Conan the Gladiator

by Leonard Carpenter

  In the matter of the opposing fleet, an equal degree of attention and expense was lavished, but in a somewhat different way. Up and down the shores of the Styx and the Western Sea, brigs and stockades were scoured for the most infamous pirates, smugglers, and mutineers currently in captivity. They, too, were imported to Luxur to serve as fodder for the gladiators and the Tyrant’s fleet. They would sail aboard small, fast ships with crews filled in from the dregs of the local jails. Since these sea thieves included some of the shrewdest navigators and fiercest fighters ever to bestride the waves, there was no great concern that the sea-battle would be one-sided.

  Even so, to further spice the pot of sea chowder, the beast-gatherers had been set to work. From the shallow inland estuaries of the River Styx, rare freshwater sharks had been trapped and transported upstream by the bargeful. These good-sized, fast-moving scavengers, zealous man-eaters when the opportunity arose, were to be set loose in the arena’s waters to dramatize the perils of open-sea battling. The crocodiles and river snakes that had become familiar stars of the Circus Imperium were to be employed as well.

  To see this grand spectacle, crowds swarmed about the Circus and clung to the stadium gates from dusk of the previous day. They spent the night and morning before the exhibition in a sort of dizzy saturnalia, drinking, dancing, and singing bawdy songs, but never moving far from their cherished places in the entry line. Luddhew’s performers, too, put on special early shows. Moving among the revellers with their wild beasts, bounding acrobats, and gambling and fortune-telling and health-tonic pitches, they were able to reap substantial profits even before the scheduled opening.

  Needless to say, the city guards were called out in force. Additional help in controlling the mob was obtained from common street hoodlums. Under the direction of Dath and lesser gang-leaders, wearing headbands and formed up as pseudo-military units, they commanded swift obedience from the populace. In all, counting the spectators, performers, athletes, street vendors, enforcers, servants, administrators, and prisoners, it was likely that a large majority of Luxur’s population was present in the clamouring crowd atop Temple Hill in the early hours of Re-ordination Day.

  Conditions were rendered somewhat inconvenient when, toward morning, most of the gutters and ditches leading from the amphitheatre became awash with water. The aqueducts, having once been diverted to flood the arena and keep it filled, could not easily be shut off. Therefore a continuous stream, overflowing the structure’s caulked, reinforced gates and seeping out through leaks in the masonry, swirled away underfoot. It kept people from sleeping in the streets and was rumoured to have caused minor flooding in the tenement districts, but was not seen as a serious problem.

  At mid-morning the stadium was opened, and control of the crowd immediately became more difficult. The iron gates were chained half-shut to keep the mobs from pushing through, and a corridor had to be cleared by the city guard to make way for the sedan chairs and chariots of prosperous latecomers. As the regular seat-holders trooped in, the anxiety to win a place waxed all the greater, because no one was really sure how much additional seating capacity had been added since the last show.

  In short order even the newly expanded seats were filled to overflowing, and the gates were barred and double-locked. There still remained thousands crowding just outside the amphitheatre, eager to be near the spectacle, if only to hear the cries of the thrilled observers. Luckily, as ever at these mass functions, there were individuals who posted themselves in the tunnels and archways to announce what happened inside. Passing along the news second- or third-hand, they repeated and embroidered the events for eager listeners.

  Inside the stadium, words could scarcely have conveyed the astonishment and splendour that awaited the audience. There, stretching from rail to rail of the broad arena, was a glittering inland sea complete with rocks, reefs, and beaches. There was even an islet or two adorned with palm trees, with crocodiles sunning themselves on the banks, and fin-backed sharks flitting smoothly between. True, the waters spread flat and still as any sheltered inland lagoon, rippled only by the lazy swimmers and the wavelets of the rapidly filling amphitheatre. But soon they would be churned to fury by the oars of the two mighty fleets, which sat, teeming with crew and bright with sails and pennants, at opposite ends of the oval.

  Conan, making his way in through an entry-tunnel with the other gladiators, had to blink in amazement at the spectacle the bright morning presented: the sparkling blue water, the massed fleets, the bustle of brilliantly costumed sailors descending the gangplanks—and above them, the mad panoply of spectators spreading through the amphitheatre, crowding from the tunnels and flowing out along the ledges. The stadium itself had an utterly different appearance now that broad balconies sloped forward to shade large areas of seating on all four sides. With eager spectators swarming ahead to occupy the choicest vantage points, the impression was one of frenetic, intensely concentrated human energy.

