From a precipice near his tent, hands on his hips, the Nubian loomed over his camp, surveying the tranquil, unwoken world of the coalition of tribes, this ragtag crew upon whom rested the hopes of a future without Memnon. The only sign of life in the clear light of dawn was a single fire, around which the horse thief, the scientist and the Akkadian conferred.
And the latter seemed to be gathering his weapons, preparing for battle.
Balthazar quickly slung on his own sword, and headed down the pathway, prepared to deal with this problem, once and for all.
He strode up to the Akkadian, who was arranging his belt with daggers and kama, the massive scimitar already in place. "What strife are you stirring now, assassin?"
Mathayus did not respond; the huge warrior standing before him might not have existed.
Fury began to rise like steam within the Nubian, but suddenly Queen Isis was next to him, her fingers on his arm; it was as if she had materialized.
"The sorceress is gone," she said, in a hushed, somber tone. "Returned to Gomorrah."
Balthazar snorted a laugh. "Back to Memnon's bed, no doubt!"
The Akkadian whirled, fire in his eyes. "She is not his woman—she never has been, and never will!"
The Nubian frowned. "If she is your woman, Akkadian, where is she now? What sends her flying back to the safety of Gomorrah?"
"Safety is not what she seeks," the assassin said. "She is braver than any of us ... than all of us, combined. Hear me, king—she saw your people destroyed."
"What? How—"
"In a vision, last night. She saw Memnon here, in this place, slaughtering all around us, to find her, and gather her back to his snake's den ... and to stop that nightmare from coming true, she went back to him ... to her cage."
Balthazar tried to fathom this. "She ... sacrificed her freedom for us?"
Arpid raised an eyebrow. "At least."
Mathayus had returned to arming himself, preparing his things for departure. "I'm getting her back, before he ... I'm going after her."
The king snorted another laugh, though the derision was out of it. "I see—and you now expect me, and my people, to help you. Because some crazy woman saw a vision."
"I don't expect anything from you." The Akkadian paused and looked hard at the Nubian. "And yesterday she was not a 'crazy woman'—but the sorceress who you feared would lead Memnon to this hideout. Well, she's spared you ... so spare me your 'wisdom' ... O great king."
And the assassin strode away, to saddle up one of the horses inherited from the men of Memnon who'd been slaughtered in the sandstorm battle.
Balthazar felt a strange mix of emotions—annoyance at the Akkadian's sarcastic disrespect; and yet an admiration for his bravery. And, too, he did feel humbled by the lady oracle's sacrifice for the tribal people....
The Nubian shook his head, and said to Isis, "The fool. Would he face Memnon alone?"
But it was the thief who, matter-of-factly, replied: "He said he would."
And Philos added, gravely, "He is nothing if not a man of his word."
Balthazar felt the eyes of Isis on him, and he turned to her; their gazes locked. Then the Nubian sighed heavily, and nodded to her .. . and the lovely warrior queen smiled.
Within minutes, Mathayus was spurring his speed toward the opening in the rocks, which led to the dank cavern connecting with the oasis, and the desert beyond. From behind those rocks, in the eerie flickering of torches that lighted the way, Balthazar emerged, holding his hands up, in "stop" fashion.
Reining back, impatient, the Akkadian said, "Move aside. I have no time for our petty argument."
Then Queen Isis stepped out beside Balthazar, a united front. The assassin frowned—this woman had supported Mathayus before . .. was she now his enemy?
Taking advantage of the pause Isis provoked in the barbarian, Balthazar said firmly, "You are riding to your death, Akkadian. If I let you go alone . .." And now the king smiled grimly. "... what glory will be left for me?"
Stunned, the Akkadian said, "You would join me in my fight?"
"As you have said, the fight is not yours—it is ours."
Still reining back his horse, frowning in thought, the Akkadian said, "I am trained to fight in small groups—I know nothing of leading an army"
"Ah—so now you proclaim yourself leader?"
No menace tightened the features of the assassin, as he gazed down from horseback at his adversary of the day before. "I do not mean offense. But we do not have the numbers to stand against Memnon's army. I suggest, instead, stealth—a band of us infiltrating his city ... his very palace .. . and when I have taken the head from his shoulders, his reign will end, and your people will need not ride to their slaughter."
"We have indeed inflicted more damage upon Memnon with our raids," Balthazar said, thoughtfully, "than any foolhardy head-on attack... I see the sense of it, Akkadian."
Queen Isis strode forward. "I suggest we make haste. On our journey, there will be sufficient time for planning our strategies."
Mathayus said, "Agreed."
Then the king nodded his own assent, and they returned to camp, to select their crew.
As the blazing orange ball of the sun went to its rest, and the blue shadows of encroaching night crept across Gomorrah, the elevated courtyard of Memnon's palace played host to a grand giddy party, tables arranged in a square and laden with a literal king's banquet, an array of food and drink to stagger the imagination, and challenge the digestion. The courtiers groaned from this orgy of a repast, and the guests of honor—Memnon's generals—put aside their staid military manner to indulge in fine, ever-flowing wine, their eyes hungrily taking in the bevy of beautiful belly dancers performing before them. Flutes and cymbals joined in a percussive music that provided inspiration to the undulating female forms, which in turn inspired the generals to perspiration.
The son of the late King Pheron sat at Memnon's side, fiddling with various playthings—a pair of voluptuous wenches on loan from the king's personal stash of concubines, and a mammoth, intricately carved bow. The two women were fondling the slender prince, lavishing him with attention, but Takmet's own focus was on that bow—as he tried, unsuccessfully, to draw back its taut string.
The bow, of course, was the Akkadian's—left behind, when he'd been trapped in Memnon's harem.
Everyone seemed to be having a fine time, a memorable, remarkable time ... except for the bringer of the feast, himself. Lord Memnon had eaten little, and imbibed less, sitting at the center of the head table, on a throne of gold, lost in tense concentration and even anxiety.
Somewhere, beyond the city gates, across the desert, his sorceress remained in the clutches of the Akkadian. Had the bastard defiled her, ruined her as a seer, and robbed him of a pleasure of which he had long dreamed? Was she a prisoner, or a willing slave of that copper-skinned spawn of camel and goat?
As the dancing girls finished their performance, and applause rang across the stone courtyard, the Great Teacher rose from his chair of gold. The wenches ran off, in a tinkle of toe cymbals and chain-mail halters and loincloths; and the guests quieted, turning their attention to their host, clad in black leather armor.
'Tonight," Memnon said, his voice notched to a volume suited to public speaking, "is the first night of the House of Scorpio."
Above, a bright nearly full moon sent its ivory fingers down to touch the courtyard. Memnon gestured to the glowing orb.
"When the moon is at its peak," he said, his voice resonant, rolling across the guests, "I will stand on that very altar..."