Meanwhile, on either side of the stadium, venturesome spectators were starting to lower themselves down the arena walls. Males and females alike, descending by means of ropes and slings, dropped onto the sand to pursue the illustrious ones—a fact that made the players press forward all the faster into the bosom of the procession that issued forth to meet them.
As Conan pushed through the throng, he felt a hard, heavy blow strike his shoulder. Looking about him to find the culprit, he discovered what had been thrown—a purseful of thick coins amounting to a small fortune in gold.
Even as he tucked it away out of sight in his belt, he felt a soft hand settle on the same throbbing shoulder. A young maiden, clad in a flimsy diaphanous tunic, made him an offer of a wineskin, by the wordless expedient of thrusting its horn-spigot up to his lips. Accepting it, he drank greedily, pumping the cool liquid out of the goatskin into his dry gullet. Once he finished, he surrendered the depleted skin, his brain reeling from the heady liquor.
He saw his companions similarly greeted, by servants who succoured them with food and drink from waiting carts. Others lent their scrubbed shoulders to support the dusty, weary victors, asking in sympathetic Stygian accents about their aches and their exploits. Moving as a group, the players followed along the cool, perfumed tunnel toward a garden that shone sun-drenched through the farther archway.
Then, for a sudden brief moment, roars and outcries echoed fiercely in the tunnel. Stadium attendants, holding forth joints of raw meat as bait and using long, noose-ended sticks as goads, had tried to divert the tiger Qwamba and the bear Burudu down a side-passage toward some unknown destination. Just as swiftly as the ill-tempered beasts lashed out, the animal-baiters scuttled clear to avoid injury. An instant later Sathilda came running forward to stand protectively before the growling beasts.
“Thieves! Scoundrels! Do not try to steal our pets, or they will rend you bone from tendon!” The female acrobat stepped back to stand calmly between the bristling animals. “Whatever ill-fate you intended for our friends will be visited on you tenfold!”
“Come now, lovely maiden...” An officious, violet-togaed male servant, clean-shaven and youthful but already bald atop his head, bustled over to calm things. “Surely you do not think we mean any harm to these brave, noble beasts—”
“Nay,” Conan put in, “any more than you meant to harm us by throwing mad bulls and madder bedouins at us in the arena!” Shouldering his way over to join the dispute, he took a place before Sathilda and glowered ominously. “Why on Crom’s earth would we or these animals ever dream of trusting you?”
“Sir, most noble hero—Conan, is it? I am Memtep, chief eunuch in charge of hospitality at the Circus Imperium. I am aware that there may well have been some slight error, alas, in the booking of today’s performance. But I assure you, nothing ill was intended, and we thank all the gods that no harm came to you. Regarding these beasts, we only want to provide them safe and comfortable lodging for the night—the same as we would hope to furnish you and your companions, by way of expressing our sincere apology.”
“Spend the night here in Luxur, with more of your so-called hospitality? And with that sorry sculp Zagar, who sold us down the River Styx as slave-fighters?”
“If we stay, the animals must remain with us,” Sathilda declared firmly. “They are accustomed to sleeping at our side. After today’s events, I do not think they would take a separation well.”
Conan looked dubiously at the others. Luddhew, who stood nearby, gave a quick nod of assent. The hair at the back of the beasts’ necks had smoothed somewhat, and the other players were gnawing loaves and joints of fowl, obviously accepting the idea. Feeling a wine-bearer jostle his elbow, Conan seized hold of the flask. He drank deep before proceeding down the tunnel.
He found a cartload of dates and sweetmeats that appealed to his belly, which had known no food since morning. He felt uncertain about the situation here, and vaguely resolved to get his friends free of this fools’-pageant soon. But for the moment, perhaps it made sense to rest and restore the troupe’s strength. Meanwhile, the food-cart contained hunks of braised meat he found spicy, so he sought out another wine-bearer and guzzled her flask near-dry.
The garden, as it happened, led them to a broad marble pavilion enclosing a lavish public bath. The great pool was unoccupied as yet, its waters clear and steaming; but white-clad attendants waited to strip away the victors’ garments, lave off the crusted sand and blood from their limbs, and usher them into the limpid depths. And, after their day’s ordeal, the circus players were loath to pass up such an opportunity. After all, it was better than group-bathing in some cold Shemitish brook or a muddy farm sump. So they lay down their weapons, abandoned their gory costumes, and ventured in.