  Conan pushed his way through the crowd of costumed, armed, and armoured fighters and sailors. Those costumes, however flashy, could cost a life; a chest plate or a pair of greaves would swiftly weight a man down to the bottom of the lagoon— which, indeed, might be a mercy in a sea full of sharks and crocs. It so happened that Conan himself wore next to nothing—just a kirtle around his waist and sandals that could easily have been kicked off had he wished to take part in the naval battle. He had generally worn much the same costume when he sailed as Amra the Pirate in years past; only this time he lacked even a sword.

  Ahead of him he spied the one he sought: Commodorus, making his way down from the tunnel in a wedge of his guards. The Tyrant had been hard to find in the last few days—hiding out, perhaps, or devising new schemes to tighten his hold on Luxur. Conan had hoped to confront him and fling his job back in his face, but the fellow had been unreachable.

  “Commodorus!”

  Coming up from behind, Conan tried to push through to him. The guards closed ranks; but, on seeing that their leader recognized the intruder and that he was unarmed, they let him pass.

  “Conan, timely as always! And your head is mended, I see.”

  The Tyrant was vigorous and alert-looking in a trim naval toga, with his strong-toothed smile polished to perfection, and his curly golden hair encircled by a laurel wreath.

  “Is this not a stunning festival we have put together? I look forward to fighting across the surging decks with you at my side.”

  “Commodorus, in sooth, I did not even intend to be here. I wanted to give you back your gold and begone”—he reached to the purse tucked in his waistband—“but since you relied on me to protect you, there is one fact you ought to know. The Priest Nekrodias sought to hire me to kill you... here today, during the arena games.”

  “Nekrodias? Wanting to kill me?” The Tyrant laughed heartily. “Why, Conan, that is scarcely a surprise! And during the games, the time I am to be most vulnerable... dear fellow, that is why I have you here! That is certainly no reason to change our plans.”

  “I am sick of the arena, and of killing,” Conan said. “I want to quit the Circus and leave Luxur.” “Nonsense, man! You performers are all temperamental types, I know. But wait here, just one more moment while I conduct my business, and we will talk further. I’m sure I can make you see reason.”

  Splitting off with his guards from Conan, Commodorus strode out to the rim of his personal viewing-terrace, beyond the shade of the soaring overhang. After waiting for cheers and salutes from the still-moving crowd to subside, he began to speak.

  “Citizens of the Imperial Seaport of Luxur, I bid you welcome...”

  After a fresh burst of laughter and cheering, he spoke on. Conan, meanwhile, turned and moved away, intending to leave the stadium without further talk. However, it proved impossible to force his way against the press of the crowd. He had to stand in an eddy out of the main stream. And wait, and think.

  He thought of Manethos... he had felt drawn to the priest in recent days. But he had not sou
ght him out, because he did not want to get him slain. He gazed down at the watery arena. There would be no Red Priests servicing this match. The Gate of the Dead was barricaded and caulked. Any fallen heroes in the sea-fight would be attended by sharks and crocodiles rather than embalmers—just as acceptable an offering to Father Set, no doubt. Where was Manethos now? he wondered—not very likely idling in this vast, unruly mob.

  His eyes roved to the fleets massed at the near and far ends of the arena. The Tyrant’s flagship resembled a gaudy joke—a top-heavy, shallow-bottomed, trellised and beribboned barge, whose towering sails had no conceivable use in the windless arena, other than to hamper the oarsmen’s efforts. Such a craft would never stand a moment before the gusts and surges of the Vilayet Sea, much less the Western one. Yet, with its rams, its artillery, and its covering force of a half dozen smaller boats, it could prove victorious in this flat pond.

  The pirate fleet, already manned and waiting at the far end, was a more realistic-looking assemblage, but far less likely to prevail. The slaves and felons at the oars, so Conan had heard, were chained to their benches. That would deprive the commanders of the bulk of their offensive force and make it well nigh impossible to capture enemy prizes.

