The Complete Tarzan Collection

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  "Castrum Mare is ill guarded along its waterfront, but the lake itself and the crocodiles form a barrier as efficacious as many legionaries. Gabula may have scaled the wall, but the chances are that he is hiding within the city, protected by other slaves or, possibly, by Septimus Favonius himself."

  "I wish I might feel that the poor, faithful fellow had been able to escape the country and return to his own people," said von Harben.

  Mallius Lepus shook his head. "That is impossible," he said. "Though you came down over the cliff, he could not return that way, and even if he could find the pass to the outer world, he would fall into the hands of the soldiers of Castra Sanguinarius or the barbarians of their outer villages. No, there is no chance that Gabula will escape."

  The time passed quickly, all too quickly, between the hour that Erich von Harben was returned to his cell, following his exhibition in the triumph of Validus Augustus, and the coming of the Colosseum guards to drive them into the arena.

  The Colosseum was packed. The loges of the patricians were filled. The haughty Caesar of the East sat upon an ornate throne, shaded by a canopy of purple linen. Septimus Favonius sat with bowed head in his loge and with him was his wife and Favonia. The girl sat with staring eyes fixed upon the gateway from which the contestants were emerging. She saw her cousin, Mallius Lepus, emerge and with him Erich von Harben, and she shuddered and closed her eyes for a moment.

  When she opened them again the column was forming and the contestants were marched across the white sands to receive the commands of Caesar. With Mallius Lepus and von Harben marched the twenty political prisoners, all of whom were of the patrician class. Then came the professional gladiators —coarse, brutal men, whose business it was to kill or be killed. Leading these, with a bold swagger, was one who had been champion gladiator of Castrum Mare for five years. If the people had an idol, it was he. They roared their approval of him. "Claudius Taurus! Claudius Taurus!" rose above a babble of voices. A few mean thieves, some frightened slaves, and a half dozen lions completed the victims that were to make a Roman holiday.

  Erich von Harben had often been fascinated by the stories of the games of ancient Rome. Often had he pictured the Colosseum packed with its thousands and the contestants upon the white sand of the arena, but now he realized that they had been but pictures—but the photographs of his imagination. The people in those dreams had been but picture people— automatons, who move only when we look at them. When there had been action on the sand the audience had been a silent etching, and when the audience had roared and turned its thumbs down the actors had been mute and motionless.

  How different, this! He saw the constant motion in the packed stands, the mosaic of a thousand daubs of color that became kaleidoscopic with every move of the multitude. He heard the hum of voices and sensed the offensive odor of many human bodies. He saw the hawkers and vendors passing along the aisles shouting their wares. He saw the legionaries stationed everywhere. He saw the rich in their canopied loges and the poor in the hot sun of the cheap seats.

  Sweat was trickling down the back of the neck of the patrician marching just in front of him. He glanced at Claudius Taurus. He saw that his tunic was faded and that his hairy legs were dirty. He had always thought of gladiators as cleanlimbed and resplendent. Claudius Taurus shocked him.

  As they formed in solid rank before the loge of Caesar, von Harben smelled the men pressing close behind him. The air was hot and oppressive. The whole thing was disgusting.

  There was no grandeur to it, no dignity. He wondered if it had been like this in Rome.

  And then he looked up into the loge of Caesar. He saw the man in gorgeous robes, sitting upon his carved throne. He saw naked slaves swaying long-handled fans of feathers above the head of Caesar. He saw large men in gorgeous tunics and cuirasses of shining gold. He saw the wealth and pomp and circumstance of power, and something told him that after all ancient Rome had probably been much as this was—that its populace had smelled and that its gladiators had had hairy legs with din on them and that its patricians had sweated behind the ears.

  Perhaps Validus Augustus was as great a Caesar as any of them, for did he not rule half of his known world? Few of them had done more than this.

  His eyes wandered along the row of loges. The prefect of the games was speaking and von Harben heard his voice, but the words did not reach his brain, for his eyes had suddenly met those of a girl.

