Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  “You see, it is the common folk most of all who have been transformed. Through the Circus, and through a thousand smaller details of everyday life, we change their expectations. They can never be made to go back to strict orthodoxy under the Priests of Set, the barren lives they once led—or rather, were led into. They crave a broader range of experiences, and free contact with foreign customs and values. I have brought them too far already to ever go back—now I can be sure they’ll support my rule over that of the theocracy.”

  In response to the Tyrant’s grandiloquent speech, Conan grunted. “The country folk are still faithful to their ancient god Set, from what I see.” Commodorus nodded impatiently. “Yes, true. And fitting enough for rural peasants.” His sun-brown hand gave a broad flourish, off toward the misty expanses beyond the city wall. “Every great leader must rule a vast hinterland of such benighted souls to furnish grain and tribute—and their own healthy bodies, of course. I would not tamper with their primitive belief, not as long as it keeps them peaceful and productive. If they choose to worship low animals—cats and serpents and storks—then let them, even though such customs are laughable to anyone who has knelt before our Hyborian gods in their human-like shapes.” He laughed in fond reminiscence. “We had a problem in the early days of the Circus... some priests objected to the slaughter of animals in the arena as being sacrilegious. Fortunately reason prevailed; now the Luxurites are so well accustomed to seeing their totem beasts slaughtered by mortals that they can never quite regard them as holy again, I am sure. Thus the old childlike beliefs will always give way to modem, enlightened ideas.

  “So, in answer to your question,” Commodorus said, “changes in the city do not have to entail changes in the countryside. The Priests of Set will always have their place here. The essential nature of the city remains the same... you know what it is, do you not?”

  In response to Sathilda’s inquiring look, the Tyrant spoke matter-of-factly: “The city is a dying-place. Whenever there is a flood or famine, or in the normal course of their over-breeding, country people travel here to die. They expect to make their fortunes, of course, or at least beg food from the vast granaries they have sent their produce to over the years. But on the whole they will die, from all the usual causes—starvation, disease, crime, suicide, war, human sacrifice, military and labour conscription—or in the Circus, of course— or, if they are less lucky, from the crowding, and the wasting ills that plague the poorer quarters.

  “By the thousands and tens of thousands they flock here... all the raw, hardy surplus of Stygia’s vast crop lands and orchards, all seeking to crowd within a walled, cramped space that does not normally grow by a thousand dwellings in a century! Wherever do they think they will fit in? A few lucky ones manage to displace others, and some may even win high status. But as a rule, they die. Thus it has always been.” The Tyrant spread his hands.

  In the aftermath of Commodorus’s dismal speech, neither Conan nor Sathilda seemed to have much to say. So their host, picking up a sphere of ripe fruit and gnawing on it, resumed speaking. “No need to feel glum, ’tis not so bad as it was. In the days before my reign, the Set Priests would turn pythons and leopards out into the streets after dark each night. Any poor soul who could not find shelter would be devoured, to become an instant sacrifice to the god Set. After some controversy with the priests, I put an end to the custom.” Commodorus tossed his fruit core off the roof. “Which reminds me, what think you of this new wrestler Xothar, whom they call the Constrictor? He put on quite a show this last lime out.”

  "I have not met him outside the arena,” Conan avowed. “And I surely would not want to meet him in it.”

  “He was nominated to fight in the Circus by the High Priest Nekrodias,” Commodorus said in distaste. “This Xothar is a great favourite of the priestly lot. The tale is, he was trained to wrestle using the secret disciplines of some monastery far off in the eastern hills. His victories are all supposed to be sacred deaths, sacrifices to his god, like a killing by the temple serpents.” The Tyrant shrugged in impatience. “He is fast, but a ritual slayer is bound to have his blind spots. I am no mean wrestler myself, and I would venture to say I could best him. What about you?” he asked Conan. “Do you think you can?”

  Conan, like a true wrestler, avoided any trap. “I hope never to find out.”