As Conan reclined in the tepid water with his purse of gold looped safely around his neck, he must have dozed. He drifted fitfully in and out of awareness, to the sound of yelping and splashing as Roganthus sported with the slave girls in the pool. Then, some distance away, voices were raised in irritable disagreement—familiar voices, whose accents jolted Conan awake.
Splattering scented water, he mounted the steps, dodged the attentions of towel-bearers, and strode across the marble tiles toward the ornately carved benches. There sat Luddhew in a Corinthian-style toga, expostulating angrily with someone about the cost of circus wagons and mule teams. And there opposite him sat a smaller figure, clad in a bright silk blouse, embroidered vest, pantaloons, and a tasselled fez: Zagar, the deceiving Argossean. Conan’s voice grated in his throat.
“Now then, you perfidious whelp, some questions will be answered.”
Leaning forward to seize Zagar, the Cimmerian was for once taken by surprise as the spry procurer turned to him with a wide-eyed expression, sprang up from the stone seat, and clapped his small hands on either side of the larger man’s neck. Beaming delightedly, the Argossean planted two swift kisses on the outlander’s astonished face, one on either cheek.
“Conan, my brightest star,” Zagar crowed for all to hear. “Our troupe’s mighty champion, the deadliest fighter ever to grace the Circus Imperium! How wise I was to discover you and bring you here from that little Shemitish village... Sendaj, was it? And now, what wealth and honours lie ahead of us! We have business matters to discuss, my brave fellow! Great prospects indeed!”
“What are you babbling about?” Though flushed and taken aback by Zagar’s display and suddenly mindful of his own undress, Conan still felt a vengeful impulse. His hand, which had darted out to shove the fawning Zagar off him to arm’s length, now knotted and twisted in the Argossean’s silk collar. “Lying churl, you dumped us here in the arena and left all us to die—”
“Now, now, my dear boy! Nothing happened after all, and you were a great success!” Zagar squirmed futilely in Conan’s silk-tearing grasp. “Do you really think I would be so inconsiderate?... I did not know, not any more than you did, I assure you! It was all a mistake, some whim of that great fool Commodorus, perhaps!” The Argossean’s face reddened, his voice rasping hoarse and desperate due to the gradual constriction of his air supply. “But you were well able to handle anything that came your way—I saw that from the start, when I watched you tossing those bumpkins around the village street! You are a natural fighter, the best thing to come to the Circus in years! And I am the one who knows how to make it pay, for all of us...”
“Listen to what he says, Conan.” Luddhew, reaching forward to lay a hand on Conan’s half-crooked arm, spoke in quiet earnest. “Zagar knows this town, and he has the connections to shape our future here.”
“What?” Conan demanded, giving Luddhew an incredulous glance. “You think there is some future in being tom apart by wild animals? Or diced by nomads, for the enjoyment of a mob? A great lot of good this scallywag’s Corinthian gold will do you, once you are writhing in a crocodile’s jaws—”
“Nay, Cimmerian, ’tis not so! A fine circus like yours and Luddhew’s should never again have to vie in the arena
!” Zagar, still in Conan’s loosening grip, squirmed and spoke volubly. “That was a mistake, a sad injustice that I swear will never be repeated! There is much to do here at the Circus—I can win you concessions that will fatten your purses and make you all lords of Luxur!”
“There now, Conan—release him, and let us hear him out.” The circus-master, with patient persuasion, untwisted Conan’s fist and drew it clear of Zagar’s collar. “Having seen the worst of this city, we may now be in a position to enjoy its best—but without any more trickery or foul-ups, mind you,” he scolded the talent-procurer.
“Nay, I would not dare.” Muttering thankfully, Zagar made a submissive, smiling bow to Conan. “There are sideshows, intermissions, courtyard acts, and vending concessions,” he enumerated.
