by The King
The child smiled, sheepishly, and held out his hand... proferring the precious pouch.
Mathayus took his property back, and put the boy down, the Akkadian's hard gaze instructing him not to run. After Mathayus had again tied the pouch to his belt, he gripped the urchin's jaw in one hand, prying it open, and reached the fingers of his other hand in ... to withdraw a ruby.
The child shrugged and grinned. Couldn't blame a boy for trying, right?
Mathayus grinned back at him and held up the glittering jewel. "How would you like to keep this one?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically.
Mathayus glanced back tellingly at the looming palace. "Then I hope you're a better 'guide' than you are a thief...."
Harem Fling
T
he elevated gardens of Memnon's palace were lush and beautiful, dappled golden by the setting sun, which protested its imminent death by sending swordlike shafts of brilliant light bouncing off the marble pathways leading to a small central arena, one edge of which provided a view of the city. Here Lord Memnon—regal, despite the simplicity of his dark leather battle garb—held court... not to dispense wisdom, chart the course of war, or otherwise deal with matters of state. Rather, he exercised his own considerable warrior skills, in full view of an array of soldiers and courtiers, unafraid to test his mettle in front of them, for he knew he would not fail.
Right now Memnon—a quarterstaff in either hand—was trading blows with a likewise-armed master of martial arts brought here from the East some months ago, part of an expedition designed to bring specific rare provisions to Memnon's court magician, Philos. The Oriental master, his head shaved, his lithe form a mystery in flowing robes, had instructed Memnon in the numerous arts of war, including the one in which they were currently engaged.
The time had come, however, for the Great Teacher to instruct the master.
Memnon charged the smaller man, spinning the staffs dizzingly, a display of martial skill that widened the eyes of the courtiers and soldiers looking on. With brutal ease, the warlord disarmed and struck down the master.
The usual Oriental etiquette—bows and such, which Memnon found amusingly inappropriate— were dispensed with, as a pair of soldiers hauled away the injured "master," to the sound of the delighted courtiers' applause.
With a nod, Memnon signaled a bare-chested, red-turbaned bowman to begin the next test of the warlord's expertise. The muscular, trim-bearded archer withdrew a formidable bow from a large, ornately carved wooden weapons box, in which numerous arrows and bows resided.
Lord Memnon tossed away the two staffs, which were quickly retrieved and carried off by a pair of slaves, and walked to the center of the garden courtyard. He stretched his arms wide, as if welcoming a loved one. Then, slowly, he drew his hands together, arms stiff, until his open palms were separated by perhaps a foot, held out directly in front of his chest.
The warlord's gaze locked with that of the archer.
The courtiers were gasping, murmuring among themselves, marveling, and fearful. The Great Teacher's outstretched arms formed a virtual pathway for the archer's arrow! Could Lord Memnon possibly intend to...
He did so intend. The warlord held his position, just as his eyes held those of the archer, who drew back his bow.
As this tableau unfolded itself, a new guest—on a balcony overlooking the garden courtyard—was adding himself to the assemblage of spectators. Emerging from a small tower doorway onto the balcony, Mathayus smiled tightly as he handed his guide, the street urchin, the promised ruby, which the grinning gamin snatched in his fist, and disappeared back the way they'd come.
The Akkadian crept close to the edge of the balcony wall, one hand on the sandstone ledge, as he peered cautiously over at the unfolding scene below. At first the Akkadian did not comprehend the potentially deadly exercise that Memnon had arranged for himself; all the assassin saw was the warlord ... his quarry, finally within his reach.
Emotions leaped in Mathayus—joy at his success; rage at seeing the man who had butchered his brother Akkadians....
But then, as he fought back the almost uncontrollable fury, summoning the passionless, professional disposition a true assassin needed to practice his art, Mathayus finally noticed the bizarre game that seemed about to play itself out.
For brief moments, Mathayus wondered if Memnon was facing an executioner; had a palace revolt negated the assassin's own efforts at revenge? Then he realized the arrogant, proud Memnon was risking his life to impress his people, to demonstrate his superhuman capabilities; and Mathayus could hardly believe the absurdity, the asininity of such ego ...
Below, the red-turbaned guards and the audience of courtiers were struck dumb, awed by the daring of their lord and master.
Memnon nodded ...
... and the archer let fly!
Mathayus reared back, startled as he saw the unblinking Memnon snap his hands shut and catch the arrow, inches from a breastplate that would not have sufficiently shielded the warlord's heart.
The Great Teacher nodded to the archer, who returned the gesture, but deeper, as the courtyard rang with applause.
