The Poisoner of Ptah

by P. C. Doherty

  At last they entered the Twilight Abode, a sinister, eerie place, and into a market square bounded on each side by houses. A few sycamore trees flourished, and in the far corner stood the House of the Evening Star, a tavern where Themeu had met the Amemets before. The inside was surprisingly clean, the walls limewashed, the floor covered with soft reed matting. It was furnished with comfortable stools and polished low tables. Various signs hung from the low rafters: ‘Drink until you drop’, ‘Don’t stop enjoying yourself, death will come’. Another sign boasted how the house had every type of wine from Avaris in the north to beyond the Fourth Cataract in the south.

  Once the door behind him was closed fast, the beggar turned and came striding back, hand outstretched.

  ‘I am Bluetooth,’ he declared, ‘leader of ten in the company of the Amemets.’

  Themeu’s own hand slipped beneath his robe to rest on a dagger. ‘Where is everybody?’ he asked. ‘This place is deserted.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ a voice answered.

  Themeu whirled round. The corner behind them was shadowed in dark. A man walked forward. He had the cruel face of a bird of prey.

  ‘I am the Vulture.’ He stretched out a hand like a claw. Themeu clasped it. ‘Your master has hired us.’ The Vulture tapped a foot, joining his hands as if in prayer as he studied the Libyan. ‘You also hired the Churat.’

  ‘We will hire anyone we want,’ Themeu replied. ‘All we ask is that we get what we pay for. Do you have it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ the Vulture replied, spreading his hands. ‘But we have someone you might like to meet.’ He led Themeu across the deserted room into the back of the house. The kitchens and storerooms were all eerily deserted, the ovens cold, the fleshing tables scrubbed clean; nothing but the buzz of flies above a pool of blood on the floor. The strident squeaking of some vermin echoed through the half-open door in the far corner of the kitchen. The Vulture led Themeu across to this, pulled it open and went down some steps into the hot, musty darkness. Torches flared in niches on the wall, dazzling the eyes and confusing the mind. Themeu carefully made his way down the steps, sweat starting on his skin. He did not like the foul smells that greeted him, the ominous, threatening darkness. He undid the clasp of his robe to draw the dagger strapped to his belt.

  ‘No need for that,’ whispered Bluetooth, standing behind him. ‘You are safe.’

  They reached the bottom of the steps. Themeu stood for a while shading his eyes against the torchlight. They were in a cellar, a cavernous chamber with a low ceiling. Torches spluttered fire and plumes of dark trailing smoke. The cellar was crowded. Armed men dressed in loincloths, skin glistening with sweat, clustered around a figure stretched out on the floor, his arms and legs pegged into the dirt. They all turned as the Vulture and Themeu approached. Themeu was waved to one side of the fettered man. He crouched down and stared at the bony, unshaven face, the cavernous eyes and thin lips, the sweat that glazed the thin-ribbed body. The prisoner glared furiously back, eyes fluttering, torn between obstinacy and fear.

  ‘This is Skullface,’ the Vulture intoned gently. ‘He serves the Churat, the Eater of Vile Things, who lurks in the Abode of Darkness. I suppose,’ he tapped the prisoner’s face, ‘you could call him a business rival. He’s been lurking in the Temple of Ptah. We think his master wishes to do business with the prying Judge, Amerotke. In which case,’ he glanced across at Themeu, ‘I hope you, my lord, were careful where you went and with whom you did business. Now we are trying to discover exactly what Skullface knows. He is proving difficult. He knows he is going to die.’ He paused as his prisoner strained vainly at his bonds. ‘If we don’t kill him, the Churat certainly will.’

  ‘I know nothing of my master’s plans,’ Skullface gasped. ‘What can I tell you?’

  ‘Skullface is also a liar,’ the Vulture continued conversationally, then paused as if irritated by that ominous squeaking Themeu had heard earlier. ‘So this is what we are going to do.’ He lifted a hand and imperiously beckoned to one of the armed men, who shuffled forward carrying a wooden cage. Its narrow bars half concealed a long, furry creature which flipped and crashed against the wooden sides. He placed the cage on the ground next to Skullface, and the Vulture pressed the prisoner’s head to one side, forcing him to stare at the gleaming eyes, quivering snout and sharp teeth of the great sewer rat glaring furiously through the bars. Themeu sensed a spasm of fear at the rodent seething at its imprisonment, teeth and claws pattering at its wooden prison. The rat screamed stridently, shattering the silence of that fetid cellar.