  “That ties into something I have been meaning lo ask you.” Commodorus kept his gaze on the two of them. “I have seen you fight, Cimmerian. I know few in the arena, if any, who can match your speed and skill.” He smiled. “It was perfectly clear to me, for instance, that you were toying with the Sword master in yesterday’s match, and did not truly suffer the defeat you pretended to.” When Conan looked as if he would interrupt, the Tyrant waved him to silence. “Yes, I know. He was not fighting his best, quite obviously. You are loyal to a friend. I see that and value it. But what I mean to say is—I myself would like to take a more active part in one of the upcoming games, and perhaps fight in a mass combat alongside other gladiators. That would crown my arena career”—he smiled in deprecation—“and quash any jealous claims that I am a mere dabbler or a show-off.

  “That done, I could retire from the Circus once and for all, a move that is wholly in keeping with the more exalted rulership I plan to assume. But to do it—to go safely among the armed arena warriors—I’ll need someone at my back. A skilled fighter, one I can count on to guard me from a random mischance or a traitorous stroke—but one who will not come off looking like the true champion, or overshadow my fame with his own.” Conan nodded, following him. “You think that I am that man.”

  Commodorus smiled. “Indeed, Conan. No slight was intended. But you are a foreigner, unfamiliar to our citizens and untouched by our factional rivalries. Your fighting skills and techniques are not yet well known to the handicappers; you have taken a defeat, by your own choice, and suffered a wound. So at present, you could play an inconspicuous role on my behalf... for a considerable reward, I might add.”

  “You want me to guard you in the arena... but not too obviously.” Conan knit his brow in thought a moment, then shrugged. “In truth, I cannot see a fault in your plan, or a reason to refuse.” He gazed up amiably at Commodorus. “Though you are a Tyrant, you do not seem a harsh one to me. You give your people what they want, and it brings them prosperity. And you are no blind minion of the snake-god Set. Tell me, what payment do you have in mind?”

  So their negotiations commenced. After several moments’ bickering, a price was struck, and Commodorus passed a sizeable purse to Conan as his advance payment.

  “When I am ready to fight with the gladiators,” Commodorus said, “I will tell you what to do. It may be during this next spectacle or the one after. I or the time being, take care of yourself, and let your wound heal.” After seizing Conan’s hand firmly in the legionary grip, the Tyrant released it.

  Now, if you three would be so kind as to excuse me”—he seized Sathilda’s hand, pressed its smoothly callused palm to his lips, and let her go. “I have neglected the daily concerns of state loo long already. My man will let you out the back way.”

  Not many evenings later, Conan found himself at the Pleasure Barge soaking up cheap arrak. His wound had healed, enough so for him to lash a chariot team down the jolting, cobblestoned streets to the muddy wallows of the sin-district. The tavern was nearly empty till well after sunset; then a band of street toughs trooped in, accompanied by some of Conan’s brother gladiators. Thumping impatiently on the planks, they ordered and stood swilling like men who had just been engaged in thirsty work. A few of them sported fresh-looking welts and bruises, while others wore garments that were slashed or shredded. A bit later Dath strode in and called noisily for a toast.

  “A tot of your best poison all around, Namphet! Savour it well, lads, and say your farewells, for we may soon be moving uptown!”

  Seating himself near Conan and Sathilda, he nodded to them and took a measured sip of his drink. “It was not much of a fi
ght,” he half apologized. “I did not ask you to join us, Conan, since you are still mending.”

  “Whom did you fight this time?” Sathilda asked. “It appears as if you were the victors.”

  “It was a joint skirmish with the Gate watch crew against the Eastsiders. An ambush, really, to repay their attack on us. It looks as if we have won ourselves a tract of territory inside the city wall, extending right up to the Temple Hill.” Dath straightened his disarranged hair. “Barring some sneaking betrayal, the Silver Trident Pub will be our meeting-place henceforth.”

  “Your lads will move with you, then?” Conan asked. “They don’t feel overly bound to their home district, I take it?”

  “Who would cherish this?” Dath glanced around the shabby, disreputable tavern. “Anyway, we’ll retain our control of the Canal Wharf. The traffic in contraband goods and condemned slaves is too valuable to let go. But in the city proper, there’ll be a much richer set of gambling accounts to collect. We’ll have the street merchants to offer our protection to—and, in the sector I have claimed, there are a good many civil construction jobs we can administer. The pickings should be rich.”

