Nevertheless, he bore in before Luddhew like a tornado through a wood-lot, grappling and throwing aside two or three attackers at a time. The circus-master stood aloof, contenting himself with an occasional shove or kick at assailants who forced their way too near. The diminutive silk-clad visitor hung back, though he did not flee, watching the brawl with lively interest.
Dath, as Conan was surprised to note, did not take part in the melee. His two male cronies surged into the mob with knives drawn, but never got the chance to use them. One was pummelled in the face by Conan, the other in the gut and pate simultaneously by Bardolph and Sathilda, who were equally alert to the danger. Dath, whom Conan observed out of the corner of his eye, did not even trouble to rearm himself. He went to meet the girl Jana as she made her way back from the target zone, dishevelled and frail, but he only briefly kissed her and patted her on the rump, sending her off. Afterwards he stayed near the barrier, idly dodging bodies that were flung his way as the circus band cleared the street.
“Desist, now! Cease this unsporting behaviour,” Luddhew scolded the fast-dispersing throng. “Since you have broken the gods’ law of hospitality, I declare all bets forfeit! Go back home, our afternoon show is cancelled!”
There was little argument with this, because few of Luddhew’s assailants remained standing. The circus hands, skilled and ruthless skirmishers, patrolled a lane fast emptying of frightened, limping foes. Farther up the village road the fugitives eddied and muttered together, looking as if they might cause more trouble in a while. But for now, the circus booths and concessions were clear of all but fallen and unconscious rioters...
And of Dath, who came strolling empty-handed toward Luddhew. “Well, ringmaster, have you seen enough of my marksmanship? I grow weary of this village and crave to leave the district. Is there a place for me in your band?”
Luddhew had weathered the riot untouched, with the forfeited bets concealed somewhere on his caped person. Now he stepped forward, beaming. “Indeed, lad, I can say we’d be happy to use an able arm like yours! There are greater things in the offing—for I must tell you all, this distinguished visitor of ours is none other than Zagar, talent-procurer for the High Court at Luxur, and he has an announcement to make.” He led forward the small man, an elegant fur-clad Argossean by his look, who touched his fez and nodded around the group of circus actors.
“Greetings to you all,” the stranger said with an ingratiating smile. “After seeing your various skills, I am much impressed. Speaking for my employers, it honours me greatly to invite your entire troupe to the Stygian capital to perform before Lord Commodorus in Luxur’s Imperial Circus. Make ready promptly, that we may begin the journey at once.”
III
The Last of Rivers
The journey southward to Luxur was a long one, hot and dusty in this summer season. But it was relatively free of brigands and wild beasts, passing as it did through meadowlands settled with occasional farms and villages. The trek was by road, along the net of trade highways connecting the Shemitish city-states. Such roads provided reliable passage in most months, principally from north to south—since, of the farm and caravan traffic moving east and west in southern Shem, most was borne in wide-hulled ships along the broad black highway of the River Styx.
The circus travelled on its own power. Zagar the Procurer sat astride a richly bridled ass, with Master Luddhew accompanying him on a splendid bay mare provided as a courtesy to the circus-master.
Since the heavy mule-wagons were crammed with cordage and equipment, most of the troupe— except Roganthus, who still complained of his injuries—straggled along on foot beside the wagons. The performing bear and tiger followed, each chained securely to the rear of a wagon to prevent them from scattering the mules. But an exception was made for the big cat Qwamba; she was allowed a narrow ledge at the back of the rearmost wain, on which she might lie and doze or lazily survey the trailing humans, as she wished.
All their efforts—especially Conan’s, as the strongest member of the troupe—were required when the wagons bogged down at a stream crossing or a steep hill ascent. Where there was room, everyone pitched in a shoulder to help. Even Qwamba leapt down from her resting-place to carry her own weight—while Burudu the bear, lending his strength to the task, often accomplished as much with a single impatient swipe of his paw as any trio of humans or mules would have done.
