Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  Climbing from ledge to ledge, he lagged farther behind, and Conan likewise had to lower the angle of his ascent, for the giant upward steps rapidly drained the strength out of a climber’s thigh-muscles and made the knees waver. By way of a rest, Conan switched over to a rightward ascent for a time and then back to the left—for he did not want to get too near the mobbed tunnel entry, whose upward-angling mouth was a howling, hellish funnel of curses and shrieks.

  As they climbed into the deeper shade of the leaning, buckling balcony, the perilous condition of the whole amphitheatre became more obvious—for they had to step over fallen debris, dodge past runnels of loose stone that came sifting down from overhead... and, at this higher level, they felt the very ledges under their feet tremble and shift from unseen nether disturbances.

  “It is the water leaking into the Circus foundations,” Commodorus panted as Conan let him catch up. “The arena itself should have held up, the engineering was good—but those shocks must have opened up fissures in the masonry. The outflow of water is very likely softening the earth and undermining the supports as we speak.”

  Conan grunted and forged on, feeling more and more the oppressive weight of the dead fall over their heads. At last the edge of the shadow loomed near, and they were out from underneath in the blazing sunlight, two-thirds of the way to the stadium’s upper edge. Knots of fugitives were sparser here—since it was easier for fleeing, stumbling mobs to migrate downhill. Conan could see Sathilda and her big cat moving along the arena’s rim; she turned back, saw him approaching, and started to descend in agile leaps. But Conan waved to her to remain where she was.

  “So, my brave bodyguard,” the Tyrant observed, “our escape path just happens to coincide with a lovers’ tryst! But no matter,” he added with a sly laugh, “I cannot think of a better protector to have than yon tiger... your brawny Cimmerian self included.”

  Climbing doggedly with nearly depleted strength, the two found themselves nearing the curving north end of the stadium. Here, well above the wreckage of the fallen balcony, in high, bright desolation, was a sparse population of the dead, of those crippled by falls and tramplings, and a few clots of frightened or mindless fugitives: refugees who hung back near the upper fringes to be as far from the terror as possible. For below them spread the huge, unstable piles of fallen stonework, the red-runnelling drains and blood-dripping wreckage. There lay drifts of trampled bodies and the churning, still-vicious crowds that fought in the low places.

  Below, too, was the horror of the flooded arena with its sargasso of drowned ships and men, its thrashing sea-monsters, its foul polluted lake that poured out through the unseen cleft under their feet. This unutterable terror was reflected in the faces Conan met as he climbed—stunned spectators, staring blankly down into the vortex of death the Circus Imperium had become.

  Then the two of them, gladiator and tyrant, mounted to the topmost ledge where the anxious woman and the lazy tiger awaited them. In an instant, Sathilda was in Conan’s arms.

  But he, fatigued and breathless, was wholly distracted from her by the view that opened out to him beyond the stadium’s rim. For, in the streets below, madness reigned.

  The lanes before the Circus Imperium were gouged out by flood waters and drifted high with silt, wreckage, and bodies—transformed to muddy, roiling rivers whose courses cut past ruins of undermined, half-collapsed buildings. The courts and gardens of the wealthy were flooded and befouled—haunted, too, by half-naked survivors who crept through them seeking a route to safety past drowsing crocodiles and shark-haunted shallows. This, in all truth, Conan might have foreseen.

  But true havoc appeared to be loose in the town beyond... where shouts and screams of strife echoed, wood and glass shattered, and pillars of fiery smoke rose to the heavens. The cause was instantly evident: civil order had failed, the mobs fleeing the Circus had run amok, and the whole city was engulfed in pillage and riot. Luxur’s nobles and officers, most of them trapped or crushed inside the arena, could scarcely hope to control the poor rabble who had been unable to afford a ticket to the death-spectacle.

  Now, as Conan gazed down, he saw looters rampaging across the terrace of one of the stately villas nearby, dragging sacks of booty. Their leader he thought he recognized: one of the rangy, wild-bearded captives rounded up for the arena show. The river and sea-pirates, he guessed, would not take long to break their chains once they were washed free of the arena. Any gladiators who won clear of the devastation would likely prove to be equally spirited thieves. The few city guards remaining outside the Circus, in any case, would have slight chance against the ravaging hordes that now owned the streets.

