Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  Patiently she laved him and scrubbed away the sand and dried blood, careless of splashing and staining her own silken garment.

  “Here, you have no more need of all this tin-plate,” she said, attacking his armoured kilt. “Off with this pathetic rag, too. It’s in the way.”

  She worked gently and tenderly near the cut edges of flesh, though he gave no signs of pain. When the long, shallow gash was well-cleansed and rinsed, she bound it up skilfully with an herb-salve poultice and a cotton winding-ribbon, which she anchored across his neck, chest, and waist. “There, now, you should have no trouble getting about as you ordinarily do.”

  “I see you have made me only half a mummy,” he said, looking down at his array of bandages.

  “A good deal less than half,” she observed. “Now, roll over on your belly. Those great thews of yours must be sore from battling; a neck-rub will do you good. Here, I have some medicated oil from eastern Shem—sweet-smelling, is it not?”

  As she straddled him and set to work, he noticed how festive the gathering had become. From the bath pavilion there came frenzied splashings and laughter, high female tones, and the gruff shouts of gladiators. In the dressing-room, most of the benches and tables had been taken over by athletes and their flirting, teasing female worshippers. Some nooks and corners of the place were mere knots of writhing, gasping bodies; elsewhere revellers ran lewdly free and unclothed.

  “Doesn’t that feel better? Now turn over, you must surely have other complaints that require my attention as well. This ointment is good for all parts. It strengthens the muscles and rejuvenates the flesh—”

  “Conan, have you been hurt?”

  Coming across the room, Sathilda interrupted Babeth’s ministrations. “I did not think you would fight again,” she said, coming nearer, “so I left the games early with Lord Alcestias and his household. Then, when I saw your name posted with the others, I had to come back.”

  Loosening her clutch on Conan’s oiled flanks, Babeth turned and regarded Sathilda. “You are the acrobatress, are you not? No wonder Alcestias has an eye for you. He favours thin foreign types.”

  “I did not go to his villa, or even into his sedan,” Sathilda said. “I was too worried—Conan, are you all right?”

  “He is not hurt badly,” the matron insisted, standing up to block the other woman’s way. “I have already dressed his wounds. Now he must rest, and perhaps take a curative bath—”

  “Babeth, Sathilda,” Conan said, standing up from the bench. For modesty’s sake he buckled on his armoured kilt. “Thanks, both of you, for your kind attention. In truth I am weary, and would just as soon leave this turmoil.” He gestured at the orgy in full swing around them. “But if you really want to care for the sick, I see one way you could help.” He was gazing across the room toward a tall, muscular figure seated on a bench near the door. It was Muduzaya, brought here by celebrants from the arena. Where he sat, staring blankly, half-clothed houris paused to admire him and stroke his burly limbs. When he did not respond they moved on, assuming he was drunk.

  “Our friend the Sword master has not recovered from the drug he was given,” Conan said, leading the way toward the helpless man. “It must have been a powerful draught. We should get him out of here and see to his recovery. If we take him to the circus quarters, Bardolph or Luddhew may know what to do.”

  X

  “O Gracious Tyrant”

  According to long-established custom, a funeral was held the day after the arena games. Murdered Halbard, falsely said to be the victim of a training accident, was interred in the same niche with the newcomers Sarkad and Callix; thus the two lesser-known warriors were fortunate enough to gain a degree of final prestige they might not otherwise have achieved.

  The crowd that assembled in the early shade on the west front of the amphitheatre was a sparse one, even so. Weeping relatives, Memtep with a small band of arena functionaries, a few bookmakers and some local widows who habitually wailed at every public funeral, all clustered in a crowd beneath a stone-faced archway that was to be filled in once the mummies were hoisted up.

  Conan, arriving late with a handful of gladiators, mused a stir among the watchers... in large part In-cause Sathilda came, too, leading her night-black tiger on a golden leash.

  Yet Conan himself did not go unnoticed. In particular, he saw the odds makers examining the cut on his bandages to gauge the extent of his injuries. The rest of the gladiators did not look any too healthy either, because of the lateness of their previous night’s debauches. But Sword master Muduzaya was on his feet at least... gruffly tolerant of Conan, and actively seeking those responsible for his drugging during the games.