Along the way, the band stopped and gave circus performances in several market towns, not only to sustain themselves but to polish their various acts and spread word along the route of their triumphant march southward. In all, the impending honour. of the visit to Luxur seemed to sharpen their skills and whet the enthusiasm of their audience. While trudging the long days away, they speculated on what their reception in the city would be, and how high fame and success might vault them. It was generally agreed that, in all the Hyborian world, no more prosperous or exciting venue might be found than glamorous Luxur.
“For you know,” Bardolph assured them, “of all the fabled cities of Stygia—from ancient Eshur to hoary Pteion, from black-walled Khemi on the sea-coast to Qamak in the hazy East—Luxur is the one truly cosmopolitan place. It looks northward, openly embracing foreign customs and visitors. It is the great river port, the trade and culture centre for the rulers of the whole Stygian Empire. Long I have wished to see it.”
“It goes to show,” Sathilda observed, “that even the hooded monks of the South must have their amusements.”
‘They must, if their country is to gain a voice in the northern capitals,” Luddhew declared from his saddle. “If they want to entertain foreign dignitaries, carry on far-flung trade, and keep up with events and fashions in neighbouring lands, they must have a free, open city to traffic with the broader world. Luxur serves them that purpose, methinks.”
“The Stygians’ great allies are the Corinthians,” Bardolph confidently added. “I have heard that it is they who really run things in Luxur. For you know, the folk of Corinthia are clever merchants and diplomats, while the Stygians, as a people, are preoccupied with their notions of piety and endless religious observances. By opening new caravan routes to the headwaters of the River Styx, some enterprising Corinthian traders gained the trust and reliance of high Stygian nobles and priests. Now, they tell me, Luxur is practically a Corinthian colony.”
After listening patiently, Conan could not help voicing his doubts. “’Tis hard for me to imagine the grey-robed priests of Set allowing their city to be run as openly and sinfully as Khorshemish or Shadizar,” he said as he ambled along between the wagons. “In Khemi, to my remembrance, they lock the city gates at night, and let the hungry temple pythons scour the streets clean of unbelievers— that’s Stygian hospitality as I’ve known it! Are you telling me they’d let outsiders turn their capital into a free-wheeling bazaar and brothel, as the Corinthians have done in Numalia and Arenjun?”
“You might be surprised, North lander,” Bardolph said. “Even Luxur’s appointed ruler is a Corinthian, installed with the blessing of the Stygian priesthood: Commodorus, whose administration doubtless sent our friend Zagar scouting northward for new talent. The fellow styles himself Tyrant, and uses these public shows to enhance his popularity, so they tell me.” The Kothian spoke briskly, striding along with rapid steps to match the others’ pace. “I would suppose that such a one will seek even higher rank, perhaps by changing religions or marrying into the Stygian nobility.”
“Trying to better himself. That is the city way.” Dath, who strode along a little apart from the others, added his views. “Let us hope life in Luxur proves more interesting than in these one-ass rural towns like Sendaj. I crave excitement and challenge, especially the kind that leads a man to riches.”
Since joining the troupe, the young ax-thrower had fared well. His axmanship had been made a part of Phatuphar’s knife-throwing concession, and had soon eclipsed it. Dath’s was now a major act of the show, announced by Luddhew along with Conan’s and Sathilda’s. The Sendajan
enjoyed a corresponding increase in pay, while Phatuphar continued as his assistant and as a part-time acrobat.
The human target they used was still Jana, for the sultry orphan girl had decided to leave Sendaj and travel with the circus. To face death in her daily act, she was now roped by wrist and ankle to a large, spinning wooden disk—and, for a grand finale, freed from her bonds by ax-casts severing the four ropes that held her limbs.
Not surprisingly, the young woman had chosen a mate in the circus troupe. Some thought it ironic that her romantic attachment was not to Dath, but to the less popular Phatuphar. She evidently found the steady, mild-spoken acrobat a comforting and attentive lover.
