"DEATH! DEATH!"
A score of slaves were busily cleaning up the arena following the
departure of the lion-drawn chariots, the audience was standing and
stretching itself, nobles were wandering from loge to loge visiting
their friends, men and women were settling up past wagers and making
new ones. The sounds of many voices enveloped the stadium in one mighty
discord. The period was one of intermission between events.
Tarzan was annoyed. Crowds irritated his nerves. The sound of human
voices was obnoxious to him. Through narrowed lids he surveyed the
scene. If ever a wild beast looked upon its enemies it was then.
Phobeg was still boasting in a loud voice that was clearly audible to
at least a portion of the audience sitting just above the gladiators'
ledge. The attitude of the temple guard was anything but soothing to
the lord of the jungle, but by no sign did he intimate that he heard
him after his first retort.
Already the betting was running high on this last event of the day,
though only a small proportion of the audience had had a fair view of
the two contestants by which they might compare them. Phobeg, however,
was known by reputation and was the favorite, the odds running as high
as ten to one against Tarzan.
In the royal loge Nemone lay back luxuriously in the great chair that
was half a throne and half a couch. She had lost heavily during the
day, but she showed no ill humor. However, the nobles surrounding her
were ill at ease and hoped that she would win on this last event. Each
was determined to bet heavily upon the strange wild man with Nemone,
so that she might win back all that she had lost to them upon earlier
events, for all were assured that Nemone would back Phobeg, it being
her custom to bet heavily upon all favorites.
Erot was particularly anxious that the Queen should win back what he
had won from her. For some time he had been a trifle uncertain as
to his position in the good graces of his sovereign; he had sensed,
perhaps, that he was slipping a little; and he had had sufficient
experience to know that winning money from Nemone constituted nothing
less than a tremendous shove to one who had started to slip.
Therefore Erot, with the other nobles, having determined to let Nemone
win their money on Phobeg sent slaves out into the audience secretly to
place money enough on Phobeg to reimburse them what they lost to Nemone
on Tarzan. The plan was accurately figured and neatly worked, and when
the day was over Nemone would be winner and so would they, all of their
losses having been more than made up by their winnings on Phobeg, which
the common people would have paid.
This large volume of money going suddenly among the audience which was
already favoring Phobeg and offering large odds against Tarzan found
very little Tarzan money available at ten to one. The natural result
was that to place their money at all they had to offer larger odds, and
to reimburse themselves of their losses to Nemone, or rather their
assumed losses, for no wagers had yet been laid in the royal loge,
they were compelled to put up enormous sums as the odds soared upward
finally until it took one hundred Phobeg drachmas to cover one of
Tarzan's.
Now a trumpet sounded, and the warriors guarding Tarzan and Phobeg
ordered them down into the arena and paraded them once around it that
the people might compare the gladiators and choose a favorite. As they
passed before the royal loge Nemone leaned forward with half-closed
eyes surveying the tall stranger and the squat Cathnean.
Erot, the Queen's favorite, watched her. "A thousand drachmas on the
stranger!" he cried.
"I am betting on the stranger, too," interjected another noble eagerly.
"So am I," said Nemone.
Erot and the other nobles were amazed; this upset their plans
completely. Of course they would win more money, but one always felt
safer losing to Nemone than winning from her.
"You will lose your money," Erot told her.
"Then why did you offer to bet on the stranger?" demanded the Queen.
"The odds were so attractive that I was tempted into taking a chance,"
explained Erot quickly.
"What are the odds now?"
"One hundred to one."
"And you think the stranger may not have even one chance in a hundred
of winning?" demanded Nemone, toying idly with the hilt of her dagger.
"Phobeg is the strongest man in Cathne," said Erot. "I really think
that the stranger has no chance at all against him; he is as good as
dead already."
"Very well then, if you feel that way about it you should bet on
Phobeg," whispered Nemone softly. "I am going to wager 100,000 drachmas
on the stranger. How much of this do you wish, my dear Erot?"
"I wish that my Queen would not risk her money on him at all," said
Erot; "I am grieved when my beloved Queen loses."
"You bore me, Erot." Nemone gestured impatiently and then, turning to
the other nobles, "Is there none here who will cover my drachmas?"
Instantly they were all eager to accommodate her. To win a hundred
thousand drachmas from the Queen in addition to all that they would
win from the common people was too much for their cupidity; they even
forgot Nemone's possible wrath in their anxiety to accommodate her now
that it was certain that her decision could not be altered, and in a
few minutes the bets had been recorded.
"He has a fine physique," commented Nemone, her eyes upon the jungle
lord, "and he is taller than the other."
"But look at Phobeg's muscles," Erot reminded her. "This Phobeg has
killed many men; they say that he twists their necks and breaks their
spines."
