The effect of his blows, besides fending away the beam, was to drive it crookedly at Conan— who, rather than stepping back, lashed out and struck twice in equally swift defence.
“Ha, you are not so sluggish, after all!” Stepping forward, Muduzaya commenced a series of powerful forehand and backhand blows. His strokes drove the target dummy relentlessly at the Cimmerian, the fixed shield and sword veering in wild alternation both left and right, at crotch and crown. Conan surrendered no ground, dodging or parrying each swipe of the rough metal and occasionally sending the dummy back at the Kushite with equally daunting force.
“By your unusual speed you break many rules,” Muduzaya observed. He meanwhile readied a two-handed overhead stroke that, when delivered, sent the beam’s blunt sword-tip swooping straight at Conan’s breadbasket.
“I make rules, too.” Fending aside the blade, Conan pivoted on one foot and gave the beam a well-placed kick that sent the jagged shield straight at the Kushite; to dodge it, Muduzaya had to shift his feet in an agile but less than dignified way.
“Well-done,” the black man allowed with a nod. “Remind me not to go up against you in the arena. Not, at least, at the end of a long, weary day.” He put out his big hand and caught the beam on its back swing. “Enough now, I would not want to wear you out.” Muduzaya himself as Conan saw, scarcely breathed fast and bore no sheen of sweat.
“Agreed,” the Cimmerian said, stepping clear of the target. On an impulse, he tossed aside his cudgel and put out his hand. After a brief glance into Conan’s face, his adversary did likewise and returned the handclasp—using the legionary grip, wrist-to-wrist, each man’s hand clamped about the other’s forearm. It was a greeting most frequently shared by troops and mercenaries of the eastern desert, wanderers all.
“Peace, then.” Nodding. Muduzaya turned and strode away. The other athletes in the compound, though they had looked up and observed him taking Conan’s measure, did not interrupt their routines to greet either man. As potential competitors and potential slayers, they preferred to keep to themselves.
“If your popularity persists and grows to match Muduzaya’s,” Memtep observed, “very likely you will be pitted against him. The public has a craving to play off their heroes against one another.”
“And such a fight draws lavish bets, I would guess.” Conan nodded contemplatively. “Still, some accommodation can be made, mayhap.”
They passed through the practice compound into a spacious shed—an armoury, bam-like and musty with the smell of rust and old blood. The equipment set out in racks and bins varied greatly, some of it polished and well-kept, some battered and almost laughable in its shoddiness.
“These helmets are ungainly, having such broad visors and bills,” Conan observed. “Why would a fighter burden himself so, at risk of straining his neck?”
Memtep smiled, venturing to touch one of the helmet-rims with his slim dark hand. “With afternoon sun burning down on the white sand and bouncing off the marble walls, a gladiator will risk quite a bit for some shade, so you’ll find. If a wide-brimmed casque keeps you from being blinded by the glare, or by a flung handful of sand, then it’s well worth the weight.”
Conan grunted in understanding. “And this dross over here is reserved for your less favoured contenders?” He moved among the bins of rusting, broken arms.
“Exactly.” Memtep led him over to a heavily barred door in the farther wall. Unlatching it, he pulled it open onto a dank, smelly passageway. “Through here are the slave and animal holding-pens. This entrance to the arena is known as the Convicts’ Gate.”
Turning aside, Conan walked along the cobbled tunnel toward the bright, glaring light at the end. Gazing out through the half-open portal into the vacant stadium, he was astonished to see scores of workmen installing heavy timbers and partitions in what formerly had been the crocodile-pit, erecting a level floor across the two-man-deep depression.
‘The arena surface is usually flat.” Coming up beside the Cimmerian at the drop-off, Memtep answered his unvoiced question. “The under-struts and floor segments can be rearranged in countless ways, so as to form hidden pits, mazes, raceways, or whatever might be required. There is even a plan to divert the main aqueduct and flood the whole great oval.”
Conan said nothing, watching the ant-like labours of the men in the pit. It was now clear of reptiles, and nearly so of water, except for broad sandy puddles that remained in the depths. He was thinking how the whole place must have been specially readied for the arrival of Luddhew and his troupe. Yet he saw no point in belabouring Memtep over it, since it all seemed to be working out satisfactorily.
