And now the warlord pointed to the wide steps to the altar constructed in the courtyard.
"... and the gods will reach down to me... and appoint me, anoint me .. .the Scorpion King!"
A hush fell across the assemblage. This had been a display of such megalomania, that the proper response was uncertain—to applaud might lessen the moment, to laugh would get one killed. And right now Memnon was casting a look of steel around the courtyard.
"And the very earth," he said, his voice low, but every ear hanging on each word, "shall crack at my feet."
Another respectful, cowed hush followed, only to be rudely—surprisingly—broken, as a chair scraped the stone floor. Eyes flew to General Toran, who was standing.
"My lord," the general said, "all of that is well and good. .. but there is something I must share with you—something that is troubling our troops."
The guests exchanged nervous glances. This was either foolhardy, or brave, of General Toran; whispered comments wondered if too much wine was involved....
"How distressing," Memnon said, in a normal tone of voice. "I am of course concerned—anything that troubles my men, troubles me. Please tell— what is it?"
Toran seemed uneasy by this seemingly offhanded response.
"My lord," the general said, "it has been said that the sorceress is no longer at your side."
Memnon shrugged. "Soldiers often fall prey to palace gossip .. . You have my word that she is safe."
"With all due respect, my lord—if our men are to fight, to die, they may need more than that."
The air seemed suddenly chill; a desert breeze ruffled the flames of torches and candles.
Memnon stepped down from his golden chair and walked, slowly, to the general; his expression seemed friendly, calm. When he reached the man, Memnon asked, "My word—is it not enough?"
And now the general seemed to know how dangerous these waters were, and he began to tread them... yet he could not back down. "It is not that—your word is unquestioned. It is just... the oracle is a symbol from which the men derive courage ... and symbols are most effective, my lord, when they are in full view."
Memnon seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he said, "It concerns me, general, that the men have so little faith that they—"
A voice cut him off—a feminine, familiar one: "My lord? My apologies."
All eyes turned, Memnon among them—he could not conceal his shock—as the lovely sorceress ... underclad in a sheer gown over shimmering golden halter and tiny skirt, long hair capped as usual with a gilt headdress ... strode regally across the courtyard.
When she reached Memnon's side, she said, "I am here, as you requested—forgive my lateness." She turned her placid, regal gaze to rest on the assembled generals. "And gentlemen, forgive my absence, of late, at our councils. I have not been well... but know that my spirit has been heartened by our impending victory."
The eyes of the generals were wide and locked upon her; Toran seemed almost to stumble back, at the sight of her.
To the generals, Memnon said lightly, "Is this sufficient to placate your men?" Then he turned to Cassandra. "Please tell my generals what you have seen, my sorceress."
Her eyes traveled slowly across the assembled guests; torchlight flickered, throwing dark shadows over a courtyard cloaked by the moon's ivory. "I see a great victory.... Your enemies will reveal themselves before you."
The slightly inebriated generals did not perceive the ambiguity of this statement, and shared confident smiles, and touched wine goblets.
General Toran still stood, but his head hung in chagrin. Sheepishly, he said, "My sincerest apologies, my lord."
Memnon lifted his left hand, waving that off magnanimously. "I understand, old friend. It is only human, to be fearful, weak...."
And with his other, the warlord thrust the Akkadian's dagger into the general's chest, piercing his heart. Toran had only a moment to be surprised before, dead, he pitched back onto the table, knocking a goblet of wine to bleed its contents on the courtyard floor.
"And anyone with such weak traits as that," Memnon said, "is of no use to me as a general." He casually looked from the face of one stunned commander to another, and said, "Consider this a symbol, in full view. I trust it's effective. . .. Now—are there any others among you who doubt my word?"
Looking sideways at one another, the generals shook their heads, murmuring their loyalty, their belief in their lord.
"How reassuring," Memnon said. "And now . .. the feast is over. To your beds, my generals ... take a wench with you, if you like, but rest well. For tomorrow ... we conquer."
The guests—grandly entertained by all of this— clapped and applauded their drunken approval.
Memnon turned to Cassandra, and said so softly that only she heard: "Wait for me in my chambers."
"... My lord?"
'There is a subject I would discuss with you."
"Yes, my lord." She half bowed, and moved away, disappearing within the palace. Memnon, having watched her go with a cold, wary gaze, now turned to Takmet.
"Fortify the palace guard," the warlord said.
Takmet, still fiddling unsuccessfully with the Akkadian's bow, said, "It is done, my lord," and tossed the pair of wenches off his lap.
Memnon did not bid his guests any further goodbye; lost in dark thought, he made his way into the palace, following the path of his sorceress.
Outside the fortified walls of Gomorrah—along the forward parapet of which four archers were positioned—a horse-drawn cart, covered by a tattered tarp, creaked and groaned up to the main gates. Half a dozen red-turbaned, heavily armed guards walked up to the small, skimpily bearded man holding the reins of the horses. Seated next to him was another slight, unthreatening-looking creature, with a thatch of unruly white hair.
"What's in the cart?" one of the guards asked.
Arpid glanced at the fearsome fellow. "What's in the cart?"
"You heard me!" And the guard's hand went to his sword hilt; the other red-turbaned sentries did the same.
Nervously, Arpid glanced behind him at the tarp. "You want to know what's in the cart.. . . Truth be told, it's a kind of... surprise."
As the guards moved in closer, suspicion prickling the backs of their necks, the archers above noticed this confrontation in the making, and moved into position, watching the cart, ever vigilant.
Toward the end of the parapet, however, one of those guards thought he heard something—the clink of metal, on stone? As his three comrades trained their attention on the horse-drawn cart below, this archer moved into the dark shadows at the far side of the ledge, investigating alone.
Down by the gate, Arpid was hopping from the cart, where he now—unhesitatingly, his nervousness vanished—yanked back the tarp, revealing half a dozen women. These were (for the most part) raving beauties, in the haremlike, belly-dancer-style attire that drove the men of those times (and other times, as well) to distraction.
The red-turbaned guards had no inkling that these beauties were Queen Isis and her fierce female warriors—dressed, as they were, for the bedroom, not the battlefield.
"A royal gift for tonight's revelry," the horse thief said, with a pompous bow that made several of the sentries chuckle. "They are to be delivered to Prince Takmet."
"Lucky bastard," one of the guards said.
Arpid turned to the cart, which brimmed with pulchritude, the "girls" cooing and waving at the guards. "Ladies," he said, "come down and say hello to our brave soldiers—where would the kingdom be without them?"
The guards helped the girls down and they quickly paired off, talking, flirting, while above the archers looked down in envy.