The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian

by R. E Howard

  Dionus, who had opened his mouth to bellow in wrath, closed it suddenly. The watchmen shifted their bills uncertainly and glanced at Demetrio for orders. They were struck speechless at hearing the all-powerful police thus bearded and expected a command to seize the barbarian. But Demetrio did not give it. He knew, if the others were too stupid to know, the steel-trap muscles and blinding quickness of men raised beyond civilization’s frontiers where life was a continual battle for existence, and he had no desire to loose the barbaric frenzy of the Cimmerian if it could be avoided. Besides, there was a doubt in his mind.

  “I have not accused you of killing Kallian,” he snapped. “But you must admit the appearances are against you. How did you enter the Temple?”

  “I hid in the shadows of the warehouse which stands behind this building,” Conan answered grudgingly. “When this dog” – jerking a thumb at Arus – “passed by and rounded the corner, I ran quickly to the wall and scaled it –”

  “A lie!” broke in Arus. “No man could climb that straight wall!”

  “Did you ever see a Cimmerian scale a sheer cliff?” asked Demetrio impatiently. “I am conducting this investigation. Go on, Conan.”

  “The corner is decorated with carvings,” said the Cimmerian. “It was easy to climb. I gained the roof before this dog came around the building again. I went across the roof until I came upon a trap-door which was fastened with an iron bolt that went through it and was locked on the inside. I was forced to hew the bolt in twain with my sword –”

  Arus, remembering the thickness of that bolt, gulped involuntarily and moved further back from the barbarian, who scowled abstractedly at him, and continued.

  “I feared the noise might wake somebody, but it was a chance I had to take. I passed through the trap-door and came into an upper chamber. I didn’t pause there, but came straightway to the stair –”

  “How did you know where the stair was?” snapped the Inquisitor. “I know that only Kallian’s servants, and his rich patrons were ever allowed in those upper rooms.”

  A dogged stubbornness shadowed Conan’s eyes and he remained silent.

  “What did you do after you reached the stair?” demanded Demetrio.

  “I came straight down it,” muttered the Cimmerian. “It let into the chamber behind yonder curtained door. As I came down the stairs I heard the noise of a door being opened. When I looked through the hangings I saw this dog standing over the dead man.”

  “Why did you come from your hiding place?”

  “It was dark when I saw the watchman outside the Temple. When I saw him here I thought he was a thief too. It was not until he jerked the watch-bell rope and lifted his bow that I knew he was the watchman.”

  “But even so,” persisted the Inquisitor, “why did you reveal yourself?”

  “I thought perhaps he had come to steal what –” the Cimmerian checked himself suddenly as if he had said too much.

  “– What you had come after, yourself!” finished Demetrio. “You have told me more than you intended! You came here with a definite purpose. You did not, by your own admission, tarry in the upper rooms, where the richest goods are generally stored. You knew the plan of the building – you were sent here by some one who knows the Temple well, to steal some special thing!”

  “And to kill Kallian Publico!” exclaimed Dionus. “By Mitra, we’ve hit it! Grab him, men! We’ll have a confession before morning!”

  With a heathen curse Conan leaped back, whipping out his sword with a viciousness that made the keen blade hum.

  “Back, if you value your dog-lives!” he snarled, his blue eyes blazing. “Because you dare to torture shop-keepers and strip and beat harlots to make them talk, don’t think you can lay your fat paws on a hillman! I’ll take some of you to hell with me! Fumble with your bow, watchman – I’ll burst your guts with my heel before this night’s work is over!”

  “Wait!” interposed Demetrio. “Call your dogs off, Dionus. I’m not convinced that he is the murderer. You fool,” he added in a whisper, “wait until we can summon more men, or trick him into laying down his sword.” Demetrio did not wish to forego the advantage of his civilized mind by allowing matters to change to a physical basis, where the wild beast ferocity of the barbarian might even balance the odds against him.

  “Very well,” grunted Dionus grudgingly. “Fall back, men, but keep an eye on him.”