  “It is gone... all gone.” The dull voice at Conan’s shoulder belonged to Commodorus. “The arena, as I told you, was the heart of my rule here. And now that heart is pierced.” He gestured down at the collapsed section of the amphitheatre, through which the unseen torrent flowed, and into which desperate Circus-goers now flung themselves to find release from the doomed stadium.

  Conan disengaged himself from Sathilda’s embrace. “You might still restore things, if you regain command,” he said. “No doubt many of your rivals are dead.”

  “They may be the lucky ones,” Commodorus said glumly. “Even if I were to survive, I could never live down the humiliation of—all this.” He waved his hand at the cataclysm around them.

  “Mayhap,” Conan agreed. “In any event, the first step is to get out of this place.” He moved along the upper wall of the stadium until he came opposite the highest villa roof... that was, coincidentally, Commodorus’s.

  The lane between was narrow, and the buildings tended to lean out over it. Even so, it was a considerable distance outward and down to the tessellated tiles of the villa’s roof garden where they had dined. The viny arbour made a tempting target indeed; one or two others may already have tried the leap—and failed it, as was suggested by the presence of bodies crumpled facedown on the cobbled pavements below. Or perhaps they had merely been left there by the flood, or the surge of the fleeing mobs. Further, if any others had made it, they would already have fled inside the mansion. Conan scanned the drop critically.

  His consideration was hurried along by the new tremors in the ledges underfoot. Screams and tremendous crashing burst forth on his left, reverberating through the very fabric of the amphitheatre. The undermined, devastated portion of the stadium was widening beneath new clouds of dust. The collapse carried hundreds to their deaths and brought the danger much nearer.

  “If we are going to attempt the leap, it had better be soon.” He moved along the wall to where a flagpole, projecting out just below the stadium’s rim, flew its colourful banner above the street. “What say you, Sathilda?”

  Leading her restless tiger, the acrobat moved up beside him. “If the three of us could get a decent running start, we might drive ourselves out far enough. But I do not think—”

  Just then, from behind them, there rose a forlorn chorus of screams, followed by thunderous tremors. The eastern stretch of balcony, the one from which they had so recently escaped, had finally given way. Those beneath it, most of them already dead or demented with fear, were pulped and buried instantly by the avalanche—which also caved in the stadium wall, reducing the full section of ledges beneath it to rubble.

  Conan and his three companions, man, woman, and beast, now stood at the crest of a steep, unstable, and rapidly narrowing island.

  “Qwamba, hold! Down, girl!”

  The night-cat, with senses keener than any of the humans, was made uneasy by the oncoming cataclysm. She strained nervously at her leash, setting her big forepaws up on the stadium wall and peering over. Sathilda, seizing hold of her collar and using her harshest tones of command, had difficulty restraining her.

  “Don’t hang on too tight,” Conan warned the woman frankly, “just in case she decides to go. Such a fall could mean your death.”

  Whether or not the beast understood his thoughts, her mistress chose to ignore
his words. No sooner had he spoken than, with a fluid motion, the big she-cat sprang up the low wall. Sathilda, throwing a leg over the lithe satin-dappled back, clung to the jewelled collar with both hands even as the huge creature ran out onto the slender pole.

  Tigerish strength and acrobatic toughness achieved the impossible. Rebounding from the end of the bowing flagpole, the giant creature hurtled through the air with the woman clinging to her back.

  That the two females had trained, played, and slept together was evident in the coordinated grace of their flight. The tiger’s great paws came down soundlessly on the roof terrace; Sathilda rolled free across the tiles and sprang nimbly to her feet, unharmed.

  “Here, then,” Conan called out to her. “Take this—in case we don’t make it across!” Reaching to his waist, he unlooped the drawstring of his purse and slung it across the gap to her. Sathilda tried to catch it, but it was too heavy; the gold-weighted pouch thudded onto the tiles at her feet.

  “Conan, do not jump!” she called back while retrieving the purse. “Find another way, the distance is too far for you! Qwamba and I will go and gather up the circus troupe... if any of them are left alive. You can join us later.”

  “Aye, then... farewell,” Conan said with a raised hand.

  “Very touching indeed,” Commodorus observed at Conan’s side. “Though you know she might have had all the gold she could carry from my villa.”

