The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘Ah, yes.’ The Churat smiled. ‘Unbeknown to the Divine One, Senenmut or you, my lord Amerotke, the Libyans want the Rekhet dead. They want his mouth silenced.’ He laughed merrily at the look of surprise on Amerotke’s face. ‘The Libyans are no fools. They know as much about Thebes as you do: who to go to, what to buy when, where, how. Anyway, even before the poisonings took place at the Temple of Ptah, they sent a message into the Abode of Darkness: could I find the Rekhet? After the poisonings took place, they become even more insistent. They offered gold and silver not in pouches, but in sacks.’

  ‘You accepted?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘So why are you telling us?’

  ‘I hate Libyans,’ the Churat replied. ‘I take their gold dust, their silver, their precious jewels, but whether I would hand over the Rekhet alive, well, that’s another matter.’

  ‘And why do you think,’ Nadif asked, ‘the Libyans want the Rekhet?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The Churat laughed. ‘But when I capture him again I’ll certainly ask him that. An interesting problem! Why should Libyan war chiefs want to have anything to do with an escaped prisoner?’

  ‘And why are you telling us all this?’ Amerotke asked. ‘What do you want in return?’

  ‘Oh, a number of things, Lord Judge. First, I am very curious. Second, as I have said, I hate Libyans. Third, I know your reputation for honesty. When the Rekhet is trapped, before he is sent to the wood, I would like to talk to him.’

  Amerotke pulled a face but nodded.

  ‘And finally,’ the Churat put his head down, then glanced up, eyes glistening, ‘no one lives for ever. One day I will die. I have wives, children. They are dear to me as yours are to you. I would like the Divine One’s word that I will be allowed to build a tomb, a House of Eternity in the Valley of the West.’

  Amerotke stared at this master criminal, a man whose fingers dabbled in every pot of iniquity in Thebes, be it prostitution, violence or sudden death.

  ‘You don’t believe me, Amerotke? We all have to go into the Far West. When I die, I want a proper tomb, the full ritual, a shrine where my wives and children can come and talk to me after I’ve journeyed on.’

  Amerotke sensed this man was speaking with true voice. He leaned across the table, hand extended.

  ‘You have my word, sir, your conditions will be met.’

  The Churat smiled benignly and clasped Amerotke’s hand.

  ‘Don’t worry, sirs, when you leave you will go safely out of the Abode of Darkness. If you ever return you will find no danger here, you have my word.’

  ‘And if you capture the Rekhet before I do?’

  ‘You have my solemn assurance,’ the Churat replied. ‘I will question him then hand him over, though others might capture him first!’ He chuckled at Amerotke’s puzzlement. ‘Lord Judge,’ he whispered, leaning forward, ‘think! Reflect! Do you think the Libyans trust me completely? Nonsense! They have hired others for the task. They’ve made no pretence of it!’ He turned, hawked and spat. ‘That’s what I hate about them: they show little trust and very little respect. They’ve hired the Amemets, that nasty guild of assassins, to find the Rekhet. Nobody,’ the Churat continued mournfully, ‘trusts anyone. Do you know,’ he sighed, ‘they’ve even taken to spying on us.’ He pointed at Shufoy. ‘Little man, you remember my messenger Skullface?’

  The dwarf nodded.

  ‘Gone!’ The Churat shook his head, his face a mask of sadness. ‘Disappeared! Taken up! Not by the Medjay; probably by the Amemets. They’ll torture him, and Skullface will have no choice but to tell them the little he knows!’ He spread his hands. ‘Why couldn’t the Libyans just leave the task to me?’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Nadif,’ the Churat grinned, ‘even the sparrows who visit the Abode of Darkness do so at my bidding. I cannot say anything more except that the Amemets, hired and inspired by Libyan gold, are searching for the Rekhet.’

  ‘Ipuye?’ Nadif asked abruptly.

  ‘Standard-Bearer, what do I know about a dead merchant found floating face down next to his wife in a lotus pool?’

  ‘Do you think he was murdered?’ Nadif demanded.

  ‘Yes, I do.’ The Churat, lower lip jutting out, moved backwards and forwards on his cushion, nodding wisely. ‘Ipuye was a powerful merchant but he loved soft flesh. I would wager he was a man who made all sorts of promises to people, particularly women, and one day he was found out in his lying. However, who killed him and how he died…’ He shook his head. ‘I cannot say. Now, sirs,’ the Churat smiled, ‘unless you have further business, I will not detain you any longer.’

