Yet things could have been much worse. Behind the general’s chariot, and just ahead of Conan’s striding sedan, trooped another necessary part of this mock military triumph: a gaggle of prisoners, limping along in their rags and their bare, whip-striped skins, burdened with shackles especially weighted to make the wearers look weak and miserable. Hyrkanians they were, grimy and straggle-haired, doubtless captured in some imperial skirmish far to the eastward. Not of Venjipur, and not even dressed like Venji rebels, they had nothing to do with Conan and, quite likely, little to do with Abolhassan. But the ignorant city folk would hardly know this; they needed some object on which to pour out their contempt. As the luckless prisoners passed, lashed forward by mounted Turanian overseers, the watching crowd hissed and reviled them. Some pelted the captives with stones and offal too, as universal Hyborian custom dictated.
Behind the captives came a happy change of mood: Conan and Juma, the heroes of Venjipur—a doughty-looking pair, even if they were obviously foreign. So, after all, were many of the city’s merchants, soldiers, and valued slaves. In any case, die crowd’s sympathetic interest was caught instantly by the smiling, waving concubines, who leaned far over the sides of the litter to display their buxom charms. Thus attended, and obviously bashful and ill-at-ease because of it, the two giant westerners, one fair and the other jet-black, were greeted with good-natured applause, even cheers.
Just beyond the litter, pulled by a single donkey, trundled a cart containing the potted Venji tree. Pathetic as it was, this exhibit furnished the sole authentic touch of Venjipur and of the war blazing in its jungle depths. To the watchers, no doubt, it seemed but a first, faint token of the vast wealth that would pour northward to reward the Turanian Empire’s military prowess.
Furthermore, behind and around it galloped a rousing demonstration of that prowess: trick cavalry riders. They trotted and wheeled their nimble horses from side to side across the avenue, standing up in the saddle, leaping from horse to horse and performing acrobatics atop, alongside, and beneath their running mounts. All these riders wore Turanian military tunics; they were somewhat smaller and more elegant, perhaps, than any cavalry the empire would have thrust into the forefront of a battle, as were their steeds. But again, the unschooled crowd could scarcely tell the difference between these circus pranksters and real soldiers, or know how little their antics had to do with grim warfare. They received the act enthusiastically, applauding and strolling alongside to watch more of the daring feats.
Beyond them paced regular cavalry of the city garrison. They carried brightly bannered lances, whose waving folds blocked Conan’s view of any further contingents of the parade. Yet from well behind came more trumpet blasts and drum cadences, proving that the procession extended a good way back. And all the tumult had its desired effect, for as the march proceeded into a district of denser, double-storied buildings, the crowds thickened, closing in along narrow sidestreets. Turbaned, fezzed, and shaven-headed men, women both veiled and less modestly robed, and above all, swarms of naked, shouting children gathered in the avenue, drawn to the spectacle this brassy tumult heralded.
Conan, watching their reactions, sensed their less-than-total acceptance of the display. There was a strong cast of skepticism in those faces, even of resentment—more, it seemed, than hardened city-dwellers’ customary wariness against selling their goodwill too cheaply. Aside from the leers of the men at the shapely women, the winks and kisses thrown his way and Juma’s by ribald wives and tavern-girls, and the awed gape of ragged youths at the glittering military regalia, there ran a deeper current of discontent. Some watchers sneered or mouthed curses, even waved fists; most showed flagrant unconcern or sly self-interest. The Cimmerian, his eye trained by years of thievery, spied more than one cutpurse working the crowd to his advantage. A polyglot, healthy city mob after all, he decided.
As the procession moved on past taverns and open marketplaces into a more lavish quarter of temples and civic buildings, other forms of enterprise prevailed. Hawkers plied the avenue, holding aloft sticks of knotted pastries and sheaves of smoked fish, trading their wares for copper coins. Possibly the efficient eunuchs had managed to spead word of the march in advance; or else these vendors, like the thieves, were quick to respond when a crowd formed. Among the various flowers, coins, twigs, and other debris flung at the marchers, came flying a whole smoked fish, which smote Conan on the chest. Unsure whether it implied adoration or disapproval, he nevertheless ate it and found it tasty.
