Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  On another blanket a gambling game was in progress, punctuated by the clink of coins and the rattle of dice in a bone cup. And farther on, inside a circle of attentive males, a plump, buxom dancer gyrated and dipped in a sequinned halter, girdle, and a mist of veils, moving to the strains of Bardolph’s flute and a thumping cymbal. Keeping the time with bangles shaking across her belly, the woman doubled over backward most charmingly, picking up thrown coins with her teeth.

  Conan paused but a moment to stare over the men’s shoulders; then he turned and followed Sathilda to the smaller fire that lay beyond the wagons. There, inside a scattering of idle nomads, she bent over a cauldron and dished steaming viands into wooden trenchers for herself and Conan.

  Amid the stares of the others—and most particularly Roganthus, where he lolled now in a drunken half-doze—the Cimmerian hunched down beside the woman and ate. He exchanged few words with his hostess, sensing that, for now at least, most everything about her circus life was openly revealed to him. After scorching his mouth on the piping stew, he waited quietly while she dispensed wooden cups of spirit drawn from a small, spigoted cask.

  It was fiery stuff that went straight to his head; he almost staggered when, moments later, he climbed to his feet at her silent summons. She led him away toward the back of the camp, into the deeper shadow of the circus wagons. There a sparse bedroll lay outspread on the grass; he saw her kneel beside it, smoothing and straightening it.

  As he picked his way through the shadows, a rank, familiar scent drifted to his nostrils, making his neck-hairs prickle. There was a lazy clattering near at hand... then the shifting of heavy chain links and the feathery rumble of a low, bestial growl.

  Whatever it was, it was black. Solid black. He could easily have stumbled over it in the darkness. From the dull mass of its shape and the broad space between the glinting yellow eyes, it was no mere panther. It must be a night-tiger, fully grown.

  Sathilda made him flinch by placing her cool hand on the back of his neck. “The animals come in handy,” she murmured in his ear. “They scare off the wild beasts and the prying farmers.”

  Entwining him in her arms, she drew him down onto her pallet. Her embraces proved to be vigorous and athletic. Fiercely taxing the muscles he had already strained while fighting and toiling that evening, the woman made him pant with exertion.

  While resting after their first prolonged, sweaty bout, he found himself wondering whether this, too, was one of the strongman Roganthus’s evening tasks. Yet he kept silent on the matter... being too sober to ask such a dangerous question and too sublimely intoxicated to care.

  II

  Spawn of Titans

  The market fair at Sendaj transformed the squalid riverside hamlet into a bustling assemblage of tents, stalls, and festive crowds. From earliest dawn the peasants began arriving with their donkeys and ox carts, hauling in produce from outlying farms. Soon the village street filled up with Shemitish farmers and herders in their best fleece vests and embroidered kaftans. At the far end of the bazaar, the fringed pavilions and guyed towers of the travelling circus chew in the simple folk by the dozens.

  “Come,” Master Luddhew proclaimed from atop a keg by the roadside, “bear witness to wonders from the far comers of the world. See beautiful Sathilda and her famed troupe of Imperial Acrobats of Kordava, the capital of fair Zingara in the West! Marvel at Bardolph and Iocasta, magicians and seers most extraordinary, who bring us sorcerous wisdom from the crypts and temples of remote Turan, Land of the Sunrise! Gape at strange beasts out of the haunted jungles of the South! And, right here before you, here stands Conan the Mighty, far famed as the Strongest Man in Nemedia, touring here to show off the skills and physical feats of his lusty race of northern giants! Observe the great Conan now, and obtain a rare glimpse of supernatural strength and prowess!”

  Luddhew, balancing expertly atop his cask, turned and signalled with a flourish of his velvet cape. Conan stepped forward across the open wagon-bed that anchored one end of the curtained circus enclosure. He wore the same costume of kilt and sandals that Roganthus had worn in Thujara on the evening of the parade, right down to the broad, polished belt-clasp at his midsection. His square black mane was trimmed, combed, and adorned with a polished metal circlet that gleamed gold from his brow—which, between performances, had to be wiped free of green stains from the base metal. Raising his arms above his head wrestler-style, he flexed his muscles to show off his massive physique.