  “You mean, you will have a hand in the building of churches and aqueducts?” Sathilda asked.

  “Why, yes. The crews are all picked men.” Dath shrugged a little guardedly. “It is mostly temple money anyway, so it scarcely matters who spends It.”

  “Mayhap you’re right.” Conan nodded, dismissing the topic. “Dath, there is something I have been meaning to ask you. Before Halbard was killed, he complained to us about being told to throw a combat. He refused the offer—do you have any idea who was behind it?”

  Dath shrugged. “These odds makers all crave inside information. That includes rigging the occasional match. Heaven help the gladiator who gets too deeply in debt to them.”

  Conan scowled. “It was Zagar the procurer who pressed Halbard to do it, and he has stayed out of sight ever since the killing. I would like to know who he dealt with. Memtep swears it wasn’t one of his eunuchs.”

  Dath nodded, considering. “I have not seen /agar. But I assure you, I will put out a watch for him. Whatever information he has could prove useful.”

  Conan grunted. “Muduzaya was drugged before his match with me, likely as a last-minute substitute for Halbard. I refused to do murder, and took the fall instead.” He scratched under his loose bandage. “The slaves who did the drugging have been sold out of Luxur, so I am out of leads.” “Such things aren’t that uncommon in the Circus, from what I hear.” Dath sipped his drink.

  “Muduzaya could have drugged himself by accident, after all, and Halbard’s slayer might well be a jealous husband.” He smiled. “But I’ll see what I can do, in honour of our old times together in Luddhew’s troupe.” He turned to Sathilda. “I understand the circus players are all doing well?”

  The acrobat beamed. “Luddhew says our last show brought in as much as any six market fairs in the country. The fortune-castings and Bardolph’s Lotus Root Potion yielded good profit—and my trapeze act did, too, mainly from the betting. The crowd wants more risk, though—for this next meet I will perform over a canvas vat full of vipers.”

  Conan stirred in irritation. “Is that really necessary, Sathilda? You are an artist, as much as any temple dancer, but these low city-skites have no appreciation of it. I know civilized types too well, they crave only death and suffering. Mark my words, one of them will saw through your ropes for you!”

  “I check my equipment,” the woman said haughtily. “And I do not nag you about your exploits in the arena.” She shook her tightly bound hair. “Anyway, the courtyard of the Circus Imperium is made of flagstones. A fall there means death, or worse, crippling. There is no safety net. Isn’t a pit of deadly serpents better than a lifetime of creeping beggary?” Turning to see her lover’s dismal look, she softened and leaned across to him, speaking more quietly. “Do not fear, Conan. These rubes have no way of knowing which snakes are venomous. And the vat is going to be specially made—I would just as soon have a layer of tautly stretched canvas between me and the pavement to stop my fall. Maybe even a cushion of serpents as well.”

  Dath laughed, then shook his head. “Do not worry, I won’t breathe a word. And remember, if any of the others need favours, I am now in a position to deal them out.” Arising from his seat, he rejoined his lieutenants.

  They stayed late, for it was still two full days until the Bast Day spectacle. Returning home, their chariot was packed with three extra riders, gladiators still boisterous from the street skirmish. Conan was pleased to have them along in case of an ambush, even though on the uphill slopes they had to dismount and stumble along behind the chariot.

  The streets were quiet—unusually so, as if news of Dath’s victory had brought a lasting peace to the cobbled battleground. They encountered no difficulties until they were nearly home. Then it was passive trouble that found them, lying slack in the roadway: the body of Zagar the procurer, murdered and dumped at the back gate of the Circus Imperium.

  XI

  Bast Day

  “Zagar failed to please his masters, after all,” Muduzaya said. “First Halbard would not take a fall for him, and then you refused the victory he tried to hand you for nothing.”

  “From what I have heard,” Conan answered, “one of the odds makers who was busy staking bets against you is named Sesoster. He would be one to talk to.”

  “He must have paid out a fortune. So he would not have felt lovingly toward Zagar.”