  “If thieves have not already stripped it, or are not doing so now.” Conan looked after the departing woman. “Still, I wager she is safe enough with that tiger of hers.” He turned to Commodorus. “Now, to find another way out—mayhap across the rubble piles. If the arena drains, we might wade free—” Turning to survey the vast ruin that was the Circus Imperium, he stopped abruptly. His eyes fell on a figure that had come close up behind them, striding from ledge to ledge with supple, effortless strength.

  “Xothar, the temple gladiator,” Commodorus remarked in mild surprise. “So you, too, have survived today’s grandest arena game... and now you come to join us, doubtless to receive your victory laurel.” He reached in jest to his own bedraggled brow, but the wreath was long gone.

  “Commodorus, beware.” Conan spoke low as he stepped protectively in front of the Tyrant.

  “What, then... oh, aha, I see!” Looking from Conan to the burly wrestler, who stood regaining his breath in an easy half-crouch on the next lower step, the Tyrant smiled in understanding. “As a temple fighter, you are Nekrodias’s man. And Conan here, who was told by the High Priests to kill me, but feels honour-bound to protect me, now thinks that you are next in line for that most singular honour.” He laughed heartily. “Well, Xothar, what say you? Is it really so?”

  It seemed clear from the wrestler’s oily, self-assured smile that he understood the gist at least of Commodorus’s question. Conan had never yet heard the easterner utter a word in Stygian or any other tongue, and it did not look as if he was about to begin now.

  “Commodorus,” Conan said warningly, “you go on down to the wreckage and tell us if there is a way out.” He waved back to the broken edge a dozen paces away, whence mighty rumblings and tremors still issued at intervals. “I will stay here with Xothar and make sure that he does you no harm.” Keeping his eyes fixed on the wrestler, he spoke slowly and plainly to him. “Xothar, stay back. I do not want to kill anyone, including you—”

  “You do not have to.” Commodorus, brushing past Conan, stepped forward to face the temple fighter. “Come, fellow, if you want an arena match! I am more than ready to best you.”

  “Commodorus, wait.” Conan laid a restraining hand on the Tyrant’s shoulder. “He is the swiftest and deadliest I have yet seen. I might be able to take him, but I would rather not try—”

  “And I?” Commodorus demanded arrogantly, with a sharp glance back at his bodyguard. “Am I not a wrestler, a soldier, and a skilled arena fighter? Do you think any temple-trained zealot or acolyte can outdo me? Do you doubt my ability to snap such a thick neck? Back off, before I am tempted to teach you myself!” With an angry twist of his muscular torso, he shrugged Conan’s hand off his shoulder.

  “Commodorus, you are a leader—or were one, and may be again!” Conan stepped forward. “I am a fighter, the one you paid to protect you—” “Yes, and now, Cimmerian, I am paying you to stand by and do nothing. Let me handle it myself, I tell you!” Extending a palm, he shoved Conan roughly back. “This is my chance to regain my prestige, by defeating the temple’s champion. Do you not see, all of this”—he waved a hand at the devastation around them—“it was a plot against me by the Set Temple, to undermine my rule! But I foiled them and bested their champion!” He winked broadly at Conan. “Once I am restored to power, I will build the arena all over again, bigger and better than before!”

  Turning, he stepped down opposite Xothar. The temple fighter, by his gleeful grin, appeared to understand the situation fully. He waited for the Tyrant to make the first move.

  However much he may have lacked in leadership, Commodorus retained his physical courage. Wrenching off his crusty, drying toga, he stood in his soggy breech-wrap in a wrestler’s crouch, with his supple weight raised up onto the balls of his sandalled feet. Darting forward, he clapped a hand on the side of Xothar’s oiled neck and sought, by sidling close, to throw his opponent over his hip.

  The shorter, broader man, seeming in no great hurry, crouched low and kept his feet firmly rooted on the stone ledge. His response to the Tyrant’s lunge was scarcely a shuffled half-step. By some quick, invisible exchange of leverage, he brought his opponent around before him and tipped him onto one foot. The threat of a fall to the next granite step made the manoeuvre that much easier; while Commodorus teetered, Xothar slid in close and upturned him.

