Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  “That great colonnaded mass on the hill is the Circus Imperium,” Zagar told them, pointing ahead from his donkey’s back. “It stands taller and broader than any temple or tomb in the city, even exceeding the palace of the Tyrant himself. It has all been built within the last few years, through his heroic effort, and is constantly being improved and enlarged—a splendid show-place, as you will see.” “That is where we will perform?” From his saddle, Luddhew shaded his eyes to peer at the rounded pile just visible above the walls, fringed by smaller neighbouring buildings and greenery. “How soon will it be?”

  “Tomorrow, if my dispatches arrived timely enough to provide for everything.” The Shemite grinned blithely at the circus-master. “I will confirm the arrangements as soon as we reach the city.”

  “So soon as tomorrow!” Luddhew’s exclamation echoed with the excited murmurs of the nearby performers. “How will we ever have time to prepare, to rehearse?”

  Zagar straightened his fez with an air of utter confidence. “You have rehearsed enough, I would say. Just use the talents the gods have so generously bestowed on you, and give us your best. I guarantee that the city crowds will be delighted.” Excited at this news, eagerly planning and discussing how best to awe the crowds, the performers jabbered and gesticulated as they moved along the road. Time passed more swiftly now, until the city walls loomed high before them, still visible above the fringe of orchard trees and hovel roofs that clustered near the road. Only the crown of the Circus Imperium peaked above the walls, glowing yellowish through desert dust in the declining sun’s light.

  As they waited to cross a canal bridge, a caped and turbaned horseman reined up beside Zagar at the head of the party. He handed down a scroll, which Zagar unrolled and read in silence. Where Conan stood, he could see that the message was inked in upright Corinthian characters.

  “Excellent,” Zagar told Luddhew, furling the scroll and sliding it into his sheep hide vest. “The preparations are being made for your arrival. Tonight you will be lodged outside the city wall. You can rest up for your triumphant entry on the morrow.”

  Word spread swiftly among the circus folk. They crossed the bridge and trundled some way farther toward the city along a cobbled lane of suburban shanties and farm sheds. Then they turned abruptly off the main road, down a palm-shaded path. It led them to a low-walled caravansary yard which housed camels as well as horses and mules.

  The inn turned out to be lavish; a generous meal was soon laid for them, and soft sleeping-mats were set out on the hard-packed earthen floor. The front terrace of the place looked toward the city wall across a rushy pond, the surface of which was pooled liquid blue with twilight. The lights from lamps and torches atop the wall gave off a star-like, dreamy glimmer in the dusk.

  Since the only other guests in the place were caravan-tenders muttering together in Berberish accents few but themselves could understand, the circus troupe shared their dinner alone. The old Stygian couple who tended the inn were too busy for conversation; even the agent Zagar had ridden ahead into the city to make advance preparations. So the actors lulled each other with dreams and fancies of unequalled fame and fortune in the capital as they retired wearily to bed.

  Conan and Sathilda slept outside on the terrace. This was necessary due to the female acrobat’s special relationship with Qwamba, the night-tiger. The circus hands who helped feed and groom the giant beast were leery of their ward, but Sathilda bore an affinity for her cat-sister. She had formed the habit of sleeping next to the animal, both for her own protection and to calm her friend’s nocturnal grumblings.

  Conan, mistrusting those same restless cat-dreams, preferred to sleep outside easy reach of the she-cat’s claws and fangs. He did not want to wake up in Qwamba’s bristling embrace, be it feral, jealous, or affectionate.

  So the two humans bedded down at the limit of the creature’s chain—which, in this case, was fastened around one of the stone columns of the inn’s portico. The animal kept off intruders while affording them decent privacy—but it was not unusual for Conan to awaken by night and see the tiger’s great golden eyes regarding him, its heavy black head nesting comfortably on his lover’s thigh.

  The night was pleasantly cool, in any case. The chirrup of frogs in the marsh and the occasional rumble of wheels over the bridge and cobbled apron before the city gate were restful. So, weary with travel, but faintly astir with anticipation, the three of them lay watching stars wink into existence over the Stygian plain.