  Amerotke rose to his feet. He nodded at the Churat and walked back to where the Medjay were waiting. Nadif followed. Shufoy stayed to share a few whispered words with their host, then scurried after them. Amerotke was just about to leave the chamber when the Churat called him back.

  ‘Lord Judge, please?’

  Amerotke turned. The Churat was standing tightening the coloured sash around his waist, tying the knot methodically.

  ‘Shall I give you some advice, Lord Judge? I think you are hunting the wrong man.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I have no evidence, no proof to place before your court, just a feeling! Remember what I said.’

  Amerotke, Nadif, Shufoy and the two Medjay left the Abode of Darkness, walking back through the needle-thin streets into the City of the Dead. Amerotke paused at a corner and glanced round. He glimpsed him moving swiftly back into the shadows, a one-eyed beggar with a crutch. He was sure he’d seen a similar beggar when they’d landed at the Resting Place of Osiris in the Necropolis.

  ‘I told you,’ Shufoy exulted, ‘I told you the Churat wished to see you.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘Master,’ the little man held up his hand, fingers splayed, ‘I was five years amongst the Rhinoceri; it’s wonderful whom you meet.’

  They turned into the trade quarter of the Necropolis, along the widening streets, past embalming shops and booths where the corpses of the poor were hung out to dry. The heat, stench and flies were so intense that Amerotke traded grains of silver for perfume pomanders so they could obtain some relief as they made their way through the frenetic bustle and on to the paths leading to the western valleys. The buildings of the City of Dead petered out. On the outskirts stood the village compounds, housing those who worked permanently on the royal tombs. Patronised and favoured by the court, these skilled workers were provided with every comfort and amenity. Amerotke recalled that this was an inauspicious day when no work would be done, so the compounds were noisy with children playing, the laughter of men at the wine booths, clear indication that no quarrying was being carried out in the Valleys of the Dead.

  Once they were out of the city, on the edge of the western Redlands, the terrain changed abruptly, turning gloomy, with brooding hills and narrow trackways which cut through shadow-filled gorges. They passed chariot patrols, and now and again were stopped by the Guardians of the West, crack Nubian and Syrian archers ever vigilant against tomb thieves. Eventually they reached the Mysterious Abode. Despite the sun, the pounding heat, the sandy, stifling air, Amerotke felt as if some malignant invisible mist had come swirling out of the rocks. To distract himself the judge opened his linen satchel and pulled out the maps he’d taken from Hutepa’s chamber. He knew where he was going. The Valley of the Forgotten was a place he’d visited with his father and brother. They had regaled him with stories about how all sorts of monsters lurked hereabouts: sphinxes with human heads, griffins with jackals’ bodies, eagle heads and wings, grotesques who, with one baleful glance, could turn a man to stone. He did not wish to recall these. He wiped the sweat from his face, refusing Shufoy’s offer of the parasol, and studied the map, clearing his mind of the phantasms and stories of his childhood. They continued walking in silence, the enervating heat smothering them like a thick, uncomfortable blanket.

  At last they
reached the Valley of the Forgotten. The trackway into it was of fine sand, peppered with stones and boulders dislodged from the rocky sides by sun, wind and rain; an oppressive, silent place with narrow paths leading off here and there. In the shadows of the rocks caper bushes flourished, their violet flowers and fleshy leaves a welcoming relief from the black and grey of the rock. Amerotke stopped and stared up. Vultures circled. From somewhere up the valley slopes echoed the coughing roar of the great striped hyaenas, savage, predatory beasts, truly dangerous once darkness fell. He took a mouthful of water from the gazelle skin one of the Medjay carried and strode on, glancing at Hutepa’s map. When he reached the place marked, he turned to his left and stared up.

