Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  For some time, murmurous shouts had been audible through the stone vaultings of the stadium above. Now, suddenly, a thunderous quaking shook the chamber walls and the very flagstones underfoot, while stone dust rained down from the joints in the ceiling.

  “They are leaping and stamping on the benches,” Manethos explained, looking resigned. “It is particularly troublesome when they shout and jump in unison.”

  One of the acolytes had dragged open the heavy door to peer out at the arena. “Your Holiness,” he reported to Manethos, “our services are once again required.”

  “Go, then. Fetch it.” The Red Priest made his way over to a second stone slab, this one vacant. In the blazing rays from the open door he began shifting aside basins and handfuls of tools to make space atop the table for a new occupant. “If you go,” he said over his shoulder to Conan, “let yourself out by the inner doorway to the tunnel. It will spare, both you and my helpers the mob’s attention.”

  Conan, all but blinded once again by the glare from the arena, nevertheless stood in the open door watching two red-robed troglodytes drag yet another strong young body toward their subterranean den. The name the crowd chanted, as their stampings and quakings gradually subsided, was clearly discernible as “Baphomet.” The Cimmerian was curious now to learn whom the tough young street fighter had vanquished in the third round of the single combats.

  The body, clanking and scraping across the threshold in its canvas litter, looked heavy and loose in its blood-spattered armour. As he watched, the ungainly helmet was unbuckled and pulled off. The stubbled face that revealed itself, lolling slack and pale in the sunlight, was that of Conan’s boon drinking and fighting companion, Ignobold. A bitter curse escaped the Cimmerian’s lips.

  “Your Holiness, this one yet lives.”

  One of the acolytes, having peeled back the riven breastplate from the gaping wound across Ignobold’s shoulder, pointed to the neck-ward end of the seeping crevice, between jagged edges of cut flesh. There, tiny and inconspicuous in the gory wreckage, a vein pulsed.

  “By Mitra,” Conan raved, looking for his sword, “if you put him to death I’ll carve the lot of you!” “Enough! Move aside there, get him up onto the table!” Manethos briskly directed his priests to surround the body. Meanwhile Conan, by an almost single-handed effort, stooped low and lifted the heavy fighter to the slab. When Ignobold’s limp body clanked down onto the hard stone, an audible moan escaped his lips. The Chief Priest shoved Conan aside to get a closer view.

  “You two, fetch needles and twine, and fresh mummy-wrap to wipe out the wound! You there, hold his head! Zevo, a basin of clean water at once. And you, gladiator, press inward on the lower part of his wound, just here! Place your hands thus, and thus—no, this way—and push! Harder—that’s right. Hold him steady now, and keep up the pressure.”

  Conan, though unused to being ordered so harshly, did his best to comply. With blood seeping forth between his fingers, he had to struggle to keep his hands from slipping off Ignobold’s clammy, waxen skin.

  “But what does it avail us to try and push the blood back into his body?” the Cimmerian asked uncertainly. “Most of it is already run out into the sand.”

  “Just help him keep hold of what little he has left,” Manethos replied, tight-lipped. Having received his washbasin and gauze, he was working his way along the wound, scrubbing, rinsing, and inspecting it by pulling apart its ragged edges and peering inside. “Deep, it is, but we may be able to do something. The bone is cut, see there, but it will knit. Hold steady while I pour—now loosen your grip and let me see inside. That’s enough. Now press here.”

  The flow of blood had diminished to a mere seep, whether due to their hand-cramping efforts or just to a dwindling supply. Now Conan watched Manethos toss aside his bloody gauze, select a needle, and thread it, working deftly by the wavering candlelight.

  “What strange ritual is this?” Conan demanded, suddenly suspicious. “Are you going to sew him a mummy-shirt to meet his gods in?”

  Without comment, working closely between Conan’s fingers, the Red Priest began to stitch Ignobold’s flesh. The needle pricked in, threading though the varicoloured layers in the riven wound; Manethos then pulled the thread painfully taut in a neat, puckered row. In mingled dread and amazement, Conan watched the Red Priest knot off one row of stitches like a seamstress and commence another, pulling the ragged lips of the wound unevenly together. He was aware that his own hands were beginning to weaken and tremble; then a cloud passed over his eyes and he fainted dead away.