  “There he is, half-human, half-titan!” Luddhew bellowed to the crowd. “Look there, at the power in those mighty thews—what a fine, splendid brute of a man! To see him use his godly strength, and learn if any pair of challengers from our audience can defeat him at wrestling throws, just give your coppers to the gatekeeper, right up there at the front of the wagon. Conan the Mighty’s demonstration will be a part of our Grand Spectacle, commencing just as soon as the enclosure is filled. Come first, come luckiest, get the best spot and see the whole show!”

  As he spoke, peasants filtered into the enclosure by twos and threes, fishing in pouches hidden under their garments to produce the small coins necessary. These they yielded up to Roganthus, where he sat in the boot of the wagon. He gazed down sourly on the crowd, his sullen, hungover slouch and shapeless tunic giving small hint of his own once-celebrated physique.

  As the entrants paid, they filed in beneath the hinged wagon-tongue, which was raised up like a stile by means of a rope. Normally this would have been done by the gatekeeper, but in view of Roganthus’s injury, Bardolph sat near him in the driver’s seat. He raised the pole grudgingly, barely high enough to let the tallest customers duck in underneath.

  “Alas, that is all the circus will hold,” Master Luddhew finally announced in response to Bardolph's curt, chopping hand-signal. “No more spectators will be admitted. You may return for a later exhibition—remember to tell your friends and family of these marvels, and bring them back here with you.” So saying, Luddhew stepped down from his pedestal and strode toward the coarse, patched curtains.

  Inside the open-topped enclosure, a framework of ropes and poles stretched overhead. The second wagon stood at the back wall of the canvas circle, serving as a stage. The space before it was clear of onlookers—kept so by the animals lurking there, chained to the front and rear wheels of the brightly painted cart. One of them was a bear, the other a black tiger. They prowled and ambled to the length of their tethers and eyed the watching peasants sullenly, as if waiting for one to step too close.

  Striding fearlessly between them, Master Luddhew turned with a flourish of his cape and addressed the crowd. “Here they are, captured in the southern jungles and transported a hundred leagues for your amusement. First Burudu, a wild swamp bear from the lowlands of Kush... a vicious man-eater, kept tame and controllable only by this enchanted object.” Taking from his belt a ceremonial flail consisting of three metal stars tied with thongs to a metal-headed stick, he waved it before him. “Burudu, up!”

  The bear, lumbering on the grass, rose ponderously on its hind legs as if at the object’s command, or to avoid its sting. The beast’s fur was mottled golden-brown, its muzzle long and tapering, its paws broad and powerful, with black pads fringed by matted fur and large, untidy claws. In height, as it reared up off the ground, it far overtopped the circus-master, drawing a gasp of awe from the crowd. Luddhew, after scrambling up onto the wagon-bed, waved the flail again above the creature’s black, snuffling nose and made it settle down on all fours.

  “And here, even fiercer than the giant bear, is Qwamba—queen of all the beasts, the dreaded cave tiger from the mountains of Punt! No death is more swift or silent, as she stalks her unlucky prey through the caves and cliffs of the savage realm! Yet Qwamba, too, is obedient to the power of the magic flail.”

  The coal-black beast, viewed in the morning sun, was subtly patterned in silvery-black hues with faint stripes corresponding to those of a common tiger. As she paced before the brass-shod wheel, her glossy co
at flickered in an eerie impression of alternating darkness and brightness. All at once, at a flourish of the circus-master’s metal crop, the creature sprang up lightly and noiselessly onto the wagon-bed. There she crouched at the limit of her chain, flicking her tail impatiently as she waited at Luddhew’s booted feet.

  “She cowers now, controlled by the spell,” he proclaimed. “But if it were not for the magic of my flail, the beast would be raging wild, scorning man’s puny darts and taking her meat from field and farm. Enough... Qwamba, down!” With a twitch and rattle of the lash, he sent the tiger leaping away, pouring herself like a torrent of ink into her resting-place on the trampled grass.

