Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  But while Dath was on good enough terms with the eunuch Memtep to get them into the job, he himself kept busy with other things. Driving to the tavern with Conan and friends, he would share no more than a single drink and be away, slouching off with shady characters to roam the nighted alleys of the Canal Wharf. Among these low sorts he made fast friends... and dangerous enemies, as one incident showed...

  It was a late-night homecoming in three chariots, rumbling in a staggered line through the dark, cobbled streets. Conan, Dath, Baphomet, Sistus, and Halbard, with Sathilda and three or four other lively females, were crowded on the platforms in a fairly riotous state, clinging to the bouncing chariot-rails. Suddenly, a few street-comers past the wide-open city gate, a band of dim figures blocked the moonlit lane. It must have been well-planned, for, as the horses shied and the chariots slewed to a halt, a dozen roughly dressed attackers moved out of the nearby shadows bearing swords, axes, and clubs.

  Dath, less drunk perhaps than the others, was quick to bark out orders. “Form a square back-to-back,” he snapped. “Don’t worry about defending the chariots, they’re after us!”

  Conan saw the wisdom of his words. Had the horse teams been battle-bred, it might be possible to break out through the converging attackers. But these animals were tame city drays, and the only weapons their passengers carried were shortswords and paltry daggers. As he took a place in the circle, drawing Sathilda in behind him, he heard Dath sound three blasts on a wooden pipe he’d drawn from his cape.

  “Keep in formation,” Dath said coolly, his voice steadying the intoxicated crew. “Just hold them off as best you can—no heroics, your arena fans aren’t here to watch.”

  The notion of a raw street youth issuing orders to a band of trained fighters was peculiar—but the strangeness was soon forgotten as the attack began. Rocks flew; Conan felt a jagged chunk clash off his sword blade and strike his bare shoulder, numbing the bone and drawing forth a trickle of blood. He saw Halbard take two high hits from heavy stones and stand before them, shaking the dizziness from his shaggy head. An instant later the silent attackers struck, and the bleary, ill-armed gladiators were hard put to hold their ground. Conan made his dagger keenly felt, downing his first assailant with a low swift thrust. Even so, the need to stay in line and avoid striking his comrades in the darkness hampered him.

  Of them all, Dath fought best. He was best prepared, and the flash of his two wicked axes, darting out against flesh and bone and leaping back on the ends of their thongs, set the tempo of the fight. The metallic clanks, crunches, and moans of fallen victims were the only sounds, aside from low muffled curses and the snorts of the frightened horses. From time to time, a window-shutter was heard to creak in the narrow avenue, and a slit of lamplight hinted at spying eyes. But no civil alarm was raised, and no voice dared call an end to this sullen warfare in the bosom of the sleeping town.

  Then, even as the battered, dazed gladiators were forced back on themselves, there came an interruption. From the direction of the city gate, scuffing, slapping footfalls announced the arrival of more fighters. They came in a mob, panting and cursing in the dark, and fell immediately on the ragged horde of attackers.

  The pressure was off the gladiators; Conan and the others were free to break rank and pursue their enemies. But there was no sure way of telling one shabby band of street fighters from the other— except, Conan belatedly saw, by the dark headbands the friendly ruffians wore. In moments, both groups had scattered in the darkness, disappearing like rats into the city gutters. The avenue was silent—though in the distance the clanking and shouted commands of a late city patrol could now be heard.

  “It’s over,” Dath’s firm voice called out. “Back in the chariots, quick now, and home to the arena! There will be no more trouble this night.”

  Dath, though, did not accompany them; he went off afoot after his street harriers. Conan and the others were left to flee, salve one another’s wounds, and, early the next morning, explain to Memtep how the group of gladiators had beaten off a band of robbers in the countryside. The eunuch was obviously displeased, in his officious way. He warned them sternly against forays outside the city, and threatened to rearrange their fighting schedules. Conan, though it pained him, kept his sore shoulder a secret. It was not his sword-arm, so he did not think it would cause problems.

