Part XII. At Last
I found a dream
that I could speak to
a dream that I
could call my own
Then the spell was cast
and here we are in heaven
for you are mine at last
-Etta James
"I think I have been patient enough, Ardeth." Memnon sat ramrod straight in the armchair across from his younger brother. Memnon's study was stocked with books, scrolls and papers. A Persian rug adorned the floor, the walls were plain. The terrace doors were open, letting in the evening breeze of the ocean.
Ardeth gave Memnon an indulgent smirk. "Yes, I suppose you have."
The elder Egyptian had been congenial with Lancelot, this foreign stranger who was smitten with his little sister. He had met him once, years ago, and remembered him to be a good warrior. Ardeth took a breath and explained to his brother of how Lancelot and Aisha connected while in Britain and spent time together on the ship to Sarmatia. Memnon's face betrayed no signs of compassion or understanding when Ardeth spoke of Lancelot seeing the younger Sarmatian kin being loaded into a dark ship, the young boy being attacked.
Memnon steepled his fingers, elbows rested on the armrests. His dark shoulder length hair was wavy, tucked behind his ears. A well coiffed beard dusted his face. His bronze skin was etched with the same tattoos as Ardeth's – cheeks, forehead and chin, which were covered by their facial hairs. Medjai. Warriors. In ancient times they served as bodyguards for the Pharaoh. Though, since the rule of Rome, the medjai had become a smaller sect of warriors. They were independent from the Egyptian army, and fought as allies to them.
"He is running away," Memnon said flatly, after hearing Ardeth's tale.
Ardeth's lips set into a firm line. "No. I think it merely tipped the scale. He came for Aisha."
Silence. "Are you so sure?"
Onyx eyes met onyx eyes. "Yes."
"Have they engaged in sexual relations?" Memnon, always blunt and to the point.
"No," Ardeth replied. "I believe Lancelot feels far too deeply to do so now."
A light scoff came from Memnon. "Ah, love."
"Love."
The humor fled from Memnon's face. "And what of money? Think that a reason why he came?"
"Definitely not," Ardeth said, growing impatient with his brother's constant cynicism, but bit back any retorts, because he saw the faintest flicker of pain in his brother's eyes. Ardeth was the only one who could catch such things in his enigmatic sibling. He knew he was thinking of the woman who had once been his wife – Helen. But that was long ago, and Memnon did not like to speak of it.
Memnon knew his brother was an excellent judge of character, if not a tad bit lenient; unlike him who was unforgiving. He loved his brother and sister dearly, and would die for them. He rubbed his hand down his face and looked out at the setting sun, hearing the waves crashing in the distance. Ardeth was secure in his marriage, and for that Memnon was glad, but he wanted the same for Aisha.
"Very well," he conceded. "Tomorrow we shall take Lancelot to the training grounds."
Ardeth could not help but chuckle. If there was any way a man could prove himself to Memnon, it was by sword.
"If I thought anything the least bit amiss with Lancelot, I would not have extended the invitation," he said.
"I know, brother," Memnon replied with a slight nod of his head. "I know."
----
The moon was clear. The soft breeze rustled the curtains. The balcony doors were open, letting in the glimmer of moonlight. It had been a long day. After his bath, a masseur had come and given him one hell of a massage. The people here were nice. Rasui was ever eager to please him, tacking on that "Sir" before his name whenever he addressed him. Already, Lancelot seemed to have a new wardrobe of the finest linens. There would definitely be no leather wearing here for him. Soft cottons, fabrics that let one breathe. So, along with his old clothes, he had five new pairs of breeches, four tunics and undershirts to go along with. He didn't know how he could possibly repay any of this, but knew if he said a word his protestations would be rebuffed. But somehow he would find a way to repay such kindness.
Dinner had been filling. Sitting down in a nice dining area with Aisha, Inara, Ardeth, and Memnon had been soothing. It was a change. No drunken soldiers yelling for more ale, no hearing palms slapping against a man's face for groping. No smells of sex and sweat that had not been bothered to be washed away.
Aisha took him for a stroll around the village. She took him to visit Mithra before the evening's end, and as Yafeu promised, Mithra was being well taken care of. They had gone by Nafrini's house. A two room domicile, one of the rooms used for her apothecary shop. She had a lovely garden surrounding her home; she was a good natured woman with a sense of humor.
Now, he reclined on his new bed, the nicest he had ever occupied, staring at the ceiling. It was warm. He wore only an old pair of pants. He kept his dragon trinket under his pillow. He knew where Aisha's room was and wondered what she was doing now.