  He saw the anguish and hopeless horror in her face and he tried to smile as he looked at her, a smile of encouragement and hope, but she only saw the beginning of the smile, for the tears came and the image of the man she loved was only a dull blur like the pain in her heart.

  A movement in the stands behind the loges attracted von Harben's eyes and he puckered his brows, straining his faculties to assure himself that he must be mistaken, but he was not. What he had seen was Gabula—he was moving toward the imperial loge, where he disappeared behind the hangings that formed the background of Caesar's throne.

  Then the prefect ordered them from the arena and as von Harben moved across the sand he tried to find some explanation of Gabula's presence there —what errand had brought him to so dangerous a place?

  The contestants had traversed but half the width of the arena returning to their cells when a sudden scream, ringing out behind them, caused them all to turn. Von Harben saw that the disturbance came from the imperial loge, but the scene that met his startled gaze seemed too preposterous to have greater substance than a dream. Perhaps it was all a dream. Perhaps there was no Castrum Mare. Perhaps there was no Validus Augustus. Perhaps there was no —ah, but that could not be true, there was a Favonia and this preposterous thing then that he was looking at was true too. He saw a man holding Caesar by the throat and driving a dagger into his heart with the other, and the man was Gabula.

  It all happened so quickly and was over so quickly that scarcely had Caesar's shriek rung through the Colosseum than he lay dead at the foot of his carved throne, and Gabula, the assassin, in a single leap had cleared the arena wall and was running across the sand toward von Harben.

  "I have avenged you, Bwana!" cried Gabula. "No matter what they do to you, you are avenged."

  A great groan arose from the audience and then a cheer as someone shouted: "Caesar is dead!"

  A hope flashed to the breast of von Harben. He turned and grabbed Mallius Lepus by the arm. "Caesar is dead," he whispered. "Now is our chance."

  "What do you mean?" demanded Mallius Lepus.

  "In the confusion we can escape. We can hide in the city and at night we can take Favonia with us and go away."

  "Where?" asked Mallius Lepus.

  "God! I do not know," exclaimed von Harben, "but anywhere would be better than here, for Fulvus Fupus is Caesar and if we do not save Favonia tonight, it will be too late."

  "You are right," said Mallius Lepus.

  "Pass the word to the others," said von Harben. "The more there are who try to escape the better chance there will be for some of us to succeed."

  The legionaries and their officers as well as the vast multitude could attend only upon what was happening in the logo of Caesar. So few of them had seen what really occurred there that as yet there had been no pursuit of Gabula.

  Mallius Lepus turned to the other prisoners. "The gods have been good to us," he cried. "Caesar is dead and in the confusion we can escape. Come!"

  As Mallius Lepus started on a run toward the gateway that led to the cells beneath the Colosseum, the shouting prisoners fell in behind him. Only those of the professional gladiators who were freemen held aloof, but they made no effort to stop them.

  "Good luck!" shouted Claudius Taurus, as von Harben passed him. "Now if someone would kill Fulvus Fupus we might have a Caesar who is a Caesar."

  The sudden rush of the escaping prisoners so confused and upset the few guards beneath the Colosseum that they were easily overpowered and a moment later the prisoners found themselves in the streets of Castrum Mare.


  "Where now?" cried one.

  "We must scatter," said Mallius Lepus. "Each man for himself."

  "We shall stick together, Mallius Lepus," said von Harben.

  "To the end," replied the Roman.

  "And here is Gabula," said von Harben, as the Negro joined them. "He shall come with us."

  "We cannot desert the brave Gabula," said Mallius Lepus, "but the first thing for us to do is to find a hiding-place."

  "There is a low wall across the avenue," said von Harben, "and there are trees beyond it."

  "Come, then," said Mallius Lepus. "It is as good for now as any other place."

  The three men hurried across the avenue and scaled the low wall, finding themselves in a garden so overgrown with weeds and underbrush that they at once assumed that it was deserted. Creeping through the weeds and forcing their way through the underbrush, they came to the rear of a house. A broken door, hanging by one hinge, windows from which the wooden blinds had fallen, an accumulation of rubbish upon the threshold marked the dilapidated structure as a deserted house.

