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Authors: P. C. Doherty

BOOK: The Assassins of Isis
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‘Is this true?' Nadif turned to the plump-faced scribe.
‘I was in the master's writing office,' Menna the scribe replied. ‘I was working by the light of an oil lamp detailing how many jars we had taken from the oil press—'
‘Yes, yes,' Nadif interrupted.
‘Then I heard the screams. Is General Suten dead?'
‘I don't know.'
Nadif now turned to Heby, a tall, handsome, middle-aged man. He could tell from Heby's face and the way he carried himself, that he was a former soldier.
‘You are General Suten's body servant?'
‘Aye, in peace and war. I have served him for twenty years.'
Nadif stared at the man's hard face, the cheeks slightly pitted, the nose broken and twisted. Heby's right ear was clipped at the top, whilst the wig he wore only half concealed the ugly scar which ran from the ear down to his neck.
‘A Libyan.' Heby had followed Nadif's gaze; he touched the scar. ‘Out in the western deserts he cut my ear, but I took his penis along with four others and burnt them as an offering to the god.'
‘I'm sure you did.' Nadif stepped back. ‘But shouldn't we do something about your master?'
‘The snakes,' Heby replied. ‘If we go on that roof we too will journey into the West. I don't think my master would want that.'
Nadif tried to hide his unease. He had met many people who had experienced the sudden death of a friend or relation, and their reactions were often surprising. Some became hysterical, others wept, a few became icy quiet; but these three were acting as if they were half asleep or drugged.
Nadif became aware of the clamour in the rest of the house. The hall of audience was filling with servants and the curious from other houses along the Nile. He immediately
instructed all those not belonging to General Suten's retinue to leave. He dispatched a runner into the city to inform his superiors what had happened, and tried to impose some order. He ordered a fire to be lit in the hall of audience and organised the servants, telling them to put on heavy boots and gauntlets, anything they could find to protect their feet, legs and arms. From a servant he borrowed some leather leg guards and an apron for his front, wrapping his hands and arms in rolls of coarse linen, then, armed with poles and garden implements, he and Heby led the servants on to the roof terrace. Some were terrified and refused to go, but Lupherna, who now asserted herself as head of the house, promised all those who helped a lavish reward, and Nadif soon had enough volunteers to help him clear the roof.
It was a grisly, gruesome business. The horned vipers had emerged from their hiding places, attracted by the heat and food. Most of them were sluggish. A few were killed but the servants were superstitious and regarded the snakes as a visitation from a god, so Nadif compromised, and where possible the horned vipers were placed in a leather bag and taken away. Eventually they reached the general's corpse. Nadif ordered it to be taken below, and it was laid on a divan in the hall of audience. Lady Lupherna knelt beside it. She took off her wig, placing her jewellery beside it, then rent her beautiful robe and, taking dust from the fireplace, sprinkled it over her head and body, staining her face, chest and shoulders. She knelt keening, rocking backwards and forwards, as Nadif laid out the corpse and stripped it of its robe.
The general had been an old man, well past his sixtieth summer, and his body had been lean and hard. Nadif counted that he must have been bitten a dozen times, each bite mark a dark bluish red, the skin around it deeply discoloured. The general's face had also become swollen, the hollow cheeks puffing out, the lips full, with white froth dribbling out of one corner. Nadif found the
half-open eyes eerie, as if the general was about to look up at him and snap out an order. He had glimpsed Suten from afar in the uniform of a staff officer, his armour glittering, the gold collars of valour and the silver bees of courage shimmering in the sunlight. Now he looked like a pathetic old man caught in a dreadful death.
A local physician was summoned from a nearby house. He turned the corpse over.
‘At least fifteen times,' he intoned. ‘I'm not an expert; my specialities are the mouth and anus.'
At any other time Nadif would have laughed at this pompous physician.
‘You don't have to be an expert,' he snapped, ‘to count how many times a man has been bitten.'
‘I'm merely stating,' the physician retorted. ‘It's rather strange that General Suten didn't try to escape. He appears to have allowed himself to sit there and be bitten.'