  ‘Skullface.’ The Vulture leaned down as he gestured another of the men forward. This one held a long, narrow copper pipe. ‘Skullface,’ the Vulture repeated, taking the cylinder and holding it before the prisoner’s eyes, ‘this is going to be strapped to your side and secured tight. The rat will be released into it and the opening will then be sealed by fire. Now the rat, already starving and furious, will have only one way forward.’ He patted Skullface’s stomach. ‘By burrowing through your flesh. You are going to die, my friend,’ he continued quietly. ‘It’s only a matter of deciding how. If you agree to answer our questions, it will be a swift death: a few goblets of wine, something to eat, then a quick slash across your throat.’

  Skullface, soaked in sweat, chest heaving, lips dry, gazed wildly around. He closed his eyes, then opened them.

  ‘And afterwards?’ he croaked.

  ‘Afterwards,’ the Vulture intoned almost piously, ‘your body will be taken to the House of Embalmers. We will pay for your proper journey into the Far West. Offerings will be made for you at a temple; the more honest you are, the greater the honour paid to you.’

  ‘Offerings?’ Skullface croaked. ‘You’ll ensure a Priest of the Stole prays for me?’

  ‘At least for a month and a day after your death,’ the Vulture replied. ‘Now come, the rat waits, time is passing.’

  Skullface stared up at the ceiling. ‘A cup of wine, a deep-bowled cup, and some fresh quail meat?’

  ‘Good.’ The Vulture nodded. ‘You know, Skullface, if our positions were reversed, you’d do exactly the same to me.’ He snapped his fingers. The men holding the screaming rat and the copper funnel promptly disappeared.

  The Vulture drew a dagger and deftly cut Skullface’s bonds, pulling the prisoner up as if he was an old comrade. He severed the thongs at wrist and ankle, and Skullface sat breathing in deeply. Again the Vulture snapped his fingers. A man hurried up the cellar steps and returned a short while later, in one hand a platter of cold quail meat, in the other a deep bowl of wine. He placed these down before Skullface. The prisoner, pulling back the linen cloth, ate the meat hungrily, slurping at the wine. He belched and grinned at the Vulture.

  ‘Your questions?’ His gaze shifted to Themeu. ‘The Libyans?’ He gestured with his hand. ‘He also hired us.’

  ‘Whom he hired and what he wants,’ the Vulture whispered, ‘is now no longer important. Skullface, we have made a pact, you will answer our questions.’

  Skullface nodded in agreement. Themeu sat fascinated as the interrogation began. At first Skullface told him nothing he didn’t know already, though he quickly realised the importance of the prisoner. He’d been recently captured. He knew all about the fire at the library and the possibility that arson had been committed to conceal some secret knowledge. More fascinating, however, were the Churat’s thoughts about the Rekhet. How he believed the Rekhet may have had more than one accomplice in Thebes responsible for the distribution of his poisons. Skullface even hinted that the Churat suspected that four years earlier the Medjay had arrested the wrong man. As Themeu listened, his unease deepened. The Libyans had come to Thebes because they believed the time was right and that Pharaoh was discomfited, but the more he listened to Skullface’s chatter, the more concerned he grew. The Rekhet was the one who controlled this game, and now Themeu understood why Naratousha was so eager to seize him. One item caught his attention as Skullface chattered about what his master knew. />
  ‘Say that again,’ he intervened, speaking in the patois of the Theban slums. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘We’ve heard news,’ Skullface declared, grinning at him, ‘that Lord Senenmut is deeply concerned. A chariot squadron sent out into the western desert has not returned. I learnt that from a servant at the temple.’

  ‘And?’ Themeu asked.

  ‘The Lord Senenmut is sending out more chariot squadrons to discover what might have happened to it.’

