Nadif drew out a chest from beneath the bed, a reinforced casket with two clasps each secured by a small wooden padlock. He broke these, tipped back the lid, took out two scrolls and handed them to Amerotke. The first was a book of love, full of erotic scenes describing the skills and devices a courtesan might use to please her customer. It was well thumbed and greasy. Amerotke tossed this on to the bed. Many temples in Thebes held such manuscripts describing the finer points of the art of love, the schooling of a courtesan. The second scroll was more surprising; Amerotke had never seen the like before. It was written in a neat hand which, Amerotke concluded, must be Ipuye’s, and gave a graphic account of his encounters with various prostitutes, whores, courtesans of the city and other female guests: how they treated him in bed, their different specialities. In this detailed diary of love, Ipuye had given each of his lady friends a name as well as the dates and times they’d visited him: ‘Shining Light’, ‘Betnu the Swift’, ‘Nebet Ankh the Lady of Life’, ‘Neshem the Precious Stone’, ‘Heriet the Terror’ – Amerotke smiled at that – and ‘Nibit Pi, Mistress of the House’. There were no physical descriptions but Ipuye described their charms and skills, what they preferred and how he had enjoyed them. The judge began to realise why, perhaps, Ipuye’s first wife had fled, though the truth of that remained to be established. He placed both scrolls in his linen bag and stared round this chamber of love: at the paintings on the wall, the emblems of Ankh and Sa proclaiming life and happiness; the costly embroidered cushions, the polished furniture, the reed baskets and trays holding writing implements and papyrus, that large bed with its pure white linen sheets. Nadif was still going round the room finishing his own search.
‘Every luxury,’ he called out over his shoulder. ‘Ipuye certainly was a man who loved the things of the flesh.’ The standard-bearer came back and squatted before Amerotke. ‘And the scrolls, Lord Judge?’
Amerotke quickly described them. Nadif grinned.
‘Do you think they were all courtesans and whores?’
‘Possibly,’ Amerotke declared. ‘I have some questions to ask the owner downstairs. Perhaps they might also have been the wives, daughters, sisters perhaps of other merchants, hence the names. Usually famous courtesans assume their own titles, but Ipuye was responsible for these, possibly to conceal their true identity.’
Amerotke paused as the door was flung open and Shufoy marched in. He was hot faced, wafting himself vigorously with an ostentatious fan, its handle carved out of gleaming ebony, the luxuriant folds a brilliant hue. In his other hand he carried a parasol, and he swung this backwards and forwards as if it was a symbol of office.
‘That stupid owner!’ he bawled, then fell silent as he gazed in astonishment round the chamber, distracted by the vivid, eye-catching wall paintings. ‘By the Horns of Hathor, the Lady of Drunkenness,’ he breathed. ‘What on earth is this?’
‘What it looks like.’ Amerotke smiled, getting to his feet. ‘A paradise of love, Shufoy. You carried out my instructions?’
‘Asural, his temple guard and every idler he could collect are now searching the grounds of Ipuye’s mansion. The lady Meryet is certainly pleased.’
‘Good.’ Amerotke smiled. ‘Now I understand the Churat is awaiting us, but first, Shufoy, the owner of this establishment…’
Back in the street, the jeweller still seemed unwilling to talk. When Amerotke threatened him with the two Medjay standing on guard at the foot of the outside steps, the fellow became more cooperative, assuring the judge that as far as he knew, Ipuye had many lady visitors, though they remained a constant mystery.
‘Veiled and masked,’ the jeweller spread his hands, ‘that’s all I can say. Who they were?’ He shook his head. ‘They looked pretty: slim, elegant ankles, painted nails, rings gleaming, bangles jingling as they went up the outside steps. Ipuye was always waiting for them, but more than that, Lord Judge, I cannot say.’
Amerotke thanked him and walked away.