  “And now, gentlefolk of Sendaj, another natural wonder every bit as rare and strange—Conan of Nemedia, the last living specimen of a tribe of wild northerners who mated with titans! You see the result before you—a living mountain of a man, thicker and brawnier than any natural human— brutal, invincible in combat, yet able to mimic human customs and dwell among civilized men. Examine him carefully... but do not venture too close, for he is just as wild and deadly as these jungle beasts!”

  Conan arrived on cue. Vaulting up onto the wagon-bed in a single leap, he strutted forth, hulking and posturing before the crowd. His speech, by prearrangement, was limited to a few grunts and snarls of exertion. But his talents must have been adequate; his appearance caused a murmur of comment which the bear and tiger had not—since these were country folk, after all, used to a variety of wild and domestic beasts. They watched in bemused silence as he lifted heavy-looking stones and balanced them one-handed overhead, bent a thick bronze bar in his two hands, and burst a chain that Luddhew padlocked around his chest. As he hove himself up into a handstand and managed a few awkward palm-steps across the stage, there was actual applause.

  Some of the onlookers were, in point of fact, larger than Conan was, mainly by virtue of their girth around the middle or by sheer massiveness. But he, with his weight poised high in the chest and shoulders, his skin oiled and sun-bronzed, and his taut muscles standing out like ropes, awed them sufficiently. Their shouted comments were frank and credulous.

  “Will he fight the tiger and the bear?” asked one small boy, seated on his father’s shoulders. “To be fair, I think he should only wrestle them one at a time.”

  “Do you use the whip on him, too?” someone else yelled from a safe place at the back of the crowd.

  “Why don’t you tell him to roll over and bark?” “Silence, all, and thanks for your acclaim,” Master Luddhew said firmly over the babble. “Now comes the real test of our champion’s strength and dexterity. He will grapple with any challengers among you, two at a time, one fall per contestant. Each man pays a silver shekel as his stake. If any team tumbles Conan, they will be given six shekels in prize money.”

  At the announcement, a murmuring and jostling began in the crowd—mostly of watchers stepping back from the open area before the stage, or placing bets. At length, a handful of husky young men gathered at one side. They whispered together, shot surly looks at Conan, and held forth silver coins that Luddhew was quick to relieve them of.

  “Here we have the first team. Contestants make ready.”

  At the circus-master’s words, Conan leapt down from the wagon, passing between the idle tiger and bear with a careless stride. Luddhew braced the two men—gangling farm-rubes dressed in worn, patched jerkins—and restrained them, keeping a hand on each one’s shoulder. As Conan drew near, the Bossonian turned them both loose with a firm push “Honest grapples only, remember,” he added officiously. “No blows or weapons.”

  As was usual with a pair of adversaries, one of them moved a bit faster and more boldly. This was the one concentrated on; after a casual feint leftward, slowing the timid one with his eyes, he darted right and seized the leader’s wrist. With his other arm he bore down heavily on the man’s shoulder. Once he felt his victim’s knee strike the turf, he let up and shoved him away.

  “One contestant down,” Luddhew announced. “Now it becomes a solo match.”

  “But say, I did not fall,” the country lout protested. “That was no real throw!” He turned back to enter the fight again, but Luddhew restrained the man by grasping his collar.

  “A knee down is a fall, by Royal Khorshemish rules,” the circus-master said. “You kneel to your King, do you not? And likewise to your vanquisher.” He pointed to the fresh stain of mud and grass on the fellow’s sackcloth trouser-leg. “If you want a second match, await your turn and choke up another shekel. Meanwhile, wait and watch.” While they argued, the second challenger made only a half-hearted show of opposing Conan, backing off steadily. Tall and gangly as the man was, the putative offspring of mortal and titan overtopped him; and when Conan lunged forward catlike to clamp on a hold, the farmer’s panicky face proclaimed that he was ready to run. Conan let his grasp on the turning man slip. At the same moment, his toe flicked discreetly sideways, kicking the fellow’s sandalled foot behind his calf.

  The farmer tumbled down on all fours. Conan bent and helped him to his feet, muttering a polite growl that acknowledged a fair match. With a grateful, still-frightened look, the man fled off into the crowd.