In this teeming temple quarter the crowds soon grew thick enough to block the avenue, and files of infantry and horsemen were dispatched forward along the flanks of the procession to clear the way. Abolhassan, who gave the order, showed no inclination to slow the march, so the troops hurried forth at a trot, pushing back spectators with brisk efficiency.
Yet Conan hardly expected, as a vast, minaretted temple of Tarim loomed on one side, to see a flock of black-clad mourners, men and women alike, pouring out of its open archway to beset the passing troops. These petitioners, wailing loudly and wringing their clenched hands in the air, met the procession just ahead of the general’s chariot. Their cries of “Give us back our sons!” and “Where are our children?” apparently were meant to bemoan offspring of theirs who had been impressed or killed in the imperial wars.
The troopers were quick to close ranks, but unable to head off all the bereaved, so fighting erupted. Stray mourners were thrown to the cobbles by footsoldiers or clubbed down by horsemen’s spear-butts. In the melee, the Hyrkanian prisoners also tried to scuttle away; these were dealt with more bloodily, and some confusion between the two sorts of victims unavoidably occurred. Yet the march continued too swiftly past the scenes of conflict for Conan to form any clear idea whether he should leap from his seat and take part. The litter-bearers bore their burden smoothly forward, not even swerving or breaking step when they had to clamber over writhing, bleeding bodies.
After that, the mood of the onlookers grew distinctly hostile; word of the skirmish was spread through the crowd by indignant shouts, easily outrunning the pace of the march. With the Hyrkanian prisoners absent, the clods and offal intended for them now pelted the troops instead—this despite the fact that the hurlers were beaten with sheathed swords whenever they could be caught. In its disapproval, strangely, the crowd pressed closer than ever it had in good fellowship. The triumphal parade threatened soon to become an armed excursion, its trumpets blaring in warning rather than festivity, its bannered lances couched in deadly earnest.
Yet of what happened next, there was no warning; it came as the marchers wound into a neighborhood of tall tenements inside the old city wall, with the very towers and domes of the palace looming not far ahead. The first unusual thing Conan noticed was Juma’s sudden movement, dragging his female escort down into the litter and rolling atop her in what seemed a sudden excess of passion. Then the pillows all around them began to sprout short, feathered shafts, and Conan felt the conveyance falter and sag as some of its bearers went down. Without conscious refection, he clapped a hand on his own seatmate’s arm and rolled out of the sedan, hauling her after him. He forced her down to keep her concealed beneath the litter, but the slaves kept pacing doggedly, stepping over their wounded brethren to carry the vehicle past danger. So the harem girl had to run stooping along the street, protesting angrily as Conan held her in the shadow of the moving platform.
They stopped when General Abolhassan wheeled his chariot to a halt, brushing arrow-shafts from his own harness. At the general’s shouted order, a file of troops went running into a decaying brick warren of dwellings, whence he declared the volleys had been fired. Other soldiers drafted fit-looking bystanders out of the crowd to replace the fallen litter-slaves, whose bodies were now dragged off in litters of their own. While Conan’s harem-wench, complaining about her sore shoulder, straightened her mussed hair and garments, the Cimmerian peered into the sedan chair to see whether his friend had been hurt.
Juma, still face-down among the cushions, seemed untouched by arrows. In response to Conan’s insistent pummeling he finally looked up, his rugged black features smudged with kohl and rouge. Beneath him the slave girl also seemed unharmed, if somewhat flushed and breathless.
“By Otumbe, is the ambush over already? For me it has been the best part of the ride!” The Kushite made no move to assume a more decorous posture.
“Hmmph, Juma, look here!” Conan spared no humor for his friend’s reckless ardor. “This fellow Abolhassan says the arrows came from yon building, but look at the angles!” He pointed to the fletched shafts protruding from the cushions in the litter. “Any fool can see that they flew from the other side.”
“Ah, well, what matters it, anyway?” Shrugging his bulky shoulders, Juma lay down close beside his escort, who nuzzled his neck with frank interest. “The assassins are long since fled.”
“Perhaps.” Already outdistanced by the clopping chariot team, the litter resumed moving, with Conan pacing restlessly beside it. “But I saw the arrows striking Abolhassan’s chariot; if you ask me, the heads were already broken off.” He snatched one of the skewered pillows from the sedan chair, holding it up to reveal the razor-pointed arrow tip protruding from the underside. “The shafts that struck near the general were not as deadly as these!”
