The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘And the doorway?’

  Amerotke smiled. ‘Nadif, I am sure you will file a report on your findings at this tomb. The Lords of the Dead will make it secure. We have other quarry to hunt.’

  * * *

  On their arrival back at the small naval station near the Great Mooring Place on the Nile, Amerotke hoped to return home to bathe, change and relax. An imperial chamberlain, flanked by Nakhtu-aa, soon changed that. Searches had been made, the official told him, and once he’d discovered that Amerotke had crossed to the Necropolis, he’d waited patiently for his return.

  ‘Lord Judge,’ the chamberlain trumpeted, ‘you must accompany me to the Temple of Ptah.’ He flourished the imperial cartouche, Hatusu’s seal. Amerotke immediately kissed it before asking him why.

  ‘Because,’ the chamberlain replied, ‘it is the Divine One’s will! A fire has destroyed part of the temple archives. The librarian himself has been killed whilst Lord Ani and his assistants are deeply perturbed.’

  ‘Aren’t we all!’ Amerotke retorted.

  Nadif immediately muttered that he had other duties to attend to, which Amerotke quietly suspected included a bath, a good meal and a restful nap under a shady tree. He told the standard-bearer to first visit the palace, seek out the Lord Senenmut and tell him everything they had learnt. He himself would go directly to the Temple of Ptah. Shufoy groaned dramatically, but the chamberlain was insistent and the captain of the Nakhtu-aa was impatient to escape the heat, flies, stench and furious din of the quayside. Amerotke made his farewells to Nadif and the Medjay and followed the chamberlain back into the city. They were hardly within the temple pylons, mixing with a stream of visitors and pilgrims, when Amerotke heard his name called and Maben came bustling through the crowds mopping his brow on the folds of his robe.

  ‘My lord Amerotke,’ he gasped, ‘High Priest Ani waits, but first you must visit the destruction.’ He almost dragged Amerotke out of the chamberlain’s entourage, hurrying him down colonnaded walks, through arched porticoes, across gardens and into the precincts of the House of Life. Even before he reached the gateway, Amerotke smelt the acrid tang of oil and smoke. They passed down a line of lime trees, turned a corner and the devastation stretched before them. Half the library, including the long passageway and the adjoining chambers, had been gutted, reduced to ash, nothing more than flaking, charred timber and piles of cracked mud-brick stone: a tangle of black desolation above which sparks still fluttered and grimy plumes of smoke trailed up and spread out. Amerotke walked over to the sea of ash, noticing how the nearby walls had also been badly scorched. Already labourers were busy with scaffolds and planks, eager to repair the damage. Buckets, tubs and rakes used for fighting the fire lay strewn on the ground. A troop of monkeys chattered stridently from a clump of trees; birds swooped low, drawn in by the unusual sight, only to veer away.

  ‘Manuscripts lost,’ Maben moaned, ‘the librarian dead.’

  As Amerotke crouched down and sifted with a stick amongst the ash, the smell of cheap oil wafted up.

  ‘The fire was deliberate!’ He squinted up at Maben.

  ‘Of course.’ The priest’s plump face creased in anguish. ‘It was so swift, even as the guards fought the flames they could smell the oil. Of course it was deliberate! We think sacks of oil were thrown through one of the low windows, a torch or lamp hurled in afterwards.’

  ‘And the reason?’

  Maben just shrugged. ‘Lord Ani awaits,’ he murmured.

  ‘And Hinqui?’

  ‘Oh, he’s much recovered. He had a violent fit of vomiting and after that his health improved.’

  They walked away from the blackened ruins, but instead of taking Amerotke into the temple buildings, Maben led him across courtyards washed by the sun and cooled by fountains into the High Priest’s private paradise, a walled enclosure which included all the ornamentation of a rich man’s garden: flowerbeds, sandy pebbled paths, a small pool fed by a fountain, sun pavilions and a cluster of sycamore trees. Under the shade of these, Ani, Minnakht and Hinqui sat on cushioned stools with flared legs, or low wide chairs with a fine inlay of ebony and ivory. Small three-legged tables stood before them; on these were gilt-edged platters heaped with food and precious goblets brimming with wine. Hinqui looked distinctly pallid, but Ani and Minnakht had drunk deeply from the tall, flower-decorated wine jars standing further in the shade. Around the eating area were wooden stands in the form of papyrus columns, brilliant green with yellow three-peg tops; from these, lamps flared to drive away flies and other bothersome insects.

