He heard a sharp cough and opened his eyes. Themeu, Naratousha’s kinsman and close ally, was staring across at him. The young man’s beautiful face was strained and anxious, his eyes full of warning. Naratousha remembered himself. The chieftains seated in a circle around him were not his enemies but neither were they his friends, only allies in what Naratousha called his ‘great venture against the might and power of Egypt’. Not all of these warriors trusted him. Some were bound by blood, others by common hatred of Pharaoh and a burning lust for Egypt’s riches, but apart from that, by little else. Naratousha grinned, his heavy-lidded eyes glittering. He must remember to smile and smile again, not show his true feelings. He must impress these warriors, overawe them with his cunning.
‘Who is responsible for the poisonings?’ Themeu asked, eager to divert attention from Naratousha.
‘Well, not us!’ Greybeard scoffed, provoking laughter from those around him.
Naratousha kept his face impassive. The chiefs regarded such a comment as amusing, but Naratousha and Themeu had secretly discussed such a possibility. Not all the chiefs welcomed the peace. Some were openly jealous of Naratousha’s assumption of power over them. Had one of these been responsible for the blasphemy that had occurred on the temple forecourt? An attempt to wreck his plans before they came to fruition?
‘Are you sure?’ Naratousha’s voice, strident and harsh, cut the amusement short. He pointed at Greybeard. ‘You drank last after Themeu. You handed the wine bowl back to their priest.’
The other chiefs tensed. Naratousha had voiced a suspicion that a few of them had also discussed in hushed tones and secret whispers. Greybeard fingered the coral necklace around his sweat-soaked neck. Eyes dark and wary in his high-cheekboned face, he forced himself to hold Naratousha’s gaze.
‘How could I,’ he retorted quietly, ‘have poisoned that wine?’ He spread out his hands, the precious rings on his fingers glittering in the light pouring through the branches overhead. ‘What poison could I have held?’
Naratousha nodded as if convinced.
‘Were the wine dregs examined?’ asked another chief, eager to break the tension.
‘Yes.’ Naratousha’s abrupt reply silenced the whispers in the circle. He nodded his head, staring into the middle distance as if he could see something they couldn’t. He knew what was coming next. He had to convince these men that his power was great and his reach long.
‘How do you know that?’ Greybeard asked.
Naratousha sucked on his teeth and narrowed his eyes. He was determined to show Greybeard, who regarded himself as wily as a jackal, that he was even better. ‘I know,’ he whispered, leaning forward, ‘because I know.’ He gazed round and smiled. ‘We have a spy high in the councils of Egypt.’
‘Never!’ Greybeard countered.
‘Themeu, do I lie?’ Naratousha turned to his handsome kinsman.
‘You speak with true voice,’ Themeu assured him. He watched Naratousha’s face, wondering where his cunning war chief was leading both him and his companions.
Themeu’s declaration provoked surprise and consternation amongst the rest. The Libyans obtained information about Egypt from traders, merchants and prisoners. Sometimes they could buy petty traitors, minor officials, but to have a spy high in the councils of Egypt! The like had never been heard before! Naratousha, sitting cross-legged, fanned himself vigorously whilst he swiftly studied their faces. If there was a traitor, an enemy amongst them, he would now show his true colours, out of fear that the Egyptian spy might also have betrayed him. But Naratousha could detect no guilt, just surprise at his statement.
‘Who is this spy?’ Greybeard countered.
‘A priest high in the Temple of Ptah,’ Naratousha replied, ‘who has sat at the feet of Pharaoh, the royal bitch, and listened to her pretty lips spout their secrets. Themeu,’ he gestured, ‘will corroborate what I say.’ He held up both hands. ‘I cannot give you a name; you must trust me on this. Themeu?’
‘According to our spy, the wine was examined.’ Themeu took up the thread. ‘The dregs were fed to a dog. It suffered no ill effects.’
‘So where did the poison come from?’ one of the chieftains asked. ‘Was it the royal bitch? Does she want to break the peace treaty? Does she know something of our plans?’
‘No!’ Naratousha scoffed. ‘No!’ He laughed aloud. ‘She executed those sand-dwellers – now they could have told her! Perhaps they knew something, perhaps they didn’t. If the royal bitch had really understood our plans, she would have saved their lives and questioned them.’
