Max Allan Collins

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 ...