  "Perhaps this is just the place for us to hide until night," said von Harben.

  "Its proximity to the Colosseum is its greatest advantage," said Mallius Lepus, "for they will be sure to believe that we have rushed as far from our dungeon as we could. Let us go in and investigate. We must be sure that the place is uninhabited."

  The rear room, which had been the kitchen, had a crumbling brick oven in one corner, a bench and a dilapidated table. Crossing the kitchen, they entered an apartment beyond and saw that these two rooms constituted all that there was to the house. The front room was large and as the blinds at the windows facing the avenue had not fallen, it was dark within it. In one corner they saw a ladder reaching to a trap-door in the ceiling, which evidently led to the roof of the building, and two or three feet below the ceiling and running entirely across the end of the room where the ladder arose was a false ceiling, which formed a tiny loft just below the roof- beams, a place utilized by former tenants as a storage room. A more careful examination of the room revealed nothing more than a pile of filthy rags against one wall, the remains perhaps of some homeless beggar's bed.

  "It could not have been better," said Mallius Lepus, "if this had been built for us. Why, we have three exits if we are hard pressed—one into the back garden, one into the avenue in front, and the third to the roof."

  "We can remain in safety, then," said von Harben, "until after dark, when it should be easy to make our way unseen through the dark streets to the home of Septimus Favonius."

  CHAPTER 22

  EAST along the Via Mare from Castra Sanguinarius marched five thousand men. The white plumes of the Waziri nodded at the back of Tarzan. Stalwart legionaries followed Maxim us Praeclarus, while the warriors of the outer villages brought up the rear.

  Sweating slaves dragged catapults, ballistae, testudones, huge battering-rams, and other ancient engines of war. There were scaling ladders and wall hooks and devices for throwing fire balls into the defenses of an enemy. The heavy engines had delayed the march and Tarzan had chafed at the delay, but he had to listen to Maximus Praeclarus and Cassius Hasta and Caecilius Metellus, all of whom had assured him that the fort, which defended the only road to Castrum Mare, could not be taken by assault without the aid of these mechanical engines of war.

  Along the hot and dusty Via Mare the Waziri swung, chanting the war-songs of their people. The hardened legionaries, their heavy helmets dangling against their breasts from cords that passed about their necks, their packs on forked sticks across their shoulders, their great oblong shields hanging in their leather covers at their backs, cursed and grumbled as become veterans, while the warriors from the outer villages laughed and sang and chattered as might a party of picnickers.

  As they approached the fort with its moat and embankment and palisade and towers, slaves were bearing the body of Valid us Augustus to his palace within the city, and Fulvus Fupus, surrounded by fawning sycophants, was proclaiming himself Caesar, though he trembled inwardly in contemplation of what fate might lie before him—for though he was a fool be knew that he was not popular and that many a noble patrician with a strong following had a better right to the imperial purple than he.

  Throughout the city of Castrum Mare legionaries searched for the escaped prisoners and especially for the slave who had struck down Validus Augustus, though they were handicapped by the fact that no one had recognized Gabula, for there were few in the city and certainly none in the entourage of Caesar who was familiar with the face of the black from distant Urambi.

  A few of the thieves and five or six gladiators, who were condemned felons and not freemen, had clung together in the break for freedom and presently they found themselves in hiding in a low part of the city, in a den where wine could be procured and where there were other forms of entertainment for people of their class.

  "What sort of a Caesar will this Fulvus Fupus make?" asked one.

  "He will be worse than Validus Augustus," said another. "I have seen him in the Baths where I once worked. He is vain and dull and ignorant; even the patricians hate him."

  "They say he is going to marry the daughter of Septimus Favonius."

  "I saw her in the Colosseum today," said another. "I know her well by sight, for she used to come to the shop of my father and make purchases before I was sent to the dungeons."

  "Have you ever been to the house of Septimus Favonius?" asked another.

