Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  The eunuch who carried the note led him directly to the Grand Temple where it brooded at the base of the same hill that upheld the Circus Imperium. They passed first through the Circus grounds, then into a series of viny courts and gardens where unseen shapes slithered away through the greenery underfoot. There followed more lavish vistas of priestly pavilions and dwellings set amid the verdure of the hillside. But, to approach the vast temple pile itself, the eunuch led Conan out to the paved city boulevard, up the broad steps, and in through the splendid façade.

  The massive front pillars were carved from veined serpentine and etched with delicate scales to resemble the trunks of mighty reptiles. The polished stone gallery itself echoed vast and empty; for this was no day of worship, and at other times the public shunned the place. Dimly at the back, lit by the yellow snaking flames of oiled braziers, there loomed the vast golden spiral of the snake-idol, coiled as if to dart its fanged head down upon any who dared trespass. The red faceted gems that formed its great eyes were, undoubtedly, too heavy for a single man to lift.

  But all this made only a fleeting impression on Conan, trailing along resignedly in his glum state. He followed his guide past the twin altars and the pediment of the vast idol, through a spangled curtain hung at one side of the back wall, and into a smaller but darker-vaulted chamber that looked to be the sanctum sanctorum, the private retreat of the temple’s master.

  “Come, foreigner, and stand before me. My eyes are not so keen as those of Father Set out there in the forecourt.”

  At the summons and eunuch’s mute urging, Conan followed the beck of a pale, skeletal-looking finger around a high-backed ebony chair. He went before the broad table where Nekrodias, by the light of two green tapers, scraped his serpent-fang pen on a parchment scroll. The primate, his shoulders hunched forward under his stole of yellow snakeskin, finished writing in crabbed Stygian glyphs and looked up to meet Conan’s gaze.

  The arch priest, seen this closely, gave an impression of imponderable age. He could have been centuries old—in truth, there was no real reason why not, Conan reflected, given the church elders’ arcane learning and close personal servitude to immortal gods. The primate’s bald, cowled skull, his seamed and wizened face, his fleshless frame and grey, lustreless glance made it seem to Conan as if those bony fingers might only recently have peeled away their owner’s yellowed mummy-wraps.

  “Well—Conan the Slayer, so you are called. A new arrival, but a closely watched and well-regarded one, in spite of the wounds that have impaired your standing and performance of late.” The priest flicked an ink-stained finger up at the bandage that still sagged loose around Conan’s scalp. “Your prowess and fighting spirit have gained you notice in high places, and you have been entertained by notables other than myself.”

  “So far, I have not found this visit entertaining.” Sparring with the priest brought Conan a flicker of his old fighting spirit. “Why have you summoned me here?”

  With a creased smile but no laugh, Nekrodias laid aside his pen. “You have been overheard dealing with our ubiquitous Tyrant Commodorus, as well as his alter-ego Udolphus. You have been asked to perform a certain service for him. The temple, too, wishes you to undertake a service, and I am prepared to reward you a hundredfold over what our very generous Tyrant may have offered.” Conan shrugged. “I came to Luxur as an honest vagabond, knowing nothing of the feuds and intrigues between your city’s various factions. I have tried, on behalf of my employer Luddhew and my fellow performers, to be open in my dealings— more open and fair than the folk of Luxur have been with us, I might add. Now, having seen so much blood spilled in pointless strife, I do not wish to become mired any more deeply in your rivalries than I already am.”

  Nekrodias raised his straggling eyebrows in surprise; real or feigned, it gave him an owlish look that was far from flattering. “Is my hearing, then, defective? Is this really Conan speaking, the one they call the Slayer, with an insatiable lust for combat and an eager blade that never rests a full night in its sheath? Is this the far-rumoured thief and pillager, who has sifted the ashes of a hundred castles and a dozen cities, and never yet clutched enough gold or woman-flesh to satiate him? Is this the vaunted soldier of fortune standing before me, who does not have enough will to slay Commodorus at my bidding, and very likely make himself the new Tyrant of Luxur?”

