‘About two full moons ago,’ the Vulture intoned in a singsong voice, ‘my masters on the council received a message from the Libyans to arrange the escape of a prisoner known as the Rekhet from the Oasis of Bitter Bread. Now of course,’ he gabbled on, ‘we knew about the disgraced priest physician responsible for the deaths of so many in Thebes. Indeed,’ his cruel face broke into a grin, ‘the masters of the council were eager to speak to a man who could dispense death so freely throughout the city. Anyway, we received payment and accepted the contract; half the gold was delivered, the rest would be paid when the Rekhet escaped. We hired sand-dwellers who traded out in the distant Redlands to visit that prison settlement and deliver the necessary materials.’
‘Which were?’ Amerotke asked.
The Vulture pulled a face. ‘A knife, water bottles, sandals, a robe against the sun, some coins, and a map describing the whereabouts of waterholes and oases.’
‘And you did this?’
‘Yes,’ the Vulture continued proudly, ‘we did.’
‘Why didn’t the Libyans do it themselves?’ Amerotke asked. ‘They have war patrols; their tribes wander the Redlands.’
‘I suspect they didn’t want their hand to be detected in such meddling.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Omendap agreed, ‘that is their way. What happened then?’
‘The Rekhet escaped. The Libyans were taken by surprise. He was audacious. He managed to evade Libyan patrols but was captured by sand-dwellers on the prowl for profit. These in turn were ambushed by an Egyptian chariot squadron, and that,’ the Vulture shrugged, ‘was the last we heard of him, at least for a while.’
‘And?’ Amerotke insisted.
‘Well, the Libyans arrived in Thebes. After the poisoning during the temple ceremony we received a fresh offer to find the escaped prisoner; our reward would be lavish.’ He shrugged. ‘So we tried.’
‘And failed,’ Omendap intervened. ‘The masters of the Amemet council must have wondered why so much gold, silver and precious stones was offered for an escaped prisoner.’
The Vulture shifted nervously. He licked his lips, blinked and gazed fearfully at Amerotke. ‘I have my life, I will have gold?’
‘Silver,’ Amerotke replied. ‘The good general here will give it to you. Now…’ He tensed. They had reached what he considered the crossroads to the path of truth. ‘Lie,’ his voice turned harsh, ‘and you die on the stake!’
‘We … I…’ The Vulture had apparently decided on his path. ‘We met Themeu, the Libyan envoy, out at the House of the Evening Star, a tavern in the Necropolis. He came disguised, as we did, and insisted that we search for the Rekhet. We bargained. He informed us that they had also hired others to do the same task. The Churat.’ The Vulture spat the name out. ‘We maintained such a task was arduous and highly dangerous. The Medjay, imperial troops, the Eyes and Ears of Pharaoh from the House of Secrets, not to mention the vile Churat, were also hunting him. The Libyan insisted they would pay whoever succeeded most lavishly. We asked why they wanted such a man. He replied that life changes like the direction of the wind. He described how they had accepted a bribe from one of the lords of Egypt to free the prisoner in the first place.’
‘Did he say who?’
‘Yes,’ the Vulture retorted, ‘the prosperous merchant found dead face down in his lotus pool.’
‘Ipuye?’
‘The same.’
‘What proof do they have of this? I mean,’ Amerotke spread his hands, ‘the Libyans could just be mischievous.’
‘The bribe was accompanied by Ipuye’s cartouche, his seal; Themeu showed us that.’
Amerotke stared in amazement at Omendap, who gazed speechlessly back.
‘Do the Libyans know why Ipuye wanted the Rekhet?’
‘No.’ The Vulture grinned, enjoying his interrogators’ surprise. ‘Ipuye prophesied that if the Rekhet was freed from his prison oasis, the Libyans would not only be paid in precious stones but would witness an event that would publicly humiliate Egypt.’
‘The poisoning of the three scribes?’
‘And so it came to pass,’ the Vulture replied sarcastically.
‘But Ipuye died the same day as the three scribes were poisoned.’ Amerotke leaned forward. ‘Did you have a hand in that?’
‘No.’
‘But you met this Themeu at the House of the Evening Star after the poisoning of the three scribes and the death of Ipuye.’
‘Of course, on a number of occasions.’
‘But Ipuye,’ Amerotke laughed, ‘no longer needed the Rekhet.’
‘True, but the Libyans certainly did.’
‘Did they say why?’
‘To hold,’ the Vulture retorted. ‘They were insistent on that. He must be captured alive; a corpse was no use to them, but they never said why. Lord Judge, that was not our business, why should they tell us?’