  Amerotke was formally greeted; Shufoy was ignored until the judge made a show of refusing the proffered stool as well as the rosewater to wash his hands and face. The High Priest bowed imperceptibly.

  ‘Bring another stool,’ Minnakht ordered.

  Amerotke and Shufoy quickly washed, drying their hands and faces on scented linen napkins, then sat down to goblets of chilled white wine and mouthfuls of soft raisin bread, pots of fresh vegetables and platters of deliciously cooked meats.

  ‘Lord Judge, the poisoning of the envoys?’

  Ani’s voice and face were strained, so anxious he forgot the usual pleasantries.

  ‘High Priest,’ Amerotke shrugged, ‘we have a number of possibilities. You handed the bowl—’

  ‘And it was handed to me by Maben.’

  ‘Ah yes, but you took it from the Libyans and gave it in turn to each of the three scribes. No, no,’ Amerotke raised his goblet, ‘I’m not accusing you. I have simply considered the remote possibility that the Libyans grasped the rim of the wine bowl with their hands and somehow or other smeared a deadly poison on it, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I have no proof of that. The deaths of those three scribes remain a mystery.’ He sipped the chilled wine, closing his eyes, relishing the cool taste at the back of his throat. ‘And the fire?’ he asked, glancing up.

  ‘It started after dark,’ Minnakht declared. ‘We smelt the smoke first; many in the temple did. The alarm gong sounded, trumpets shrilled and we hastened down but there was very little we could do. We tried to pull down burning walls and douse the flames with water. In the end all we could do was protect other buildings and let the fire burn itself out.’

  ‘And the librarian?’

  Minnakht shook his head mournfully. ‘We found his remains, what was left of them, really nothing more than bone. We could only tell it was he from a charred amulet found nearby.’

  ‘And he never tried to escape?’ Amerotke asked.

  ‘From what we gather,’ Minnakht sighed, ‘he died in the flames; perhaps he was even killed beforehand.’

  ‘The fire definitely started in his chamber,’ Ani snapped. ‘We think he locked the door behind him. It was often his custom to sit there once the library was closed, to eat, drink and pore over manuscripts, even though,’ the High Priest’s voice turned petulant, ‘that was strictly forbidden.’

  ‘So,’ Amerotke sipped from his goblet, ‘we have those three scribes poisoned in the temple forecourt; the heset Hutepa killed in her own chamber, some deadly poison fed to her wine. Now we have the librarian burnt to death in his chamber and part of the library destroyed. I suspect you are correct,’ he pointed his cup at Minnakht, ‘he may have been poisoned, strangled, clubbed or stabbed before that fire ever started. What is interesting is why a fire? The killer wanted to hide something, but what?’ He put his goblet down and leaned forward on the stool. Beside him, Shufoy was eating as if he hadn’t been fed for days, ignoring Hinqui, who sat nursing his belly, a withering look on his plump, sweaty face.

  ‘High Priest Ani, legend has it that the Books of Doom, the Ari Sapu, lie buried somewhere here with their author, but that is only a fable. I suspect they were buried with his wife Huaneka, whose tomb can be found in the Valley of the Forgotten.’

  ‘Never!’ Ani declared.

  Minnakht and Maben shook their heads. Hinqui simply looked startled.

  ‘Oh, it’s true,’ Amerotke continued evenly, watching these p
riests carefully. ‘About forty years ago, Huaneka had the Ari Sapu buried with her. She was probably frightened to destroy them, terrified of her husband’s ka and menaces from the other world. Hutepa, by studying the temple lists, managed to establish where Huaneka was buried. She never went out there, but today I did. I discovered the diagrams she had drawn. Huaneka’s tomb can be found in the Valley of the Forgotten, its door hidden by a fall of shale; when I removed this, I discovered the door to the tomb had already been forced, its contents ransacked with no sign of the Ari Sapu.’

  ‘You mean someone had been there fairly recently?’ Minnakht asked.