  "Yes, I have," said the youth. "Twice I took goods there for her inspection, going through the forecourt and into the inner garden. I know the place well."

  "If one like her should happen to fall into the hands of a few poor convicts they might win their freedom and a great ransom," suggested a low-browed fellow with evil, cunning eyes.

  "And be drawn asunder by wild oxen for their pains."

  "We must die anyway if we are caught."

  "It is a good plan."

  They drank again for several minutes in silence, evidencing that the plan was milling in their minds.

  "The new Caesar should pay an enormous ransom for his bride."

  The youth rose eagerly to his feet. "I will lead you to the home of Septimus Favonius and guarantee that they will open the gate for me and let me in, as I know what to say. All I need is a bundle and I can tell the slave that it contains goods that my father wishes Favonia to inspect."

  "You are not such a fool as you look."

  "No, and I shall have a large share of the ransom for my part in it," said the youth.

  "If there is any ransom, we shall share and share alike."

  Night was falling as Tarzan's army halted before the defenses of Castrum Mare. Cassius Hasta, to whom the reduction of the fort had been entrusted, disposed his forces and supervised the placing of his various engines of war.

  Within the city Erich von Harben and Mallius Lepus discussed the details of their plans. It was the judgment of Lepus to wait until after midnight before making any move in leave their hiding- place.

  "The streets will be deserted then," said Mallius Lepus, "except for an occasional patrol upon the principal avenue, and these may be easily eluded, since the torches that they curry proclaim their approach long before there is any danger of their apprehending us. I have the key to the gate of my uncle's garden, which insures that we may enter the grounds silently and unobserved."

  "Perhaps you are right," said von Harben, "but I dread the long wait and the thought of further inaction seems unbearable."

  "Have patience, my friend," said Mallius Lepus. "Fulvus Fupus will be too busy with his new Caesarship to give heed to aught else for some time, and Favonia will be safe from him, certainly for the next few hours at least."

  And as they discussed the matter, a youth knocked upon the door of the home of Septimus Favonius. Beneath the shadow of the trees along the wall darker shadows crouched. A slave bearing a lamp came to the door in answer to the knocking and, speaking through a small grille, as
ked who was without and what the nature of his business.

  "I am the son of Tabernarius," said the youth. "I have brought fabrics from the shop of my father that the daughter of Septimus Favonius may inspect them."

  The slave hesitated.

  "You must remember me," said the youth. "I have been here often," and the slave held the light a little bit higher and peered through the grille.

  "Yes," he said, "your face is familiar. I will go and ask my mistress if she wishes to see you. Wait here."

  "These fabrics are valuable," said the youth, holding up a bundle, which he carried under his arm. "Let me stand just within the vestibule lest thieves set upon me and rob me."

  "Very well," said the slave, and opening the gate be permitted the youth to enter. "Remain here until I return."

  As the slave disappeared into the interior of the house, the son of Tabernarius turned quickly and withdrew the bolt that secured the door. Opening it quickly, he leaned out to voice a low signal.

  Instantly the denser shadows beneath the shadowy trees moved and were resolved into the figures of men. Scurrying like vermin, they hurried through the doorway and into the home of Septimus Favonius, and into the anteroom off the vestibule the son of Tabernarius hustled them. Then he closed both doors and waited.

  Presently the slave returned. "The daughter of Septimus Favonius recalls having ordered no goods from Tabernarius," he said, "nor does she feel in any mood to inspect fabrics this night. Return them to your father and tell him that when the daughter of Septimus Favonius wishes to purchase she will come herself to his shop."

  Now this was not what the son of Tabernarius desired and he racked his crafty brain for another plan, though to the slave he appeared but a stupid youth, staring at the floor in too much embarrassment even to take his departure.

  "Come," said the slave, approaching the door and laying hold of the bolt, "you must be going."

  "Wait," whispered the youth, "I have a message for Favonia. I did not wish anyone to know it and for that reason I spoke of bringing fabrics as an excuse."