by The King
Smiling at the little thief's antics, Cassandra strolled on. She was perhaps halfway to the tent when a child of four or five scampered up to her, and tugged at her sleeve.
She looked down, where he was gazing up adoringly with big dark eyes, offering her dates from a bowl, and wondered if she had ever seen a more adorable child.
She smiled and accepted the gift, then tousled the boy's hair. For a moment, she was not a lady oracle, just a woman, a young woman, thinking about mar-riage and children of her own ... half Akkadian, perhaps...
But as she touched the boy, her fingers in his scalp, a vision seized her ...
... and she found herself kneeling, at the very spot where she'd stood accepting the boy's gift, and her hand was again on the child's head, fingers in his hair, but now he lay cold and still with death. Around them in the bandit hideaway, the night was rent with screams and flames consumed the tents and walkways.
Her eyes turned skyward, to ask the gods why, and a full moon blazed mutely back at her. She turned her gaze to the camp around her, where men, women and children lay sprawled in death, blood everywhere. Nearby, the horse thief lay with his eyes wide in death, his small torso twisted.
At the pounding of hoofbeats, she turned as Memnon himself rode straight for her, red-turbaned warriors on his either side, their brethren rampaging through the camp, killing anything that breathed.
And the warlord glared at her, furious with his sorceress, yet intent on her capture—racing toward her, to retrieve his oracle. She recoiled as he reached down from his galloping steed to snatch her up into his arms, and she turned away in horror ... ... and was back in the camp, where the only fires were cooking food or providing warmth, and the only shrieks were of laughter. The little boy looked up at her strangely, afraid now—her trance had spooked him, and he backed away.
On quick but unsure feet, she found her way to the tent, perched by a campfire among some rocks, and went in and sat on the ground, looking up through the open flap at the moon ... the almost full moon....
Sometime later, Mathayus entered and sensed her discomfort, asking, "Is something wrong?"
She did not look at him, her eyes on the moon. "Memnon knows I'm here ... or at least, he will— soon." She pointed to the sky. 'The moon is entering the House of Scorpio. Tomorrow is the night when what I saw in my vision will come to pass ... Memnon will release his armies, and they will ride into the heart of this camp . .. and rip it out."
Mathayus knelt beside her. "The moon is just... the moon. And Memnon will die, at these hands, prophecy be damned."
She turned her gaze upon him, admiring his bravery, but knowing his disbelief in the spiritual was foolish; without her magic, after all, he would not be alive....
"I must know," she said.
"Know what?"
And she lay her fingers gently against his cheek, closing her eyes, summoning a vision that, in a flash of white, filled her mind ...
... Memnon stood atop an altar, erected in the elevated courtyard of his palace, the city of Gomorrah spread out before him like a banquet; his hands were raised to the night sky, where a huge moon. .. a full moon, ringed in silver... glowed so intensely, the sun was not its rival.
"Great gods above," Memnon cried, his voice ringing out above his city, "look down upon me!. .. And make me one with you."
Behind the warlord, Mathayus silently crept across the courtyard, sword in hand, approaching the steps that led up to the altar where Memnon, his back to the Akkadian, stood.
Cassandra shuddered, as the vision continued, but shifted, as now ...
. .. a red-turbaned soldier, bow in hand, quiver of arrows on his back, ran through a palace hallway, lined with leaping flames, to burst out a doorway onto the courtyard, stepping on a small yellow flower, growing up between stones in the floor. The archer could see Mathayus, coming up behind the warlord, sword raised.
The archer notched an arrow, and let fly. ..
..'. and the arrow found purchase in the Akkadian's back! As Mathayus fell to the palace floor, Cassandra screamed, "No!"
In the moonlight filtering through the tent flap, the Akkadian held the woman by her arms, but the sorceress turned away, eyes squeezed shut, a single jewel of tear trickling down her smooth cheek.
"What did you see?" the Akkadian demanded.
Swallowing, trembling, refusing to look at him, she said, "If you go up against Memnon ... you will fail. You will die. That, Akkadian, is your destiny."
He spoke her name, and turned her to him, cupping her chin, lifting her face to his, her eyes tortured, her lashes pearled with tears.
"Hear me," he said, and despite the dire prophecy, no fear was in his face—only a faint smile that seemed to challenge any vision that might try to master him. "I make my own destiny."
She winced at the words, shaking her head slowly—it was if he spoke a foreign language. How could he think such a thing, much less say the words? She had spent her life in the company of men who paid her prophecies the strictest heed— who feared her words, and everything they might portend.
Yet to this man, this special man, the words of the gods were subservient to his will—the future something that could be molded. Was he right? she wondered. Could a person . .. a mortal. . . change the course of destiny?
"Haven't you had enough of visions?" he asked her, that small smile still on his lips, something else—something fervent—in his tone.
"What... what do you mean?"
The Akkadian swept her into his arms and kissed her, deeply, passionately ... and she responded, clutching him desperately, returning his kisses with the same hunger. As they embraced, he lowered her to the sandy floor and, as firelight jumped and danced, as if in celebration, their souls, and much more, entwined.
As they lay in each other's arm, Cassandra watched this brave, foolish man as he slept, his slumber deep; for him to have battled Balthazar, in the wake of nearly dying the night before, was a feat few men could survive. All it seemed to mean for Mathayus, however, was the need for a good night's sleep.
She could not risk kissing him, not even his forehead or his cheek, for he might wake; instead, her heart aching and yet so full, she slipped from his slumbering embrace and out into the moonlight.
She felt different—more a woman, perhaps less a mystic. Still, she believed in the world beyond this one, and walked out to the edge of a precipice, where, washed in the moon's ivory, she lighted a candle, in ceremony, kneeling to place it on a rock. Supine before the flickering flame, she whispered a silent prayer.
This man, she told the almost full moon, believes that the future you have shown me can be changed. Guide me, mother—though your daughter is a woman now. Guide me, still, and tell me what to do.
She listened, and—within her mind—thoughts grew, whether from a mystic mother or herself, who can say? Yet she did pledge herself to a course of action, dictated by those thoughts, perilous though that might be, since she hoped now to change the future by her own means.
Cassandra blew out the candle, and smiled.
Before long she had found her way to the corral where the bandits kept their horses and camels. She of course went to the white beast, and stood beside Hanna, stroking the camel's snout, gently.
"You love him, too, don't you?" she asked the animal.
The camel shook its head—perhaps a reflex, or an answer.
"Then," the sorceress whispered into the camel's ear, "you must help me save him."
And, in an action heretofore reserved for Mathayus alone, Hanna bent down—any cantankerousness
gone, only the most docile response—and Cassandra climbed aboard.
Soon, the white camel—her lovely rider looking albino herself in the rays of the almost-full moon— was galloping away from the oasis, toward Gom-morah.
And the man she despised as much she loved the Akkadian.
The Oracle's Return
B
althazar—snoring in a kingly
cot the size of a boat, his arms around one of the two beautiful wenches with whom he slept—had trained himself to be stirred from his slumber, no matter how deep, by the slightest suspicious sound, no matter how small. At dawn, a rustling around a campfire, well across the amphitheater-like hideaway, was all it took to rouse the sleeping giant.
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..."
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."