Amerotke leaned forward. ‘The Libyans seem well informed about the Rekhet.’
‘Perhaps Ipuye told them.’
Amerotke smiled at the sudden shift in the Vulture’s eyes. ‘You don’t think that, do you? What do you know, Vulture? Think of freedom, of the courtesans of Memphis waiting for you, goblets of wine, fresh meat, an end to all this. Come, what does it really matter to you now?’
‘Themeu,’ the Vulture cleared his throat, ‘seemed most knowledgeable. He is very handsome.’ The Amemet smirked. ‘If you are that way inclined. Perhaps he became friendly with one of the principal priests of Ptah.’ He shrugged. ‘But that is only conjecture. I swear I can tell you no more.’
Amerotke turned to Bluetooth, who was nursing his bruised head. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, Lord Judge, except…’
‘Except what?’
‘How did you know we were coming?’
Amerotke grinned. ‘How do you know when a storm is due?’ He answered his own question. ‘When the heavens hang dark. We looked for the signs and found them.’
‘The masters of the council will not forget this.’ Bluetooth spoke up. ‘They have unfinished business with you, Lord Judge.’
‘Ah,’ Amerotke whispered, ‘and as the lady Ma’at knows, I certainly have unfinished business with them. Is there anything else?’
Both men shook their heads. Amerotke studied them closely. Years of interrogation in the courts had honed his instincts. He sensed both Amemets had told him what they could, though he could make little sense of it.
‘General Omendap, furnish both men with passes, their weapons, clothing, some food and a little water, half an ounou of silver, half of gold. They are to be gone within the hour.’ Amerotke raised his hand. ‘And I swear, if they look upon my face again, it will be for the last time.’
HEKAI: ancient Egyptian, ‘sorcerer’
CHAPTER 11
Amerotke got to his feet and went deeper into the house. The mercenary who had pretended to be the Rekhet had left. The guards informed Amerotke that he was now celebrating, looking forward to his lavish reward from Pharaoh’s own hands. Amerotke went into the Syrian’s chamber and crouched in the corner. He felt tired and dirty. He needed to shave and wash, yet what the Amemets had said concerned him. It was useless discussing it with Omendap; the general had completed his task and would be eager to report to the Great House. Amerotke felt his own task was only beginning. Why? He beat his fist against the ground. Why should a merchant like Ipuye be conspiring with the Libyans to bring the Rekhet back into Egypt to humiliate Pharaoh? It didn’t make sense. Ipuye had no history of plotting against Hatusu or Senenmut. In fact, the opposite: he had been a fervent supporter of both of them, as well as the Temple of Ptah. Yet the Libyans had had his seal!
As Amerotke half listened to the sounds of the house, his mind teemed with questions. He gazed across at the makeshift bed where the mercenary had slept. If only they could capture the Rekhet and question him. He knew what questions Hatusu and Senenmut would ask. Omendap would tell them what he’d heard from the Amemets, but that still didn’t
answer the vital question: why were Naratousha and his comrades so intent on this business, on the one hand sealing a peace treaty with Egypt but on the other dabbling in all sorts of treachery?
He startled at a knock on the door. This was promptly flung open and Shufoy, armed with his parasol, strode in accompanied by Nadif. The little man hastened over to Amerotke and crouched down, his eyes concerned.
‘Are you safe, master? General Omendap told me what happened. Outside it is like a battle ground, a slaughter house, awash with blood. The impaled, the prisoners…’
Amerotke clasped the little man’s hands, then shook Nadif’s. ‘What hour is it?’
‘Just before dawn, master.’
Amerotke clambered uneasily to his feet. ‘The Amemets must have attacked in the early hours when they thought we’d all be asleep. Standard-Bearer Nadif, why are you here?’
‘I received a message,’ Nadif replied, ‘from Maben at the House of the Golden Vine. The Kushite Saneb, the one we questioned last night, has disappeared; there’s no trace of him whatsoever. Maben wishes us to come.’
‘Not now,’ Amerotke replied. ‘I am tired and hungry. I need to wash and eat. Let’s go, and I’ll tell you what happened here.’
They left the House of Horus the Red-Eye and made their way along the narrow trackway down to the broad thoroughfare that skirted the Nile and thence back to Amerotke’s house. The judge was so tired he was hardly aware of the journey: the merchants and traders, their cattle, oxen, donkeys and asses all processing through a cloud of dust towards the city, eager to be through the gates before the markets opened. He told Nadif and Shufoy about the attack but swore them to silence, especially in the presence of Norfret. Nevertheless, the judge was hardly in the house, washing his hands in a bowl of water, before his wife began to ask about what had truly happened. Amerotke realised that rumours of the attack must have seeped out, possibly fed by messengers or troops returning into the city. He gathered Norfret in his arms and kissed her gently on the brow.