  IV

  Luxur

  The performers arose at dawn and commenced feverish preparations, scouring travel mud from the wagons and animals, brushing and mending costumes, polishing leather and bronze and gilt and paintwork. Luddhew assured them that the bulk of their equipment would be unneeded in the great amphitheatre; the permanent show-place had plenty of ropes, canvas, and timber of its own. So the main cargo of both wagons was unloaded into vacant horse-stalls at the inn. Instead of drainage, the wains would be used as rolling stages to parade through the streets of Luxur, showing off the black tiger, the bear, and the various other performers for the purpose of luring and inflaming the crowds.

  After half a morning’s labour, plus a period of exercise and drill, the players grew nervous. They had hurriedly eaten their breakfast of figs, dates, dry biscuits, and tea at dawn. Now they sat restlessly juggling, re-polishing the wagons, or sipping wine-scented water in the shade of the portico. The Stygian sun was already high and merciless; distant shouts, gongings, and trumpet-blasts from the city gate indicated that the day’s commerce was under way. Among themselves, they questioned when and if the summons might arrive.

  All at once, the scuff of hooves and jingle of harness sounded outside the caravansary. Zagar rode in and dismounted from his donkey... smiling grandly, though he looked flushed and rumpled from the heat. Outside the low-walled enclosure, a dozen horsemen in well-trimmed Corinthian garb straightened their ranks under the gruff commands of an officer. It was an honour. guard from the Tyrant himself, so Zagar proclaimed to Luddhew and the players. The band was to proceed immediately to the Circus Imperium, there to perform before the lords and citizens of Luxur.

  In a great bustle the mules were hitched, the wagons straightened, the gear and fastenings checked one final time. Then they trundled forth, with the great bear Burudu chained behind the foremost wagon and Qwamba riding regally at the rear. As they passed out of the inn yard, the cavalry officer and six of his men took the lead, the other six falling in behind—to protect the troupe from attention-seekers, as Luddhew explained, and to ease their passage through the city crowds.

  The lanes leading to the great gate were broad and well-paved. They led past sunken groat-fields, farm villas, and market stalls, meanwhile crossing over the dikes and canals that irrigated the land and formed outworks of the city’s defences. The local inhabitants on the roadway looked to be slaves and farmers of much the same sort the travellers had seen the previous day. They gazed up blankly at the crowded wagons and scarcely responded to the players’ cheery waves and greetings, except occasionally to extend a hand for alms. But they were country folk, as Luddhew pointed out—simple and fixed-minded in their devotion to the harsh Stygian gods. Doubtless they were also leery of the city guardsmen riding before and behind the party.

  As the city bastion and giant bronze-sheathed gate loomed ahead of them, the horse escorts proved their worth. Before them, merchants, mendicants, ox carts, and camel trains scattered with alacrity to the sides of the roadway. As the mounted troops and wagons rumbled up the stone apron toward the looming pylons, trumpets blared from the top of the wall in salute. Tall-helmeted gate guards in vests of polished link raised their bright spears up vertical, and the watching mob bellowed forth its enthusiasm. At once the circus troupe began to prance, posture, and perform tricks, some leaping from the wagons to juggle and caper in the very midst of the crowd. So disporting, they made their entry into the great city.

  The sun on the valves of the bron
ze gate was blinding. As he passed through them, Conan imagined that he was entering some mythical paradise of blazing glory. The city walls, too, were vast and imposing, with huge defensive cranes and ramp way s installed just inside the gates. Beyond the paved entry plaza, the city surged right up to the stone buttress in a flood of clay and stucco, a maelstrom of sights and noises and smells. The sense of confinement was immediate. It was a suffocating hive, a teeming warren of cramped, crowded humanity, like many another city Conan had seen.

  The folk within, though mostly sharp-faced, olive-tan Stygians, were unlike the country toilers he had so far seen. They wore fezzes and tight-pointed turbans, coarse sandals and tassel-toed slippers, as well as a bewildering array of rags, robes, togas, vests, silken breeches, and woven dashikis. They jabbered in a dozen tongues, scorning the gate guards’ spears and the clattering hooves of the cavalry, and greeted the circus troupe with shouts of mingled glee and astonishment. There were many other strains present among them as well—greyish-skinned eastern nomads, smouldering black faces out of Kush and Keshan, curly-haired Shemites, and, most notably, a substantial minority of pale, square-featured Corinthian types. This was a city crowd indeed—diverse, animated, and disputatious.