  “Give me your sword,” said Demetrio.

  “Take it if you can,” snarled Conan. Demetrio shrugged his shoulders.

  “Very well. But don’t try to escape. Four men with crossbows watch the house on the outside. We always throw a cordon about a house before we enter it.”

  The barbarian lowered his blade, though he only slightly relaxed the tense watchfulness of his attitude. Demetrio turned again to the corpse.

  “Strangled,” he muttered. “Why strangle him when a sword-stroke is so much quicker and surer? These Cimmerians are a bloody race, born with a sword in their hand, as it were; I never heard of them killing a man in this manner.”

  “Perhaps to divert suspicion,” muttered Dionus.

  “Possibly.” He felt the body with experienced hands. “Dead possibly half an hour,” he muttered. “If Conan tells the truth about when he entered the Temple he would hardly have had time to commit the murder before Arus entered. But he may be lying – he might have broken in earlier.”

  “I climbed the wall after Arus made the last round,” Conan growled.

  “So you say.” Demetrio brooded for a space over the dead man’s throat, which had been literally crushed to a pulp of purplish flesh. The head sagged awry on splintered vertebrae. Demetrio shook his head in doubt.

  “Why should a murderer use a pliant cable apparently thicker than a man’s arm?” he muttered. “And what terrible constriction was applied to so crush the man’s heavy neck.”

  He rose and walked to the nearest door opening into the corridor.

  “Here is a bust knocked from a stand near the door,” he said, “and here the polished floor is scratched, and the hangings in the doorway are pulled awry as if a clutching hand had grasped them – perhaps for support. Kallian Publico must have been attacked in that room. Perhaps he broke away from the assailant, or dragged the fellow with him as he fled. Anyway, he ran staggeringly out into the corridor where the murderer must have followed and finished him.”

  “And if this heathen isn’t the murderer, where is he?” demanded the prefect.

  “I haven’t exonerated the Cimmerian yet,” snapped the Inquisitor. “But we’ll investigate that room –”

  He halted and wheeled, listening. From the street had sounded a sudden rattle of chariot-wheels, which approached rapidly, then ceased abruptly.

  “Dionus!” snapped the Inquisitor. “Send two men to find that chariot. Bring the driver here.”

  “From the sound,” said Arus, who was familiar with all the noises of the street, “I’d say that it stopped in front of Promero’s house, just on the other side of the silk-merchant’s shop.”

  “Who is Promero?” asked Demetrio.

  “Kallian Publico’s chief clerk.”

  “Bring him here with the chariot driver,” snapped Demetrio. “We’ll wait until they come before we examine that room.”

  Two guardsmen clomped away. Demetrio still studied the body; Dionus, Arus, and the remaining policemen watched Conan, who stood sword in hand, like a bronze figure of brooding menace. Presently sandalled feet re-echoed outside, and the two guardsmen entered with a strongly built dark skinned man in the helmet and tunic of a charioteer, with a whip in his hand, and a small timid looking individual, typical of that class which, risen from the ranks of artizans, supplies righthand men for wealthy merchants and traders.

  This one recoiled with a cry from the sprawling bulk on the floor.

  “Oh, I knew evil would come of this!”

  “You are Promero, the clerk, I suppose. And you?”

  “Enaro, Kallian Publico’s chari
oteer.”

  “You do not seem overly moved at the sight of his corpse,” observed Demetrio.

  “Why should I be moved?” The dark eyes flashed. “Some one has only done what I dared not, but longed to do.”

  “So!” murmured the Inquisitor. “Are you a free man?”

  Enaro’s eyes were bitter as he drew aside his tunic, showing the brand of the debtor-slave on his shoulder.

  “Did you know your master was coming here tonight?”

  “No. I brought the chariot to the Temple this evening for him as usual. He entered it and I drove toward his villa. But before we came to the Palian Way, he ordered me to turn and drive him back. He seemed much agitated in his mind.”

  “And did you drive him back to the Temple?”