“The Circus Imperium is in a constant state of change, forever being improved and enlarged upon.” Memtep pointed to other work crews who were re-plastering the stadium walls, repairing the benches, and installing what appeared to be a canopy or balcony over the privileged seating. To erect pillars, the workmen were pouring troughs of sludgy grey flowstone into wooden forms. “Our craftsmen work under the most advanced designers and foremen from far-off Corinthia,” Memtep added, “so there is no limit to what can be done.”
As the eunuch spoke, he turned and led Conan back along the tunnel; but the Cimmerian stopped to look into an archway from which the stench of death emanated. In the dark, cool interior, several steps down, he saw corpses lying on straw pallets on the floor. They were the desert nomads who had been slain the previous day—a few of them, anyway, their twisted bodies looking pathetically ragged and frail in their slack robes. A male slave, white-robed against the chill, sat in attendance on a wicker seat; he eyed Conan incuriously, apparently oblivious to the smell.
At the far side of the sunken chamber was another heavy door, which scraped open. From behind it emerged two men—red-robed, priestly-looking types, their heads shaven under the loose cowls of their robes. Without even glancing at Conan, they nodded acknowledgement to the seated slave, who made a mark on a wax tablet in his lap. Then, stooping at either end of one of the bodies, they lifted it smoothly up on its sagging pallet. Moving silently and expertly, they bore it away through the open door, which thudded shut behind them with the rattle of a latch.
“Who are those men?” Conan asked, turning to Memtep. “What becomes of the bodies slain in the arena?”
The eunuch answered as if reluctantly, leading Conan off down the corridor as he spoke. “As I said before, the Circus Imperium was built on hallowed ground, with active support from the Temple of Set.” He looked back at his listener with solemnity in his eyes and with what might have been a glint of superstitious fear. “As you may know, a large part of our religious faith here in Stygia deals with death—that is, the fate of the soul, or ba, once its mortal husk collapses and fails. It has been revealed to us that, to ensure eternal life, the bodies must be preserved—bodies of lords and lowly ones alike, so they may continue to rule and serve in the Afterworld. Do you understand this?” Memtep, leading Conan out into daylight between barred sheds and cages, looked inquiringly at his guest.
“I know that you Stygians are great mummy-makers and tomb-builders,” Conan replied.
“Precisely. To sustain the spirit in the afterlife, the body must be correctly prepared and preserved. As a condition of the Circus’s establishment in Luxur, it was agreed that every man or sacred beast who happened to die here would be granted mummification rites, and guaranteed a place in eternity. The red-robed acolytes you saw are special trainees under Chief Embalmer Manethos, who answers directly to the Temple Primate himself, Nekrodias. The Temple maintains an embalming-crypt here, adjoining the Circus.” Memtep nodded toward the farther end of the stadium’s rear area, which they had not visited. “In that way, the proprieties of our worship are maintained in the face of foreign customs.”
“So the arena’s dead are all mummified?” Conan asked, shaking his head in uncertainty. “Even if their own beliefs differ?”
“Not all receive the same honour,” Memtep said, ignoring the second part of
Conan’s question. ‘The arena’s most famous fighters, by popular demand, are immured—entombed right here in the walls of the stadium.” He pointed to one of the shallow alcoves under the series of arches that held up the curving vertical wall. “Of course, all the death-shrines so far have been installed overlooking the street. They do a fine job of it, embossing urns and wreaths, with sculptured flowers and testaments inscribed in Stygian and Corinthian text. Atop it all is the death-mask of the hero, set intaglio with gemstones in the eyes, so that they seem to follow you. A champion’s place in eternity is well-assured.”