“After your exploits today—which were well-nigh the grandest in our arena’s history—every Circus-goer will be eager to meet you and bring business your way. I can arrange it so that all you tumblers and mountebanks will want for nothing.” Addressing the small, towel-wrapped crowd that had gathered round, Zagar drew interested looks and murmurs. “As for you, Conan, a fighter of your prowess—there is no limit, the folk of this city will crown you in white gold and make you a demigod.
“Of course”—he glanced to the onlookers— “there are others here who can fight, and who acquitted themselves nobly.” He did not mention any names, to Roganthus’s visible disappointment. “You will be pleased to know that not every arena contest is to the death, and not every fight has a totally unforeseen outcome.” The Argossean smiled. “We try our best to manage our athletes for the greatest satisfaction of the Circus patrons. So there may be rich opportunities for each of you, without undue risk.”
Luddhew spoke up unexpectedly. “If Conan fights for you, he should be able to keep the bulk of what he earns.” He laid a fatherly arm across the Cimmerian’s broad shoulders. “There is no point in his continuing to give a third of his salary to Roganthus.”
“No, I should say not!” Roganthus said indignantly from the pool shallows. “I have no more need of it, and would not want it. In fact, I am his tutor and his better.” He flexed his arms and shoulders massively to show off his state of health.
“So then, he may keep it all, except for the one-third portion that goes to our circus administration.” Luddhew nodded in judicious approval. “But of course, he should fight only if he feels certain that he wants to take the risk,” he added considerately.
“I have nothing against fighting,” Conan declared. “But I hate to see my innocent friends endangered.” He looked around to the others, and felt Sathilda’s hand come to rest lightly on his other arm.
“Never fear, O warrior.” The talent-procurer smiled. “I think we can reach some satisfactory agreement.” So saying, Zagar resumed his private negotiations with Luddhew, a heated interchange that lasted many minutes before they finally struck a bargain. Meanwhile, Conan stretched himself out on a raised marble slab—where, enjoying the attentions of a skilled masseuse, he once again fell asleep.
VII
The Heroes
That night the players were housed in lavish apartments adjoining the baths, which appeared to have been part of a temple residence at one time. Wine aplenty was provided, along with various musical instruments suitable for strumming and piping late into the evening. Conan and Sathilda ended up sleeping on a cool marble terrace overlooking the city, sprawled on a silk-covered divan with the tiger snoring at its foot.
When Scorphos the sun rose out of the yellow eastern haze, Sathilda merely groaned and burrowed deeper under the pillows. But Conan soon was up and dressed in the large-sized, gilt-embroidered tunic his hosts had provided, foraging for his breakfast and exploring the Circus grounds.
The noise of wild animals roaring and bellowing led Conan to an expanse of pits and pens screened off by tall cypresses from the back of the Colosseum. The Circus menagerie was vast, with brass-barred cages for the lions, massive leg-manacles for the jungle elephants, and tanks dug into the stony earth to house the crocodiles. Bullpens, stables, and carriage works extended down the hill, along with enclosures full of sheep, goats, and chickens fated to nourish the flesh-eaters. The feeding was even now under way, carried out by a host of slaves who went busily about their duties and scarcely glanced at Conan.
“A formidable task, beast handling. The mule-meat from yesterday is already consumed.” Behind Conan, cheery-voiced Memtep approached from a hay-strewn alley. “The Circus Imperium has a wide assortment of animals from every comer of the empire—mainly the fierce and freakish kinds, of course, for the public’s tastes. A noisy lot at this time of the morning.” He paused to listen to the chorus of roars, squawkings, and howls that issued from the pens around them. “And what of you, Master Conan? Have your cravings for bread and flesh been satisfied?”
“I have slept and eaten,” Conan replied. “But if you remember, there are two good-sized jungle beasts in our crew that will require feeding this morning. Unless, that is, you expect them to make a meal of one of your attendants.”
“Ah, yes, the bear and the tiger. They will be seen to, do not fear. Meanwhile, let me give you a tour of this place.” Memtep waved an arm at the towering stadium and its lavish outworks. “It is splendid in its way, one of the wonders of modem Stygia.”
“It wasn’t here when last I passed through, some years ago,” Conan remarked.