  “No. He bade me stop at Promero’s house. There he dismissed me, ordering me to return there for him shortly after midnight.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Shortly after dusk. The streets were almost deserted.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I returned to the slave quarters where I remained until it was time to return to Promero’s house. I drove straight there, and your men seized me as I talked with Promero in his door.”

  “You have no idea why Kallian went to Promero’s house?”

  “He didn’t speak of his business to his slaves.”

  Demetrio turned to Promero. “What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing,” the clerk’s teeth chattered as he spoke.

  “Did Kallian Publico come to your house as the charioteer says?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did he stay?”

  “Only a few minutes. Then he left.”

  “Did he come from your house to the Temple?”

  “I don’t know!” the clerk’s voice was shrill with taut nerves.

  “Why did he come to your house?”

  “To—to talk matters of business with me.”

  “You’re lying,” snapped Demetrio. “Why did he come to your house?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know anything!” Promero was growing hysterical. “I had nothing to do with it –”

  “Make him talk, Dionus,” snapped Demetrio, and Dionus grunted and nodded to one of his men who, grinning savagely, moved toward the two captives.

  “Do you know who I am?” he growled, thrusting his head forward and staring domineeringly at his shrinking prey.

  “You’re Posthumo,” answered the charioteer sullenly. “You gouged out a girl’s eye in the Court of Justice because she wouldn’t give you information incriminating her lover.”

  “I always get what I go after!” bellowed the guardsman, the veins in his thick neck swelling, and his face growing purple, as he seized the wretched clerk by the collar of his tunic, twisting it so the man was half strangled.

  “Speak up, you rat!” he growled. “Answer the Inquisitor.”

  “Oh Mitra, mercy!” screamed the wretch. “I swear –”

  Posthumo slapped him terrifically first on one side of the face and then on the other, and continued the interrogation by flinging him to the floor and kicking him with vicious accuracy.

  “Mercy!” moaned the victim. “I’ll tell – I’ll tell anything –”

  “Then get up, you cur!” roared Posthumo, swelling with self-importance. “Don’t lie there whining.”

  Dionus cast a quick glance at Conan to see if he were properly impressed.

  “You see what happens to those who cross the police,” he said.

  The Cimmerian spat with a sneer of cruel contempt for the moaning clerk.

  “He’s a weakling and a fool,” he growled. “Let one of you touch me and I’ll spill his guts on the floor.”

  “Are you ready to talk?” asked Demetrio tiredly. He found these scenes wearingly monotonous.

  “All I know,” sobbed the clerk, dragging himself to his feet and whimpering like a beaten dog in his pain, “is that Kallian came to my house shortly after I arrived – I left the Temple at the same time he did – and sent his chariot away. He threatened me with discharge if I ever spoke of it. I am a poor man, without friends or favor. Without my position with him, I would starve.”

  “What’s that to me?” snapped Demetrio. “How long did he remain at your house?”

  “Until perhaps half an hour before midnight. Then he left, saying that he was going to the Temple, and would return after he had done what he wished to do there.”

  “What was he going to do there?”

  Promero hesitated at revealing the secrets of his dreaded employer, then a shuddering glance at Posthumo, who was grinning evilly as he doubled his huge fist, opened his lips quickly.

  “There was something in the Temple he wished to examine.”

  “But why should he come here alone, and in so much secrecy?”

  “Because it was not his property. It arrived in a caravan from the south, at dawn. The men of the caravan knew nothing of it, except that it had been placed with them by the men of a caravan from Stygia, and was meant for Kalanthes of Hanumar, priest of Ibis. The master of the caravan had been paid by these other men to deliver it directly to Kalanthes, but he’s a rascal by nature, and wished to proceed directly to Aquilonia, on the road to which Hanumar does not lie. So he asked if he might leave it in the Temple until Kalanthes could send for it.