As for Mathayus, he was not clapping; he was notching his own arrow into his mighty bow, his smile as taut as the bowstring, knowing even a man of such skills as Memnon could not catch an arrow he didn't see coming ... well, not catch it in his hands....
But as Mathayus aimed at his nemesis, sighting the man with precision and pleasure, a commotion below distracted him. The Akkadian ignored the disruption, regaining his concentration, steadying his aim, drawing a bead, pulling back the impossibly taut bowstring .. . through the neck would be nice....
And then a pair of red-turbaned guards dragged a struggling prisoner into full view below, to face Lord Memnon. Since his high angle on his target was not hindered, the Akkadian initially intended to go ahead and shoot.
But then he saw who the prisoner was—the boy!
The street urchin who had aided him, guided him through that rear doorway into just the right tower, providing him this perch ...
Damn!
Now the guards, hauling the boy, were periodically blocking the assassin's line of sight, and he paused, muscles straining as he held the tense bowstring in place, waiting to fire, ready to fire.
Right now, however, one of the guards was displaying to Memnon the ruby, which they'd obviously found on the boy.
"Why waste my time?" Memnon snapped, speaking to the guards but looking straight at the ragamuffin. "Why test my patience? You know the penalty for thievery."
The guards dragged the boy to a nearby table and forced him to stretch his small arm out, straight. From the back of the row of red-turbaned guards, a burly example of their brethren emerged, with a large ax in hand, its edge catching the dying sunlight and glinting, making the watching Akkadian blink.
The ax-wielding guard raised his implement high, and Mathayus—face darkening, frustrated—swore under his breath as he shifted his aim and let the arrow fly.
The power of the Akkadian's arm, the swiftness of the arrow's flight, the sturdiness of its shaft, its razor-keen point, all did their appointed tasks: the arrow hit the ax handle, hard, knocking it from the guard's grasp and sending it whanging into a tree, where the blade quivered and held.
Not a second passed before every eye was on that balcony (allowing the boy to scramble away), the presence of an intruder sparking an immediate alarm. With an impressive implementation of procedure, half the guards swarmed their lord and master, and swept him from the garden; the rest flew into pursuit.
Bow slung back over his shoulder, scimitar in hand, the Akkadian was racing down the balcony walkway, where he soon spotted a small entry in a tower at his path's dead end. In the corridor beyond, he hustled along, and the first door he came to, he shouldered open, and thrust himself inside.
He shut the door and lowered the wooden beam— which had thankfully not been in place—that se�
�cured 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?
"A man!" the damsel nearest him chirped.
Mathayus clamped a hand over her pretty mouth. "Quiet, now."
Then he realized they seemed to be staring at him much as he had at them—in wonderment. He had not the slightest idea why, having no sense of what a magnificent male specimen he must have seemed to the fetching young women.
He took his hand off the girl's mouth, and she remained silent. Good. Rising, drawing his scimitar, he looked all about. "What is this place?"
Another of the girls whispered, "Lord Memnon's harem,
of course."
They were all around him now, a beautiful swarm.
"But you'd never know it was," another said. "Our lord so seldom visits...."
Another exquisite creature said, "He has better things to do, it would seem."
And another stroked the assassin's bare arm, saying, "Always off on his campaigns of war. No time for us ... we get so lonely."
The girl who had first spoken now said, "We long for a man's touch," and she gently took his free hand—the other held the scimitar—and brought his palm up to rest on a firm, full breast. Reflexively, he cupped it, as she covered her hand with his and held it there.
She was squealing with girlish delight, just as he pulled his hand away, saying to her, "You're wonderful, but... This isn't a good time."
"What better time," one of the them said, eyes sparkling over her veil, "could you imagine?"
"It could be a very good time," another said, and they were surging forward, crowding him, crying out to him, Stay here! Stay with us! We will pleasure you! We know how to please a man!
As they fawned over him, disrobing him he thought, he was drunk with the sight of them, the scents, the exotic delights that seemed to hover like shimmering dreams; and—great warrior that he was, he was a man after all, only a man—he did not realize they were in reality disarming him, plucking his knives, his metal, from his belt. Nor did he sense the mighty bow and its quiver leave his shoulders, as another wench slipped them off, behind his back.
"Stay with us," a green-eyed one was cooing,
"and we will make your every fantasy come
true__ "
Then one of them, in a sudden, almost savage move, yanked the scimitar from his grasp, while a few steps away one of her sisters pulled a large tassel and rang the huge gong, sending waves of sound radiating across, seemingly, the entire world.