  Blankly regarding the arch priest, Conan sighed. “I do not know what you have heard of my past, Nekrodias, or what you may have divined through the clouded glass of sorcery. But to kill any man at another’s bidding was never my way. I am no assassin.”

  “Come, Cimmerian, do not indulge your morose whims with me! I happen to know that Manethos, my chief embalmer, has been working his wiles on you. He is a clever fellow, a sly persuader—alas, his view of things is too far from the practical and positive ever to afford him high rank in our temple hierarchy. He may have blunted your edge a bit, true. The death of a friend is sad, and killing those pathetic, misguided idealists we call heretics may not have been a suitable chore for one with your lofty scruples.

  “Even so, do not let this momentary fit of despondency ruin your chances. Now is the time for action and commitment! Commodorus is going to fall, regardless. My proposal does not necessarily involve murdering him, but simply letting an accident occur in the arena—where, as I understand it, you are to be his bodyguard. You may as well be close at hand to pick up his Imperial wreath and vestments. An adventuring hero like you may, after all, be just the figurehead we need.”

  Not regretting the lack of a place to sit, Conan stood solitary before the broad table. “That would be the rankest sort of betrayal. I do not strike a deal with one employer just to sell his carcass to another! Anyway, you claim that Commodorus is bound to fall—you try to overawe me with this mighty antique temple, your vast idols, and your maimed, mute servants—but I have seen your Tyrant’s real power in this city, his sway over the people. I have heard your subjects rant and cheer at his appearances in the arena, and snore at yours. I have seen the aqueducts and broad city gates he has built. If Commodorus is so certainly doomed, why not simply refuse to reappoint him—you, who have the power under law?” He flung an arm impulsively aside, experiencing once again a faint flicker of passion. “Further, even if he were sure to die, and if it were true that you would name me as your city’s ruler, I would still favour Commodorus! He, at least, has some mote of vision for this city, some thought of improving the lives of its inhabitants, and moving into a time of progress, rather than backward into the dark age of Set!”

  “Aha,” Nekrodias crowed in triumph, “there at last we have it! You, too, have fallen prey to his impious preachings, like many another credulous fool who believes in the high purpose he proclaims for his rule. He panders to the people’s craving for material goods, and expands the Circus to satiate their ever-growing lust for blood! For his upcoming spectacle, did you know, he plans to flood the whole arena from bleacher to bleacher—fill it up with water from his precious aqueducts, launch a fleet of oar-ships, and fight a mock naval battle with real weapons and victims. He would send hundreds to their doom, while he struts and preens as admiral of the victorious fleet!”

  Feeling resigned once again, Conan barely shrugged. “You, too, Nekrodias, have partaken of the arena’s excesses, as have I. It has become the lifeblood of Luxur, the throbbing, pumping heart, as Commodorus himself told me. But he plans to leave it all behind.”

  Finally Nekrodias laughed outright—a grudging, unpleasant sound. “Ah yes, a commendable ideal, to quit the arena—if only our noble Tyrant could afford to! Alas, would it surprise you to know that, of all the touts and bet-fixers, Commodorus himself is the one who draws the biggest profits from arena gambling and keeps all the odds makers in his pay? That it was he who decided to feed your rustic circus friends to the wild beasts, and who has routinely ordered your fellow gladiators drugged and killed to inflate his betting-odds? Has he yet mentioned how much graft he skims off his splendid publ
ic works... only to turn around and pay it out in bribes to undermine Stygia’s church and noble families? Or how he uses hoodlums to collect his bets and enforces his own schedule of black tariffs on trade and smuggled goods? Does that fit in with your view of our godlike Commodorus?”

  Conan, feeling suddenly as if the weight of all Luxur were being levered onto his shoulders, turned and strode for the door while he still could. “Nekrodias,” he tossed back over his shoulder, “I do not care if your city’s Tyrant is a living monster, a worse devil than Set himself! I will not join in your nefarious schemes, nor aid him further in his. I tell you, I am done with killing! It has lost its savour for me.”