  Their rowdy enthusiasm was all the circus players could have wished; even so, there was an edge to it that Conan did not quite understand. The city-dwellers, while applauding the performers and trailing along after them in droves, simultaneously seemed to regard them with derision, as something quaint, old-fashioned, and laughable. Their attitude was irksome to Conan, making him feel less inclined to go through motions he found stilted and artificial just for their amusement.

  Still, their contempt toward him could scarcely exceed his for them, looking down as he did on all civilized and overly cloistered city-dwellers. Furthermore, his fellow actors did not seem to mind, and he found their enthusiasm and eagerness to please the mob contagious. So he persevered, watching the crowds thicken and the maze of roadways narrow and twist—and incline upward, as the wagons climbed toward the amphitheatre that could occasionally be glimpsed on the low hill ahead.

  On the wagon-bed, Conan’s principal duty consisted of standing with his chest puffed out and turning woodenly to show off his physique. At times he would lift up hollow iron ingots one-handed—or bend a leaden bar into a curve, then bend it out straight again. Such stunts could be repeated, he had learned, without having to work up too much of a sweat or a killing rage. Occasionally, if the watchers seemed to demand a special thrill, he would beckon to Sathilda, hoist her one-armed overhead, toss her back and forth from hand to hand, and let her spring down in a somersault to the wagon-bed. Her supple strength made her seem feather-light, and their antics together invariably brought yells and applause.

  In the aftermath, the female acrobat would launch a series of handsprings, cartwheels, and back flips, often somersaulting from the jolting wagon directly to the paved street. Dath, too, would juggle his axes, spinning them high and catching them behind his back, occasionally letting them cleave into the wagon-deck to prove their sharpness. Bardolph, gaily dressed, had an intricate jig he danced while playing melodies with his flute. Burudu the bear amused the crowd with his antics, doing somersaults on the pavement or bouncing a ball, while Luddhew managed to make Qwamba the tiger spring down off the wagon-bed and leap over an extended cane. The others of the troupe, the tumblers and mimes and jugglers, all took their turn; the only passive one seemed to be Roganthus, whose hunched-over shoulder, as he sat on the wagon-bench swigging from a wineskin and lashing the mules, served as a mute reminder of the fragility of human hopes.

  As the teams drew the wagons tortuously onward, the streets opened out somewhat. Close-packed hostels and tenements gave way to gardens, courtyards, and more prosperous dwellings set back a little from the road. The view broadened ahead, exposing the massive, many-arched shell of the amphitheatre at the low hill’s crest.

  The mobs in the street, however, did not dwindle; rather they grew and intensified. In addition to the yelling rabble who streamed alongside the circus wagons, cheering and urging them onward, there were many who already filled the street, either making their way uphill toward the hulking Colosseum or idling in long lines outside it. They included scores of the better-dressed citizens, notably those with spotless, foreign-looking robes and pale Corinthian faces. These patricians regarded the passing circus with mild cynical looks and, instead of cheering or jeering, made low-voiced comments to one another.

  Spurring their horses through the throng, cutting across streams of pedestrians flocking toward the stadium when necessary, the cavalry guard kept the circus wagons rolling briskly. The horsemen led the way around one end of the high oval amphitheatre, along a narrow cobbled lane flanked by the iron-grilled walls of villas and estates, with their terraced upper stories almost closing out the sky overhead. Conan saw the trailing crowd dwindle rapidly and fall behind; likely this was because there was no public entrance at this end of the Circus Imperium. Instead, just ahead along the curve of the massive pile, there yawned a tall, vaulted archway whose heavy doors stood open.

  The cavalry vanguard, at their commander’s instruction, passed the archway and turned, forming a cordon across the street and waving the circus wagons inward. Luddhew reined his mules over toward the edifice, and Roganthus followed in turn with his team. It was here that Zagar jumped down out of the lead wagon and stood by the wayside, calling out to Luddhew, wishing him a successful performance and waving to the troupe.