  The two conversed in the narrowing shade of the arena wall, waiting for the day’s spectacle to commence. Just now, before the milling and largely uninterested stadium multitudes, Qwamba the black tiger was paraded through the centre of the arena in a gold-painted cart, drawn by garlanded boys and followed by whirling, leaping, thinly veiled females. It was a religious display in keeping with the pious observance of the temple festival, Bast Day.

  “That weaselly talent-procurer is a nuisance dead as well as alive,” Muduzaya complained. “Now everyone who knew him is afraid to talk. It sorely interferes with my revenge.”

  “Your revenge has been going none too swiftly,” observed Conan. “You seem to have other things on your mind.”

  “Well, now,” the Sword master argued, “first I had to recover from poisoning, did I not? And then there is Babeth. Her healing baths and massages have helped me greatly, but she is most demanding of my time and strength. I can see now why you passed her along to me. Even so,” he grudgingly added, “I thank you.”

  As the cat procession retreated, Commodorus stood forth on his balcony to announce the day’s first contest. There had been no advance notice given, and the Tyrant’s gold-trimmed staircase was nowhere in evidence, so Conan assumed that the ruler would not be setting foot in the arena today. He himself was not on the roster of single combatants, even though his sword-cut was practically healed. So he expected only to partake in the mass fight. As a trumpet-blast echoed through the great oval, he turned his attention toward the Gate of Heroes and the rostrum above it.

  “Greetings, citizens of Luxur,” Commodorus proclaimed from his vantage point. “I welcome you all to the Circus Imperium, and I join with you in celebrating this most sacred of feast-days, under the ancient tradition of our holy temple. Praise be to Father Set, and to his earthly pawns and arbiters,” the Tyrant declared with every appearance of sincerity.

  “I also commend your attention to the improvements we have made to our amphitheatre,” the Tyrant went on. “As you can see, both the east and west seating sections are now shaded and enlarged by the balconies we have added. By the next arena show, we expect to have the additional public areas open as well.” He gestured left and right toward the soaring, graceful additions. “Here now to initiate our spectacle is Set’s spokesman on earth, our exalted Temple Primate Nekrodias.”

  Briskly, Commodorus gave his place to the bald, skull-faced priest who so often presided with him over the games. Nekrodias,
small and sinewy, spoke out in a practised, oratorical rasp that hardly needed repetition by the criers stationed around the arena.

  “Friends and minions of Set! Most fittingly, today’s spectacle begins with an event that, gods willing, must affirm our simple, honest faith. The game will exact the full, harsh penalty of divine justice, and do so in a manner you will find edifying and interesting.”

  The arena, as Conan had seen, was laid out differently for this meet. Square pits, a dozen in number, had been opened at intervals across the sandy space; the cat-paraders and charioteers had been careful to thread safely between them, staying clear of the vertical drop-offs.

  But now, as Nekrodias exhorted the crowd, a fast-driven chariot rolled forth from the Champions’ Gate, carrying a slave and a smouldering fire-bucket behind its driver. As it veered perilously near the edge of a pit, the rider lit a torch and flung it in, igniting fuel in the bottom to produce leaping flame and oily smoke.

  With that first blaze, a murmur went up from the crowd. Excitement passed from bench to bench; it grew into an eager, expectant ferment as the chariot-rider ignited one after another of the flame-pits.

  “Faithful of Set,” Nekrodias rasped forth, “you see before you the sacred power of searing, purifying flame! What can bum a soul cleaner, I ask you, than the punishing scourge of earthly torment? What is a surer test of faith?

  ‘To be tried and purified here today, we bring forth the wretchedest and most despised malefactors of our empire: devil-worshippers, O citizens! False-souled heretics of the eastern waste! Instead of kneeling in the temples and shrines of our Holy Master, they choose instead to worship the raw rocks and cliffs of their heathen desert, and fall in prayer to the whirlwinds that mark the passing of evil sprites and djinni. They have forsworn our empire’s simple, self-evident belief and turned their backs on sacred truth. Of all the gods we cherish, they revere none, but cling to their primal, atavistic evil.”