Conan kept silent, deciding to ask no more questions. Himself, he thought little of death. His own beliefs, shaped by the preachments of austere northern gods such as Crom and Mitra, placed little importance on the fate of the mortal body after its extinction. Even so, the notion of being gutted and stuffed at some future time when he was helpless—spiced liberally, and wrapped and propped up in a niche for public inspection— made him queasy. He had seen sorcerers, rank necromancers, perform unspeakable tricks with the reanimated bodies of their victims. Was it possible that Set’s priests might truly enslave his soul with their embalming, and hold it in his body to rot, dooming him perhaps to wander forever as an outsider among prating, praying ghosts in their dim Afterworld? He did not like to think about it.
Memtep led him by a semicircular route back to the apartments, where his companions were just now arising and partaking of fresh viands. They were enthusiastic about what had turned out to be, after all, their great success in Luxur. After breakfast, Memtep took them to the rear of the compound and showed them their long-term lodgings: a row of humble priest-cottages that, in point of fact, promised to be more comfortable than the temporary suite of rooms. Bardolph and several others were eager to go immediately with Luddhew to fetch the troupe’s personal belongings from the caravansary with the replacement wagon teams that had been made available. Some of the players, including Sathilda, wanted to prepare the quarters for the humans and animals and work out details of their new acts.
“As for me,” Dath announced, “I would like to see the town.”
“I, too,” Conan said. “I have never yet had a good carouse in Luxur.”
“That sounds like a pleasant way to spend the morning,” Roganthus joined in, flexing his shoulders. “Let us see what damage we can do.” Securing an advance on their pay from Luddhew, the three set out. Though refusing Memtep’s offer of a slave guide, they made note of his directions to the Corinthian Quarter and the Canal Wharf—said to be the most hospitable sections of the town. Conan told no one of the purse of gold that had been flung at him, but kept it safe on a thong around his neck.
They made their exit by way of the carriage yard, which did not take them past the stadium and the hill-front with its fashionable dwellings. Even so, within a dozen strides they were recognized and set upon by a band of ragged street urchins. The children pestered them for alms and, receiving none, made scurrilous references to their life-and-death skirmish of the previous day.
“These are the country louts, are they not?” “Yes, the yokels who tried to entertain wild bulls with their dancing and juggling!”
“I did not know a country circus bred such fighters.” The ragamuffins’ obvious leader, a scrawny copper-skinned boy, centred his impertinent attentions on Conan. “Are you attacked much by bulls and bandits, out there in the rural mudflats?”
“We know how to deal with nuisances of all kinds,” Conan answered meaningfully. “Now, begone.”
“You did not learn to swing a sword like that in a medicine show,” the youth persisted. “Are you a mercenary, then, or a gladiator from one of the Hyborian cities?”
“Why should you want to know?” Conan countered. “Do they let babes like you witness the carnage of the arena? If so, ’tis a grave error.”
“I see more, and know more, than any ten adults in this city,” the cocky youth replied.
“Oh? What is your name, then?”
“I am Jemain,” the lad proclaimed, to the respectful silence of his fellow ragamuffins. “And you are Conan the Slayer, the next great hero of the Circus Imperium.”
“A public sensation,” Dath the ax-juggler put in at Conan’s side with a knowing smile. “And a great betting favourite, no doubt.”
“Yes, more surely, someday,” Jemain answered with a wary look at Dath.
“And what of me?” Conan’s other companion demanded. “I, Roganthus the Strong, discovered this oaf. He learned what little he knows about circusing from me.” His voice was only half-jocular, containing a real note of vulnerable pride. “Tell me, young ruffian, is there any glimpse of me in your soothsayer’s crystal?”
Jemain’s sly young face flashed a cynical smile. “Yes, surely you have a place. The Circus Imperium welcomes all, and puts each to his best use. A skilful fighter can win great wealth in his time there.”
Roganthus seemed to accept this; the others lapsed into grateful silence. Most of the street urchins had fallen away, with only Jemain dogging the three men. Likely he still hoped for a handout or at the very least, marketable information.
The cobbled alleyways they followed from the arena compound led downhill, angling into a broader thoroughfare in a valley between the stadium and the taller, less densely built hills to the south. Passing between shops and tenements, they came into the shadow of a series of high stone arches that marched above the rooftops, spanning whole buildings at a single stride.