If Dath minded, he did not let on. Phatuphar welcomed Jana to his bed-mat and talked of having Luddhew marry them. What his thoughts may have been as he watched the harum-scarum former boyfriend Dath hurl deadly missiles at his beloved could only be guessed.
So they worked their way, trudging or performing each day, idling, gambling, luring, and bedazzling the locals by night. But most memorable of all was that final evening they pitched camp on the edge of a fragrant, vaporous black gulf—and, by dawn’s first light, made their way down the bluffs into the valley of the mighty River Styx.
The Last of Rivers, seen from the bluff, stretched away east and west like a broad belt of dark leather, girdling the earth’s belly atop a sash of brightest green. To the glaring east, the water’s dark surface carried a bright sheen like the scales of old Set, the serpent-god who claimed the river as his own. Away to westward, the black- and green-braided currents wound off into a grey haze, finding their unhurried way to the sea. Across the expanse of water vast green vistas could be seen, with an occasional white mound or pink buttress aglow in the rising sun: not cliffs, Luddhew told them, but massive works of man—here a great city wall, there a temple or a mighty tomb.
With the coming of midsummer, the yearly river flood had receded. Now farm fields, ruled out in orderly blocks and triangles by the surveyor’s art, stretched on either hand like sections of a lattice-screen. The earth of the fields clumped rich and black, bulging with fertility and sprouting an unbelievable bounty of green and gold, rice and groats, vines and bulbs. Dark, slender-limbed Shemites, in this district indistinguishable from the Stygians across the river, worked the fields by the score. They weeded, raked, and thinned; in places they raised up water from canals in wooden swapes and buckets to irrigate the crops.
Even after the circus procession sank down to the plain, the raised surface of the road remained firm and resilient to sandalled foot, hoof, and wheel. But in spite of the slight elevation they lost sight of the river, moving instead through a hazy dream of drooping grain stalks and papyrus, slender date palms, humble dwellings raised up on stilts or stony middens, and small, neatly ploughed fields of onions and cotton. The air was heavy with vapour, the heat sluggish and intense, the gnats and flies thick and relentless.
Then at once their view opened out onto an obsidian sheet of water fringed by swollen, distant greenery. The road diminished to a smelly fly-swarming apron of pockmarked mud, there to vanish into black-stained depths. Low, broad shapes came creeping toward them over the river, and a sullen chanting sounded in the distance.
“What excellent fortune!” Zagar the Argossean called out to Luddhew. “The bargemen must have seen us descending the road, and set forth to carry us across. We will not have to wait here gathering flies for long.” He leaned forward to wave a hovering black cloud away from the twitching muzzle of his restless donkey. “Have your purses ready for the toll—but fear not, I’ll see that they don’t cheat you.”
The rafts and barges drew slowly near, poled and rowed by lines of chanting crewmen stationed along either side. The craft were formed from thick bundles of reeds, which were evidently impervious to the water and more easily obtained than wood. The few thin timber limbs and laths in evidence were laid down crosswise and tied securely in place to bind the hulls together and provide a deck of sorts. The cumbersome boats moved smoothly enough through the water, grounding on the mud a few feet from shore.
The crews, wedging the vessels into place with their poles, scrambled ashore to drag ramps and log props into position for the wagons. The mules, coaxed by their drivers, were induced to slog forward a few steps through the mud of the riverbank and climb up onto the rafts. Conan, shoving and slipping at the back of the wagons, half expected the wheels or the animals’ hooves to break through the flimsy bottoms of the rafts and sink them. But the makeshift vessels seemed to buoy up the weight easily enough.
The circus hands waded through the warm shallows and climbed into canoes, whose massed papyrus was bundled up out of the water into neatly formed prows and stems. The passengers knelt in between lines of rowers, who sat on the bulging reed floats that formed the vessels’ side-wales.
Only then did the haggling over fares begin. The fleet’s captain, a rotund man in muddy wet clothes and a grimy turban, argued doggedly with Luddhew, with Zagar fiercely interceding. In the end the debate was resolved by the circus-master handing over a purse—not to the bargeman, but to Zagar, who passed it along after evidently extracting some sort of share or tariff from it.