  As they trundled into the dark, echoing cavern, impressions were many and confused. Conan smelled manure, animals, fodder, stale torch-smoke, and sour underlying scents. He heard a low growl and saw Qwamba’s neck-hairs bristle al the sudden change of surroundings. He himself glimpsed cavernous shadows, vaulting stonework, furled and stacked canopies and banners, bins of mortar and sand, piles of building-stone, chariots, harness and tackle, and masses of idle circus-type décor stored in alcoves and stalls. To his surprise, the two wagons did not stop at all but kept rolling forward.

  Stadium attendants, dressed Corinthian-style in knee-length white tunics belted at the waist, lined the broad passageway. Officiously they waved the teams and drivers forward, and Luddhew, in his lead wagon, obeyed them. Conan had expected the inevitable wait, a long tiresome interlude to work out their performance with the stadium’s managers and possibly set up special equipment. But the wagons continued briskly forward toward a second set of heavy wooden doors. These, operated by chains and metal pulleys, were already scraping open before them, letting in blazing daylight and loud, surging waves of applause.

  “Now, fellow troupers, I want you to put on your brightest faces.” Luddhew, standing up in his wagon-seat, gave the reins to Phatuphar beside him and turned to face the performers. “This is the great moment, our début here in fabled Luxur. Remember all of your skills, be proud of your circus heritage, and do not fail to please the crowd!”

  The actors around him answered with palpable enthusiasm which Conan could not help but share. He felt nervous only because of the uncertainty of it all, having no idea what sequence of acts the circus-master might plan to announce, or whether the show would have an introduction, a build-up, and a finale like most performances. He resolved just to follow along and watch the others, who now stretched, preened themselves, and grinned in anticipation. They and Luddhew were seasoned performers, after all, and must know what they were doing. For his part, he resolved to strut and posture his very best, and throw Sathilda higher into the air than ever.

  The wagons rolled out onto a nearly empty sand lot ringed by stone bastions and sloping amphitheatre seats. The ledged slopes swarmed with cheering, colourful throngs... almost brimful, except for a few patches of bare stone stair step along the top rim of the stadium. More watchers streamed in each moment through entry-tunnels spaced halfway up the inclined walls, so Conan guessed the place might soon be filled. The crowd was exuberant and noisy; as the circus came into view, the
ir cheers rolled from one end of the oval stadium to the other in a great echoing tide.

  Ahead of the wagons, across the middle section of the open expanse, the level sand seemed to fall away in a depression from which one could see the tops of bushes and trees. Presumably it was a park or a stage-setting of some kind. Above it, against the backdrop of the massive stadium and the seething crowd, Conan saw a spidery framework of ropes and timber tripods raised—trapezes and slings for the acrobats, no doubt.

  The players entered the amphitheatre as they had done the city gate: dancing, fluting, and juggling in other places on the wagon-beds. Any sounds they had not heard – along with Luddhew’s imperious acmnius he called out the names of the acts in Corinthian—were instantly drowned out by roars of acclaim from the audience, many of whom leered down from the ends of the arena walls, two or three man-lengths above them at either side of the arched entry gate. Conan, hulking atop his wagon-bed and hoisting his hollow weights, wondered at the need for the high walls. It would have been easier to let the crowd swarm down into the sandy area and witness the show close-up. But then, considering the crowd’s size and frenzy, he felt thankful they weren’t within arm’s reach.

  Yet he noticed that, as the wagons circled in place, with the high-plumbed mules prancing valiantly and the players going through their impromptu routines, the audience’s acclaim quickly faded. After only a few moments of carnival gaiety and uproar, the tones of Bardolph’s flute and Iocasta’s chimes became audible again, squeaking and clinking feebly in the vast space. The loudest sound was that of the heavy doors as they scraped and thudded ponderously shut behind the wagons. Except for an occasional hoot or cry from the crowd, and the faint continuing roar of murmured conversations, the onlookers became quiet. Their silence, to Conan, seemed like one of expectancy.