  “Where is Zagar?” Conan muttered, gazing around the forlorn crowd. “Why is he not here? He was Halbard’s procurer, was he not? And the one who tried to make him throw yesterday’s match.” “When you find the little weasel,” Muduzaya rumbled ominously, “save him for me. I, too, have questions for him.”

  Behind the stadium fence, a grey-clad Priest of Set droned on interminably and unintelligibly, pronouncing a prayer in High Stygian. Halbard’s mummy, with the gaudy brass hilt of an ornamental sword exposed atop its chest-windings, was just now being raised up on a rope. From the mummy’s trim, athletic shape and the ease with which it was hoisted by the two workmen on the scaffold, Conan could tell that the Red Priests must have subtracted quite a bit of Halbard’s weight.

  The workmen below were a few of the same crew that did renovations on the arena. Conan spied one of the louts making ready to piss into the vat of mortar that would be Halbard’s tomb, and stopped him with the force of a malevolent stare. The man betook himself hastily away, muttering the lame excuse that “it helps the concrete set.”

  When all three mummies were placed upright in the alcove and a screen of withe and sticks was installed, the cement was trowelled in over them. In front of each hero’s face was inlaid a plaster death-mask taken from the corpse, a perfect likeness; afterward, their names were imprinted by fast-working artisans, along with decorative reliefs of crossed swords and coiling serpents. Although this particular tomb was set too high above the level of the street to be clearly visible, it was there for all to admire, alongside the niches of a hundred other dead champions.

  Of all the funeral celebrants, the only visitor who had worldly knowledge and seemed inclined to share it was the portly, bearded nobleman Udolphus. Standing at the fringe of the gathering with his two bodyguards, he greeted Conan and their mutual friends with wry good humour. He looked fairly fresh; evidently the previous night’s revel had not exceeded his usual degree of debauchery.

  “And so three more faces ornament the Tomb Wall,” he observed with a cynical smile. “Three more lives go as grist into the giant money-mill known as the Circus Imperium.”

  “Three more failed attempts at fame and fortune,” Sathilda echoed him, stroking her tiger’s neck.

  “Halbard had plenty of fame, and plenty victories, too,” Muduzaya declared. “But his success brought him no luck outside the arena... likely just the opposite.”

  “Alas, that is often true of winning gladiators.”

  Udolphus shot a meaningful glance at the Kushite.

  Their far-famed skills are a liability in the real world, and get them into trouble with the wrong people.”

  “What trouble was Halbard in, I wonder?” Conan asked. “And with what people? Something to do with rigged bets, I would guess.”

  “Those odds makers over there would tell me nothing,” Muduzaya reported to Conan, indicating the swiftly departing touts. “They plead ignorance, and would probably lower my rankings if I were to rap their skulls together.”

  “Somebody knows something,” Conan grumbled with a contemplative glance at Udolphus. “It’s just a matter of finding out who.”

  The nobleman’s guards edged forward at Conan’s pointed remark, but Udolphus shrugged them back with an easy smile. “One who might have some useful answers for you,” he sugg
ested, “is your young friend Dath. The lad has ears in most every pub and alleyway in Luxur—through his age-mates, who regard him as their leader.” “A good idea.” Conan nodded. “I’ll be sure to ask him.”

  The ritual keening and breast-pounding that marked the end of the ceremony were well under way, and most of the gladiators summoned by Conan had slunk off to their beds. Muduzaya, who still felt weak from his poisoning, expressed the intention of doing the same. But Udolphus, seeming remarkably alert for the early hour, drew Conan and Sathilda aside.

  “Look here, you two, I am not about to crawl back to bed and sleep till noon. Tis a new day, and a mere change of garments will do for me. If you would like to accompany me home, see my villa, and partake of a late breakfast, you would be welcome. Come along, I will be honoured by your company... all three of you,” he added, indicating the tiger.

