He shut the door and lowered the wooden beam— which had thankfully not been in place—that secured it. Then, breathing hard, he turned and took in his surroundings, and strange surroundings they were indeed.
Mathayus had never seen the like of what he could not recognize as a primitive but prophetic laboratory, scattered with strange, imaginative inventions that centuries from now would have been worthy of da Vinci; the largest of these was a weapon Mathayus did not recognize, because it had only recently been invented (by the chamber's occupant): a large wooden catapult. On rough wood-slab tables bubbled and burbled various potions and mixtures, brewing colorfully over a series of oil lamps. The chemical smells that permeated the modest chamber were unknown to Mathayus, and sent his nose twitching like a rabbit's.
Then one of the vials cooking over a flame reacted, minorly but impressively, creating a hisssss that turned into a pooof, spewing acrid smoke.
As we have said, Mathayus was as brave a warrior as any; but such witchcraft spooked this exceptional man whose only schooling was in the ways of battle, and he was looking about him for a means of escape when someone—the smoke was getting thick—began to cough.
The Akkadian spun, and as a figure emerged from the chemical fog, the warrior thrust his scimitar and stopped the man's movement. Mathayus did not cut down the eccentric-looking creature, however, rather just stopped him there, touching the tip of the sword's blade to the man's throat.
Small, with unkempt white hair, his slight frame bound up in unprepossessing robes, the little man said, "Good lord . .. what a stench! Price of progress ... I am Philos! Can I help you, sir?"
Gazing into the odd little fellow's guileless eyes, Mathayus somehow how knew he'd blundered onto someone whom he could risk trusting. In any event, the magician ... for surely that was who this human curiosity was ... seemed no threat.
"I need a way to get of here," Mathayus said, frankly.
But before his host could answer, a banging at the barred door interrupted, and rough voices called, "Open up! Open up in there!"
The Akkadian swung around, scimitar poised, ready to fight.
"Oh my," Philos said.
"Go ahead," Mathayus said, always ready to die well. "Open it."
"No! No, no, no ... there'll be none of that here, no violence.... Here, come this way."
Moments later, Philos unbarred his door and graciously gestured for his callers to come in, which they did, in a rush, red-turbaned guards piling in, with the much-feared Thorak at their lead.
"Oh," Philos groaned. "Thorak ... must you be a brute in your every waking moment? Cannot you leave me in peace?"
"You'd rest in peace, if I had my way, magician," Thorak said, as his men began to search the cluttered laboratory, treating Philos's precious inventions with rough disdain.
"Please!" Philos said. 'Take care with those."
"Guard your tongue," Thorak growled. "My patience is thin today."
"How unusual," Philos said under his breath.
The scarred-faced Thorak strode to a table of experiments and lifted up a dish of black powder, pinching some of the substance, sniffing it.
"Careful, there!" Philos cried. "That's extremely dangerous! Magic powder from China!"
Thorak smirked at the magician, blowing the powder onto the flame of a nearby candle; the action made a small, not particularly impressive poof. This summoned another smirk from the massive head of the guards.
Philos shrugged. "Well, I haven't quite ciphered the correct compound, as yet."
Contempt colored Thorak's expression as a forceful hand swept the dish of powder to the hard floor, where it shattered.
Then the scarred guard stepped up threateningly to the little magician until the former's breastplate brushed the nose of the latter. "You are fortunate that Lord Memnon has a taste for your magic."
"I prefer to call it science."
"Science, then. Call it what you will, little man ... it's all a sham."
The other guards were looking toward their leader, with shrugs; they had found no one. Thorak stalked the chamber, having one last look around, moving past the catapult, the launching spoon of which was covered by a tarpaulin.
Quickly Philos caught Thorak's attention. "Well, you and I must put our differences aside. We both serve our lord Memnon, each in his own way."
Thorak strode back to the magician... or was that scientist? "The day will come, little man, when the Great Teacher's patience for idiocy will run out... and I will see your bones bleach in the sun."
Philos swallowed. "And a good day to you, sir, as well."
Thorak strutted out and his fellow guards followed him, though their leader waited for them to exit so he could personally slam the door.
Which Philos again secured with the wooden beam. He listened as their footsteps faded away, and then he said, "We seem to be alone again. At last."
Mathayus peeled away the tarp and revealed himself nestled in the catapult's spoon. He did not move from this position, relishing a few moments of rest. He would be on the move again, soon enough.
"Thank you," the Akkadian said to the scientist.
The little man sighed and walked over to join his guest, shaking his head as he came, his kind face lined with sadness and, yes, fright.
"Dark days, my friend," the scientist said. "More heads have rolled in this age of Memnon's 'peace' than I have seen in all my days .. . even days of war."
"I will not forget your goodwill, old man."
Philos sighed again, heavily, but mustered a smile. "How can we face ourselves, if we are to simply cast our fellowman to the winds?"
And then the scientist sat down on the catapult, leaning back against its release lever ...
... sending the mechanism's central arm flinging forward with a whump!, hurling Mathayus straight through the window and into the air.
"Oh dear," Philos said, standing, touching fingers to his lips. "Well... he did say he needed a way out of here ..."
The Akkadian, eyes wide, was flying; no bird could rival him, as he hurtled over the towers and minarets of the palace. But even as he enjoyed the view, he knew his landing could not rival that of the birds, unless he was very, very lucky.
And he was, though a less sturdy man might have suffered injuries, where Mathayus merely crashed into the large awning, on the far side of a high massive wall, the awning giving way, collapsing, but at an angle, sending him smashing through the exquisitely carved filigree-wooden shutters of a chamber whose purpose would soon be revealed to him.
Seated unceremoniously on the floor in a pile of splintered wood, the Akkadian—pleased that his bow had made the trip with him, intact—glanced about at the huge circular room, whose ceiling hung with satin drapes. The floor was marble, all but covered with loose cushions, around a small but elaborately fashioned central fountain. To one side a huge gong stood, as if at guard.
None of this impressed the Akkadian much, however—he was too riveted by the tenants of this simple yet somehow lavish den. Around him, seated on those pillows, lounging along the lip of the fountain, or just strolling aimlessly, were beautiful women, a dozen at least, in the delightfully skimpy attire of the harem girls they obviously were.
He gazed at them in wonderment—so much female beauty in one place, spread before him like a buffet of pulchritude. For a moment he wondered if he had died on impact and gone to some wonderful afterlife; or was he merely unconscious, perhaps dying, and dreaming one last sweet dream before the underworld claimed him?