  The ships themselves, small swift cruisers, were ideal pirate craft. On the open waves, or in shallow river estuaries, they would have been impossible to catch. But here in the bay-less oval, sealed in like cattle in a slaughter-pen, they would be hunted down in short order, their crews driven under the ram or else put to the sword.

  The Imperial warships, by comparison, were crewed with gladiators and able sea fighters. The trained rowers in the oar-banks, though unchained, were also unarmed and would not take a willing hand in the fighting. So the match would not be wholly one-sided and not unduly brief. It was well-calculated to reflect glory on Commodorus, as commander of the flagship.

  Conan reflected idly while penned in by the crowd, listening to the Tyrant’s speech-making give way to that of Nekrodias. A shame it was that the convict fleet was so far away. It was rumoured to contain many noted pirates; there were probably some he would have recognized from his old days on the Black Coast, steering the ship Tigress with his pirate mistress Bêlit.

  The decks of the Imperial ships, certainly, contained many gladiators and others he knew. Scanning the rows of oarsmen facing aft on the giant flagship, Conan caught sight of a face he recognized—or thought he did, just possibly. The man resembled someone he had seen only recently... except for that unlikely mop of thick black hair.

  Then Conan’s jaw clenched taut. It was Xothar. There could be no doubt. Why, then, was the shaven-headed wrestler wearing a wig? It was hardly one that added to the colourfulness of his sparse costume.

  As a disguise, then. To pass as a harmless, weaponless oarsman just long enough to get near the flagship’s chief, Commodorus.

  Of all the killers in the arena, Conan had no doubt that the temple-fighter was deadliest. If he could stifle a man to death in mere moments, the Constrictor could snap a neck in less time. Commodorus ought to be warned.

  Yet there went the Tyrant now, having forgotten Conan or blithely assumed his participation— moving through the press of the crowd, from his podium down to the flagship’s gangplank. He was escorted by uniformed guards; but they, in their helmets and armour, would not likely be going aboard ship.

  In forcing his way through the throng Conan’s height gave him an advantage, as did his gladiator’s build. The spectators in his way, feeling themselves thrust aside from behind, scarcely had time to curse him—or recognize him as a champion and beg for his handclasp—before he pushed past.

  Striding down the ledge-rows, he arrived at the gangplank. Commodorus was already stepping aboard the flagship’s high poop. The eunuch Memtep, recognizing Conan, bowed with a courtly flourish and ushered him through the ring of guards.

  No sooner had Conan stepped across the flagship’s rail than the plank was jerked away from under his heels. He was in the fight now, in his place as the Tyrant’s secret bodyguard, whether he liked it or not. Commodorus, unfortunately, was already passing down into the oar-ship’s waist—heading forward with a handful of officers to stand in the bow, as no true sea-captain would. As he went, smiling and waving for the benefit of his ship’s crew and the broader arena, he passed the bench where Xothar sat, crouching there in the inboard seat.

  The bewigged wrestler did not look up. There would have been no point in it; he would not make his move until later, in the confusion of battle. But as Conan proceeded past Xothar, intending to station himself behind Commodorus, he fixed the wrestler with a direct, unflinching stare—and saw it returned, the Constrictor’s oil-sheened face half creasing in a smile. Now there would be no misunderstanding.

  Meanwhile, the order to dip oars was given, and a kettledrum began its steady thumping. Wooden shafts creaked in their tholes as, with the first stroke, the ship’s deck surged forward underfoot. Simultaneously, from the far end of the arena, there echoed a clanking of heavy chain being drawn through eye bolts. That, undoubtedly, was the sound of the pirate fleet being unleashed to fight.

  On the brink of combat, it occurred to Conan to wonder if Sathilda was watching him. He had not spoken much with her in recent days, or tried to explain his true state of mind. She was still wrapped up in the glamour and success of the circus and the sadness of Roganthus’s death—closer, in many ways, to her brethren in Luddhew’s troupe than she was to him. The two shared their bed and routine daily tasks such as the care and feeding of the tiger; but she busied herself ever more with athletic workouts and parties given at the arena by rich patrons, while he was content to brood in solitude.

  Still she cared for him, as he well knew. And there, high above in the shaded seats that belonged to her noble friend Alcestias, he thought he could distinguish her seated form. Yes, indeed it was she; for there beside her was a deeper patch of shadow, a black reclining bulk which could only be the night-cat Qwamba.