  XII

  “I Have Done with Killing”

  For a junior gladiator, Roganthus had a well-attended funeral. Aside from the usual odds makers, sports enthusiasts, and wailing crones in widow’s weeds, all the members of Luddhew’s circus turned out for the event—except Dath, who sent a wreath of laurel and lilies in apology for his absence. There were also a good many admirers of the fallen Ignobold—most of whom expressed astonishment to learn that he was recovering from his wounds in the Temple Infirmary. Whether they were pleased or disappointed by his non-appearance was not immediately clear. But they stayed on for the burial, although it was a mere double ceremony for Roganthus and his little-known team-mate Sistus.

  Conan, too, was in attendance. The gauze windings across his scabbed shoulder had been replaced by a single thick bandage about the crown of his skull. Apart from that, he seemed fit as ever, if subdued. His rush through the Dead Gate on the Red Priests’ heels had been widely noted and whispered over; but he would say nothing of what had transpired there. He was naturally the object of a good deal of staring and speculation, both by fans and by odds makers, as they shrewdly tried to gauge his fitness for future matches.

  During the plastering-up of the mummies, in spite of fierce scowls from the deceased strongman’s associates, it was hard for the crowd to maintain a respectful silence. There were so many new developments to talk about—the rapid ascendancy of the wrestler Xothar, Ignobold’s unprecedented escape from the very Gate of Death, and, most momentous of all, the pending reaffirmation of Commodorus as Tyrant of Luxur. For, although his seven-year term had technically expired on Bast Day, the Temple Primate Nekrodias had extended his reign to the coming Grand Spectacle a few days hence. There his reappointment as the city’s ruler would presumably take place.

  The prevalent view was that the old priest was simply bowing to the inevitable. When Commodorus was re-ordained, they said, it would be as Supreme Perpetual Tyrant, a lifelong post. The common mob and the various factions who supported the ruler would have it no other way.

  Meanwhile, in the murmurous silence that followed the priest’s last droned funeral invocation, the tightly clustered circus troupe gave voice to their feelings about their departed friend.

  “Roganthus never should have joined the gladiators,” Sathilda lamented. “He was no real killer— did you see how he threw away his sword before going to face that temple brute?”

  Iocasta, one of the few present who was shedding real, verifiable tears, spoke up bitterly. “I warned him not to fight... his star-castings yesterday were the worst in months! But he would never listen, and he could not bear to disappoint his audience.”

  “He was a brave showman,” Conan affirmed. “As to his wrestling prowess—well, I cannot say surely, for the only match we had was invalidated by a fault.”

  “While he was laid up all those months,” Bardolph declared, “the loss of his public following hurt him more than his injury. It was that, and not the pain, which drove him to an excess of drink.”

  “True enough,” Iocasta added tearfully, “he loved the acclaim. He was so pleased here in Luxur to be hailed by strangers in the city streets, and feted and fed by the city’s nobility. You could say the Circus Imperium was the fulfilment of his life’s dream.”

  “Aye,” Conan agreed, “though in the end it killed him—and after none too long a term of glory. Now that he is gone, we must decide about our own future here i
n Luxur. Can we afford such popularity, when it places us all under the sword? There are bound to be more losses if we stay here, losses we can ill-afford.” He placed an arm around Sathilda. “I, for one, do not like the choices it forces a man to make.”

  “Conan, I can see that you are deeply moved by the death of our dear friend.” Luddhew himself, speaking in a fatherly way, came over to clasp Conan’s shoulder and press against him in a formal embrace. “I pray you, do not let it distract your thinking overmuch. Most of us are not, after all, in such great danger as Roganthus placed himself. And the success of our concessions and exhibits here at the stadium is most gratifying. I would not worry excessively about losing more of our troupe. We are, after all, skilled performers.”