  After glancing to one another, the couple did not demur. Conan, for his part, did not feel threatened by the noble and his two guards, and he knew that Sathilda could take care of herself. With the she-tiger along, in any case, there would be little danger.

  Udolphus led them briskly down the avenue that curved around the Circus Imperium. Farther on past the Convicts’ Gate, the lane continued downhill between wrought trellises and garden fences. But just there at the turning, one of Udolphus’s guards produced a key and opened an inconspicuous back gate.

  Inside, lush vegetation crowded near a spattering tiled fountain. All around lay marble benches, mosaic tables, and gilded terrace doors opening on a lavish dining chamber furnished with priceless art and artifice from faraway lands. It was but the merest comer of a palatial dwelling that rose in three or four tiers above them. The gilded bars on the windows by themselves, Conan guessed, were more valuable than the whole treasure-troves of some wealthy estates.

  Udolphus led them to an inner parlour whose fittings were just as ostentatious, though less formal. Motioning his guests to sit on a velvet-cushioned dais—Qwamba the cat choosing instead to lie down on a zebra-skin rug before an alabaster hearth—the nobleman shucked off his soiled cape into the arms of one of his attendants.

  “Now at last I can relax and be myself.” Reaching under his silken tunic, Udolphus pulled out a thick swatch of padding, rendering his swollen belly suddenly flat. Then, leaning forward before a polished mirror, he unstuck the straggling black beard, wig, and thick moustache that had screened his features, and cast them down on the tabletop. When he turned to his guests, the square Corinthian face and fair, curly locks of the man before them were revealed. They belonged to none other than the Corinthian Commodorus, the far-famed Tyrant of Luxur.

  The tigress must have sensed the faint alarm of her mistress; she raised her night-black head where she lay and purred a low, stuttering growl. After a few uneasy moments, Conan spoke up.

  “Let me understand: You go in disguise into the worst dens and gutters of your kingdom. You rub elbows there with low-class foreigners, and the poor and powerless, and preach sedition against yourself.”

  Commodorus smiled disarmingly. “What better way to find out how things really stand, instead of hearing it distorted through temple spies and fawning, ambitious toadies?”

  Sathilda spoke up. “Do you not fear that others will give ear to your discontent and start a movement to undermine your rule? Or do you spy out any such whisperers and send your guards to drag them off to prison?”

  “It matters little.” Turning, the Tyrant stepped momentarily behind an inlaid wood screen to change. In a moment he emerged with a clean knee-length toga draped across his athletic frame. “Dear woman, do not suppose that a few stray mutterings in some tavern can endanger my rule. I have wellsprings of power—the love of my people, lofty alliances and treasury sources that a newcomer could only guess at.” He laughed, displaying strong white teeth. “But come along, I promised the three of you breakfast. I generally take my morning meal under the gazebo.”

  Dismissing his bodyguards and issuing instructions to a turbaned, tasselled manservant who had appeared in the doorway, he took them into the interior of the great villa. After conducting them through the spacious gallery at its centre, he led the way up a spiral staircase, past gleaming mezzanines and the open doorways of lushly furnished chambers. At the top, passing out underneath a broad crystal sun-dome whose tinted panes were set in mullions of polished silver, they emerged onto the roof—which was itself partly roofed and vine-shaded, an open terrace furnished with cushioned divans and chairs. Awaiting them there was a table laid with fruit, exotic cheeses, spiced meats, and baked delicacies. At the Tyrant’s invitation they settled themselves to dine, with a view of the massive stadium and of Luxur itself outspread below them. Qwamba was content to lie prone, cracking fresh eggs and licking them up off the polished mosaic tiles.

  "There lies my domain.” Propping himself against the carved stone railing of the roof, Commodorus indicated the walled, hilled expanse of city that was just beginning to shimmer under the day’s sun. “And here beside us is its centre.” His courtly flourish turned their attention to the massive, foreshortened curve of the Circus Imperium, whose high wall crested little more than spitting-distance from where they sat. “In many ways, though it may not be evident to all, it is the fulcrum of my power. It is by building and improving the Circus over the last half dozen years that I have established myself here.”

