While most of his former friends ridiculed him for what they considered his unmanly concern for the lives of slaves which were, after all, mere human cattle, and delighted in his fall from favor, the dignity with which Zantor had comported himself during his new career in the arena and the remarkable bravery and prowess he had displayed had won him many admirers―much to the annoyance of Prince Thuton and his sycophantic courtiers.
I at first regarded Zantor with some revulsion myself and rebuffed his overtures of friendship with a certain coolness. Even a Sky Pirate fallen from favor and condemned to death in the arena is still a Sky Pirate, I reasoned, and partook of the collective guilt of his people. But Zantor’s quiet dignity won me to reluctant admiration in time, and, as well, I learned from the other arena slaves that when he had been one of the great corsair captains, Zantor of the Xaxar had been noted for his generosity, his concern for the fighting men under his command, and the restraint and mercy he commonly displayed toward all those he defeated in battle. At length, reflecting that few men can help adopting the standards of the society into which they are born and that even among the cruel and rapacious Sky Pirates, Zantor had somehow learned the gentler traits of civilized humanity, I warmed toward him, regretting my former rebuffs. We became fast friends.
From my new comrades, I learned much concerning those topics whose importance was uppermost in my mind. The Princess Darloona, I discovered, to my hearty relief, was still unwed, although Prince Thuton had exerted much pressure to win her hand, threatening a full-scale attack against her kingdom if she continued to resist his suit. I also inquired carefully and unobtrusively as to the Jalathadar. By any count, the aerial galleon should have launched its attack against the City in the Clouds many days before. To my astonishment, I learned that this had not happened. No one whom I queried had heard the slightest rumor of a captive vessel being employed against Zanadar in a Trojan Horse maneuver―and the grapevine among the slaves of the Sky Pirates is a most highly developed intelligence network. If Prince Thuton so much as got a headache from too heartily imbibing in the fruit of the vine, precise details were commonly available to every slave in the city within the hour. Had any such attack been launched―had even a patrol ornithopter encountered and given battle to or destroyed such a vessel in the vicinity―it would have been common knowledge.
My heart sank with despair. I could only conclude from this that the expedition had somehow come to grief after the treachery of Ulthar precipitated me into the waves of the Corund Laj. With so cunning and patient a Judas aboard, it was easy enough to see how the Jalathadar could have been downed. Perhaps it had collided with a mountain peak during the hours of darkness; perhaps it had been carried off course into the frozen north, there to meet a lonely doom among the ice plains. Whatever had been the fateful end of the gallant expedition, I mourned the loss of my friends and faced the future with grim foreboding.
Now I alone was left to aid my beloved princess. And there seemed little enough that I, a slave condemned to die in the great arena, could do to free her from the clutches of Prince Thuton. It looked as if my long and adventurous odyssey was coming to an end at last, and that Darloona’s last frail hope for freedom would perish before her eyes in the festival of death.
The day came at last. We were given a light but hearty meal of excellent steak and strong red wine, and, garbed in fighting-harness, we trooped forth into the vast amphitheater to fight for our lives.
It was a brilliant day. The smoothly raked sands of the arena were bathed in floods of daylight. Above us arched the clear, sparkling glass panes of the enormous geodesic dome that shielded the throng from the bitterly cold winds blowing at this height. Tier on tier of benches, ringed in the arena floor like the bleachers of some barbaric football stadium, were crowded with a sea of faces, for most of the lords and nobles of Zanadar and their women had turned out in their holiday finery to watch us fight and die this day for their pleasure.
The royal box was only a few tiers above the retaining wall that encircled the floor of the arena and protected the audience from the savage beasts, the rebellious slaves, or both. There, enthroned in a cushioned chair beneath a canopy of sky-blue silk, Prince Thuton lolled at ease, a coldly handsome young man with cynical, indifferent, hooded eyes and a cruel mouth.
At his side sat Darloona!
My heart stopped as I saw her. It had been so long since last I had looked upon her ripe loveliness. Although her face had haunted my dreams through an endless succession of nights and days, the sight of her choked the breath in my throat and brought moisture to my eyes. She was so very beautiful. The weeks of her imprisonment had not dimmed the radiance of her slanting emerald eyes nor tarnished the sunset glory of her red-gold mane, nor had they daunted her proud, courageous spirit. She sat icily aloof, next to Thuton’s cushioned chair, but apart from him in queenly isolation. Her head was high, her expression inscrutable, her mouth stubborn. How much I loved her at that moment! Gladly would I have laid down my life to set her free from her despicable imprisonment, but, alas, it seemed the mocking Fates would have me spend my heart’s blood on the baking sands of the arena, locked in futile and meaningless struggle with some jungle beast and all for the callous amusement of the cruel, blood-lusting Zanadarians.
Thon the Gamesmaster, in a gilded chariot drawn by a superb matched team of rare snow-white thaptors, led us on full parade as the games commenced. We trudged the entire circuit of the amphitheater twice, saluted before the royal box, receiving a negligent wave of Thuton’s bejeweled hand. Then we retired to the pits beneath the arena as the festivities began in earnest.
First came the chariot races, in which champions selected from four teams vied with each other for the prize of a gold chaplet which Thuton would bestow on the victor. In this contest, the Royal Blues were the favorite, although the Reds and the Silvers were close contenders for second place. The Zanadarians found enormous excitement in chariot races, as had the Romans and the Byzantines of my own world, and the grandstands were divided into parties of those who favored each color. Indeed, as Glykon of the Blues, champion of the team favored by most, entered the arena the cheers and applause were so thunderous some feared the glass dome that sheltered the stands from the frigid winds would crack from the rebounding echoes.
The chariot races filled up most of the morning. With noon, the audience munched picnic lunches or purchased food from vendors who hawked their wares through the aisles. And, with their food, the Zanadarians liked a little fresh-spilled blood for sauce, so the first gladiators emerged from the Gate of Heroes, as the barred portal was called, to do battle for their noontime pleasure.
There were, as I have said, two varieties of gladiatorial combat, the keraxians, or spearmen, and the tharians, who were armed with axes. Those of us who were arena slaves were considered mere games fodder, good for little more than a gory death. But there were star gladiators among us who occupied a privileged position in the games―mighty champions, each of whom had his own particular following and his own colors. Zantor was the only one of these I knew personally, for they were a snobbish lot and enjoyed special privileges. They had their own private suites of apartments in the pits, instead of bunking in the common barracks with the rest of us, and it was amusing in a way to see them strutting about in gilt breastplates, greaves, and plumed helms, with all the arrogance of conquerors, although, they were slaves and really no different from the rest of us. Some of them, however, such as Prince Thuton’s pet, Panchan, lived in apartments of sumptuous and silken luxury, dined off gourmet delicacies sent from the Prince’s own table on plates of precious metal, had female slaves for their own pleasure, and lived bedecked with gems as if they were princes themselves.