  If she had noticed him before, she could scarcely now distinguish him on the ship’s crowded foredeck. The beak above the ram was full of gilded officers, with Commodorus strutting and preening at the fore. Just behind on either side the barrage towers loomed, with a dozen slingers and archers perched in each one. They were skeletal frameworks armoured only with stiff, painted hides, but they were tall; it would take massed projectile-fire to clear them. To Conan they represented a handy bottleneck, making it hard for anyone to pass from amidships to the bow without going between. He stationed himself in the narrow passage at the middle, a few paces behind Commodorus, ready to intercept Xothar when the time came.

  Turning his attention back to the approaching enemy fleet, he saw that, indeed, they had mustered forth in full strength. One ship in particular, the largest and stoutest ram-galliot, was well ahead of the others and rowing at double speed. It held the centre-most position opposite the flagship, and looked to be fencing for a ram.

  In response to the enemy’s evident boldness, Commodorus turned and barked a command to his second. The bosun blew several short, sharp blasts on his whistle, and of a sudden the hortator’s drumbeats accelerated. With the faster stroking of the oars the ship leapt forward, white foam beginning to bubble over the bows.

  Conan glanced back to make sure that Xothar was still huddled in place, pulling his oar with the rest. He was surprised to see, however, that the other ships of the Imperial force trailed quite a way behind; some, indeed, seemed to be just getting under way. Evidently Commodorus had not adequately drilled his fellow captains as to the sailing order. The flagship with its triple oar-banks and picked slaves, even rowing against the burden of slack sails, was probably capable of making far better speed than its fellows. Very likely its commander, knowing his ship to be heavily crewed and well-armed, had fewer qualms about sailing into the middle of a pirate host. So the admiral had drawn well ahead of his fleet, perhaps unwisely.

  Feeling a qualm of uncertainty, Conan gazed forward aga
in at the opposing ship. It came on undaunted—and now that it was nearer, he noticed a curious fact. It was crammed with condemned slaves or captured river-dregs, able rowers who toiled earnestly at their single-banked oars. But on the narrow central deck there were almost no fighters—just a pair of striding, ill-clad ruffians who flailed long whips and kept the oars churning faithfully to the beat of a wooden clapper. There were no boarders, no defenders—they had presumably been placed aboard other ships in the pirate fleet. But why? Was the lone ship a spoiler—meant only to ram and hole the flagship, or rake away some of its forward oars? That would cripple her, true—but a single hole could soon be patched, and the big ship’s crew would instantly grapple and overrun the smaller one, giving the Imperials a numerical advantage that would ultimately doom the pirates.

  Then, of a sudden, a simpler and more menacing possibility took shape in Conan’s mind. He grunted in rapid comprehension, and drew in a breath to shout a warning to Commodorus—

  But already it was too late. At that moment another order was barked out, more blasts sounded from the bosun’s whistle, and the tempo of the drum accelerated yet again to full ram speed. The creaking, cursing efforts of the oar-crews raised a tumult, while in the stadium above, the massed watchers began muttering and shouting in anticipation.

  Surging forward at breathless speed, the flagship closed with the pirate galley. Now was the time for a seasoned captain to guide his ship skilfully, issuing sharp orders to the helmsmen and the hortator astern, or possibly even using hand-signals and bellowing commands to his rowers. Admiral Commodorus was riding in the bows, so this responsibility was left to a petty officer. But as it happened, the ship they were stalking did not even have steersmen manning the tiller-oars, so the result was the same. The flagship drove straight in toward the racing pirate’s bow, and a likely doom.

  Here lay defeat in victory, so Conan could foretell. The pirate scow, heavy and well-built, would foul the flagship’s ram and halt her dead in the water. The weary oar-crews, trained and capable as they might be, would still have no easy time backing the big ship clear of its skewered rival. Meanwhile the other pirate galleys, following fast on the decoy’s wake, would race ahead to outflank and surround the ungainly bireme. Thick with armed men, they would board her from all sides. This was their best chance of taking her by storm, six small ships against a single great one. The pirates, hardened sea bandits desperate for their lives, would fall on the arena fighters and officers, disregarding the unarmed rowers. Arrow-flights from the barrage towers would be blocked to stern-ward by the fluttering, ill-considered sails.