“No, indeed,” the eunuch said, leading the way between bins of rotting vegetables and reeking pens full of hairy, long-tusked boars. “It was begun with the advent of the current Tyrant, Commodorus, with the blessing of Temple Primate Nekrodias, and only completed four years past. Temple land was used—all this was formerly a snake garden adjoining the main worship complex, yonder.” He waved at squat green-domed buildings that rose above the sheds. “The actual planning and administration of the Circus was left to the Corinthian Trade Delegation, comprising some of the richest and most highly cultured citizens of Luxur—the same ones who built the great aqueducts that promise to double our city’s extent. Their talent and vision, combined with the vast resources of the Stygian realm, have created something truly noteworthy—”
“Who pays for it all?” Conan asked. “And to what purpose?”
“It is a joint venture, and it pays for itself many times over, in many ways.” Memtep waved vaguely. “There are the admission fees, of course, and the flourishing trade in betting. Foreign merchants and emissaries are drawn here, to our city’s greater good, and our Corinthian and Zingaran allies are made to feel at home.” He led the way out of the animal-pits into the shadow of the towering stadium. “Most of all, the public spectacles uphold the prestige of our state and church, and keep the city-dwellers respectful. They teach essential moral values, such as hard work and fair play.” Coming to a tall wooden gate, Memtep pushed it open and led the way into a walled enclosure. “Work and practice, as you must know from your own circus, are the source of all achievement.”
The spacious dirt-floored area was tented over with a screen of coarsely woven cloth—transparent from within, though it dimmed the bright daylight. It likewise served to mask the area from prying eyes, particularly from the back rim of the stadium, which loomed just overhead. The space was an exercise yard with hay-bales and vaulting horses, stands of blunt mock weapons, and practice targets suspended from cranes and posts. Only three or four athletes were present at this early hour, exercising in silent concentration, but the place was obviously the main school annex to the central arena.
“Our real fighters prepare themselves here,” Memtep said. “There are plenty of others— condemned criminals, slaves, and war prisoners like the wild Rifs you fought, who abide in prison-pens farther down. But the true lords of the Circus Imperium, our featured gladiators, enjoy comfort and prestige such as few citizens can ever hope for. They are encouraged to practice and exercise.” He moved to an arm-long wooden beam that hung on a chain suspended from an overhead crane, bearing a dented shield a
t one end, with a blunt metal rod projecting from the other end like a sword-blade. “Some have trainers as well, ex-mercenaries and military officers who teach them fighting skills.”
Conan, taking up a wood-padded metal brand from underneath a bench near the gate, advanced on the hanging target. Raising the mock sword, he struck the copper shield a blow that bent it almost double. The reaction was immediate, the beam leaping and gyrating on its chain so that the sword-end came flailing around; only by ducking low did Conan avoid a near-lethal repayment of his own stroke.
“That is no way to swing, leaving yourself wide open,” a deep voice remarked. “Here, let me show you!”
Edging away from the still-oscillating weapon beam, Conan looked around. Memtep had scurried well back at his first stroke, but a black-skinned, leather-kilted figure, a broad-shouldered Kushite by his look—came over raising a sword-stick of his own. Conan watched with interest as he strode around the opposite side of the target.
“Greetings, Muduzaya!—known to his arena fanatics as Muduzaya the Swift, until he won the title of Sword master,” Memtep added for Conan’s benefit. “This is Conan—already called the Slayer for his triumph here yesterday.” The eunuch did not venture to touch the Kushite or clasp his hand, any more than he had Conan’s, but stood a respectful distance from both men.
The newcomer did not seem overly fierce. As he squared off before the sword-beam, his slow, confident manner belied any claim of swiftness. He was a fighter, to be sure... bearing scars, though not from any arena skirmish. The pale scarifications on his cheeks Conan recognized as the ritual markings of a tribal officer of southern Kush. Yet when he moved, he glided silently and innocuously as his own flitting shadow. Muduzaya’s face wore a dreamy, contemplative smile as he raised his steel cudgel in a massive fist.
“See, now,” he declared, bracing to swing, “before you ever strike, be ready with your back-swing.” Blunt metal resounded as Muduzaya’s mock blade struck the hanging one, then clanked in a quick rebound against the circling shield.
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