  “You may not see yourselves in danger.” Looking pensive, Conan turned from his employer to regard the rest of the troupe. “But I have been privy to everything that transpires in the arena and even in the streets. Whether I can go on as before...” “Come, now, Conan, you are an indispensable part of the show!” Luddhew moved forward once again to comfort his star, though the Cimmerian edged back from the circus-master’s fatherly embrace. “If you feel that you are not getting ample enough compensation, I’m sure we can work something out. But then,” he finished, “perhaps it is best if we discuss such matters another time, when we are all less pained and distraught.”

  From the ring of observers, the young knife-thrower Phatuphar spoke up. “If you need another gladiator to serve in your stead, Conan, or to fill in for poor Roganthus’s loss, I am ready to try. I know my skill with blades would serve me well in the arena. Jana and I”—he indicated the young wife who clung affectionately to his waist—“will soon be enlarging our family. We feel we can use the extra wealth and reputation that such a move would bring.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Phatuphar!” Luddhew went off to confer with the young performer, taking leave of Conan, who remained sullen and aloof. The rest of the group began to disperse, remorseful and uncomfortable at the sad occasion. But Sathilda turned to her mate with an air of real concern.

  “Conan, I know this is a dismal situation, burying our dear friend. But you have not been the same, I can tell, since you went running from the stadium into the Red Priests’ crypt. I ask you, what enchantment did they work upon you? Did they place you under some baneful spell?”

  Conan, regarding her glumly, did not reply. And Sathilda did not press the matter.

  After they had parted, a messenger who claimed to be from Udolphus found Conan. He led him around the back of the Circus and up one of the ascending ramp ways, to a work site at the north end of the stadium, where a new balcony was already being raised. Workers swarmed through scaffolding, pouring grey, pebbly flowstone into wooden forms that had been braced up atop tall columns.

  Surveying the work from above was Commodorus. He smiled and waved a welcoming hand as Conan, leaving the messenger behind, came striding up the ledges to join him.

  “See how happily inspired this latest design is.”

  The Tyrant waved with a regal flourish toward the toiling slaves. “It gives the audience a loftier view and shades those who sit in the old seats below. On the whole it increases the paid seating capacity of this sector by one-half. Best of all, we are now using an improved conglomeration that my engineers adapted from the ancient Stygian formula for tomb-seals. It enables us to mould, pour, and finish a new superstructure in a matter of days, without waiting out long delays in stone-cutting, fitting, and transport. I am personally pressing the work forward to be ready in time for the next Circus.” He flashed a dazzling smile at Conan. “That way, all the more citizens will be able to witness my re-ordination.

  “The timing must be flawless,” he went on, “for I want to be able to make my final turn in the arena and impress the crowd one last time before ascending to my new, higher office. We have a truly astonishing spectacle planned for this coming show—something quite unprecedented, I promise you. Our workmen will be kept toiling day and night to bring it off on schedule.” He pointed down to the flat oval, where more work crews were busy raking and carting sand and prying up floor panels to alter the arena’s layout. “Needless to say, I am counting on you to guard my back as we agreed. So I rely on you to recover from this head wound, whatever the mishap was that you incurred yesterday, and be ready at my service.”

  Solemnly, Conan heard him out. “This scrape”—he touched the bandage where it crossed his forehead—“is nothing. Tender, to be sure, but no more. And my chest is all but healed.” He patted the taut, knitting flesh below his armpit. “Even so, Tyrant, I cannot say that I am as sure of my place in the arena as I was. I may not be able to do your fighting for you—”

  Commodorus grinned broadly. “The Set Priests have had their way with you, I can tell.” He clapped a hand on Conan’s shoulder. “I foresaw as much when you went charging into their den yesterday. They are a glib crew, well-practiced at manipulating the minds of simple honest folk, with scarcely any need for weapons or gold. Unfortunately, they have turned their backs on the manly virtues and skills that get things done in the real world of affairs. So they are ill-prepared to stand against men like me.” He laughed in good-natured condolence. “Just rest a few days, get yourself back into shape, and soon their pusillanimous teachings will fade.”

  Conan levelly regarded the Tyrant. “Mayhap so, Commodorus. But what the priests showed me was sore troubling. I give you notice, I will not be ready to kill at your bidding.”