But a soft knock on his door interrupted his reverie. He swung his legs over the bed and was about to get up when his sweet poked her head in the door.
"Lancelot?"
Even in the moonlight he could see all of her. She wore a white gown and robe that went to her ankles. Like an angel.
"Can I come in?" she asked him softly.
"Of course." A wide smile spread on his face. His feet hit the cool tiles on the floor. Then he felt her body pressed against his in a hug. She had given him a hug and kiss goodnight, but he could always do with more. "What's this?" he asked, reluctantly disengaging from her.
"Oh!" Her hand opened to reveal a small leather pouch crammed with something. "This is for you." Aisha handed it to him and he carefully undid the strings.
He sniffed it and it did not smell rotten. He lit up one of the ceiling lamps. There was some grass, a small rock...
"It's all from Sarmatia," she said. "Some earth, blades of grass, a leaf, and a rock." She blushed. "I thought...something to remind you of home."
Lancelot was silent, stunned by her utter love for him. "Thank you," he said, gazing at her in the eyes. He tied up the pouch and embraced her again, for more than she knew, and depths he could not fathom himself.
Aisha arms tightened around him, then her soft lips kissed his neck, sending shivers down his spine. She let herself step away and truly look at him. The light dust of hair on his chest, toned pectorals, sweeping down into a firm abdomen, a trim waist. His arms were muscled, and she traced the indentations. Her finger ran over a scar on his upper arm. A deep one in his upper waist. Then, she kissed a scar that was on the right side of his chest.
"Aisha," Lancelot breathed.
Her father had been a warrior, and her brothers were as well. She was not a stranger to seeing war wounds, battle scars. But his tugged on her heart especially. Was this how Inara felt when she saw the scars on Ardeth? A lump rose in her throat, she bit her bottom lip.
"It's all right," he said, crooking a finger under her chin so she would meet his eyes. He caressed her cheek and she put her hand over his. Lancelot pulled her to him once more, knowing that she would be able to feel his erection pressing against her stomach.
Her hands roamed up and down his bare back, snaking their way to the front until one hand made contact with the front of his breeches. Lancelot grunted. Oh, but he would love to take her now. What was under those cotton garments of hers?
Aisha's finger petted the trail of hair that led to his hidden privates. The cotton did little to disguise his wanting. She could feel her own wanting, the moist ache between her legs, the hardening of her nipples against soft linen. She untied her robe and let it fall to the floor. As she went to unlace his pants, his large hand encompassed her wrist, stopping her. If he was set free that would be the end of him. Instead, he kissed her passionately, devouring her and she him. His hands ran down the fabric of her gown, he cupped her buttocks, pressing her harder against his erection.
"I want you," he moaned into her neck.
"Take me," she replied, just as breathlessly.
Lancelot edged her towards the bed until her rear was against it. She would let him have her now. Feeling his hesitance, Aisha pulled her on top of him, falling fully on the bed. His hand went up her gown, feeling velvety skin, all the way to her heat, feeling that needy moisture. He was harder than he had ever been; wanting to make love with the only woman he had ever loved. Lancelot cupped her mound, his thumb played with her engorged nub. He kissed her nipples through the fabric of her gown, nibbled and nipped. He felt her entire body tighten and her whole body shook as she came in his arms. He would not make love to her now. Not in some clandestine heat of the moment.
"My sweet, I ache to make love to you, but not like this," he said softly. "I have never wanted any woman more."
Aisha looked up at him. "That was my first."
He chuckled. "I'm glad."
"There will be many firsts with us?"
And she looked so young then; his heart was near to bursting with adoration. "Yes, my sweet."
----
It was dawn when Aisha left his room. They had only held one another in the night, talking here and there, giving each other kisses. The house was up early, he threw on some clean clothes, washed his face and just as he opened the door, he came face to face with Memnon.
"Good morning," Lancelot said, his momentary surprise dissipating quickly.
"Good morning, Lancelot," Memnon said. "I was coming to see if you would like a tour of the training grounds today."
Lancelot knew this. He could see the challenge in the Egyptian's eyes. Aisha had told him how her eldest brother often tested people when they least expected it. But Lancelot could really expect no less from an older brother. He nodded and got his swords, and within a quarter of an hour they both were riding out to the training field.
