"Good sir," the assassin said through his glazed smile. "If you please ... would you kindly get me the hell out of here?"
Arpid shrugged. "That was a little better.. . Promise not to kill me?"
"Yes! On my oath!"
"You're an Akkadian, remember—you make an oath, you always keep it, right? That's your way, your code, huh?"
"Yes. Yes. That's right."
Another scouting party of ants was climbing the Akkadian now, perhaps a dozen, or a baker's dozen, nibbling at him, just warming up. Blinking, shaking his head, Mathayus did his best to cast them off. One climbed his lips and he bit the thing in two and spat it out.
"When you make an oath," Arpid said, in a rhetorical tone, "do you honor it, even if it's one you come to regret?"
"Yes! Yes!"
The little thief, torch in hand, was approaching. "Then promise to take me with you... as your trusted partner and companion . . . and share with me, equally, the spoils of battle."
"Fine! I swear! I promise!"
Arpid thrust the torch in the path of the ants, which sent them scurrying away. Then he knelt before the head sticking up out of the sand.
"All right, Akkadian ... hold still."
And the thief began carefully picking the ants off the assassin's face.
Within minutes, Mathayus was up the slope and gathering his weapons, while the surviving guard remained an unconscious sprawl on the rocks and sand. The scrawny horse thief was animated, filled with enthusiasm, though not helping the Akkadian in his recovery efforts.
"What a splendid turn of events," the thief was saying. "Wherever you go, there'll be death, and lots of it! I mean, look at you—strapping specimen. And where there's death, there's bodies, and where there are bodies, there are pockets, waiting to be emptied ... gold, silver, who knows what treasures we'll share! After all, we'll split everything straight down the middle, both money and work. I'll handle the stealing and you . . . well, you'll take care of the slaughter. Fair enough?"
Mathayus's intricately carved bow caught the eye of the bouncy little thief, who went over to it and picked up the massive weapon.
Then somebody was picking the thief up—by the scarf around his neck—and hauling him several feet off the ground.
Mathayus glared at the thief, nose to nose now, and plucked away the bow and said to him, "Don't touch this again. Not ever."
Arpid managed to speak, through the narrow hole of his choked-off windpipe. "Well... I think we're off to a very good start... don't you?"
Mathayus let loose of the thief, as if discarding him. Then the Akkadian whistled, loud, sharp. The thief glanced about.
"Who are you calling?" Arpid asked.
"My ride," Mathayus said.
Before long the albino camel came loping up over a nearby ridge. The assassin walked to his mount, stroked the beast's neck, and swung up into the saddle.
And rode off.
"So!" Arpid called. "Where are we headed?"
Mathayus said nothing; he nudged the camel to more speed, and the animal complied.
"Hey!" the thief yelled. "We struck a bargain!"
The little man on foot trotted after the bigger man astride the albino camel.
"All right," the thief chattered breathlessly as he ran after the Akkadian, "I'll tell you where we're going! You came to kill that woman—that witch! Only you failed ... You saw how comely she was, and your bread started to rise, and you choked!"
Mathayus glowered back, as he rode; then he spurred the camel to a full gallop.
Desperately, Arpid ran faster, too, yelling, "So now you have to save your honor! And kill the wench!... Only, you don't know where she is, where Memnon's taking her... and I do!"
Scowling to himself, Mathayus kept right on riding.
But slower.
Sin City
T
hough its reputation was of sin and decadence, Gomorrah bespoke order and control, or at least its outward appearance did. At the heart of a rocky valley, as spectacular as it was imposing, this fortress city—heavily guarded by the red-turbaned minions of Memnon—was dominated by the battlements and turrets of the Great Teacher's palace.
The sandstone throne room of that palace was a magnificent space worthy of so renouned a warlord—gilded, pilastered, adorned with stark, muted (though colorful) designs that anticipated Egyptian culture of centuries to come; torch lamps—dark metal bowls of fire on spindly legs—threw a golden hue across the vast chamber, rife with lush drapes, intricate tapestries, oversize urns, and furnishings of strong simple design.
Along one wall slept two chained young beasts— a tiger and a lion—barely bigger than cubs, but not the pets of a commonplace man, not even a commonplace ruler. A huge, ornate golden throne, overseen by a shieldlike symbol, and bookended by ivory tusks pointing left and right, provided a looming perch fit for the king Memnon meant to be; along one side of the throne room, a spacious balcony looked out across the spires of the city ... the fabled city of sin that now belonged to Lord Memnon.
At a small round table near that balcony sat the sorceress, Cassandra, poring over a parchment map on which she arranged agates and jade and other smooth stones, in a manner, a pattern, flowing instinctively from an unearthly source within her. Clad in a diaphanous robe, her breasts and loins covered in glittering chain mail, regal in her golden headdress, she was attended by two similarly underclad beauties with feathered fans, soothing her from the warmth of the desert clime. But their presence, like the heat itself, did not penetrate her preoccupied, almost trancelike state.
With delicate gold-and-jewel-bedecked fingers she ran her searching touch across the face of the map, and the rune stones she had arranged there . . .
... summoning a vision: the warrior queen, Isis, on horseback, at full gallop, riding toward a forest, beyond which (Cassandra somehow knew) a settlement awaited. Then the queen drew up her steed, as smoke streamed into the sky from the decimated village. Around her, at her side, were her sister warriors, her tribal council; but coming toward her were more of the female fighters she ruled, and they showed the ragtag signs of battle, the blood, the soot, the despair. Slung across one saddle was a mortally wounded warrior; and on the queen's face anger and sadness fought for dominion.
Cassandra opened her eyes. She could feel the anguish of Queen Isis, but she kept that shared sorrow within her: no tears fell. Like so many seers, Cassandra had erected defensive walls—otherwise, she would be a slave to her visions.
A familiar voice boomed across the throne room: "And what news from my sorceress, today?"
She turned, nodding to her attendants, who slipped away, even as Lord Memnon—a warrior king in black leathers—strode across his throne room with his right-hand man, Thorak, and left-hand man, Takmet, at his appropriate sides.
Remaining seated, she swiveled toward Memnon, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. "The forces of Queen Isis are scattered to the four winds."
Memnon grinned, like a greedy child, exchanging satisfied nods with both his chief advisers.
"The people of Ur," she said, "are reeling from the death of their king."
At this mention of the father he'd murdered, Takmet smiled a little. The sorceress did not reveal her repulsion, merely continued.
"Pheron's tribes are evacuating their villages," she said. "They are without direction... . Leaderless."
Memnon's eyes tightened. "And what of the Nubian?"
Cassandra shook her head, and her dangling earrings made small music. "Balthazar ... and his people ... remain hidden from my sight."