  “Kallian agreed, and told him he himself would send a runner to inform Kalanthes. But after the men had gone, and I spoke of the runner, Kallian forbade me to send him. He sat brooding over what the men had left.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A sort of sarcophagus, such as is found in ancient Stygian tombs, but this one was round, like a covered metal bowl. Its composition was something like copper, but much harder, and it was carved with hieroglyphics, like those found on the more ancient menhirs in southern Stygia. The lid was made fast to the body by carven copper-like bands.”

  “What was in it?”

  “The men of the caravan did not know. They only said that the men who gave it to them told them that it was a priceless relic, found among the tombs far beneath the pyramids and sent to Kalanthes, ‘because of the love the sender bore the priest of Ibis.’ Kallian Publico believed that it contained the diadem of the giant-kings, of the people who dwelt in that dark land before the ancestors of the Stygians came there. He showed me a design carved on the lid, which he swore was the shape of the diadem which legend tells us the monster-kings wore.

  “He determined to open the Bowl and see what it contained. He was like a madman when he thought of the fabled diadem, which myths say was set with the strange jewels known only to that ancient race, a single one of which is worth more than all the jewels of the modern world.

  “I warned him against it. But he stayed at my house as I have said, and a short time before midnight, he came alone to the Temple, hiding in the shadows until the watchman had passed to the other side of the building, then letting himself in with his belt-key. I watched him from the shadows of the silk shop, saw him enter the Temple, and then returned to my own house. If the diadem was in the Bowl, or anything else of great value, he intended hiding it somewhere in the Temple and slipping out again. Then on the morrow he would raise a great hue and cry, saying that thieves had broken into his house and stolen Kalanthes’ property. None would know of his prowlings but the charioteer and I, and neither of us would betray him.”

  “But the watchman?” objected Demetrio.

  “Kallian did not intend being seen by him; he planned to have him crucified as an accomplice of the thieves,” answered Promero. Arus gulped and turned pale as this duplicity of his employer came home to him.

  “Where is this sarcophagus?” asked Demetrio. Promero pointed, and the Inquisitor grunted. “So! The very room in which Kallian must have been attacked.”

  Promero turned pale and twisted his thin hands.

  “Why should a man in Stygia send Kalanthes a gift? Ancient gods and queer mummies have com
e up the caravan roads before, but who loves the priest of Ibis so well in Stygia, where they still worship the arch-demon Set who coils among the tombs in the darkness? The god Ibis has fought Set since the first dawn of the earth, and Kalanthes has fought Set’s priests all his life. There is something dark and hidden here.”

  “Show us this sarcophagus,” commanded Demetrio, and Promero hesitantly led the way. All followed, including Conan, who was apparently heedless of the wary eye the guardsmen kept on him, and seemed merely curious. They passed through the torn hangings and entered the room, which was rather more dimly lighted than the corridor. Doors on each side gave into other chambers, and the walls were lined with fantastic images, gods of strange lands and far peoples. And Promero cried out sharply.

  “Look! The Bowl! It’s open – and empty!”

  In the center of the room stood a strange black cylinder, nearly four feet in height, and perhaps three feet in diameter at its widest circumference, which was half-way between the top and bottom. The heavy carven lid lay on the floor, and beside it a hammer and a chisel. Demetrio looked inside, puzzled an instant over the dim hieroglyphs, and turned to Conan.

  “Is this what you came to steal?”

  The barbarian shook his head.

  “How could I bear it away? It is too big for one man to carry.”

  “The bands were cut with this chisel,” mused Demetrio, “and in haste. There are marks where misstrokes of the hammer dinted the metal. We may assume that Kallian opened the Bowl. Some one was hiding nearby – possibly in the hangings in the doorway. When Kallian had the Bowl open, the murderer sprang on him – or he might have killed Kallian and opened the Bowl himself.”

  “This is a grisly thing,” shuddered the clerk. “It’s too ancient to be holy. Who ever saw metal like it in a sane world? It seems less destructible than Aquilonian steel, yet see how it is corroded and eaten away in spots. Look at the bits of black mold clinging in the grooves of the hieroglyphics; they smell as earth smells from far below the surface. And look – here on the lid!” The clerk pointed with a shaky finger. “What would you say it is?”