  As memorable as Conan’s encounter with the Primate Nekrodias was, it was not the one that made the deepest impression on him that day. For, returning home along the broad street which led past the temple portico, he encountered a goods-hawker plying the crowds in a market plaza. The voice was familiar at first... and then the face, though it was attached to a body whose size made its owner hard to locate amid the milling passers-by. At length he saw the diminutive peddler—Jemain, his youthful city guide of old.

  “Baubles and trinkets! Pretties for your pretty... milady, might you be interested in a fine pendant of purest Argossean jet? A black tear to adorn a snow-white breast? Or you, sire?... oof, sorry, a thousand pardons—”

  “Hold, Jemain, you need not flee me.” Conan kept the urchin from flitting out of sight by seizing a tail of the coat that was also his warehouse—and no shabby coat, either, but a newish one, cut from sturdy cloth interwoven with bright silk threads. As he reeled the lad in, the merchandise jingled gaily where it was pinned inside his roomy coat-flaps. “Come, lad, hold still and tell me how you have been doing. Not too badly, I see.”

  “No, not badly.” While keeping his face downward, the youth glanced warily up at Conan as if to gauge his disposition. “Events have kept me occupied these past days.”

  “Indeed. You seem to have set yourself up in business.”

  “Oh yes, to be sure.” Growing bolder, Jemain held open his coat. “I carry a line of the finest trinkets and gewgaws. High-quality gemstones imported from the sea coast and set by master craftsmen into the purest alloy—”

  “Yes, yes,” Conan stalled him off, “I see they are of good quality. You have a sharp eye for counterfeits,” he declared solemnly, “as when you recognized our friend Udolphus.”

  From the flicker of his eyes, Conan could tell that the youth was thinking of bolting again. “Do not worry, Jemain,” he reassured the boy, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I can understand why you must have feared to say anything.”

  Uneasy, the boy blinked up at him. “Most surely, Conan. I would have warned you, if anyone. But to expose someone as powerful as our Tyrant would be far too dangerous...” He shook his head in embarrassment.

  “His purse must have provided you with a stake for your inventory,” Conan observed. “That is good. I think you will go far in business.”

  Jemain nodded, chastened. “And you have survived the arena—till now, with wounds.” Blinking up at his bandaged hero, he almost stammered. “But, Conan, I would caution you—truly, be careful. With all these deaths—”

  “I know,” Conan said, sparing him further words that he might agonize on later. “The arena is become a more dangerous place, both inside and out. I myself am in far too deeply already. I cannot say what will happen.” He patted the boy’s shoulder, then released it. “You were wise to get out.” Jemain shrugged. “I was too small a player. In a game with such high stakes, there is no safety for the small better.”

  “We are all small players,” Conan assured him. As a gift for Sathilda, he bought the jet-black pendant from Argos—at a bargain price, so Jemain assured him. Then, bidding the lad farewell, he returned to the Circus grounds.

  The next evening Conan never would have stirred himself from Namphet’s pub, had not Muduzaya approached him at his solitary keg in the corner. Sathilda had declined to accompany Conan to the deserted tavern, so he sat brooding in silence, taking scarcely more than a desultory whiff of his arrak, when the black warrior wrung his shoulder in a heavy hand.

  “Conan, I may have found Sesoster for us! He is likely to know something about Halbard’s murder as well as my poisoning, so I thought you should come along. I am to meet him at once, at the north end of the Circus stadium. I think he chose the place because it has so many entries and exits.”

  “Muduzaya,” Conan gravely asked, “are you sure you even want to pursue this? It is in the past, after all—Halbard is irretrievably dead, and you have regained your strength. Anyway,” he added with a morose glance at his friend, “I misdoubt that you will really want to hear what he has to tell you.”

  “Nonsense, Conan,” the Sword master chided, “revenge is not something to be set aside too long! That skulkard Sesoster has been in hiding for days; I finally lured him out by offering a bribe through his manservant, whom I caught in the bazaar. Of course,” he added, clapping a hand onto his hilt, “whether he truly deserves an ounce of gold or a cubit of steel is something I will have to decide when I see him—”

  “Well enough, Muduzaya,” Conan said, rising up resolutely from his keg. “You may need me along to keep you out of trouble. And I too will be interested to hear what account the odds maker may give.”