  The tombs hewn in the cliff face were old and forgotten. He could make out the entrances to seven, but the eighth was missing. He and his companions withdrew to consult in the shade of some rocks. After listening to Amerotke, one of the Medjay studied the map again, then went out and, shading his eyes, stared up at the rocky face. He grunted and swiftly climbed the loose shale, sending down a shower of pebbles and sand. When he reached a ledge, a lip of rock jutting sharply out, he turned and waved Amerotke up. The judge had no choice but to follow. The shale was loose and cutting; the heat was intense. Amerotke was only halfway up before his entire body was coated in sweat. Grunting and gasping, forgetting all sense of dignity, he reached the ledge and the grinning Medjay helped him up. The man explained how part of the cliff face had fallen to block the entrance. Amerotke, standing on tiptoe, could just see the top of the door peeping above the shale.

  ‘But why this one?’ he asked.

  The Medjay grinned and pointed further up the rock face.

  ‘Fire,’ he explained. ‘The shower of shale was deliberate. Someone climbed up there and thrust burning torches into the crevices, enough to make them crack open; the rest you know.’

  ‘Can we clear it?’ Amerotke asked.

  The Medjay shrugged and began to scoop away at the pile of shale; Amerotke helped, shouting to his companions to wait where they were, as the ledge, for the time being, could only take two men. At first it seemed an impossible task. The shale cut at Amerotke’s hands and nails, and bits and pieces scarred his legs, but at last, by concentrating on one spot at a time, they cleared the pile. Amerotke stood back and stared at the doorway once hidden by the shale.

  ‘Someone, my lord,’ the Medjay muttered, ‘was here before you.’

  Amerotke nodded. He shouted down at Nadif to light the torches they’d bought in the Necropolis and bring them up. With some difficulty the shale was climbed, Shufoy using the parasol, the other Medjay moving as nimbly as a monkey. He took one of the torches and, pushing Amerotke gently aside, clambered over the shale and in through the hole. Amerotke saw the light flare, then another as the Medjay found old cresset torches fixed into crevices.

  ‘My lord,’ the Medjay’s face appeared through the hole, ‘it is now safe for you to enter.’

  Amerotke, taking off his robe and linen satchel and clad only in his loincloth, climbed over the shale and in through the narrow hole. The Medjay helped him down and held up the torch. The tomb was composed of two small chambers, one for the funeral goods, the other containing the sarcophagus. Looking round, Amerotke realised the corpse had been buried in some haste. It had certainly not been a costly funeral: the baskets, chests and coffers looked cheap and tawdry. All of these had been opened, their lids forced. The sarcophagus itself, a simple mummy case lying on a ledge, had not been tampered with. Amerotke searched amongst the meagre possessions, moving aside the canopic jars, the statues and household items the widow must have asked to be buried with her. At last he found a leather writing case made by some skilled worker. Its cover had been ripped off; fragments of hard seal still littered the floor. Inside there was nothing. Amerotke rose to his feet. The others were now idly looking round the tomb. Shufoy pointed out that there were no paintings or any trace of a funeral feast.

  ‘They must have brought the poor woman here,’ he declared, his voice echoing through the cavern, ‘buried her and left as quickly as possible. Have you found what you came for, master?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Amerotke replied. ‘The tomb has certainly been entered and robbed. Whoever that was,’ he picked up a small alabaster jar of perfumed oil, ‘certainly wasn’t after wealth; they would have rifled the mummy case. No, they came looking for something in particular.’ He pointed at the leather writing satchel. ‘And I suspect they found it: the Books of Doom, the Ari Sapu. They took these, left the tomb and created a rockfall to cover the entrance as well as their own handiwork.’

  Nadif took a spluttering torch out of a crevice. Holding it at arm’s length, he studied it carefully. Then he lifted it up and pointed to the other torches pushed into crevices and cracks.

  ‘Whoever it was,’ the standard-bearer declared, ‘came well prepared. They brought torches to provide enough light for their search.’ He took another of the torches down and lit it. ‘The resin is dry and hard but still good. I would say, my lord…’ he stared round, put the torch on the floor and went across to a small table which had been moved, rubbing his hand along this and staring at the dust, ‘that Huaneka was buried probably some forty years gone. I’d suggest this tomb was violated probably five or six years ago, just before the Rekhet began his reign of terror in Thebes.’

  ‘A wasted errand?’ Shufoy asked. ‘I mean, coming here.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Amerotke squatted down, hands dangling between his knees, and clicked his tongue as he stared across at the leather writing case. ‘First, I believe the Ari Sapu, the Books of Doom, were hidden when their author was arrested and executed. Second, his wife, for whatever reason, couldn’t bring herself to destroy them so they were buried with her. People must have thought they were family papers. I suspect she became an outcast.’ He waved around the tomb. ‘This proves it: no one really bothered about her. Third, the heset Hutepa began to suspect the Ari Sapu were here; she searched the archives and discovered where Huaneka was buried.’