Then the rowers pushed off, muttering their work-chanty in mournful voices. The sluggish boats drifted free of the mud, snubbing and scraping clear of underwater logs and weed-banks, and a slow, nearly imperceptible headway was gained through the still water. Listless breezes moved the clammy river vapour past them; tinged with its mild, sweetish stink, it seemed almost as heavy and thick as the dark water lapping beneath the bows. Even the harsh southern sun lost its power in the dank river domain of the mighty Styx.
Their way was soon lost in a maze of estuaries and islets. They could not pass straight across, for the river shifted perspective constantly by its mysterious channels and eddies. In time the water rippled deeper and blacker; then the rowers drew out their slim oars and passed them through loops of rope knotted into the papyrus, to apply leverage against the dragging currents. The downstream motion could still be traced by watching the shift of clumps of foliage ashore, but Conan found it hard to believe that they were making forward progress at all.
Strange beasts dwelt in the waters of the Styx. Gazing into the shallows, the Cimmerian spied turtles with blunt snouts and jagged, knobby shells, and giant fish whose flat heads sprouted numerous antennae. Elsewhere the scaly, saurian backs of crocodiles could be seen floating or sliding down from mud banks. And once, just ahead of the lead barge, a giant pink maw erupted from the water, the hideous visage sprouting stumpy, razor-edged teeth that parted in a grunting, bellowing roar. It was only a river-horse, a hippopotamus of the sort Conan recognized from the western marshes. Nevertheless it frightened the mules, who bolted in their harnesses and knocked several rowers temporarily overboard.
In time, they passed through the swiftest and deepest part of the river. Reed banks closed in once again to fringe meandering sloughs and interlinking lagoons. Only this time, it seemed, the belt of marshes was much thicker—trending, as it did, not toward valley bluffs, but into flat open plains or desert. The rowers poled through swamps for a league and more before passing into agricultural lands worked by brown, naked toilers; and even then the voyage was not ended. Some of the farm fields, at least, lay on broad, flat islands. The chain of boats followed channels for a long way before coming up to a solid landing formed of flagstones and gravel laid down over the river muck.
Here were other reed boats, rude temporary dwellings built of the same material, and the starting-point of a new highway. Lean, idle field workers swarmed down to haul the wagons off the rafts and up the sloping bank. They clamoured and grovelled for tips or the chance of employment as the mules were led ashore and hitched in their places.
The barge captain obstreperously demanded extra payment for an overweight load, and was given a grudging sum by Zagar. Then, having consumed lunch in the boats and drunk sufficiently of the Styx’s dark water, Luddhew’s circ
us was back on the highway.
The road here was broader, raised above field and canal; it was white-metaled, with stones and gravel that gave off a glare in the noon sun. More traffic gradually joined in from side-roads— ox- and donkey-carts heaped with the river’s bounty, peddlers laden with sacks and baskets, and troops of field hands marching barefoot under the snake-headed rods of their overseers. All of the passers-by eyed with astonishment the circus troupe, the colourful wagons, and the loping wild animals, although piety and the press of business kept them from clustering around and following along after. The road was wide enough in most places for two wagons to pass abreast; there were ramp bridges across the canals, and the troupe made steady progress between roadside camps. So unvarying was the prospect, however, they found it hard to recall whether they had been on the river road two days or three.
Ahead, on a low, shimmering horizon, there came into view a broad pale blur that Zagar said was Luxur. It almost seemed to recede before them from day to day—an effect no doubt of its great size and of the vaporous heat arising from road, field, and canals. As the place rose more clearly into sight, it showed them a solid, impregnable face: a high outer wall spaced between steep square-topped towers, with low hills and monumental structures rising within. The central gate, tall and imposing, faced southward toward the river—a massively buttressed arch, with glints of yellow-bronze in the gateway hinting at the grandeur of the portals.
Conan the Gladiator Page 4