  ‘I do.’ Amerotke nodded. ‘The Rekhet also discovered where the Ari Sapu were, went to the Valley of the Forgotten, took the books, then began his hideous work here in Thebes.’

  ‘But when the Rekhet was arrested,’ Ani spoke up, ‘the Ari Sapu were never found on him.’

  Amerotke blinked and suppressed a curse; he hadn’t thought of that. ‘Perhaps,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘perhaps he hid them somewhere in the temple and they are still here?’

  ‘Or in that library.’ Shufoy spoke through a mouthful of meat.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Amerotke shook his head. ‘I suspect the library was set on fire to destroy not only temple documents but also any record of anyone asking for certain temple manuscripts. Such a record would exist?’

  Ani nodded. ‘But Lord Judge, Hutepa was a heset, she had no right to demand such manuscripts. The librarian should have refused, and certainly reported the matter to me, but he never did,’ he added wistfully.

  ‘But why kill the librarian?’ Minnakht asked quickly. ‘Why not just burn the library?’

  ‘Perhaps the librarian knew the names of all who had consulted those manuscripts,’ Amerotke replied. ‘That is why he had to die, be destroyed along with any records he kept.’

  ‘But that is not strictly true,’ Maben declared. ‘Lord Judge, the temple lists that could provide the date of Huaneka’s death and the location of her tomb are kept in the library, but those are only copies; the originals are kept in a chest in my chamber.’

  Amerotke shook his head in puzzlement, then picked up a goblet and rolled it in his hands. ‘So the temple lists kept by the librarian that locate the widow’s tomb,’ he repeated slowly, ‘were only copies; the originals are elsewhere and nothing has happened to them?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Maben replied. ‘I can show you. They are kept locked in a special coffer to which only I have the keys.’

  ‘So why,’ Ani persisted, ‘was our library burnt, our librarian murdered?’

  ‘My only answer to that,’ Amerotke declared, ‘is that the librarian must have had information dangerous to the assassin, whilst his archives housed something else, evidence that could have helped me. Lord High Priest, do you have any idea what that could be?’

  Ani and his companions all shook their heads, answering Amerotke’s question in a chorus of denials. Amerotke absent-mindedly ate some fruit, followed by a slice of beef; the wine was making itself felt. He pushed the cup away. He did not want to become heavy-eyed, and the way the four priests were staring at him made him uneasy. He gently poked Shufoy in the ribs.

  ‘My Lord Ani, I thank you for your hospitality. It is time we left. I have no further questions. What you have told me only deepens the mystery. Before I leave, perhaps I could look at this special coffer?’

  Maben quickly agreed and rose to his feet. Shufoy finished his wine, snatched two juicy pieces of meat from a platter and hurried after his master without a farewell, a thank you or even a bow to the High Priest. The little man chuckled to himself. The Sacred Ones were always repelled by his disfigured face, but as long as he sat in the shadow of Amerotke, what could they do? His master was already striding ahead talking to Maben about the coffer, the priest assuring him that it was secured by three heavy wooden locks, the keys carried only by him. He never handed them over to anybody; well, not without High Priest Ani’s permission, and only to high-ranking members of the temple hierarchy.

  Maben’s chamber lay at the end of a colonnaded walk. It was a pleasant, cool room, its walls painted a refreshing green; flower baskets stood in the corner, the small table was littered with papyrus and quill pens, brushes and ink pots, and coffers and chests stood around. Maben unlocked the door to what he called his ‘holy of holies’ and led Amerotke and Shufoy into a small whitewashed chamber with a window grille set high in the wall. All around the room were shelves bearing documents, small coffers or caskets. Against the facing wall was a huge wooden chest, its top and sides carefully sculpted to display the symbols and signs of the Scribe God Thoth. Maben opened the wallet tied to the sash on his belt, took out a set of keys and released all three heavy locks. Then, pulling the chest away from beneath a shelf, he pushed back the lid and gestured at Amerotke.

  ‘My lord, you may search these to your heart’s content. These are the originals; the library,’ he added rather pompously, ‘only held copies. We do that just in case of accidents or events like last night. I will close the door to my chamber. I would be grateful if you would inform me when you want to leave.’