  The tyrant laughed again. “Nonsense, Conan. I hired you for defence., not murder. Remember, I intend to reap all the glory myself and keep you in the background. I only need a bodyguard, and a discreet, inconspicuous one at that.

  “You know, things will change greatly in Luxur after this next Circus. I will then be in a position to move decisively with regard to the temple—or, if they should first try to unseat me, I can launch an open rebellion. My support from the people is strong enough. Nekrodias has let me grow too strong—the death-grip of these priests on the citizens of Luxur is near an end.” He waved a casual hand. “But to carry through such great projects, I will have to stay alive. And that depends partly on you, Cimmerian.” He peered jovially into Conan’s face. “Remember, we have already struck our deal.”

  Conan nodded. “Since I have accepted your gold, I will carry out the task we agreed on.”

  “Very good.” Commodorus grinned in assent. “Then I will be finished with the arena—you can be, too, if you wish it. But that does not mean you must leave my employ. There will be plenty of opportunities for strong, clever types under my new reign. Your prowess and popularity in the Circus will stand you in good stead, once you emerge from this current funk of yours, as I am sure you will.”

  After taking his leave of Commodorus, Conan spent the remainder of the day in household tasks—such as running the cat Qwamba in the exercise field—and in silent contemplation. That evening he took Sathilda in a chariot to Namphet’s pub. But the place was quiet, having been abandoned by Dath’s crew, and in any case, the wine did not inflame him as it usually did. After a morose hour or two, they returned home to an early bed.

  The next morning his first visit was to Ignobold in the Temple Infirmary. The gladiator, though still anaemic from the loss of his blood, was awake and capable of drinking soup and watered wine, so Conan was told. On approaching his pallet, the Cimmerian was surprised to see that his eyes as well as his chest were bandaged. Kneeling down beside him, Conan asked him why.

  “’Tis because of the sand-grains that rascal Baphomet cast into them,” Ignobold rasped, stirring weakly on his back. “That is the only way he ever managed to sword me, by a cowardly ruse.” “You are unable to see, then? Here, sip some of this,” Conan added, spooning the broth he had been given to Ignobold’s lips. “Do the priests say you will recover your sight?”

  “Why, certainly,” the prone man said after slurping down the first spoonful. “The gods have brought me this far, have they no
t? Would they withdraw their patronage now, before I am able to gain my revenge?”

  “You will recover fully, then. That is good. Here, drink.”

  “Yes, Conan, and mark my words: I will be back in the arena by midsummer, where I will make myself a greater and more feared champion than ever.”

  “Here, take some more,” Conan gently urged him. “Tell me, do you not think it a great miracle that you were spared after such a grievous wound?”

  “Yes. It is very painful, but the gods work in mysterious ways. What keeps me alive now is the sacred hope of putting a sword through that gutter-whelp Baphomet and repairing my reputation, much as you and these priests repaired this sundered body. I have heard that you helped, Conan, and I thank you for it. Conan, can I ask one more favour?”

  “Of course, Ignobold. Here now, take this.”

  “Do not slay him, Conan. Leave Baphomet for me. It is asking much, I know, not to kill him—but do you think you can do it?”

  “Here, finish this. Yes, I’ll give you my promise. You are growing tired, and I must be off.” He patted the invalid’s head. “Rest now, and do not fear. I’ll not slay Baphomet.”

  After taking his leave of the frail, feverish patient and trying to dismiss the man’s ravings, Conan did not feel any more at peace in his own mind. His encounter with the holy heretic in the arena, and later his bruising, dreamlike sojourn with the Red Priests in the crypt, had made a deep impression on him. It now appeared to him that the daily affairs of ordinary mortals were enwrapped in a tight, inextricable knot of murderous folly.

  He was preoccupied thus-wise all that day and the next, less than energetic in his sport and exercise, and scarcely regarded as boon company by his fellow gladiators and circus troupers. It was with dull resignation that he received a personal summons from the High Primate of the Temple of Set, the Priest Nekrodias.