Max Allan Collins

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