mark the passing of each hour. There were also sundials, as well as apparatus for measuring the time at night.

  Minnakht met them on the steps to his chamber and apologised laughingly for his absorption with the measurement and calculation of time. Inside it was no different. The walls of the lavishly furnished room were decorated with symbols of Thoth and pictures of baboons squatting on cushions measuring out the skeins of time. At the far end of the chamber stood a row of tables, on each a cluster of beeswax candles, carefully ringed, to record the passing of the hours. Minnakht, still quietly mocking his ‘hobby’ as he called it, waved Amerotke and Nadif to cushions where a gloomy-faced Maben sat cradling a cup of wine.

  ‘You asked to see me?’ Amerotke settled himself. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Something Minnakht said we should have informed you about when you visited Ipuye’s house.’ Maben leaned forward. ‘Four years ago Ipuye posted a reward for the capture of the Rekhet; the reward was later sent to the Temple of Ptah, but something else happened. Shortly after the proclamation was made, Ipuye – I believe it was during the hot season – decided to eat his evening meal on the roof of his house.’

  ‘Long after the disappearance of his wife?’

  ‘Oh yes, at least a month. Anyway, the servants poured out the wine, and one of them sipped at a goblet and immediately fell ill. The man was lucky: apparently he vomited whatever he’d drunk. When they tested the flask of wine they found poison mingled in it. At first Ipuye couldn’t understand how that had been done: his mansion lies beyond the city walls, and only friends and servants were allowed in.’

  ‘So,’ Amerotke asked, ‘how was it done?’

  ‘It was pointed out,’ Maben continued, ‘that during the hot season Ipuye hired servants and gardeners, occasional labourers to do certain work in both the garden and the house. He suspected that one of these was the Rekhet, who, somehow, had slipped into the kitchen and mingled poison with the wine. After that, Ipuye was very careful. He actually said that he would eat nothing unless it was specially prepared by our sister Meryet. Ipuye always liked Meryet’s cooking. Whatever their difficulties, he trusted her implicitly, and after that there were no further incidents.’

  ‘The same happened to me.’ Minnakht spoke up. ‘As you know, gifts are sent to the temple. I was given a small jug of wine, covered and tagged, proclaiming the date and place of vintage.’ He smiled. ‘Any Theban would recognise it as the finest of a very good crop of grapes. Of course, I looked forward to enjoying it. Now such gifts are left outside my chamber.’ He gestured at the door. ‘I thought it was some pilgrim, or perhaps a colleague I’d helped. I brought the jug in here. I remember being absorbed with my calculations. I poured a cup of wine and drank some of it. I’d just cleansed my mouth with water, and although the wine tasted delicious, I caught a slight tinge. I looked at the jug. There was nothing wrong, but I did detect a slight odour beneath the wine fumes. I immediately threw the wine out, but a short while later felt nauseous. Of course at the time the temple was fully absorbed with the horrific poisonings in the city. I’d heard suspicions that the Rekhet might be a member of the Temple of Ptah. I panicked. I actually made myself vomit, but for days afterwards, Lord Judge, as the record attests, I was very, very ill.’

  ‘And why are you telling me this now?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Two possible reasons: Hinqui has been moved to the temple hospital. Perhaps it is a contagion, perhaps something he ate. Or secondly…’

  ‘The work of the Rekhet?’ Nadif asked. ‘Wreaking revenge as he did on Hutepa?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Minnakht replied. ‘But also to give both of you a warning. If you are hunting the Rekhet, he may strike at you or yours.’

  ‘He already has.’ Amerotke swiftly told them about the confrontation the previous evening. Both Minnakht and Maben looked frightened.

  ‘So he did get in here!’ Maben exclaimed. ‘Into the temple. No wonder poor Hutepa died.’

  Amerotke felt tempted to ask them further about the Rekhet. He decided not to, he would trust no one except Nadif, with whom he planned to converse later in the day.

  ‘Lord Judge?’

  ‘Yes, Minnakht?’

  ‘The three scribes who died, have you discovered anything?’

  ‘Why should I?’ Amerotke shrugged. ‘How can I? Tell me who was responsible for the preparation of the wine.’

  ‘Lord Ani,’ Minnakht and Maben answered together. ‘In fact,’ Minnakht continued, ‘Lord Ani supervised all the proceedings. I mean, the ritual is laid out but the wine itself was taken from the High Priest’s store. He himself brought both jug and bowl into the temple. He insisted that he serve the Libyans and our scribes. Apart from that, Lord Judge, I cannot add anything.’

  ‘And Hutepa’s murder?’ Maben asked. ‘You searched her chamber?’

  Amerotke chewed on the corner of his lip and stared up at the window. The sunlight was still fierce and strong. He felt very tired. He had not slept well the previous evening, his mind agitated, his belly upset.

  ‘Hutepa?’ Maben insisted.

  Amerotke abruptly realised he could not trust this priest. In fact, he trusted no one in the Temple of Ptah. ‘What we found was interesting but nothing remarkable.’ He stretched and got to his feet. ‘Well now, gentlemen, I bid you good day.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ Minnakht asked.

  ‘To the temple library,’ Amerotke replied. ‘Standard-Bearer Nadif, will you accompany me?’

  They made their farewells, left the chamber and made their way back on to th
e temple concourse. Once they were well away, Amerotke paused and gripped Nadif by the wrist.

  ‘You’re very quiet, Standard-Bearer.’

  Nadif’s thin face broke into a smile. ‘And so are you, Lord Judge. Here we are in the Temple of Ptah, which housed the Rekhet. Fifty years ago another great assassin lurked here.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I don’t know what to say. I feel that when I’m here I cannot trust anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. I don’t want to give them my opinion, speculate or reflect, and I suspect neither do you, Lord Judge. Oh, by the way, why are we going to the library?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ Amerotke walked on.

  When they reached the House of Books, the librarian was clearly not pleased to see Amerotke. Nevertheless, the judge took him into one of the reading chambers and sat him down on a ledge beneath a window.

  ‘I don’t need to see any manuscripts,’ Amerotke began. ‘I want to ask you some questions. A temple girl, the heset Hutepa, was poisoned last night; you must have heard?’

  The librarian nodded.

  ‘I know she came here,’ Amerotke continued. ‘She asked to see certain archives or records, is that correct?’

  The librarian licked his dry lips and stared beyond Amerotke; Nadif stood against the door with Shufoy crouching next to him. In fact, Shufoy was sobering up, beginning to absorb what had happened, what concerned his master about this case. He had also heard the warnings delivered by Minnakht, and fully intended that once they returned to Amerotke’s house, he would make sure no danger threatened.

  ‘Hutepa,’ Amerotke repeated. ‘You knew her?’

  ‘I met her here,’ the librarian replied. ‘A comely girl … I mean, she had no right to be here; the House of Books is meant for scholars.’

  Just a shift in his eyes, his nervous gestures, made Amerotke suspicious. He studied the librarian carefully: a lecherous man, he thought, and wondered if Hutepa had bought his attention with her favours.