"We shall see," was the Queen's only comment.
Erot thought that he would not like to be in Phobeg's sandals, for if
the stranger did not kill him Nemone most certainly would see that he
did not long survive, who had robbed her of a hundred thousand drachmas.
Now the two men were posted in the arena a short distance from the
royal loge, and the captain of the stadium was giving them their
instructions which were extremely simple: they were to remain inside
the arena and try to kill one another with their bare hands, though
the use of elbows, knees, feet, or teeth was not barred; there were
no other rules governing the combat. The winner was to receive his
freedom, though even this had been qualified by Nemone.
"When the trumpet sounds you may attack," said the captain of the
stadium. "And may Thoos be with you."
Tarzan and Phobeg had been placed ten paces apart. Now they stood
waiting the signal. Phobeg swelled his chest and beat upon it with his
fists; he flexed his arms, swelling the great muscles of his biceps
until they stood out like great knotty balls; then he hopped about,
warming up his leg muscles. He was attracting all the attention, and
that pleased him excessively.
Tarzan stood quietly, his arms folded loosely across his chest, his
muscles relaxed. He appeared totally unconscious of the presence of
the noisy multitude or even of Phobeg, but he was not unconscious
of anything that was transpiring about him. His eyes and his ears
were alert; it would be Tarzan who would hear the first note of the
trumpet's signal; Tarzan was ready!
Tarzan cared nothing for the stupid men-things making silly noises in
their throats, gathered here to see two fellow creatures that had never
harmed them try to kill one another for their pleasure; he did not care
what they thought about him; to him they were less than the droppings
of lions that the slaves had swept up in the arena.
He did not wish to kill Phobeg, nor did he wish to be killed; but
Phobeg disgusted him, and he would have liked to punish the man for his
ridiculous egotism. He realized that his antagonist was a mighty man
and that it might not be an easy thing to punish him without taking a
great deal of punishment himself, but this risk he did not mind so that
he could halt his own punishment short of crippling or death. His gaze
chanced to cross the royal loge; it halted there; the eyes of Nemone
met his and held them. What strange eyes were hers--so beautiful, with
fires burning far beneath the surface, so mysterious!
The trumpet pealed, and Tarzan's eyes swung back to Phobeg. A strange
silence fell upon the amphitheater. The two men approached one another,
Phobeg strutting and confident, Tarzan with the easy, graceful stride
of a lion.
"Say your prayers, fellow!" shouted the temple guard. "I am going to
kill you; but first I shall play with you for the amusement of Nemone."
Phobeg came closer and reached for Tarzan. The ape-man let him seize
him by the shoulders; then Tarzan cupped his two hands and brought the
heels of them up suddenly and with great force beneath Phobeg's chin
and at the same time pushed the man from him. The great head snapped
back, and the fellow's huge bulk hurtled backward a dozen paces, where
Phobeg sat down heavily.
A groan of surprise arose from the audience, interspersed with cheers
from those who had wagered on Tarzan. Phobeg scrambled to his feet; his
face was contorted with rage; in an instant he had gone berserk. With a
roar, he charged the ape-man.
"No quarter!" he screamed. "I kill you _now_!"
"Kill! Kill!" shouted the Phobeg adherents. "Death! Death! Give us a
death!"
"Don't you wish to throw me about a bit first?" asked Tarzan in a low
voice, as he lightly side-stepped the other's mad charge.
"No!" screamed Phobeg, turning clumsily and charging again. "I kill! I
kill!"
Tarzan caught the outstretched hands and spread them wide; then a
bronzed arm, lightning-like, clamped about Phobeg's short neck;
the ape-man wheeled suddenly about, leaned forward, and hurled his
antagonist over his head. Phobeg fell heavily to the sandy gravel of
the arena.
Nemone leaned from the royal loge, her eyes flashing, her bosom
heaving. Erot was but one of many nobles who experienced a constriction
of the diaphragm. Nemone turned to him. "Would you like to bet a little
more on the strongest man in Cathne?" she asked.
Erot smiled a sickly smile. "The battle has only commenced," he said.
"But already it is as good as over," taunted Nemone.
Phobeg arose but this time more slowly, nor did he charge again but
approached his antagonist warily; his tactics now were very different
from what they had been. He wanted to get close enough to Tarzan to get
a hold; that was all he desired, just a hold; then, he knew, he could
crush the man with his great strength.
Perhaps the ape-man sensed what was in the mind of his foe, perhaps it
was just chance that caused him to taunt Phobeg by holding his left
wrist out to the other; but whatever it was, Phobeg seized upon the
opportunity and, grasping Tarzan's wrist, sought to drag the ape-man
into his embrace; then Tarzan stepped in quickly, struck Phobeg a
terrific blow in the face with his right fist, seized the wrist of the
hand that held his, and, again whirling quickly beneath his victim,
threw him heavily once more, using Phobeg's arm as a lever and his own
shoulder as a fulcrum.
