Picture now that map stained with blood, and follow a glistening red trail of destruction, whose path leaches out, soaking up everything in its way. Look deeper and imagine the hordes of charging horsemen, a horizon lined with archers sending arrows streaking into the sky, and multitudes of foot soldiers, marching inexorably onward.
The warlord who commanded these armies was called "Teacher of Men "—Memnon, in their ancient tongue—but the lessons he taught were strict indeed... how destruction could pave the way for conquest, how death could vanquish one people and make way for another, invading one. Memnon imparted his wisdom by taking male prisoners only to put them to death, to "liberate" females for purpose of ravishment and slavery... the sword and chains were his teaching tools.
The populace all across those bleak lands took these lessons to heart—men of every race and color and creed gathered their wives and children and fled their homes, running in panic, in terror, and sometimes escaping. Sometimes. Other men stayed to fight, as soldiers, in defense of their homes, their land... and were defeated.
And those soldiers who did not die in battle—and were not officers, earmarked for execution—would line the roadside beyond their burned, looted village, waiting under a scorching sun for the victors to pronounce sentence. Trembling, terrified, their bravery beaten out of them, they would stand weaponless, smoke and flames rising from the ruins to lick the sky, as if hungry for more conquest.
And among them would move a giant on a snorting steed, a human nightmare with a scarred battle-shield of a face, his red turban signaling his allegiance to the invading army.
His name was Thorak, and he had long since lost count of the men he had killed. And to the vanquished army he would bellow, "Kneel before Lord Memnon!"
As if presenting an actor on a stage, Thorak would gesture behind him as the warlord himself, astride a regal black Arabian, seemed to materialize among them, clip-clopping through the smoke of combat. Not the brute that his second-in-command was, Lord Memnon—glittering in gold chain mail— looked no less fearsome, a muscular man with carved handsome features, sides of his head shaved, a shock of dark hair riding a fine skull, a beautiful man, yet virile. Around him, some on horseback, some on foot, a phalanx of red-turbaned guards, each man a vicious exemplar of fighting prowess, provided protection; yet somehow Memnon seemed above them ...as if he could fend for himself, and only put up with the armed guard for purposes of ceremony.
Inevitably, the defeated soldiers would drop to their knees—better to pay obeisance to Lord Memnon, better to join his fearsome ranks, than to stay here in the charred ruins of a home that was theirs no longer, and douse the land uselessly with their blood.
Memnon would stare at them, from horseback, as if considering whether their addition might be worth his trouble, weighing whether or not to simply slay them. And sometimes this would indeed be his decision. But more often the great teacher accepted these pupils into his school of slaughter, nodding to Thorak, then wheeling his horse around and thundering away through the sea of his own soldiers.
In less than ten years, Memnon had conquered all but a few scattered tribes, and only one solitary kingdom remained—and if you will again picture that map, imagine only the tiniest corner remaining, free of blood, free of Memnon. . . a scrap of land near the Red Sea called the Kingdom of Ur.
This tiny corner, and a few brave men and women, were all that separated Memnon from the destiny he sought to claim: to be king of the known world, to fulfill the ancient prophecy:
By tolling bell and thunder's swell,
a flaming star falls from the sky.
By a full moon's glow, in House of Scorpio,
Kneeling men bow to the King on High.
THE SCORPION KING
The Akkadian Assassins
F
lame shadows flickered in the night across the seven obelisks, giant rock shards embedded in the earth, ranging from ten to fifteen feet high, like spears of stone hurled down by giants or perhaps gods. And onto the obelisks had been carved faces, the images of gods chiseled there by primitive men long before the people of Ur had come here. These god faces seemed to stare at the village of tents nearby, hundreds of nomadic tarp-structures representing various clans—the last great tribes who had not fallen to the warlord Memnon—gathered on this dark night at this site of council.
Warriors in varying styles of helmet and leather cuirass, shields and swords at their sides, created a human circle around the assembly of their tribal leaders. Torches rode shafts, flames snapping at the coolness of the desert after dark, and a central fire pit threw orange and yellow at the blueness of the night.
Pheron of Ur, warrior king—a noble if grizzled figure, his white beard and a simple golden crown speaking volumes about his station—sat on a throne of stone, presiding over the council, gathered about the circle of fire. A debate was raging—and it was getting out of hand, reasoned discussion blazing into heated words and unruly outbursts.
"Silence!" King Pheron demanded.
The tide of quarreling did not roll back, however, and Takmet, a young, lightly bearded warrior, his breastplate unscarred, stepped forward. "My father calls for silence!"
The roar of rancor fell to a rumbling grumbling.
"Discord must cease!" Pheron said, putting as much force into his words as he could, war weary as he was. "We have come together in this sacred place to put our differences aside."
Deep breaths were let out, and men began to nod at this wisdom.
"There is still time for us, my brothers," Pheron said, "to unite against this tyrant—for without us . .. the last of the free tribes ... the world is lost."
From the darkness stepped a Nubian woman of regal bearing and great physical beauty: Queen Isis. Her hair was long, well past her shoulders, and black as a raven's wing, her strong slender form bound in the leathers of war. Around Isis were a small army of dark female warriors, lovely, fierce. Like her.
"Memnon's soldiers," Isis said, "outnumber our own combined forces—ten to one... I am sorry, Pheron. Your heart is strong, your intentions noble . . . but warriors must choose their stands wisely. And we choose not to join you in this battle of futility."
"Will you flee, then?" King Pheron asked. "Like frightened females?"
The eyes of the dark queen flared.
But Pheron continued: "Because surely you know that Memnon will bring conquest to your door... You have only one choice, Isis. Stand and fight... or run."
The queen, her eyes tight, considered this.
The weathered king—he was an old man, past forty—looked at the gathering of tribal leaders, saw the struggle-hardened, often bearded faces, took in the helmets, the breastplates, the shields, the swords, and knew he faced warriors. "The tribes must stand, and fight, together!"
All eyes were on the king; the only sounds, other than his voice, were the night wind and the crackle of flames.