  The taller man toppled slowly to the pavement, with Xothar kneeling effortlessly close and controlling his fall. The temple fighter’s thick, oiled, gleaming arms snaked python-like around his opponent’s trunk, leaving the frantic Tyrant’s clutching and beating futilely at his assailant’s thick-clouted nether quarters. The squat wrestler’s embrace was a close one indeed, and tight; the ruler’s upturned face was pale, his eyes rolling wildly.

  “Commodorus!”

  Conan, looking down at the unequal match, waited for a sign—for some hint that he should intervene, after all, if that was indeed his employer’s will. But the Tyrant, instead of beckoning to him, continued vainly to tug and pluck at his opponent’s iron limbs.

  The granite blocks shuddered and sagged underfoot, but Xothar remained unmoving. Commodorus’s mouth gaped wide, forming syllables; but there were no words, no breath.

  Then, after his brief labours, the Tyrant rested. His mouth fell slack, his eyes glazed over in a look of repose.

  After a further moment, Xothar released his grip on the body. Where it lay loose, he rolled it over on its back, straightening out the legs and crossing the wrists over the breastbone: a tidy offering to Set.

  “There, now,” Conan told the temple wrestler, “your work is finished and mine is too. I’ll go my way, you yours. I have no wish to kill anybody.”

  The wrestler’s complacent grin signalled acceptance.

  Turning, Conan made his way toward the stadium’s slumping, ragged edge. He thought, mayhap, of riding a great stone block to the bottom.

  Because of the deep rumblings and shiftings underfoot, Xothar’s swift, catlike steps behind him went unheard. The first thing he sensed was the heavy, clinging grip of an arm around his neck.

  “Dog! You have no voice, yet you lie like a pox-eaten harlot!” Breaking free of the wrestler’s clutch, he delivered a swift, stinging blow to the man’s shoulder. “I tell you, you do not need to trouble about me! I will have no more dealings with you, nor your masters, nor their much-feared enemies!”

  The wrestler, barely shrugging aside the blow’s effect, darted forth his hand with cobra-like swiftness. Knotting it powerfully in Conan’s hair, he sought to jerk the Cimmerian down to his les
ser height.

  “Arrh! Temple toad, did you understand me or not?” He smote out fiercely at Xothar’s head; but the blow missed due to the temple fighter’s quick sideward movement and merely glanced off his muscle-corded neck. Conan instantly recoiled his elbow into the crook of the wrestler’s arm, causing Xothar’s nerveless fingers to slip free of his taut mane.

  “I know what has happened,” Conan continued, squaring off loosely for a fight. “That fleshless skull Nekrodias thinks that, because he offered me the rulership of Luxur in Commodorus’s place, I will be a contender. But I tell you, I am no threat! I will leave Luxur. I have planned to do so anyway!”

  Eyeing Conan, shrugging out the crimp in his neck, the still-smirking wrestler ducked suddenly forward and sought to wrap both arms around Conan’s middle. Conan drubbed him on the cheekbone, on the ear, in the temple and the mouth, and again at the base of the neck, meanwhile dodging backward to stay clear of his grip.

  Xothar, grinning bloody-mouthed, came onward.

  Conan smote him above the eye and felt sure his own fist had broken in the bargain. He thumped him in the taut belly, and it was like trying to punch through the side of an overfilled ale-keg. He landed swift blows on the jaw, chin, chest, rib cage, and flat rubbery nose, scarcely managing to blur the fellow’s dung-eating smile. A knee delivered to the Stygian’s groin, with little effect, made him doubt whether the man was wholly a man.

  The wrestler surged forward. Conan, bracing his feet to drive a fist up into the sinewy throat, felt the stone ledge shiver and tilt beneath him. His sandal slipped off the side, his shin and knee glancing down against the hard stone edge. Even as the pain flashed in his eyes, he felt thick, ropey arms insinuating themselves around his middle.

  “Accursed reptile,” Conan spat. Then he saved his oaths, for he felt the python-grip steadily tighten. Xothar bound him close, waiting for the air to burst from his innards, the pressure more intense against his belly than his chest. The battered temple fighter could not lift and wring him about as he had the lighter Commodorus, but he bore him down flat with his bulk, head to waist, knee to throat. Fiercely Conan kicked and kneed at where he knew his opponent’s face must be; but the wrestler ducked and lay blind, clinging to his victim closely as a mother to her child in a night-tempest.