This time Phobeg had difficulty in arising at all. He came up very
slowly. The ape-man was standing over him. The blood froze in the veins
of the Cathnean as he heard the low, beast-like growl rumbling in the
throat of the stranger.
Suddenly Tarzan stooped and seized Phobeg, and, lifting him bodily,
held him above his head. "Shall I run now, Phobeg?" he growled, "or are
you too tired to chase me?" Then he hurled the man to the ground again
a little nearer to the royal loge where Nemone sat, tense and thrilling.
Like a lion with its prey, the lord of the jungle followed the man who
had taunted him and would have killed him; twice again he picked him
up and hurled him closer to the end of the arena. Now the fickle crowd
was screaming to Tarzan to kill Phobeg; Phobeg, the strongest man in
Cathne; Phobeg, who twisted men's necks until their spines cracked.
Again Tarzan seized his antagonist and held him above his head. Phobeg
struggled weakly, but he was quite helpless. Tarzan walked to the side
of the arena near the royal loge and hurled the great body up into the
audience.
"Take your strong man," he said; "Tarzan does not want him." Then he
walked away and stood before the ramp, waiting, as though he demanded
his freedom.
Amid shrieks and howls that called to Tarzan's mind only the foulest of
wild beasts, the loathsome hyena, the crowd hurled the unhappy Phobeg
back into the arena. "Kill him! Kill him!" they screamed.
Nemone leaned from her loge. "Kill him, Tarzan!" she cried.
Tarzan shrugged with disgust and turned away.
"Kill him, slave!" commanded a noble from his luxurious loge.
"I shall not kill him," replied the ape-man.
Nemone arose in her loge. She was flushed and excited. "Tarzan!" she
cried, and when the ape-man glanced up at her, "why do you not kill
him?"
"Why should I kill him?" demanded Tarzan. "He cannot harm me, and I
kill only in self-defense or for food; but I do not eat human flesh, so
why should I kill him?"
Phobeg, bruised, battered, and helpless, arose weakly to his feet
and stood reeling drunkenly. He heard the voice of the pitiless mob
screaming for his death. He saw his antagonist standing a few paces
away in front of the ramp, paying no attention to him, and dimly and
as though from a great distance he had heard him refuse to kill him.
He had heard, but he did not comprehend. He expected to be killed, for
such was the custom and the law of the arena. He had sought to kill
this man; he would have shown him no mercy; so he could not understand
the mercy of Tarzan's indifference that had been extended to him.
Phobeg's bloodshot eyes wandered helplessly about the arena, seeking
nothing or no one in particular; sympathy was not to be found there,
nor mercy, nor any friend; such were not for the vanquished. The
frenzied blood-lust of the mob fascinated him. A few minutes ago it had
been acclaiming him; now it condemned him to death. His gaze reached
the royal loge as Erot leaned far out and shouted to Tarzan standing
below.
"Kill him, fellow!" he cried. "It is the Queen's command."
Phobeg's eyes dropped to the figure of the ape-man, and he braced
himself for a final effort to delay the inevitable. He knew that he
had met one mightier than himself and that he must die when the other
wished; but the law of self-preservation compelled him to defend
himself, however hopelessly.
The ape-man glanced up at the Queen's favorite. "Tarzan kills only whom
it pleases him to kill." He spoke in a low voice that yet carried to
the royal loge. "I shall not kill Phobeg."
"You fool," cried Erot, "do you not understand that it is the Queen's
wish, that it is the Queen's command, which no one may disobey and
live, that you kill the fellow?"
"If the Queen wants him killed, why doesn't she send you down to do it?
She is your Queen, not mine." There was neither awe nor respect in the
voice of the ape-man.
Erot looked horrified. He glanced at the Queen. "Shall I order the
guard to destroy the impudent savage?" he asked.
Nemone shook her head. Her countenance remained inscrutable, but a
strange light burned in her eyes. "We give them both their lives," she
said. "Set Phobeg free, and bring the other to me in the palace;" then
she rose as a sign that the games were over.
Many miles to the south of the Field of the Lions in the valley of
Onthar a lion moved restlessly just within the confines of a forest. He
paced rapidly first in one direction and then in another; his movements
were erratic; sometimes his nose was near the ground and, again, it was
in the air as though he were searching for something or some one. Once
he raised his head and lifted his great voice in a roar that shook the
earth and sent Manu, the monkey, fleeing through the trees with his
brothers and sisters. In the distance a bull elephant trumpeted, and
then silence fell once more upon the jungle.
X