‘Hardly courtesans,’ Nadif murmured, catching up with him. ‘Such ladies have no fear of exposing their faces. Indeed,’ he laughed, ‘that’s part of the commodity on sale.’ The standard-bearer turned and shouted at the Medjay to follow him, and they threaded their way through the stinking streets down to the Great Mooring Place on the Nile. This was busier than an anthill, with porters and servants carrying bundles, merchants and lords on their ornately harnessed donkeys, ladies in their palanquins and litters, sailors, burnt black by the sun, pushing their way noisily through the crowds desperate to reach the beer booths, wine shops and brothels along the quayside. Animal pens housing baby giraffes, monkeys, goats, sheep and geese gave off a rancid stench, which grew almost suffocating when it mingled with the tar and fishy smells of the river. Mountebanks touted for custom. Pimps darted in and out of the crowd whispering the delights of their beauties. Lizard and scorpion men looked hurriedly for easy pickings. Priests gathered to cross to the Necropolis. Three funeral parties stood waiting, caskets and coffers at the ready, choirs eager to sing, the Masters of the Tomb drilling the mourners on how to act.
Amerotke and his party shouldered their way through even as Shufoy rapped the wandering fingers of a lizard man. The judge made his way down to a small naval station and, using Pharaoh’s cartouche, secured an imperial barge, The Royal Horus, flying the imperial standard. They clambered in and the marines shoved off. One sailor standing on the prow blew a conch horn, its wailing sound warning other craft to pull well clear of Pharaoh’s messenger.
The Nile was sluggish; the air, even mid-river, reeked of cordage, pitch, tar and stale fish. Midstream, the waters became even busier with more funeral boats, their simple cabins draped in embroidered cloths or decorated leather. On deck the mourners faced back towards the slower coffin barge, built in the exact imitation of the mysterious craft which had taken Osiris across the Far Horizon. The Royal Horus, however, manned by master oarsmen, cut through the busy waters. Birds swooped and dived. Above these, circling like dark feathery shadows against the light blue sky, were the great vultures and buzzards floating in from the deserts to feed on whatever offal could be found. Amerotke, sitting in the stern next to Nadif, wondered what the Churat could tell them as the barge aimed like an arrow across the waters to the main quayside of the City of the Dead: the Resting Place of Osiris, whose soaring statue dominated the main entrance to the Necropolis.
Through the heat haze and clouds of dust, the judge could make out the various layers of the City of the Dead: lines of houses, cottages and workshops clustered together, a hierarchy of dwellings stretching up the side of the mountain, cut different ways by narrow winding lanes. He steadied himself as the barge swiftly turned to draw alongside the quayside. The manoeuvring was successfully concluded, and Amerotke and his party disembarked, moving through the milling crowd, wafting away the dusty clouds and myriad of flies. Shufoy opened the parasol but Amerotke declined it; he hadn’t the heart to tell the little man he was too short. Instead he strode forward, the two Medjay going before them. They were now in the Land of the Dead, the Entrance to the Far West, the Threshold of the Far Horizon, beyond which lay the tombs, the Houses of a Million Years. The entire city was given over to death. Mourners were preparing to take the path up to the sepulchres, whilst a hired chorus rehearsed the hymn: ‘To the West, best of men, even as the gods lament…’
Next to the funeral parties, those determined on earning a living bartered and sold everything from packets of fish hooks to measures of oil. Cooks offered food, bubbling in pots above beds of flame. Wine boys shouted the price of a goblet. Amerotke drove all these off as he entered the streets of the dead, along which stood the embalming and funeral shops, offering a wide range of services, from the raw gutting of the corpses of the poor, which would be cleaned in heavy baths of natron and packed with cheap sawdust and rags, to the lavish funeral arrangements for the wealthy, which provided everything necessary for a dead person’s final, fitting journey. They left the main thoroughfare, turning right i
nto the wretched, stinking maze of refuse-filled lanes, the dark tenements of the Ashu, the Outcasts, narrow tunnels harbouring every type of malefactor. Shadows emerged, menacing and dangerous, but these flitting figures soon melted away when they recognised Nadif and his Medjay. Amerotke and his companions were greeted with eerie shouts which echoed along the filthy alleyways, announcing who was coming, passing the information on deeper into those slums of hell. This truly was the Abode of Darkness, a maze of tunnels, rotting houses, derelict shrines and shabby shops. Amerotke felt as if the walls on either side of him were closing in when the tunnel they were threading through abruptly debouched into a broad, dusty square on the far side of which stood a derelict temple.