  When next he saw Dath at the inn, he pressed him for an explanation. The young fighter took Conan and Sathilda aside from the other gladiators at the Pleasure Barge, likewise abandoning his own gang of toughs. Sitting opposite them over a small cask, he addressed Conan in his cool, cynical way.

  “Here in Luxur, to improve their efficiency, the street thieves, petty gamblers, and loan-enforcers have the habit of banding together. They keep each other informed that way and come to one another’s aid against civil authorities and outsiders.”

  Guardedly, Conan nodded. “I have been in cities such as Arenjun, where there were thieves’ guilds,” he admitted.

  “In a city as great as Luxur,” Dath explained, “criminals organize themselves according to what quarter of town they operate in. That tends to separate them by nationality as well.” As if painting a map, he swiped his hand broadly across the barrel-top before them. “The Stygians always controlled the heart of the town—here, near the main gate. Migrants from Corinthia have since come to dominate the area just inside the East Wall.” He flicked a hand in the direction of the nearby city gate. “The Circus Imperium, now”—pointing to the middle of the cask—“comprises the richest section of the temple quarter, on high ground. So it is fiercely disputed territory.”

  “And what of this foul slum we now wallow in?” Sathilda, watching Dath, seemed to follow his account with wry clarity.

  Dath arched one hand sidelong at the rim of the cask, calmly turning his gaze up to her. “The Canal Wharf is just now gaining influence as a full-fledged city quarter, with strong ties inside the city wall. It is made up mainly of non-Corinthian foreigners—desert tribes, southerners from Kush and the other black kingdoms—Shemites like us, too.” He smiled. “I have made some boon friends in the slum-dwellers’ ranks.”

  Conan grunted in understanding. “So what we went through the other night was a gang war against Corinthian hoodlums—just because we come down here to Namphet’s, to swill a few with you and your friends?”

  Dath half shrugged. “There is that, and more. The street fighters like to line up behind certain champions in the arena games—they bet on them, wear their colours, and so forth. In our group, which includes Luddhew’s circus, we have a large share of foreigners—yourselves, Muduzaya, Roganthus, Ignobold there, and various others like myself. But no Corinthians, or only the occasional one. So we are no favourites of the East Quarter lads.”

  “Hmph.” Conan shook his head. “And to prove it, you are telling me, they will try to butcher us in the streets, before we ever get to the arena?” “They may have been after me in particular,” Dath admitted. “What matters it, anyway? As I said, the danger is past.”

  “I, for one, don’t pretend to understand,” Sathilda declared. “Here is a teeming, prospering capital with all the comforts one would wish and the blessing of a stable government. Why would anyone carry on such a war in the city quarters?” Dath tossed down his drink. “True enough. As I tell them, the fighting is best kept inside the arena. Of course, they have to get their practice somewhere. Most of these lads grow up yearning to fight in the Circus. For them, it is the only conceivable way to gain money and respect.”

  “There are plenty of other ways to succeed in the poor quarters of the northern cities—by theft, gambling, smuggling, arm-twisting, skull-cracking.” Conan nodded critically at the ill-clad group idling watchfully together near the door. “I don’t see what these ruffians of yours lack that other bullies have.” Dath smiled. “You are right, those things all exist here—and better opportunities, too, such as the graft on temple, tomb, and aqueduct-building. But you must see, the Circus Imperium is
at the heart of things—everyone here respects it, or at least pays attention. It’s what Luxur is all about.” He laughed suddenly at his own eloquence. “You have to forgive me—though I’m a foreigner, I love the place as if I was born to it!”

  “You’ve certainly made friends here. They came swiftly to our aid the other night.” Conan glanced at the band of toughs who stood by, guarding their leader.

  “Yes, well, they stand ready to protect us if the Eastsiders make another move—though matters are settled for now.” He glanced around the squalid interior of the tavern. “In time, maybe we will take our pleasure in a posher part of town.”

  In light of the ambush and of that conversation, Conan and Sathilda took care to travel armed and in company. They were not attacked, though they heard rumours of more skirmishes between the various street mobs. Now, when passing through other districts of the town, they were conscious of some watchers observing them with expressions other than fatuous hero-worship.