‘I swear,’ he whispered, pressing his lips against her ear, ‘when this is all over I shall tell you.’
She held him by the arms and stood back. ‘And I, Lord Judge, will be the first to remind you of that.’
Amerotke bathed, ate and rested. It was late in the afternoon before he, Nadif and Shufoy reached the House of the Golden Vine. He apologised for the hour, adding that they should all shelter from the heat. Lady Meryet, who seemed more composed, invited them into the central hall, where she opened windows to create whatever draught possible. She served fruit juices freshly crushed as well as mamoul, delicious pastry tasting of walnut, figs and cinnamon. Amerotke asked her to join them. When she told him that Minnakht was also in the house, he tactfully conceded that the Chief Scribe of the Temple of Ptah could not be excluded. For a while there was some confusion as servants arrived, arranging tables, stools, tables and cushions. Amerotke walked over to admire a particularly fine wall painting showing vivid ochre-coloured peasants weighing bushels of corn in a granary. Minnakht came to greet him and clasped his hand.
‘Lord Judge,’ he whispered, ‘the news is all over Thebes about an attack on the House of—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Amerotke guided the genial-looking scribe by the elbow back to join the rest. ‘Indeed,’ he raised his voice, ‘I have certain information. Well,’ he smiled thinly, ‘it certainly surprised me.’ Sipping at his juice, he told them all he had learnt, though only giving them those details he felt necessary. As he glanced swiftly round, he realised they were all genuinely astonished.
‘Impossible!’ Maben and Meryet exclaimed together.
‘Nonsense!’ Minnakht shook his head.
‘My master was no traitor,’ Hotep protested. ‘He had no dealings with the Libyans. His traders went out into the western desert, but for trade, nothing else.’
‘Yet the Libyans had his seal,’ Amerotke replied.
They had no answer for that. Maben muttered how it might have been forged. Someone else claimed it could be a mistake. Amerotke ignored this and pressed on with his own questions, though he failed to discover any further links between Ipuye and the Libyans.
‘And Saneb the Kushite guard, what’s happened to him?’
‘Lord,’ Hotep replied mournfully, ‘Saneb was here the day before yesterday, then he just disappeared with all his belongings, no trace whatsoever.’
‘And it was he who discovered Ipuye’s corpse?’
‘Yes,’ Meryet replied. She stared long and hard at Amerotke. ‘Lord Judge,’ she chose her words carefully, ‘could Saneb have been an Amemet? This business of Ipuye and the Libyans: perhaps my dead brother-in-law was involved in something none of us knew about?’
Amerotke just shrugged. ‘And there is nothing else,’ he asked, ‘nothing to resolve the mystery?’
‘Is there a mystery?’ Meryet replied. ‘Ipuye’s death may have been the work of the gods; perhaps it was just an accident.’
Amerotke tactfully brought the conversation to an end, saying he must once more go through Ipuye’s accounts and papers. He, Nadif and Shufoy then adjourned to Ipuye’s private quarters. Meryet and Maben were unable to protest, Amerotke insisting that the new information he’d brought needed to be examined most carefully. Once inside the merchant’s quarters they closed the door, brought out the baskets and hampers and began to sift through Ipuye’s papers. In the end it proved to be a fruitless task. Amerotke concluded that Ipuye had been a very busy man, but nothing in his manuscripts linked him with the Libyans or indeed any wrongdoing. Nadif dropped a collection of papyrus rolls back into a reed basket. The standard-bearer was in a more dour mood than usual and confessed that Baka, his pet baboon, whom he privately regarded as more intelligent than many of his colleagues in the Medjay, was sick and the cause of his deep disquiet.
‘However,’ he declared, collecting up another pile of papyri, ‘the symptoms seem to be subsiding. I wish I could say the same about the mystery here.’
‘Mystery?’ Amerotke queried.
‘Ipuye kept his Place of Pleasure very distant from his home. Did he also do the same with treasonable and criminal correspondence?’
Amerotke was about to reply when the door quietly opened and a Kushite slid into the room. He crouched just inside the doorway, his back to the wall, and raised a finger warningly to his lips, then shook his head as Nadif’s hand fell to the thrusting knife on his belt. The man had a round, fat face and crinkly black hair, and by the scars on his upper torso, neck and face, Amerotke judged him to be a veteran. He wordlessly waved the man towards him, and the Kushite crept forward.
