The child shrugged and grinned. Couldn't blame a boy for trying, right?
Mathayus grinned back at him and held up the glittering jewel. "How would you like to keep this one?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
Mathayus glanced back tellingly at the looming palace. "Then I hope you're a better 'guide' than you are a thief...."
Harem Fling
T
he elevated gardens of Memnon's palace were lush and beautiful, dappled golden by the setting sun, which protested its imminent death by sending swordlike shafts of brilliant light bouncing off the marble pathways leading to a small central arena, one edge of which provided a view of the city. Here Lord Memnon—regal, despite the simplicity of his dark leather battle garb—held court... not to dispense wisdom, chart the course of war, or otherwise deal with matters of state. Rather, he exercised his own considerable warrior skills, in full view of an array of soldiers and courtiers, unafraid to test his mettle in front of them, for he knew he would not fail.
Right now Memnon—a quarterstaff in either hand—was trading blows with a likewise-armed master of martial arts brought here from the East some months ago, part of an expedition designed to bring specific rare provisions to Memnon's court magician, Philos. The Oriental master, his head shaved, his lithe form a mystery in flowing robes, had instructed Memnon in the numerous arts of war, including the one in which they were currently engaged.
The time had come, however, for the Great Teacher to instruct the master.
Memnon charged the smaller man, spinning the staffs dizzingly, a display of martial skill that widened the eyes of the courtiers and soldiers looking on. With brutal ease, the warlord disarmed and struck down the master.
The usual Oriental etiquette—bows and such, which Memnon found amusingly inappropriate— were dispensed with, as a pair of soldiers hauled away the injured "master," to the sound of the delighted courtiers' applause.
With a nod, Memnon signaled a bare-chested, red-turbaned bowman to begin the next test of the warlord's expertise. The muscular, trim-bearded archer withdrew a formidable bow from a large, ornately carved wooden weapons box, in which numerous arrows and bows resided.
Lord Memnon tossed away the two staffs, which were quickly retrieved and carried off by a pair of slaves, and walked to the center of the garden courtyard. He stretched his arms wide, as if welcoming a loved one. Then, slowly, he drew his hands together, arms stiff, until his open palms were separated by perhaps a foot, held out directly in front of his chest.
The warlord's gaze locked with that of the archer.
The courtiers were gasping, murmuring among themselves, marveling, and fearful. The Great Teacher's outstretched arms formed a virtual pathway for the archer's arrow! Could Lord Memnon possibly intend to...
He did so intend. The warlord held his position, just as his eyes held those of the archer, who drew back his bow.
As this tableau unfolded itself, a new guest—on a balcony overlooking the garden courtyard—was adding himself to the assemblage of spectators. Emerging from a small tower doorway onto the balcony, Mathayus smiled tightly as he handed his guide, the street urchin, the promised ruby, which the grinning gamin snatched in his fist, and disappeared back the way they'd come.
The Akkadian crept close to the edge of the balcony wall, one hand on the sandstone ledge, as he peered cautiously over at the unfolding scene below. At first the Akkadian did not comprehend the potentially deadly exercise that Memnon had arranged for himself; all the assassin saw was the warlord ... his quarry, finally within his reach.
Emotions leaped in Mathayus—joy at his success; rage at seeing the man who had butchered his brother Akkadians....
But then, as he fought back the almost uncontrollable fury, summoning the passionless, professional disposition a true assassin needed to practice his art, Mathayus finally noticed the bizarre game that seemed about to play itself out.
For brief moments, Mathayus wondered if Memnon was facing an executioner; had a palace revolt negated the assassin's own efforts at revenge? Then he realized the arrogant, proud Memnon was risking his life to impress his people, to demonstrate his superhuman capabilities; and Mathayus could hardly believe the absurdity, the asininity of such ego ...
Below, the red-turbaned guards and the audience of courtiers were struck dumb, awed by the daring of their lord and master.
Memnon nodded ...
... and the archer let fly!
Mathayus reared back, startled as he saw the unblinking Memnon snap his hands shut and catch the arrow, inches from a breastplate that would not have sufficiently shielded the warlord's heart.
The Great Teacher nodded to the archer, who returned the gesture, but deeper, as the courtyard rang with applause.
As for Mathayus, he was not clapping; he was notching his own arrow into his mighty bow, his smile as taut as the bowstring, knowing even a man of such skills as Memnon could not catch an arrow he didn't see coming ... well, not catch it in his hands....
But as Mathayus aimed at his nemesis, sighting the man with precision and pleasure, a commotion below distracted him. The Akkadian ignored the disruption, regaining his concentration, steadying his aim, drawing a bead, pulling back the impossibly taut bowstring .. . through the neck would be nice....
And then a pair of red-turbaned guards dragged a struggling prisoner into full view below, to face Lord Memnon. Since his high angle on his target was not hindered, the Akkadian initially intended to go ahead and shoot.
But then he saw who the prisoner was—the boy!
The street urchin who had aided him, guided him through that rear doorway into just the right tower, providing him this perch ...
Damn!
Now the guards, hauling the boy, were periodically blocking the assassin's line of sight, and he paused, muscles straining as he held the tense bowstring in place, waiting to fire, ready to fire.
Right now, however, one of the guards was displaying to Memnon the ruby, which they'd obviously found on the boy.
"Why waste my time?" Memnon snapped, speaking to the guards but looking straight at the ragamuffin. "Why test my patience? You know the penalty for thievery."
The guards dragged the boy to a nearby table and forced him to stretch his small arm out, straight. From the back of the row of red-turbaned guards, a burly example of their brethren emerged, with a large ax in hand, its edge catching the dying sunlight and glinting, making the watching Akkadian blink.
The ax-wielding guard raised his implement high, and Mathayus—face darkening, frustrated—swore under his breath as he shifted his aim and let the arrow fly.
The power of the Akkadian's arm, the swiftness of the arrow's flight, the sturdiness of its shaft, its razor-keen point, all did their appointed tasks: the arrow hit the ax handle, hard, knocking it from the guard's grasp and sending it whanging into a tree, where the blade quivered and held.
Not a second passed before every eye was on that balcony (allowing the boy to scramble away), the presence of an intruder sparking an immediate alarm. With an impressive implementation of procedure, half the guards swarmed their lord and master, and swept him from the garden; the rest flew into pursuit.
Bow slung back over his shoulder, scimitar in hand, the Akkadian was racing down the balcony walkway, where he soon spotted a small entry in a tower at his path's dead end. In the corridor beyond, he hustled along, and the first door he came to, he shouldered open, and thrust himself inside.