“Here is the tallest of the aqueducts Commodorus built,” Jemain said like a diminutive tour-guide. “It has made life easier in the city and allowed the rich to improve their estates on Temple Hill.”
“Water runs atop that?” Conan asked, squinting upward into the bright blue.
“Yes. In a roofed shed, to keep out the bird-droppings,” Jemain explained. “It comes from streams in the southern hills. The Corinthians brought a thousand engineers and stonemasons to Luxur to build it.”
“But the heavy lifting was done by Stygians, I’ll wager.” Conan brushed his hand against the chest-sized blocks of stone as they passed one of the pediments of the arch that spanned the street.
“Yes. The Temple Primate decreed a labour draft from the farms, as they always do with the great tombs and temples. And for the stadium itself—but the Corinthians are good bosses.” The boy smiled. “Not many of the workers died, except from falls.” Conan grunted, noting how well-fitted and dry was the masonry that held up the sky-bound river. “And this all has been done under Commodorus’s rule?”
“Oh yes, he is the most popular Tyrant ever, especially for his pranks in the arena.” Jemain waxed visibly enthusiastic. “It is said that the army will someday throw off church control and declare him Emperor of Luxur, or even of all Stygia.”
“Oh?” Conan asked sceptically. “And what do Set’s priests say to that?”
The boy shrugged, obviously not intimidated at the mention of his country’s all-powerful serpent-god. “Old Nekrodias is crusty and not well-liked, not even by his own younger priests. In the countryside they still believe all that old-fashioned stuff, but here in the city we are more enlightened. We know and understand foreign ways, especially the Corinthian ones.”
Indeed, as he walked on down the avenue, Conan was impressed by the free, cosmopolitan atmosphere of Luxur. In this neighbourhood at least, it did not have the watchful, shut-up air of other Stygian towns. Doors and windows were open and un-shuttered, with awnings strung out against the mid-morning sun; proud men and unveiled women moved freely down the well-paved streets, where tradesmen trundled barrows and hawked their wares from open stalls. There were no armed priests stationed in kiosks or patrolling in bands, and no religious shrines and four-headed snake totems at every crossroad. The military was not in evidence, either, though Conan recalled that the circus wagons had passed barracks on entering the city, near the main gate. It was almost like being in Tarantia or Belverus, he decided, though not nearly so free as wild
Shadizar.
Along the way the three circus performers were recognized and hailed, all the more frequently as they descended into common, congested quarters of the town. Pedestrians greeted them from afar, or pressed near to clasp their hands for luck. They were offered fruit and buns by shopkeepers, and drink by a wine-vendor; and more than once a tradesman came running with a damp clay message-pad, begging to press Conan’s palm into it to make an impression of his sword hand. He consented, understanding that these imprints could later be baked hard and sold to fanciers and collectors, or even duplicated and counterfeited. One merchant made a point of obtaining hand prints of all three men; this circumstance soothed Roganthus’s pride, though
Dath’s head did not seem to be turned by all the attention.
In all these proceedings the scamp Jemain did his best to appoint himself the group’s unofficial guardian. He chased off bands of smaller children who tried to gawk, retrieved uneaten morsels and secreted them in his shirt front, and gruffly demanded payment from those who wanted palm-prints. He offered the athletes his services as a guide to taverns, gambling dens, and bagnios, meanwhile trying to extract information about the men’s physical condition and fighting skills. In general he made a nuisance of himself; but he was a keen observer of character, and knew when to shut his mouth.
With his unasked help, they soon found themselves in a bustling foreign quarter whose shop-stalls were decked with exotic foods, fabrics, vessels, and personal adornments from far-off Hyborian lands. Much in evidence were the goods of Zingara, Argos, and Asgalun, carried here by ships plying the Western Sea and the River Styx. But the majority of trade wares were obviously Corinthian and Zamoran, brought here via Koth, Khoraja, and the deserts of eastern Shem. Corinthian brokers had succeeded well at using camel trains as desert-ships, and the Styx as a cheap trade conduit, floating their wares in disposable reed barges downstream from the river’s inland reaches.
Conan the Gladiator Page 9