‘The heart of the Abode of Darkness,’ Nadif whispered. ‘We will find the Churat here.’
They were hardly halfway across the square when from alleyways and doorways crept groups of men of every nationality: Khita, blond-haired mercenaries from the islands of the Great Green, Nubians black as night, Canaanites the colour of bronze, sand-dwellers, Libyans, all dressed in rags but very well armed. They moved quietly towards Amerotke with no sound, no murmur. The judge paused, opened the linen bag looped over his shoulder and took out the cartouche of Pharaoh.
‘I am the Eyes and Ears of the Divine One,’ he shouted, ‘and this is Standard-Bearer Nadif of the Medjay.’ The line of men paused; daggers were hastily hidden away, and they went down on their knees to respect the Imperial Seal. Amerotke was wondering how long this would last when a figure emerged through the colonnaded portico at the top of the temple steps. He was dressed completely in white gauffered linen, head shaved, his thin, ascetic face a mask of serenity.
‘My brothers,’ his voice was surprisingly strong, ‘receive our guests kindly. Come, come.’ He gestured at Amerotke. ‘The Churat welcomes you.’
SKHINASHA: ancient Egyptian, ‘to stir up, incite’
CHAPTER 7
The judge glanced at Nadif, who just shrugged. They made their way across the square, up the steps and into the coolness of the dark colonnade. The Churat looked and dressed as if he was a priest from one of the temples of Karnak, head and face perfumed and oiled, a peaceful-looking man with gentle eyes and smiling mouth. On closer inspection Amerotke realised the robes were of the costliest linen, the bracelets and rings on his wrists and fingers of pure gold.
‘My lord.’ The Churat came forward and grasped Amerotke’s arms and they exchanged the kiss of friendship. He did the same to Nadif and bowed respectfully to the two Medjay. ‘Come,’ he repeated, ‘you are my honoured guests.’
He took them into the Hall of Columns, where the pillars were peeling, plaster flaking from the ceiling, dark pools on the floor. He pattered ahead of them and turned right down a passageway into a surprisingly clean chamber. Its walls were tastefully painted, the floor scrubbed, the windows open; it was gracefully furnished with gleaming stools and tables. In the centre of the room, just near the hearth, was a raised dais on which everything had been prepared: low cushioned seats behind tables bearing platters of cooked meats and goblets of wine.
Nadif told the two Medjay to take their goblets, stand by the door and make sure that no one either entered or eavesdropped. The Churat smiled at that in a fine display of gleaming white teeth. He reminded Amerotke of some priest in a Chapel of the Ear, ready to listen to their confessions and offer absolution for their sins. At first the Churat talked about the day, the heat, the price of corn, how he looked forward to the Inundation, then, to the judge’s surprise, he asked about Lady Norfret and Amerotke’s two sons. He listened attentively to Amerotke’s reply before turning to Nadif to talk about the promotion of the standard-bearer’s nephew in the Medjay and what prospects further service held for him.
Amerotke, as he sipped from the bronze goblet and chewed carefully on the succulent meat, felt as if this was a dream. Here he was in the Abode of Darkness, in a shabby temple, yet at the same time he was sitting in a graceful room, drinking fine wine, eating food even Norfret would have relished. He broke from his reverie.
‘Sir,’ he bowed towards the Churat and gestured at the small tables and the platters of food, ‘we thank you for your hospitality.’ He glanced at Shufoy, who had fallen remarkably silent, just staring owl-eyed at this master criminal who controlled so much of the underworld of Thebes. ‘You asked to see us, sir?’ He decided respect was the best path to follow.
‘Yes, I did.’ The Churat put his goblet down. ‘You see, Lord Judge, we all walk different paths. Indeed, our paths are mapped out before we are even born, and when we are, well, birth, status and family push us along that path. You follow yours, Lord Judge, I follow mine. The Rekhet has followed his. He has escaped from his prison oasis and is now back in Thebes?’
Amerotke nodded.
‘And now the Divine One holds him responsible for the deaths at the Temple of Ptah?’
Again, Amerotke agreed.
‘And you believe that, Lord Judge?’
‘I believe nothing, sir,’ Amerotke replied slowly, ‘until I have the evidence.’