  Amerotke nodded his agreement. Once the priest had left, he and Shufoy pulled the chest out into the main room. Amerotke took cushions for himself and his servant and began to sift through the manuscripts. The chest was crammed with documents, each bearing a tag giving the date it had been drawn up. Some were freshly done; others were yellowing with age or preserved in copper cylinders. Amerotke discarded those he didn’t need, placing to his right those which had been drawn up in the last five or six years. Even so, it was a ponderous task. Shufoy, who now felt sleepy, had to be roused awake. They searched through the rolls and lists covering a wide range of temple activities: visitors, offerings to shrines, funeral goods, as well as the location of tombs. Amerotke soon realised that this important chest contained the most valuable documents of the temple. Others were probably stored in the coffers and caskets in the adjoining chamber. Heavy eyed, he went through the pile he had set aside, reading comments, noting dates but discovering nothing to alert his suspicions.

  ‘Master,’ Shufoy rubbed his face, ‘the day is drawing on. It is time we went. There is nothing here.’

  Amerotke bit back his angry reply. He felt agitated, uneasy. He was making no progress with this investigation. He was blocked at every turn, like being lost in a maze in some nightmare, no entrances in or paths out, whilst all around him evil swirled.

  ‘Lord Judge!’

  Amerotke startled and glanced towards the door. Maben stood there, behind him Asural, captain of the temple guard in the Court of Two Truths at the Temple of Ma’at, and next to him Prenhoe, senior scribe in the same court. Asural brushed by Maben and walked forward as if he was on parade. He was dressed in a rich leather kilt, marching boots on his feet, a leather baldric across his chest, in the crook of one arm his helmet, in the other hand a short baton which he used to marshal his men.

  ‘Lord Judge,’ he boomed, standing to attention before glaring at Shufoy giggling behind his hand. ‘Lord Judge, I have a report to deliver.’

  ‘Asural, Asural,’ Amerotke murmured, getting to his feet, ‘for God’s sake just tell me why you are here.’

  Asural looked over his shoulder at Prenhoe, Amerotke’s kinsman. The fresh-faced scribe was dressed in white gauffered robes, an embroidered sash around his waist, fingers stained with ink, and was looking back down the corridors as if overcome by the precincts of the great Temple of Ptah.

  ‘And you, Prenhoe, don’t look so frightened,’ Amerotke declared. ‘Both of you, come here.’

  Prenhoe hurried to stand beside Asural, who now relaxed. ‘Lord Judge, we have searched the grounds of the House of the Golden Vine. We have discovered the remains of a woman. I think you’d best come.’

  KHENTI THEHENU: ancient Egyptian, ‘chief in Libya’

  CHAPTER 8

  Naratousha, principal war chief of the Libyan tribes, scratched his sweaty back
against the bark of the terebinth tree and peered around at his companions. The sun was still very strong, yet he needed them to be away from the Mansion of Ease where the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh could watch and listen to their conversations. He gazed around the circle.

  ‘Does the peace treaty hold, yes or no?’ he repeated.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied the grey-bearded Libyan chieftain seated to Naratousha’s right. ‘Pharaoh might argue that the deaths of those scribes have nullified the peace treaty until the ceremony of sealing is carried through to her satisfaction.’

  ‘Nullified, nullified?’ Naratousha snapped, trying to control a surge of hot temper. He cradled the cup of beer in his hands and stared across the temple lawns, his gaze caught by the glinting light along the needle-thin canal that brought in river water to keep this paradise green and fresh. Sheep and ibex grazed peacefully. Doves from the temple cotes swooped low in flashes of white. Above the trees the glorious stonework of the temple blazed with light.

  Egypt! Naratousha ground his teeth. To the west stretched the burning desert lands, hundreds of miles till they reached the fertile strips along the Great Green. His people had to cling there wedged between two deserts, one of sand, the other of salty water. If Naratousha had his way, the Libyan tribes would smash through the massed ranks of Pharaoh’s chariotry, cross the Tuthmosis Line and reach the fertile banks of the Nile. They’d plunder its great cities, and swamp Egypt in a tide of warriors surging down the river. Who knew what the future might hold for a successful Libyan war chief? Could he wear the double crown and hold the flail and the rod? And Hatusu, the royal bitch? Naratousha closed his eyes and moaned in pleasure. He’d love to hold that imperial bitch in his arms and show her who the true master was.