  Of all the admirers and acquaintances they met, one proved to be of special interest. This was a courtly, dissolute northerner named Udolphus. His slumming frequently took him, with a pair of young companions and bodyguards, to Namphet’s pub. As a Corinthian noble, he was out of place there to begin with; his noisy manner made him stand out all the more. Before long he was lavishing his drink and wit on the gladiators, most particularly Sathilda—though Conan, seeing his mate’s reaction to the nobleman’s thick black beard and sagging shirt waist, did not regard Udolphus as serious competition.

  “Well, my lovely girl,” he saluted the acrobat, “are you prepared to exercise yourself before the Circus crowds tomorrow? And you, mighty Slayer,” he added to Conan, who stood looming over them, “are you feeling of a temper to fight? The entrail-readers give good augur to our new champions on the morrow, so I am told. Can you handle a troop of Khauranian renegades?”

  “Khauranian cavalry troops are crack fighters,” Conan avowed earnestly. “I look forward to meeting them.” He took a long pull from his beaker of arrak to avoid any need for further commentary.

  “I understand,” Udolphus told him good-naturedly. “Like any true athlete, you would rather not discuss your performance in an impending event. The pressure can be worrisome. But, no matter, you look to me as if you can handle all comers. I hope you are wise enough to take an easy victory when it is offered you.” Reaching up, he clapped Conan on the elbow and squeezed his firm thews. “But come, take a seat here. What is your opinion of Commodorus, that sorry excuse for a ruler? Do you think our citizens should overthrow him, as some would like to do?”

  Conan remained silent, already half regretting that he had settled onto a keg. He kept his face blank and, for a distraction, invited Sathilda to sit on his lap. He knew little enough of Commodorus and had no wish to enter into slanderous murmurs against the local ruler.

  But the boy Jemain, who had begun turning up at the public-house in the early evening hours to pester Conan, seemed positively taken aback by the nobleman’s words. He stared in dismay at Udolphus, until the Corinthian finally grew impatient.

  “Close your mouth, lad,” the noble rebuked him, “before your thoughts all tumble out. Here, young ragamuffin, take this and begone!” Reaching into his toga, he withdrew a clinking purse and tossed it at the boy. “If you know what is good for you,” he called after him, “you will not interfere in the business of your elders.”

  Shaking his head, Udolphus turned back to his guests. “A tiresome youth—Jemain, is it? Anyway, as I was saying, some think our Tyrant Commodorus a great buffoon, strutting and posturing before the crowd and claiming to be a gladiator himself.” He punctuated his sedition with a long pull of arrak. “But on the other hand, he has his backers high up in the army and elsewhere. There are some who think he will not stay Tyrant, but will challenge the traditionalists and the church to declare himself Emperor He has won a following among the gullible populace, that is sure.”

  So Udolphus carried on, speaking with aristocratic, drunken abandon of the most dangerous rumours and scandals. He asked others for opinions but seldom paid attention to their guarded answers, rambling on heedlessly himself as his two young retainers watched sober-eyed.

  “What of the individual combat at tomorrow’s meet?” he pressed on. “The odds have not been laid—I do not think the schedule is even finalized. There was to be an epic fight between two great champions, but for some reason it has not been announced.”

  “Myself, I cannot say,” Conan admitted. “But I would bet sparingly on such a match if I were you, knowing the sly ways of these odds makers.” He could not resist giving that much of a hint, based on his inside knowledge.

  As it happened, no announcement of the matches was made before the spectacle itself. Matters were complicated—or, perhaps, made simpler—by a sad event that occurred, or at any rate was discovered, in the small hours of the following morning. The body of Halbard the Great was found outside the gate of the Circus compound, slain evidently by thieves.

  IX

  Blood Sport

  The day of the spectacle dawned clear and bright. The crowd gathered early in the shadow of the stadium’s western side, buying warm tea and buns from street vendors, murmuring and wagering together based on reports of the combats to be held. The murder of Halbard was kept secret to avoid a riot, the body brought in a covered cart through the rear of the arena grounds.