People nodded at Memnon as they passed. The field was a hustle of activity. Even though in an entirely different country, Lancelot felt a sense of familiarity with it all. Commanders shouted out orders to the soldiers. All of their swords were curved. None wore armor, but who would in this heat? Some went bare-chested, some wore knee length breeches. He remembered how he and his brethren would make fun of the Romans who wore sandals. But here he could understand why, although not everyone did wear them.
Skin tones ranged from olive to very dark brown. Most heads were shaved. Memnon and Lancelot dismounted and stood at the sidelines. Further off soldiers were practicing their archery. African long bows for them all.
"Memnon!" A bald, dark-skinned man approached, white teeth flashing. A light gleam of perspiration covered his muscular frame. He wore dark blue breeches and boots, his scimitar sheathed at the hip. Lancelot noticed he bore the same tattoos as Memnon and Ardeth.
"Hondo," Memnon said, a benevolent smile spreading on his face. "This is Lancelot."
Black eyes observed Lancelot from head to toe, before finally holding out a hand, revealing a hieroglyphic image of King Cobra on his inner wrist. The same as Ardeth and Memnon.
"A warrior," Hondo said sagely.
"Sarmatian," Lancelot said, shaking his hand.
Hondo nodded. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "How many years?"
"Fifteen in the Roman legion," he replied.
A faint sneer swept over Hondo's strong features. "Rome. You must be quite a warrior to have survived them."
Lancelot smirked, knowing that in some way Hondo was complimenting him, and that he obviously had no love for Rome.
A whistle blew and formations on the grounds were shifted.
"I best get back to the men. The newest recruits are having a hard time finding their asses." With a last nod at them both he returned to his duties.
"Care for a spar?" Memnon asked blithely. His hand was already on the hilt of his sword.
Lancelot acquiesced without a word. He had a feeling this was coming. The few times he had sparred with Ardeth, it had either ended up in a stalemate or a loss on his part. And according to Ardeth, his brother was just as good. The two brothers were similar on the outside, but on the inside, they differed. They both had the wavy, shoulder-length hair, the groomed beards, the tattoos. Both wore breathy cottons.
Both Egyptians fought like graceful savages – if there was such a thing. Both were the epitome of their warrior symbol – King Cobra. But Ardeth kept his hood hidden until the last moment, letting one think they were safe until that deadly hiss emitted like a death toll. Memnon let you know right from the start, his hood dilated, winging out, a whisper of the beginning of the end.
The two men took their spots across from one another. Memnon unsheathed his scimitar; Lancelot unsheathed his two double-edged swords. There was no mocking in the Egyptian, no quips, no teasing. Memnon said a word and went at him, Lancelot deflected his blow. Dirt rose up by their feet like a dry fog, iron clanged against iron. Their weapons locked and they pushed away from one another. Neither of them saw Inara, Ardeth and Aisha approach.
"I knew this would happen," Aisha said.
"No avoiding it, dear," Inara said. "Every other man who sought you out went through the same thing."
"Lancelot is different!" Aisha said.
"I know," Ardeth said, placing a gentling hand on her shoulder. "But you know Memnon."
Aisha pursed her lips.
"All the others ran off scared," Inara said; eyes on the two sparring men. "Lancelot would not do that."
"He hasn't said anything rude to him, has he?" Aisha gazed at her brother. "Nothing crude about money or rank?"
"He would not say the like to his face," her brother replied.
"But he has to you?"
No reply.
"What do you think?"
"I do not think Lancelot is at all after any position or riches. Memnon will come to the same conclusion," Ardeth assured her. And he knew he would. His older brother just liked to make it difficult for the suitor. Testing their wills, their wits, inner strengths.
They watched as the mock-fight went on. And on. Sweat ran down their faces. Finally, it came to a halting end, their weapons once again locked. They stared at one another for several moments before slowly backing away from the other. Memnon sheathed his word, put a fist over his heart and said something Lancelot did not understand, but by his tone he knew it was a reverence of sorts.
So Lancelot said something in return in Sarmatian: "An honor to know you, warrior."
Memnon half-grinned.
The silence was broken by Aisha's feet hurrying to Lancelot, a flagon of water in her hand.
"Thank you," he said.
"And for you," Aisha said, handing another flagon of water to her brother.
"It is so early, Memnon!" Inara exclaimed. "And already you are clashing."
"It is what I live for," Memnon replied. He drained the rest of his water and said he would inspect the soldiers.
"I as well," Ardeth said. He kissed Inara goodbye.
"Well, then," Inara said, watching her husband walk away.
"Bath then breakfast?" Aisha asked Lancelot.
TBC...