“You think not?” Juma narrowed his eyes at the cruel brass point, then laughed. “You could be right; if so, then likely you are learning more about the ways of power, and the perils we heroes have to face.”
Turning from Conan, Juma resumed cuddling his pliant harem wench. The other girl sat bored among the cushions, regarding the embracing pair a little jealously. Conan, for his part, would not climb back into the litter, but stalked watchfully alongside it. The march went faster now, with the troops ruthlessly clearing the road ahead. The few remaining onlookers stood in doorways, windows and alleys, watching solemn-faced as the procession threaded its way toward the imperial palace and safety.
From the broad, bustling stableyard of the Imperial Palace, Conan and Juma were conducted to a well-guarded door of the vast edifice. There they met Sempronius, who must have traveled ahead of the parade either by boat or carriage. He ushered them past the scowling, motionless guards into a long corridor of arabesque tiles.
“Your reception feast lies ahead, in the Court of Protocols,” the eunuch announced, striding before them with officious quickness. “No special ceremony is planned, because His Resplendency will not be present until tomorrow. You need only mingle with the crowd and try to make a favorable impression. Watch your manners, eat and drink as the courtiers do, and you will be well received.”
“In sooth,” Conan muttered, “I shall eat and drink most carefully to avoid taking poison! Our fine reception so far has included an ambush, did you know? Or did you arrange that too, Sempronius?”
“Nay, nay, Sergeant! ‘Twas a regrettable mischance, for which I apologize—and a terrible blow to our emperor’s plans for this festive day.” Slowing his pace and lowering his voice, Sempronius turned a worried look back at them. “Rumors of rebellion and conspiracy have been rife for some time—but who would have thought the malcontents would go so far?” He shook his finely sculptured head in dismay, making the tassel of his fez wag limply. “The emperor has already been apprised, I assure you. In leniency, His Graciousness has decided not to sound a general alarm yet. The decoration ceremony tomorrow is to proceed as planned.” The eunuch had paused in the hallway, his voice sinking to an earnest whisper. “It could be the last chance to win public support for the Venji campaign, you know, without resorting to sterner measures. I pray that you will help as best you can.”
“I see,” Conan nodded thoughtfully. “Rebels, you say? And what of Abolhassan, do these ambushers have some special liking for him?”
Sempronius’s face closed off abruptly. “Of that I can say nothing. Both my eunuch chief Euranthus and the general himself have denied those seditious rumors! They still pledge unstinting loyalty to our Resplendent Emperor Yildiz.”
“I see—eternally loyal, for the nonce.” Flashing a skeptical glance at Juma, Conan pressed Sempronius further. “Is General Abolhassan at this banquet? Mayhap I should take it up with him directly!”
The eunuch turned and started off down the hall, speaking sharply over his shoulder. “I do not know, but I warn you, he would be a formidable adversary. Pray, do not spoil the evening with more bloodshed or insubordination!”
As they drew near the open double door with its two frozen, red-cloaked guards, Sempronius kept silent. Beyond the high, fluted arch lay a glittering swarm of talking, laughing aristocrats—a world apart, seemingly, from the turmoil of the streets. As the three entered, trumpet notes rippled from an alcove at one side, and a white-haired eunuch announced Conan and Juma’s names. Guards relieved them of their sabers, to be returned later, they were told; from that moment Sempronius disappeared, and his wards were beset by sleek, fashionable courtiers.
“At last, here come the heroes! What fine, strong specimens they are!”
“Truly! Are the two of you natives of Venjipur, or some other primitive land?”
“Nay, nay, the pallid one comes from Vanaheim; it was in the dispatch! But he knows civilized speech, they claim.”
“Tell us, warrior, how many men have you killed? Too many to count, I’d wager! But just in the past year, say, how many?”
“Yes, tell us! Do you kill the women and children too, or merely make them slaves?”
“What fierce-looking brutes they are! I can see why we use barbarians to enlarge our empire!”
The questions were posed with a mixture of fatuous awe and condescension, and were too numerous to be answered at once, fortunately. More fortunately, a servant distributing beakers of fine kumiss stood close at hand; the more one drank, Conan found, the longer one could postpone answering.