  The second match started out much the same as the first. Luddhew, while initially bracing the challengers, kept hold of one of them a split second longer than the other. During that interval, Conan collided with the first and trounced him by throwing him over his hip. The second man was stouter-hearted, ox-like, and every bit as large as Conan. Conan fenced with him, attempting a few unsuccessful holds and twisting out of some others; ere long he managed to back his challenger up in the vicinity of the wagon with its two fanged, clawed guardians.

  As the bumpkin glanced over his shoulder to see whether the beasts were poised to devour him, Conan darted forward. Clapping a hand on the man’s nape and kicking one leg out from under him, he hove mightily, playing into the fellow’s tendency to move forward, away from the watching bear and tiger. The farmhand went down with a thud, but without substantial injury. In a moment he picked himself up and hobbled off, chastely silent.

  “That is the last team of challengers,” Luddhew announced—truthfully, since no one was now badgering for a fight except the first contender Conan had felled, and he had no luck finding a new team-mate. “It is a final proof of the invincibility of our northern champion, Conan the Mighty.

  “And now, from the shores of the Western Sea, comes a marvel of another kind: Sathilda the Flying Woman and her Imperial Acrobats, defying death in the sky above your very heads!”’

  As he spoke, the silk-clad woman was already jimmying up a rope suspended from the timber verticals and taut cables strung overhead. Two trim young men in sleeveless jerkins likewise hauled themselves aloft. Meanwhile Conan, shouldering his way effortlessly through the crowd, laid hold of Sathilda’s rope and bore down on it to ease her ascent.

  Once the trapezes began swinging, the press of the crowd moved backward, away from the circus’s centre area and out from under the threat of falling bodies. The daredevils performed without net or cushion, their tackles strung just high enough to be beyond reach of the audience. Sathilda executed agile twists and somersaults in mid-air, near enough that the onlookers could hear the slap of her hand on the flying wooden bar or her partner’s taut arm. They caught the faint fragrance of her sweat as she flew past, and even felt it prickle their upturned faces. Her two team-mates performed mainly stationary roles; they gave her a push to start her off on a flight or, at most, ventured out on a free-swinging trapeze to catch her and bring her back to the platform.

  In the middle of her act, she shifted to the taut rope at the centre; running out onto it gracefully, she performed cartwheels and pirouettes. Twice she made missteps, or feigned them, only to catch the rope on the way down and swing herself back up on the other side. Her skill and supple beauty, adorned as she was in her skin-tight green costume, held the crowd rapt. Their silence was broken only by the skirling of Bardolph’s f
lute and an occasional drum-thump to punctuate a noteworthy feat. For a finale, she returned to the trapeze; Luddhew announced that she would undertake a specially elaborate aerial flip and twist.

  The swinging commenced, with several preparatory flights to build up momentum and coordinate the timing with her partners. Then Sathilda released her grip and arched high overhead, writhing in the air like a silver-green fish leaping after a dragonfly. She completed the manoeuvre, straightening out just in time to catch the arms of her high-swinging helper. But there was too much speed, or too much sweat; on the return swing, heading toward the platform, her grip on her team-mate. failed and she plummeted earthward—straight into the arms of Conan, who had moved inconspicuously forward to catch her, letting only her slippered feet touch the ground.

  An immediate, exultant cheer went up. The crowd surged forward to congratulate acrobat and the strongman—without much success, for Conan quickly bundled Sathilda over to the wagon-stage, and up onto it to make her final bow. The circus-goers, after the announcement by Luddhew that her aerial show was at an end, were left to watch the next act: sleight-of-hand and communion with the dead, by wizard-gowned Bardolph and the fortune-teller Iocasta.

  “A solid performance, flawless as usual,” the circus-master told Sathilda behind the canopy, once the magicians were safely under way. “That mock fall came off perfectly—the yell those rubes gave out should be enough to fill up the arena for the afternoon show. There is no better advertisement.”

  "And Conan was properly in his place this lime." the acrobat said sweetly, bestowing a kiss upon the helper's cheek.