Cassandra stood now, watching in horror, though she tried not to reveal her feelings.
Memnon wasn't hiding his—he was grinning, mockingly nostalgic as he said, "Having you back... working your wonders ... it's like old times."
And she watched, with open eyes, as various venomous serpents were dropped, writhing with rage, into all but two of the pots.
Elsewhere in the palace, in the lower catacomblike corridors, Arpid and Philos were even now scurrying, each little man lugging four stacked bags of powder. As they reached a fork in the passageway, Philos stopped, got his bearings for a moment, then pointed to the right. "This way," he said.
Arpid frowned, studying the scientist. "You're sure?"
"Of course I am," he said, mildly offended. "I used to live here!"
And down another corridor they scampered.
With a wave the Great Teacher dismissed the snake-handling slaves to wait along the periphery, and he went to his sorceress, taking her by the arm, walking her over to the alcove, as if escorting her to a dinner of state. But the big round table, with the half-dozen massive urns, was no banquet, unless one considered terror a suitable main course.
He moved away from her and gripped the edge of the table ... and spun it!
This was, it seemed, a meal of sorts, after all—a revolving serving table had been perverted by the warlord into a wheel of spinning doom.
Memnon's eyes flicked from her face to the rotating table and back again, as he said, "And so, my sorceress . .. my seer—let us see what you can see."
She watched, mesmerized, as the table slowly came to a halt.
"Which two, my oracle? Which two of these urns are empty?"
She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then stepped forward. Walking slowly around the table, appraising each urn, she stopped at one and lay her hands on the pottery.
Memnon watched intently, and when her eyes snapped open, he wondered—was something wrong?
Something was indeed wrong, though Cassandra strove not to show it. She closed her eyes and touched the urn once more—and her mind was a blank. The ancient myth had proved true: only a virgin could possess the gift of second sight; and she had given herself to the Akkadian. And thrown her gift to the winds ...
Glancing at Memnon, she knew one need not be a soothsayer to read his inquiring gaze. If she refused this test, that would be an admission, and she would surely die; perhaps the gods who had granted her vision were still with her, even if her gift had come to its end.
Cassandra prayed to them, silently—not to return her vision, but to guide her hand ... because there was no eluding this test.
She reached out and lifted the lid from the urn, and she gazed down into the unknown depths of its stygian interior, which seemed to stare back up at her.
Then she plunged her arm into the urn!
Memnon watched, an eyebrow arched, perspiration beading his forehead, his smile a conflicted one—who could say whether the Great Teacher hoped she would pass or fail his examination?
Her fingers scraped the bottom of the empty urn, and she withdrew her arm.
"Excellent," Memnon said, though she could not tell if he was truly pleased by her success.
The warlord removed the empty urn, pitching it to the floor in careless abandon, where it shattered.
The sound made her shudder, as did his strangely gleeful expression. Five pots remained—four containing poisonous snakes—and Memnon viewed them with apparent pleasure, saying, "Just one left."
And again he spun the table.
Why he did this a second time, other than to unnerve her further, she could not say; perhaps he thought she had managed to keep track of the pots with snakes, when he first whirled the tabletop. But she had not—she had seen only a blur, and luck— or the gods—had been with her.
Now, as the table slowed and then stopped, Memnon led her back to the table, close by her side as she moved around it, studying her choices. Finally she hovered between two urns, listening for an inner voice or any instinct that might guide her. Her hand reached out—tremblingly.
The warlord seemed amused as he said, "I am no sorcerer—but I will tell you what I see ..."
Ignoring him, she placed a hand on one of the urn lids.
"...fear."
Had he not spoken, she might have heard the subtle shift of scales against hard clay ... but she did not.
And, with a defiant glare at Memnon, Cassandra reached her hand into the urn.
She froze.
Memnon, watching intently, took several steps back. Had she been biten?
The sorceress withdrew her hand from the urn, and turned slowly, and displayed her arm to the warlord ...
... Like an elaborate masterwork of the jeweler's art, a cobra coiled around her forearm, its hooded head near her hand, but ignoring it, instead spitting and hissing at the close-by Memnon.
This turn of events catching him off balance, both literally and figuratively, Memnon staggered back several paces, and cried, "What magic is this?"
Cassandra, her chin high, unafraid, said, "My magic."
Moving away, circling around her, he sought safety.
Now she stalked the warlord, her eyes ablaze. "I am a daughter of the furies, foolish mortal. I see the world's fate in the stars!"
Memnon drew his sword, a defensive posture, as he continued to retreat; behind him, a few yards, was a shuttered window ...
... and through that window, Cassandra could see the figure there, his eyes locking with hers: Mathayus!
Outside, the Akkadian gripped the upper window ledge, and tensed the mighty muscles of his legs, and swung away from the wall, soles of his sandaled feet aimed at those shutters.
"I see your fate, O hollow king," a determined Cassandra was saying quietly. "And its time has come. . . ."
And Mathayus came smashing, thundering through the shutters, splintering them, and slamming into Memnon, feet first, sending the warlord careening, tumbling across the throne room, his sword flying from his fingers.
The snake-handler slaves, seeing the amazing arrival of the intruder, reacted at once; one of them ran out the door, the other going to a long hanging cord, yanking it, and alarm bells began to peal. Cassandra, her ears filled with the raised alarm, flung the cobra from her wrist, and it went slithering off, wanting nothing of these humans.
The Akkadian rolled to his feet, and yanked the scimitar from his belt, filling his hand with steel. Across the sumptuous throne room, the would-be king of the world staggered to his feet, and looked into the glare of his uninvited guest, whose great blade winked with reflected torchlight.
Then the Akkadian glanced toward Cassandra, and by the assassin's concerned gaze—she nodded to the assassin that she was all right—the warlord was informed of the nature of their alliance, and knew he had been betrayed ... by lovers.
Mathayus was moving slowly toward him, brandishing the scimitar. "I've come for the woman," the Akkadian said. "And your head ..."
The warlord knew very well that a pair of ancient but serviceable swords hung nearby, where they decorated a sandstone wall.
"The assassin and the sorceress," Memnon said. "How sweet—how romantic ..."
And with reflexes worthy of those slithering snakes, he whirled and grabbed both swords from their pegs, and wheeled with warrior grace, a blade in either hand, spinning the two weapons expertly, not beaten yet, not hardly.
"I will be sure," Memnon said, "to inter you together."
And the the warriors ran at each other, their swords clashing and clanging, ringing throughout the chamber even as the alarm bells continued their own toll of death.