  Themeu ground his teeth. The priest had not mentioned this; perhaps he was becoming too frightened. Skullface chattered on, telling his captors the gossip from the Abode of Darkness and how the Churat had deployed his spies in and around the Temple of Ptah. Now and again he paused to pick up a piece of meat or slurp from the wine bowl, which he drained and asked to be refilled. The Vulture agreed. Skullface became drunk. He’d wander off into some memory from childhood or from when he fought the Libyans as a foot soldier in one of the imperial regiments, and the Vulture would gently bring him back to the matter in hand. Skullface gossiped on, repeating himself about events at the Temple of Ptah, the fire at the library, the murder of the heset and the mysterious sickness of Lord Hinqui, the assistant high priest. At this Themeu startled and gasped. He leaned forward and asked Skullface to repeat what he had said. The prisoner did so, before wandering back to his memories of life as a soldier. The air in the cellar grew hot and close. A voice in the shadows urged the Vulture to finish the matter, and the Amemet leaned forward and, picking up the wine bowl, forced Skullface to drink its dregs.

  ‘One more thing.’ Skullface pointed drunkenly at Themeu. ‘I now remember you and that priest, in the long grass near the temple’s apple orchards.’ He gestured crudely at his groin. ‘Every man has his own way. At the time,’ he mused, ‘I never realised the importance of what I saw. I wish I’d told my master, but,’ he grinned, ‘we all die with a thousand regrets on our lips and a million in our hearts.’

  ‘We have finished, have we not, my friend?’ the Vulture asked.

  Skullface grinned. ‘You’ll keep your promise?’ he slurred.

  ‘Even now,’ the Vulture whispered and lifted a hand. One of the men behind Skullface stepped forward and grasped the prisoner’s head, pulling it back even as the knife in his other hand sliced Skullface’s throat. Themeu started back as the hot blood splattered out. Skullface gagged, eyes popping; he gurgled on his own blood and, eyes rolling, tipped gently to one side.

  ‘My lord,’ the Vulture smiled, ‘what you paid us has been repaid. We have kept our contract and we shall continue to do so. We must also be honest with each other. This business about Lord Hinqui seemed to disturb you.’

  Themeu stared into the darkness.

  ‘You realise,’ Bluetooth hissed, ‘that we are only the lieutenants. The chiefs of our guild lurk in the shadows beyond.’

  Themeu nodded.

  ‘We must know the full truth if you want us to help you,’ insisted the Vulture.

  ‘Hinqui,’ Themeu declared. ‘I suborned him. He has told us much about what happens at the councils of Pharaoh.’

  ‘Why would an Egyptian priest betray his masters?’

  Themeu’s eyes flickered back to the Vulture; he smiled and shrugged.

  ‘What you must ask yourself, my lord,’ the Amemet declared, ‘is this. Could your priest be the Rekhet?’

  KHA’T: ancient Egyptian, ‘corpse’

  CHAPTER 9

  The harmony of the House of the Golden Vine had been truly shattered. The gardens of the splendid mansion now thronged with Asural’s guards as well as a horde of labourers from the Temple of Ma’at. They had searched and ransacked the place, and now, as the late afternoon sun began to dip, they’d sheltered in the shade of holm oaks and sycamore, as well as in the apple, plum and pomegranate orchards of the dead merchant. A grief-stricken Meryet, her face tear-streaked, accompanied by the Kushite Captain Hotep, was now informing a bemused Maben about what had happened. All three sat in the cool columned porch in front of the mansion. They rose as Amerotke, who had paused to chat briefly to his men, came to the foot of the broad sloping approach to the main door.

  ‘So we have found a corpse?’ the judge asked.

  Hotep pointed at Asural standing behind Amerotke.

  ‘He’s the one, he’ll show you.’

  ‘I scrutinised the grounds…’ Asural coughed and spluttered as Prenhoe raised a hand to protest. ‘We scrutinised the grounds,’ Asural corrected himself. ‘I could see no break in the lawns, but, master, come and see for yourself.’

  Meryet and the others made to join them, but Amerotke objected.

  ‘I would prefer it if you stayed here,’ he declared. ‘My companions and I must first see what has been discovered; afterwards I shall speak to you. You have examined the remains?’

  Maben muttered something about doing it immediately on his return; Hotep looked embarrassed, whilst Meryet simply broke into a fit of weeping. Amerotke left them and, accompanied by Asural, Prenhoe and Shufoy, crossed the grounds to the northern corner. Here the grandeur and lushness petered out; there were shrubs and bushes, stretches of wild grass, untended pruned trees and a large sun pavilion, its paint peeling, the wood deeply weathered by sun and rain. In the corner of the wall rose a huge mound of compost, the detritus of the garden: rotting leaves, some black soil, vegetation cut and sliced and mashed into a green paste by the rain, plants and weeds culled from the lakes and ponds, all mixed with the muddy soil and stinking dung from the animal pens and stables. The mound was massive, still moist due to its location and the shade from the trees; it reeked of corruption. It had been sifted and a hole quarried deep into the centre. Amerotke brought out the pomander he’d bought earlier in the day, and held this against his nose as he walked around the edge of that pile of rottenness.