  After the mob had loitered an hour or two, gradually filling up the street before the Colosseum, the outer gates were opened. Within them, between the ticket stalls and the still-barred tunnels slanting up to the stadium seats, concessions and sideshow acts flourished. Here knelt veiled Iocasta on her gold-fringed carpet embroidered with bright celestial symbols, telling fortunes from a smoky crystal and predicting the outcome of the day’s fights. Here Bardolph sat behind a broad table, conducting his gambling games with painted cards and bone dice. Here in a screened enclosure, for entry to which a fee was charged, the black tiger and the performing bear were shown off to patrons. And high above, on taut ropes and booms strung outward from the stadium’s street-front, Sathilda and her acrobats performed their tricks. In all, Luddhew’s circus actors enjoyed a major portion of the crowd’s business, drawing in the city rubes and a steady flow of silver pieces.

  Conan watched briefly from the arena’s topmost bench-row, looking down over the edge of the stadium at graceful Sathilda. He saw carnal lust and bloodlust alike flicker in the upturned faces of the mob. Boisterously they threw coins into Jana’s tambourine, bidding in hard cash for Conan’s mistress to perform ever more perilous leaps and flips.

  As the bright sun rose past mid-morning, gilded litters and lavishly teamed chariots arrived from stately villas, some located only a short walk away. These conveyances bore rich, privileged seat-holders; guaranteed choice spots, they did not have to arrive early and rub shoulders with the common herd. Conan watched them—prosperous Corinthian traders, grey-clad clerics, and military officers with their glittering women, escorted through the crush by officious guards and servants.

  Then there sounded in the arena below a single trumpet-blast, the traditional signal for gladiators to get ready for their performance.

  Preparations were few; Conan had not instructed Memtep to set aside any armour for him, other than a kilt of steel leaves to protect his vitals. The usual precaution, in lieu of armour, was to apply a thick layer of oil to the hair and body, to prevent adversaries from getting a firm grip and doing damage. This process was aided by servants who oiled the fighters from earthen jars or, alternatively, helped to strap them into their armour plates. Memtep himself sought out Conan and forced a broad-rimmed metal hat onto his head, assuring him that he would value it more than his steel kilt.

  All this was done in the exercise yard, where the twenty or so gladiators sullenly prepared. Even friends like Ignobold, Roganthus, and Muduzaya had little to say to one another before the event.

  Within moments, a triple trumpet-blas
t drifted up from the arena, the signal for the stadium doors to open to the general public. There followed a pervasive, steadily growing sound that filled the stadium grounds and made the animals restless— the scuff of thousands of feet on worn stone, combined with the babble of ten thousand voices exclaiming, cursing, and shouting to friends in a mass effort to find suitable viewing spots.

  The din levelled out and did not subside, vibrating instead in the stones of the Colosseum and the very earth underfoot. Meanwhile, as new, intricate flourishes commenced from the sour-toned trumpets, the gladiators marched in through the main tunnel to witness the dedication of the day’s games. The arena had been refurbished in recent days; its floor was now uninterrupted by any pits or raised structures and covered evenly with fresh sand.

  The gladiators filed through the Gate of Champions out into the blazing sun and murmurous roar. A cheer of anticipation sounded from the crowd, which was still spreading upward to fill the highest reaches of the stadium. Then they fell silent as short, imperative trumpet-blasts heralded an announcement by some high official.

  “Citizens of Luxur, I welcome you to this special day of games. Decreed by me, this proud spectacle is intended as a tribute to honour the mighty heroes—both the new and the well-known champions—who have anointed our arena with their honest sweat and sacred blood. I am gratified to see how many citizens have chosen to attend.”

  The speaker was none other than the Tyrant himself, proud Commodorus, standing at ease on his platform at the end of the arena. His shoulders were draped in a toga of gold-fringed white, loosely hung to show off his trim physique. Beneath it he dressed in battle-gear—greaves up to the knee, a bronze chest plate, and an armour-scaled skirt with a short sword strapped at one side—a costume no doubt chosen in honour of his boast of having once been a gladiator himself.