Nadif narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you saying?'
‘What do you think I am saying?' the physician replied. ‘Here is a man who, according to you, lay down on his bed and was bitten by a snake. What would you do, officer, if you were bitten by a snake?'
‘Run away.'
‘But this man didn't. He sat there and allowed himself to be bitten another fourteen times.'
‘How soon would the poison work?'
‘A few heartbeats,' the physician replied. ‘Perhaps he was in shock. That's what a rat does when it is bitten. It stays still and allows itself to be bitten again. I've seen it happen.'
‘General Suten wasn't a rat!'
Nadif gestured at the physician to join him, and led him to the steps to the roof terrace.
‘I'm not going up there.'
‘Don't be stupid,' Nadif retorted. ‘You will be well paid. Anyway, the snakes are gone. From what I gather, they are rather careful about who they bite!'
The physician's head came up aggressively.
‘I'm only joking,' Nadif whispered. ‘Follow me.'
When they reached the roof terrace, Nadif was pleased he had acted so quickly. Heby was now clearing up his dead master's papers and was instructing a servant to take the remains of the food and wine down to the kitchen.
‘Leave those there,' Nadif ordered. Heby went to object, then shrugged. The servant left the tray on the table. Nadif ordered some oil lamps to be brought. He and the physician scrupulously examined the remains of the fish, bread and fruit, as well as the rich Canaanite wine in both jug and goblet. The physician didn't know what he was looking for. Nadif took the goblet of wine and poured the dregs on to a napkin, then felt the stain with the tips of his fingers.
‘There, there,' he whispered.
‘There, there, what?' the physician snapped.
Nadif handed him the napkin. ‘Feel that.'
The physician did as he was told. ‘Grains,' he said. ‘Yes, as if some powder has been mixed with the wine.'
Nadif snatched up the goblet. He detected similar grains around the rim.
‘It could be the wine,' the physician remarked. ‘If it is drawn from the bottom of a cask, there is some silt.'
‘I don't think so,' Nadif murmured. ‘Smell the cup, physician.'
The self-proclaimed guardian of the anus did so. ‘Oh, I know what that is.' He sniffed again. ‘Any doctor would. I've mixed it myself. I served in the army as well, you know. There are certain wounds you can't heal.'
‘What is it?'
‘Poppy seed. I would wager my wife's honour on it. The general mixed poppy seed with his wine to make him sleep.'
‘You mean he was poisoned?'
‘No, I didn't say that. Poppy seed, used sparingly, will take away your cares and soothe you into a deep slumber. It will clear any pain you have of heart or body.'
Nadif turned round abruptly. Heby was looking at them strangely. Nadif waved him over.
‘Where is it?' Nadif asked.
‘Where is what?' Heby retorted.
‘The poppy seed. Your master mixed poppy seed with his wine; he must have had a phial or pouch.'
‘He never took poppy seed.'
Menna and Lupherna had also come up on to the roof terrace and joined the officer and the physician. ‘General Suten never took poppy seed with his wine; there is no pouch up here,' the Chief Scribe declared.
‘Are you sure?' Nadif asked.
‘There is no poppy seed powder up here,' Menna repeated.
‘Then if General Suten didn't mix the poppy seed with his wine, who did?' Nadif asked. He stared around. ‘Let's search.'
Nadif went over to the bed. As he pushed aside the drapes, a leather pouch fell out. He exclaimed in pleasure. The pouch was small and tied at the neck, and it bore the insignia of the Temple of Isis. He undid the cord and handed it to the physician.
‘Yes, it's crushed poppy seed,' the fellow replied. ‘Lady Lupherna, you did not know your husband was taking this?'
She shook her head.
‘He must have mixed it secretly,' Heby murmured. ‘I knew he had visited the House of Life at the Temple of Isis, but …'
‘Did he mix it with his wine tonight, I wonder?' Nadif asked.