  Sathilda, nibbling a fragment of honeyed pastry, spoke up politely. “That has been almost the entire length of your appointed reign, has it not?” Commodorus flashed upon her his dazzling smile. “Seven years ago this coming Bast Day, I was named Tyrant of Luxur for a seven-year term.

  I was then all but unknown to my subjects, chosen mainly for my standing with the Corinthian merchants and envoys. I was little more than a diplomatic pawn of the Stygian Priesthood, really—a way for the decrepit rulers to upgrade their standing in foreign capitals, gain diplomatic leverage, and spread their benighted religion by way of spies, assassins, and secret cults.” He shook his head in wry, amused recollection. “But since that time the city has prospered—foreign trade is multiplied, our defences. are improved, and our zone of tribute is extended far to the southward. I am acclaimed among the greatest leaders Luxur has yet known, be they kings, princes, or tyrants. And the folk of the city know and respect me on a personal basis—all of them, from high deacons to low guttersnipes—because of the face-to-face contact they have had with me in yonder Circus arena.” “You promote the Circus as a political tool?” Sathilda asked in surprise.

  “To be sure, I do. Look at the very shape of the place—it is a trumpet, a vast megaphone—a fertile valley where I can broadcast the seeds of my support. You see before you the greatest instrument of political power ever conceived... with the exception, possibly, of the comdole. The crowds who flock here, week in and week out, do so for the satisfaction of mere animal needs, the ancient craving for excitement. But when they leave, they take with them something more—an idea, a name, a face. The arena has carried me into every household in Luxur. The priests and nobles will have no choice, this coming Bast Day, but to reappoint me Tyrant... this time for an indefinite term.” “Doubtless,” Conan observed, “it comes in handy to be able to throw your political foes to the wild beasts.”

  “Nay, nay, dear Slayer,” Commodorus corrected him, “I find it far more effective to humiliate my enemies... and my weak political allies as well, such as the Prefect Bulbulus. You saw our little display yesterday?” He paused, smiling, for their illumination. “Doubtless you have heard them say that I was champion of the gladiatorial arena in noble Corinthia, long before I ever came to Stygia? WeII”—he winked slyly at them—“do not believe all you hear. Still, I was a cataphract of the Royal Corinthian Guard and can handle myself well enough to thrill these city types. Violence is what impresses them most, and I am capable of dishing n out in adequate measure.”

  “Indeed,” Sathilda affirmed with guarded admiration, “they enjoyed your hunting exhibition. I w
ish I had drawn so much applause with my own act.”

  “You will someday.” The Tyrant’s good wishes seemed sincere. “But for now I need all the crowd’s attention for myself... in view of my pending reappointment, and certain steps I will be taking to consolidate my reign. I want them to stand behind me, the Imperial Army in particular. In every arena show, the high officers come and applaud along with the rest, or instruct their concubines to do so. By showing my mettle, I have won their respect. The local nobility as well.” He waved a hand at the lavish town houses immediately around them. “They are weary of being repressed and disciplined by the stodgy priesthood. Their thirst for foreign goods and Corinthian freedoms reflects a forward-looking, internationalist spirit. I’ve done my best to cultivate that along with the support of the Corinthian migrants... the merchants and craftsmen, engineers and administrators, who have come here to cater to them.”

  “What about the common people?” Sathilda asked. “Do they support you?”

  Commodorus smiled. “Since Luxur was opened to the world, life here is much improved. New converts flock to the temples to Mitra and Ishtar. And the same engineers who built the Circus, working under my direction, have also reared the aqueducts, new defensive works, and the finest civic and private buildings in the land, greatly improving the commoners’ lot. No native Stygian craftsmen could have achieved these marvels... for, huge and impressive as they are, Stygian monuments are usually just dense stone piles with tunnels hewn inside them, lacking the fine points of true architecture.” The Tyrant shrugged. “Of course, it’s hard getting local labourers to follow through on all the necessary steps, and keep them from skimping or stealing the materials.” He flashed his guests a rueful smile. “Details like that have kept me busy these last few years—but I think the results have been worth it.