‘So our secret is still safe?’
‘Of course!’ Naratousha retorted. ‘Do you think I brought you here to act like Pharaoh’s dogs, to kiss her painted feet and act all suppliant? We must,’ he made a soothing gesture with his hand, ‘convince the royal bitch that we wish peace whilst we plan secretly for war. Before we came here, I told you what would happen, and what I have said has come true. The merchant Ipuye claimed we would see the power of Egypt discomfited, and so we have. The poisoning of three of their senior scribes on the temple steps before the populace of Thebes? Do you really think Hatusu would want that? She must be furious!’
‘Ipuye is now dead,’ Greybeard declared. ‘Was that Pharaoh’s work, an act of revenge?’
‘I do not know. I do not think so,’ Naratousha replied bluntly. ‘He died the very day those three scribes were poisoned. I doubt it. All I can say is that what Ipuye promised has happened.’
‘Then if Pharaoh didn’t kill Ipuye, did you, to silence his mouth?’ Greybeard asked.
‘Traders who sell one way can always sell another,’ Naratousha replied blandly. It was best, he reflected, if his companions were left in some puzzlement over his deviousness. After all, that, together with his sword arm, was what had won him primacy on this council.
‘The royal bitch,’ one of the chieftains declared, ‘could have arranged the poisonings.’
‘Why?’
‘To delay us here, to discover what is really happening out in the western desert.’
Naratousha nodded. He couldn’t reject that; he’d wondered about it himself. Had Hatusu planned the killings so as to keep him and the other chieftains here, away from their tribesmen, their plotting? He was more than aware of the dangers they now faced. They could not leave; if they did so without Hatusu’s permission, suspicion over the poisonings would fall on them. The peace treaty would truly collapse and then what would happen? Egyptian chariot squadrons dispatched deep into the desert lands? Yet if they were delayed, how could they find out how things were developing in their own homeland: Naratousha’s scheme to destroy the great power of Egypt?
‘We cannot leave without the royal bitch’s approval.’ Naratousha spoke slowly. ‘She has her snoopers, her pryers into things. Amerotke the judge is searching for the cause of those poisonings. I believe the bitch is truly confused. She may not really want the treaty. Her brick-laying lover Senenmut is of the same mind, as are her generals, but they cannot resist our peace terms: safety and prosperity for their traders, soldiers and townspeople.’ He paused, chewing the corner of his mouth. ‘Our spy,’ he announced, ‘has also informed us that the royal bitch believes the poisonings could be the work of the Rekhet.’
His companions nodded and murmured amongst themselves.
‘We know the Rekhet was discovered and imprisoned four years ago. Ipuye helped to free him. In the end, the Rekhet escaped. He eluded our patrols and was captured by sand-dwellers who’d also seized a merchant from Memphis.’ Naratousha waved a hand. ‘You know that story. What you don’t know is what our spy has told us.’ He now had their full attention. He’d given them sufficient proof that someone close to the royal circle of Egypt was passing on Pharaoh’s secrets. ‘Our spy in this Temple of Ptah has informed us that the Memphis merchant was one of Lord Senenmut’s best searchers. In a word, he may have seen what he shouldn’t have out in the western desert.’ He raised a hand to stifle their protests and gasps of a
larm. ‘Themeu and I have taken steps. We have powerful friends in Thebes.’ He smiled wolfishly, his sharpened teeth more like those of a hunting mastiff than a man.
Somewhere deep in the temple, conch horns, trumpets and booming gongs marked the passing of the hour.
‘We must seize the Rekhet ourselves,’ Naratousha continued, ‘and kill him. By doing so we shall not only defend our own cause but show the royal bitch we have helped her bring such a wretch to justice. She will have no choice but to confirm the treaty and we shall be gone.’
The chieftains clapped their hands softly, murmuring their agreement.
‘There is only one problem.’ Greybeard was insistent that Naratousha should not have the last word. ‘If the royal bitch captures him first…’
‘Oh, I hope she does,’ Naratousha replied enigmatically. ‘The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh, not to mention the Medjay and imperial troops, are searching for the Rekhet, but,’ he shrugged, ‘we are also watching them.’