‘I have a better question for you,' Menna hissed. ‘Here we have General Suten, bravest of the brave, a man who hated snakes, who had this roof terrace searched this evening to make sure there were none, and who is suddenly found bitten at least fifteen times whilst his roof terrace is swarming with those vermin.'
All of Nadif's doubts and confusions disappeared. He realised why Menna, Heby and the Lady Lupherna had been acting so strangely when he'd first arrived.
‘This was no accident,' he whispered. ‘I remember the stories about General Suten's fear of snakes. He was murdered, wasn't he?'
The physician wiped his hands on his robe. ‘Murdered!' he exclaimed. ‘Is this the work of the red-haired god Seth? General Suten was a hero of Egypt. May Osiris have mercy on us all. If he was murdered, someone will burn for it.'
 
The Temple of Isis was a sprawling compound of storehouses, mansions, living quarters, gardens, orchards and pastures. It surrounded the temple proper, dedicated to the Mother Goddess who worked so hard to bring Osiris to life after he had been slain by his vindictive brother Seth. The Temple of Isis proclaimed itself an oasis of calm, a place of healing, with its Houses of Life and Learning, dedicated to the study of medicine and the care and strengthening of Pharoah's subjects. Near the House of Life, the academy where the young men studied to be physicians, stood the House of Twilight, a place where those in mortal fear of their lives, attacked by some malignant disease, could receive specialist help and attention. They called it the House of Twilight because those who lived there hovered on the border between life and death, ready to make the journey into the Eternal West to rejoice in the everlasting fields of the green-skinned Osiris. Near the House of Twilight were the mansions and living quarters of the chief physicians and their helpers, men and women of great learning who gathered all the knowledge available on disease and its cure. Nevertheless, the priests of the Temple of Isis believed a dark shadow lay across their temple.
No one was more concerned about this than High Priest Impuki, physician, priest and politician, who, during his
ten years of high office, had made the Temple of Isis even more famous. Now he sat in his small writing office next to the embalming rooms underneath the temple. It was a gloomy place even during daylight hours, as only a window high in the wall provided sunlight, but now, as darkness fell, the oil lamps and candles had to be lit. Impuki sat fanning himself and, as he often had during that evening, moaning bitterly about the heat. He prayed quietly that the hot season would soon pass, the Dog Star would appear and the Great Inundation would begin, when the rushing waters of the Nile would replenish themselves and refertilise the land. Until then the heat would be intense, the only relief being the cool of the evening and the fragrant breezes from the Nile.
However, at this late hour, Impuki was not so concerned about the heat as about the failure of the man opposite, Mafdet, Captain of the Temple Guard, to discover the whereabouts of four young besets, temple girls, who had disappeared. Impuki glowered at the fellow. When this crisis was over, he promised himself, he would tell Mafdet to exercise more and eat less. He noted the soldier's bulging belly, the fat glistening thighs, and the jowls appearing on either side of this veteran's face. Impuki did not like Mafdet. Impuki was a physician, a great healer. He prided himself on the fact that he could recognise a killer when he met one. In fact he secretly categorised people with the names of animals, birds and reptiles. The temple girls were beautiful moorhens; the priests were geese. The physicians? Well, some of them reminded Impuki of mastiffs or monkeys. But Mafdet? Impuki thought of him as a scorpion.
Mafdet was a dangerous man, a former soldier who had fought with the redoubtable General Suten out in the Red Lands, and had been given this post as Captain of the Temple Guard because of his friends in high places. He now sprawled insolently in a low-backed chair, his linen robe slightly stained. He had taken off his ornamental leather
breastplate and war kilt, whilst his sword belt had been unhooked and slung on the floor beside him, and he sat, legs apart, tapping one sandalled foot against the tiled floor, as if impatient and resentful at being summoned here. Instead of staring at the High Priest, or adopting a more reverential pose, Mafdet enjoyed ignoring him. He stared up at the heavy-beamed roof or glanced across at the writing desk piled high with papyri and writing implements as well as the cups and phials Impuki used in the study of medicine.

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