The Churat laughed, rocking backwards and forwards like a child listening to some funny story. He wagged a finger.
‘My lord Amerotke, I have heard of you. They call you a hawk on the wing, ever ready to plunge, not at a lure but at some genuine morsel worthy of your notice.’
‘You asked to see us,’ Amerotke insisted. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ the Churat sighed, ‘I decided to search for the Rekhet myself.’ He glanced sly-eyed at Nadif. ‘I have friends in the police, I have his description. I also possessed other information which I used. You do know we captured him?’
‘You did what?’ Amerotke exclaimed.
‘Oh yes, Lord Judge, I know what happens in Thebes as much as Lord Senenmut does. Have you heard the most recent news?’ The Churat, the Eater of Vile Things, cocked his head inquisitively, reminding Amerotke of some wise man in a temple.
‘What news?’ Nadif demanded harshly.
‘You haven’t heard it? Ah well.’ The Churat smacked his lips. ‘There was a great fire at the Temple of Ptah last night. The librarian was killed, part of the House of Books gutted by flame. You’ll discover that soon enough. I’m sure that Lord Senenmut’s men are already searching for you.’
‘And what else?’ Amerotke asked.
‘There was also an attempt on the Divine One’s life last night. Some poisoned food was left in the passageway of a temple palace; only a hungry servant saved an even greater tragedy from happening.’
‘You said you’d captured the Rekhet?’ Amerotke insisted. The Churat’s news startled him but he couldn’t comment – not now.
‘So I did,’ the Churat agreed, ‘but unfortunately he escaped. I sent out two men yesterday morning. They captured him as he entered the Lion Gate but the fools made a mistake. He claimed he was thirsty. They went to a beer tent. He bought a jug, secretly poured in some poison and my two men were left writhing on the floor. They were dead within a few heartbeats and the Rekhet escaped.’
‘Why do you want him?’ Amerotke asked.
‘For two reasons,’ the Churat replied. ‘First, Lord Judge, four years ago when the Rekhet manifested his power throughout Thebes, I became curious.’
‘Why?’ Amerotke asked.
‘My friend, this is the Abode of Darkness at the heart of the City of the Dead; across the river lies eastern Thebes, housing the rich and powerful, who always want more. They wish to remove a rival or a troublesome wife, so they come to people like me, what they call the gang leaders. They enter into a contract, they hire an assassin, a knife, the noose, the poisoned cup. Accidents can be arranged. Death strikes often, so it comes as no surprise to anyone,’ he laughed sharply, ‘except the victim. The Rekhet was different. Here was a man who, by his own confession, was able to dispense his deadly powders and potions throughout Thebes and yet he apparently needed no one else. He must also have amassed a fortune, though only some of that was found.’ The Ch
urat held up a hand, index finger raised. ‘Not one apothecary, physician or seller of powders was approached by this Rekhet, at least to my knowledge. I suppose if I was a merchant,’ he sipped from his cup, ‘I would call it a problem of distribution. Yet as I have said, the Rekhet was able to dispense powders all over eastern Thebes without the apparent use of a middle man or a messenger. Can you answer that, Lord Judge?’
Amerotke shook his head.
‘Fascinating,’ the Churat commented, ‘yet on the other hand, this man was easily captured and that just doesn’t make sense.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nadif asked sharply.
‘Well,’ the Churat rolled the goblet between his hands like a master in the House of Light debating some academic problem, ‘now and again assassins are caught, as well as those who hire them, usually because they make a mistake. This man never did, except on one occasion. He poisoned three of his comrades and when you, Standard-Bearer Nadif, searched his chamber, lo and behold you found all the evidence you needed. Quite frankly I don’t believe that.’ He leaned over and touched Nadif gently on the chest. ‘And in your heart I don’t think you do either. So you see, my lord Amerotke, Standard-Bearer Nadif,’ he continued hurriedly, ‘I have a great desire to meet this man. I want to know what really happened. If it hadn’t been for those two fools yesterday morning, he’d now be in my care and protection.’
‘And the second reason?’ Amerotke asked. ‘You said there were two reasons.’
The Poisoner of Ptah Page 12