  So saying, he followed his friend outside to a chariot, and they rumbled off to the city gate. Travelling at brisk speed, they nevertheless made certain to leave the vehicle at the downhill carriage yard. From there they proceeded afoot through the Circus grounds, so as not to attract undue attention.

  Even so, the stadium was a-bustle when they arrived. Slave crews trooped in and out of the entry-tunnels, labouring by torchlight to ready the place for the forthcoming extravaganza. City gangs were busy trenching and scaffolding, preparing to divert the aqueducts and flood the pit of the arena. Construction was under way at both ends of the stadium as well: on the north side, a ragtag crew was busy raking and finishing the damp flowstone, where it had been poured into wooden forms to extend the broad viewing-balcony decreed by Commodorus.

  As they mounted the stair steps behind the hulking scaffold, Conan and Muduzaya could see that these toilers were no slaves, but ragged street toughs. They worked under the light of a torch held by none other than Dath. They had not poured the cement themselves, but were re-raking it to cover a dead body they had laid into the forms— Sesoster the bookmaker, as Conan managed to see just before the face was covered over.

  “You found him before we did,” Muduzaya complained, striding down the bench-rows to Dath. “That was most inconsiderate. We had questions for him.”

  “Ask away, he will not mind,” Dath shrugged to the Sword master. “If you want to go to the horse’s mouth, Zagar the procurer lies just over there.” He pointed to a buttress that was more firmly set. “But I doubt whether, between them, they have much knowledge that I lack.”

  Muduzaya wrinkled his brow in the torchlight with gradual understanding. “You, then, are involved in the match-fixing and the other dirty dealings here at the Circus? But you are a mere upstart!”

  The young ax-fighter stood holding his torch aloft, letting his free hand hang idle by the twin hilts at his belt. “I earned myself a place in the greater organization, true enough, by marshalling these wharf-rats.” He nodded at the toughs who waited close at hand. “I think it’s safe to say I’ve shown some skill at it. Of late our fortunes have been good, and our share of the take is proportionally increased. Our territory now extends to this very ground.” He indicated the stadium around them.

  Moving up behind Muduzaya, Conan spoke dully. “No doubt it was his men who killed Halbard as well. Or else one of the other gangs did it as a favour to him. Apart from their skirmishing and rivalries, they all collect arena bets and serve as leg-breakers and assassins around the town.”

  “Very true indeed,” Dath said, smiling grimly. “All of us are part of the same butche
r’s-mill—you gladiators in the arena,” he explained, “and my lads out in the street, where the work is better-paying and longer-term. All for the civic good, as defined by our leader Commodorus.

  “You, in particular, should know that.” Dath shot a pointed look at Conan. “Is he not your employer as well?”

  XIII

  Extravaganza

  When the day of the naval spectacle arrived, the city lay in a frenzy of expectation. All of Luxur had been drawn into the project in one way or another, as had countless merchants, officials, and procurers from far districts of the Stygian Empire and neighbouring lands.

  Aside from those employed in refitting the arena and redirecting the aqueducts, scores of river boatmen from the Canal Wharf were drafted. Their vessels, too, were hauled on caissons through the city to be set afloat on the blue waters of the flooded Circus Imperium. There were shipwrights and armourers from both banks of the Styx and even the far-off sea coast, imported here to build the one vessel too large to be trundled through city streets or hauled in through the arena gates. This massive construction was Commodorus’s flagship, an authentic-looking war galley equipped with barrage towers, double oar-banks, and a heavy bronze ram.

  To man the oars, slaves were obtained by the boatload from ports up and down the river. Ordinary servants and field hands would not do, for the rowers had to possess the skill to drive the vessels credibly and to ram and fight other ships at close quarters. Where possible, real naval officers and marine troops had been drafted, at least to fill out the crew and command of the flagship and its small accompanying fleet. It was considered essential that the Tyrant’s fighting force put forward a good appearance, with full military regalia including banners, bugles, and kettledrums.