  ‘A good place to hide a corpse,’ Asural declared, ‘easy to burrow through. Decay would have been swift, the stench cleverly hidden.’

  ‘And of course,’ Amerotke declared, ‘no one would think of looking here for poor Patuna, who was supposed to have run away.’

  ‘She may have done,’ Shufoy piped up.

  Amerotke glanced down at the little man. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Explain yourself.’

  Shufoy grinned. ‘She may have run away, come back and been killed then. We just don’t know the time and place.’

  Amerotke patted him on the shoulder. ‘Very sharp, my little man, very sharp indeed! However, I suspect she would have been seen by someone, somewhere. Yet from what I understand, since the morning Meryet found Patuna missing, no one has even glimpsed her. Until we establish otherwise, I think it is safe to presume that, on the evening before she disappeared, Patuna was hale and healthy. Sometime during that evening or night or early the following day, she met her killer and was murdered, her corpse buried deep beneath that dirt.’

  Asural gestured at the shabby sun pavilion. ‘The remains are in there.’

  They climbed its steps and into the musty warmth. Linen sheets had been spread out on the ground, and the skeleton was almost hidden by gauzy veils. Amerotke knelt down and gently undid the folds. The weather, the compost and the passage of time had hastened corruption: hardly a trace of flesh remained, whilst the bones were beginning to yellow. Some bracelets and rings, as well as a necklace, all discoloured and caked with dirt, were still evident. Amerotke’s attention was immediately caught by a heavy-looking wooden mallet with copper plates at each end.

  ‘Found alongside the remains,’ Asural whispered. ‘Turn the skull.’

  Amerotke picked this up and turned it round. The bone at the base had been so badly shattered that fragments had crumbled away. He tenderly placed the skull back into position, picked up the mallet and weighed it in his hands.

  ‘Oh, the jewellery,’ Asural intervened. ‘Meryet recognised it as her sister’s.’

  Amerotke stared down at those pathetic remains. There had been no Osirian ritual for this woman’s ka. No p
urification ceremony or cleansing. No procession, grave goods or funeral feast. He closed his eyes and quickly whispered the Prayer of Mercy to Osiris: ‘May her heart be not found wanting. May you place tenderness in the scales. May your compassion outweigh her sins. May you look upon this daughter gently and lovely. May you recall her passing.’ Then he opened his eyes, put down the mallet and got to his feet.

  ‘Patuna never ran away,’ he declared. ‘She met her killer here in this lonely part of the garden, safe from prying eyes. I don’t know what happened next: a quarrel, a fight? Anyway, she was brutally murdered. A swift, savage blow to the back of her head with that mallet. She must have died instantly, her corpse hidden under a pile of dirt.’

  He walked to the entrance and stared across at the cool shade beneath the trees. ‘Questions, eh, Shufoy – why did Patuna die? Who killed her? When?’

  ‘Her wedding collarette and bracelet were found half burnt, not to mention the poetry,’ Shufoy pointed out. ‘Was all that the work of the assassin?’

  ‘Questions, questions!’ Amerotke snapped. ‘Let’s search for some answers.’ He turned back into the pavilion, and went over to where Prenhoe sat on a bench just within the door. The scribe never liked what he called ‘viewing the dead’. ‘Kinsman,’ Amerotke forced himself to hide his own tension and weariness, ‘go with Asural, and tell the lady Meryet, Hotep and Lord Maben that I wish to meet them, here in the shade of those trees. Ask for a jug of fruit juice to be brought.’

  A short while later Amerotke made himself comfortable on a cushion and eagerly drank the goblet of fruit juice a servant had poured. He waited until the man was out of earshot, then glanced across at Lady Meryet, Maben and Hotep. Meryet immediately confessed that she found it difficult even to look at the pathetic remains of her dead sister. Amerotke let her cry for a while before turning to Maben.