‘What is it?’ Amerotke whispered.
‘It is strange,’ the Kushite replied. ‘Saneb was like a son to me. Why should he leave, take all his belongings, but never say goodbye to me, his friend, a man he called his father, especially at a time when he declared he was about to acquire great riches.’
‘Riches?’ Amerotke asked. ‘What riches?’
‘Perhaps his heart was wandering,’ the Kushite murmured. He lifted his left hand to show his ring and bracelet, the sign that he had once been a member of the Medjay. Then he took them off and moved them to his right hand. ‘Saneb did that. I would catch him – he’d just be crouching, moving both ring and bracelet from hand to hand – and ask him why. He would reply that he knew even stranger things. I asked him what he meant.’ The Kushite got to his feet and tapped his carefully knotted loincloth. ‘He’d do this and mutter, “Shu will bring sepses.”’
‘The loincloth will bring riches – what on earth does that nonsense mean?’ Amerotke stared up at the man, who shook his head. Yet there was something about what the Kushite had said, the way he was now standing, that recalled a problem Amerotke had wondered about. ‘Is there anything else?’ Amerotke asked.
The man shook his head, then lifted a hand as Amerotke went to open the pouch on his belt.
‘My lord, there is no need to reward me. Saneb was a friend.’ The Kushite bowed and
slipped out of the room.
‘Nadif,’ Amerotke asked, ‘what do you make of that?’
The standard-bearer pulled a face. ‘I don’t know.’ He held up his left hand. ‘Sometimes veterans of the Medjay place the rings and bracelets back to rekindle memories, but,’ he let his hand drop, ‘Saneb was different. Apparently he was joking, making references to riches. Lord Judge, I cannot understand it, but what do we do now?’
Amerotke gazed at Shufoy, who was examining a scarab depicting the god Bes which he’d taken from one of the baskets.
‘Are you praying for help from across the Far Horizon?’ Amerotke joked.
‘Gerh,’ Shufoy declared.
‘Gerh?’ Amerotke queried. He recognised the name for Night, a black vaulting figure who lurked in the Fifth Chamber of the Underworld and often played a prominent role in terrifying ghost stories told to children.
‘Gerh!’ Shufoy repeated, getting to his feet. ‘No, I’m not talking about nightmares, master, but the lady Gerh.’
‘The Lady of the Dark.’ Nadif whistled. ‘Of course.’
‘What is this?’ Amerotke asked. He vaguely recalled coming across that sinister-sounding name in official records.
‘She is a Mistress of the Powders and Potions,’ Nadif explained. ‘She lives in the Abode of Twilight in the Necropolis just across the river.’
‘And?’
‘Well,’ Shufoy was jumping from foot to foot, ‘master, we are surrounded by mystery: corpses floating in pools, scribes dying savagely and mysteriously in front of Pharaoh herself. The solution to all this surely must be poison. Gerh, the Lady of the Dark, is skilled in what she knows. We could visit her, ask her advice.’
‘Would she receive us?’
‘She would have no choice,’ Nadif replied. ‘Indeed she would be flattered and, I am sure, as curious as we are…’
A short while later, Amerotke and his two companions took their leave of the House of the Golden Vine and followed the sycamore-shaded path down to one of the small quaysides that lay outside the city walls. The searing heat of the Noonday Devil was beginning to lessen, and the refreshing river breezes, although full of the sour stench of dried mud, decaying fish and rotting vegetation, were a welcome relief. They hired a broad craft. Amerotke crouched in the stern; Nadif and Shufoy, sitting opposite, discussed the possible cause of Baka the baboon’s mysterious ailment. The river was busy with dangerously overloaded barges going to and from the City of the Dead. Merchant craft, crammed with all kinds of goods – malachite, alum, fruit, wood, exotic birds, monkeys, spices, crates and baskets – sailed from quayside to quayside. Gorgeously ornate funeral barges made their way ponderously across, with singers pretending to be the twin goddesses Isis and Nepthys standing in the prow. These leaned forward singing hymns of praise to Osiris, Lord of the Western Gates, as well as to the memory of the dead person. Warships full of troops made their careful way around other boats, barge after barge carrying black-skinned Nubians armed with spears and shields, Kushite infantry and Syrian archers with their powerful bows, all sailing further north to the boom of gongs and the wail of conch horns.
The Poisoner of Ptah Page 20