‘And this spy?’ Greybeard asked. ‘How could you recruit a priest high in the temple, an Egyptian?’ He lowered his head and glanced sideways at the handsome Themeu whilst secretly cursing his own rashness. Secretly he knew the answer to his question. Themeu was the pride and joy of his clan, a beautiful but ferocious warrior. Beloved by both men and women, as a seducer Themeu was unsurpassed. Had he suborned a high-ranking priest here in the Temple of Ptah? Greybeard had listened to the whispers of the others. The Egyptians regarded such illicit love as heinous, though not as repellent as consorting with a Libyan warrior! He glanced up. Naratousha was staring at him, deliberately allowing the tense silence to continue so as to cause the greatest possible embarrassment. Greybeard coughed and looked away: Naratousha would have the last word.
‘Themeu,’ Naratousha turned matter-of-factly to his kinsman, ‘it’s best if you were gone. The hour has been marked. There’s business to be done.’
Themeu nodded, took off his necklace, bracelets and rings and, stretching across, dropped them into Naratousha’s hand. He then rose, strapping on a leather belt on which hung three sheaths for a stabbing knife and two smaller daggers. He picked up his striped robe, shook it out and put it on, then pulled up the hood, transforming himself into one of the many pilgrims who swarmed through the Temple of Ptah. He raised a hand in farewell and slipped like a shadow across the grass.
Themeu kept his head down, smiling quietly at Naratousha’s discomfiture of Greybeard yet fully aware how dangerous this game had become. They had been in Egypt two weeks, and many of the chieftains were becoming restless, eager to leave. The matter had to be brought to an end, and swiftly. He slipped a hand through a gap in his robe and, for reassurance, touched the leatherbound handle of one of the daggers. He had played his part by suborning that priest. At first he had not believed what he’d seen, but he’d glimpsed the look of admiration, the lust burning in the priest’s eyes, and after that? Well … Themeu paused at the top of some steps. It was so easy, like trapping some fat quail or plucking a bloated carp from a pond. The man had fallen ripe as an apple and Themeu had him in his net. He went down the steps, along the shadowed tunnel between two buildings and into a courtyard dazzling in the sun and adorned with statues of the Man God Ptah. Next to these, fountains spilled water over the sacred stelae, bathing the names, titles and honours of the god. Despite the sun’s glare and the seething heat of the day, the square was busy. Pilgrims thronged around the fountains, eager to touch the stelae, dip their hands in, drink greedily, or fill bottles so as to take more of the sacred water to their homes.
Themeu stopped before one of the fountains as if admiring the beauty of a sculpture or the purity of the water. He gazed quickly around. The Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh were legion, yet he could detect no sign of being followed or watched. He recalled those trumpets and gongs marking the passing of the hour. His victim would be waiting, as well as a possible visitor from the Amemets, who had promised that if they had any news, one of their scouts would be at the Gate of Ivory, the beautiful postern door leading into the temple precincts, between the sixth and ninth hours. The Libyan looked round once more. He was satisfied. He hurried across the square and up some steps into the pink limestone Chapel of the Ear. Here penitents could confess their sins to a priest sitting in a recess behind a latticework screen. Such a ceremony would only be available after the ninth hour when the heat began to cool and the priests would not be so uncomfortable in their narrow stone closets. Now the chapel was deserted except for white-robed acolytes busy around a small altar under a square window at the far end. An eerie place, Themeu reflected, with grim paintings on the wall reminding sinners of what might happen to them during their final journey through the Am-duat. Here the Devourer of Things, the Gobbler of Flesh, the Breaker of Bones, the Smasher of Skulls would await the damned sinners! Sobeck the Crocodile God also lurked waiting for any souls not purified, and thus unable to proceed into the Far West. Themeu did not believe any of this. He worshipped his own gods and had nothing but disdain for those of Egypt. Nevertheless, it was a chilling place.
He broke from his reverie and walked across the chapel. There were six ‘Places of Penance’ along the wall. Each recess was fronted by a thick latticework screen, polished and gleaming. On the floor was a cushion where the penitent could kneel to whisper his or her sins. The priests were never allowed into this part of the chapel, lest they saw someone they knew or be recognised themselves. Instead each recess had a small door in the far wall through which the priest could crawl to sit on a stool and listen to the penitents. Themeu walked along to the third recess and stood with his back to the wall; any curious acolyte would think he was admiring the chapel. He tapped at the wood of the latticework screen and waited.