  ‘But she never came here,’ Nadif declared.

  ‘Of course not. Hutepa was a heset; how could she come out to a lonely valley like this? Climb that rocky shale and force an entrance? No, no.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps she realised they’d been stolen without coming here. Perhaps she just wanted to prove that the Ari Sapu were not lost. We will never be able to answer that question. However, I believe she was murdered because of what she knew, though that is only one mystery amongst many waiting to be resolved.’

  ‘Master!’ Shufoy, who had been digging amongst some debris in the far corner, came forward holding a battered toy in his hand. Amerotke took it over to beneath one of the torches and carefully examined it. It was a small wooden giraffe with a piece of toughened twine attached to make the head move.

  ‘A child’s toy,’ Nadif breathed. ‘Did Huaneka have a child?’

  ‘Did it survive?’ Shufoy asked. ‘Or did this belong to Huaneka herself – a memento of her own childhood?’

  ‘You’ve discovered no other evidence for a child?’

  Shufoy and the Medjay shook their heads.

  ‘Keep this.’ Amerotke thrust the toy into Shufoy’s hands, then turned and wandered into the funeral chamber. He stared down at the battered mummy case and wondered what sort of life this woman had led. She’d probably been a heset with high hopes and aspirations but her husband had proved to be a killer, a man responsible for the deaths of many innocents. Yet in that same temple, fifty years afterwards, another Rekhet had appeared. Someone had broken into this tomb, secured the Books of Doom and used them for their own evil purposes.

  ‘Nadif,’ Amerotke called over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Nadif came and stood by the tomb, running his hand over its painted, gessoed framework.

  ‘I’ve asked you this before. The Rekhet, what was he like?’

  Nadif pulled a face. ‘My lord, I have nothing to add. He was quiet, a bachelor. He had lodgin
gs in the temple, a priest physician, studious and learned.’

  ‘Do you think he was the real Rekhet?’

  ‘In my lifetime, I have met people, as you must have in yours, who looked like the Lords and Ladies of Light but in truth had dark hearts and evil ways. I’m of the Medjay. I arrest people. I don’t probe their hearts and loins looking for secrets. I depend on evidence. The men murdered at that banquet suspected that the Rekhet was a member of their temple; one of them had actually named the guilty party. When we searched that priest’s chamber, we found enough potions and philtres to cause murder and mayhem throughout the city, not to mention considerable wealth he could not explain. Moreover, you must not forget, he confessed to all his crimes and threw himself on Pharaoh’s mercy. Because of this, he was punished with a living death, life imprisonment in a desert oasis.’

  Amerotke turned and tapped the standard-bearer on the chest. ‘But what do you feel here? Do you think he was guilty?’

  Nadif narrowed his eyes and stared around the ghostly chamber. ‘In a word, Lord Judge, yes, I do. The evidence proved that.’

  ‘Very well.’ Amerotke decided to try another path. ‘Do you think there could have been two Rekhets in Thebes?’

  ‘Possibly,’ the policeman replied. ‘He may have had an assistant, the heset Hutepa, so he returned to take his vengeance on her.’

  ‘Hutepa,’ Amerotke breathed. He felt tired, dirty and sweaty but he wanted to follow this through to its logical conclusion. ‘Hutepa went to the library in the Temple of Ptah. It seems some sort of incident occurred there last night, a fire, though the gods only know what truly happened. Anyway, Hutepa visited the library. She must have searched the records to find this tomb. Surely she would have asked the librarian if anyone else had made similar searches? Such work would be recorded, people have to make their mark or sign for precious manuscripts; even if they didn’t, that librarian would certainly remember. Hutepa, surely, must have asked such a question? Is that why she was killed? Why the library was burnt last night? Yet,’ Amerotke turned and leaned against the funeral ledge, ‘if Hutepa had discovered someone else was involved, surely she would have reported that to the authorities? It’s a puzzle, a mystery, but come,’ Amerotke pointed to the torches, ‘douse those, let’s leave.’