‘I am here.’ The voice was a hushed whisper.
‘So you are!’ Themeu squatted down, turning his head slightly. ‘Why are you afraid? Why can’t you meet me?’
‘You know why,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘We are watched. I have my own problems. Lord Amerotke snoops everywhere, searching out things, and there are others too. It is becoming too dangerous. Last night an attempt was made on Pharaoh’s life. Here in this temple, part of our library, the House of Books, was burnt.’
Themeu stiffened. He and his companions had heard rumours but Naratousha had ordered them not to pry, not even to discuss the matter so as not to provoke the royal bitch’s suspicions that any Libyan was involved in such incidents. Naratousha had dismissed the rumours of the attempted poisoning as possible hysteria, while the fire, surely, was an accident?
‘Tell me,’ Themeu turned, lowering his head, ‘the fire?’
‘Not an accident,’ the voice replied. ‘Not an accident at all. Amerotke had been there searching for certain manuscripts. They believe it was arson.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps to hide some evidence? I don’t know.’
‘What else?’
‘Amerotke and the Medjay standard-bearer Nadif are becoming more inquisitive by the hour. It is, as I said, too dangerous.’
‘The danger will pass,’ Themeu whispered reassuringly. ‘Then we will meet again. Yes? Stroll in the lonely gardens of the temple, lie in the shade where the grass is fertile and fresh…’
He heard a sound as the priest rose and fled through the small door. Themeu laughed softly. He got to his feet and leaned against the wall, squinting across at the paintings opposite. The priest had no choice but to come here and listen to him, tell him what he knew. Themeu breathed out noisily. It was time to go. He left the Chapel of the Ear and mingled with the crowds, following the path through the temple precincts. He glimpsed part of the blackened ruins of the House of Books; he didn’t stop and stare but hurried on. At last he reached the Gate of Ivory, mingling with the crowds squeezing in and out, past temple guards lounging in the shade sharing a jug of beer. He forced himself through the gate on to the broad alleyway that would lead down into the city.
‘Alms,’ a voice whined. ‘Alms, great lord!�
�
Themeu whirled round. The crouching man was dressed in beggars’ rags and holding a staff, yet his face did not look pitiful, eyes glittering, lips bared. Themeu noticed how his teeth were stained blue.
‘What alms?’ Themeu replied in the patois. ‘What alms shall I give you?’
‘Great lord, I can show you wonders. I can show you the marvels of the city, born here I was.’ The beggar glared at him. He’d given the password agreed between Naratousha and the Amemets.
Themeu nodded. The beggar sprang swiftly up and, grasping his staff, hurried ahead. Themeu had no choice but to follow. The beggar scurried down past temples and palaces glowing with gold, silver and lapis lazuli, along avenues fringed by snarling human-headed lions carved out of black granite; these glared across the avenue at other grotesque creatures sculpted from pink limestone. They reached the Great Mooring Place on the Nile with its porticoed quayside, its walls decorated with the exploits of previous pharaohs, their great victories over the Libyans, Kushites and other people of the Nine Bows. The beggar hired a craft and they climbed aboard. The Nile was sluggish but the bargemen were especially skilled. They recognised the beggar and swiftly took them across to the Place of Osiris, the great quayside of the City of the Dead dominated by towering statues of Egyptian gods. The beggar didn’t pay. As soon as the barge landed them on the quayside, he hurried off along narrow trackways and wretched streets. The dirt was piled almost waist high; naked children searched the mounds for fuel. The acrid smells of rottenness and decay mingled with the foul odours of the embalming house. Casket-sellers, coffin-makers, tomb preparers and funeral managers bawled for trade. Garishly dressed scribes advertised to write letters for the Chapels of the Dead. Now and again the beggar would stop to make sure Themeu was following him, then hurry on past beer shops and drinking houses seething with prostitutes, pimps, tinkers, traders and scorpion and lizard men. Themeu could see that his guide, though dressed meanly, was treated with the greatest respect, people drawing aside as fearfully as they would before a squad of Medjay armed with club and sword.
The Poisoner of Ptah Page 15
