Scipio nodded. "Too bad you're not carrying a lance. However a sword must do. I can spill the behemoth's blood before it tramples me. Thanks, soldier. If you let me escape now, I'll make you a prince of the nation I intend to establish."
"Listen to the lunatic," the guard said, with rapt admiration. "In chains, penniless, and offering to make me a prince! A prince of dreams, mayhap. Anyway, my vows are to Caesar, and not the Roman Imperator, either. So you must remain a captive."
The filthy straw rustled under Scipio as he shrugged. A death-cry drifted in from the arena, then the triumphant roar of some ferocious beast.
"Well," said the soldier, "your time has come."
"I wonder." There was a curious look in Scipio's deep-set eyes. "Lately I have had a queer feeling, as though the gods were watching me. Perhaps…"
He did not finish. More guards came, and the Carthaginian was unfettered and escorted along an underground corridor. Almost naked, his brawny body gleamed like mahogany in the sharp contrasts of light and shadow that filtered in through bars. Then the arena opened before them. Scipio was thrust forward. He saw at his side the friendly soldier, turned so that his sword-hilt was exposed.
With a grin and quick movement, Scipio clutched the weapon and whipped it out. Before the startled guards could move, he ran forward into the hot sands of the arena. The soles of his feet burned, then cooled as he halted in a patch of reddened sand.
The blazing African sun flooded down in blinding whiteness. Scipio had only a vague impression of the crowd that filled the circus. He could pick out no individuals. He felt as though one vast entity, surging, whispering, watching, surrounded him, and the head of the entity was the canopied box of the Lord of Carthage.
Scipio shifted his grip on the sword. He brushed the curly hair from his eyes with one hand, and stood warily on the balls of his feet. A musth elephant, eh? Well, no man could resist such an enemy, yet a man could die fighting.
"Alas for my dreams of empire," the Carthaginian murmured, with a crookedly sardonic smile. "Faith, I might have ruled the world, given time. And now I must water the sand with my blood."
He turned to the Imperial box, lifting his hand in salute. The emperor nodded, expecting to hear the usual, "We who are about to die—" of the gladiators.
Scipio disappointed his host. At the top of his voice he howled the words that would most enrage the onlookers.
"Carthage must be destroyed!"
A wave of fury, a gasp of astonishment and rage, rippled around the arena. The emperor make a quick, angry gesture. Grinning, Scipio turned to see a barred gate far across the sanded arena rise slowly.
For a few heartbeats there was silence throughout the circus. The blinding white heat was oppressive. Steam curled up from the blood-stains on the sands.
Then the musth elephant pounded to the gate. Huge, monstrous, a gray, walking vastness of animated dull savagery, he lurched through the gate and stood motionless, only his bloodshot little eyes alive with hatred. The trunk did not move, save for the tip, which swayed back and forth slightly.
A shadow darkened the arena as a cloud crossed the Sun, and then was gone.
Scipio hefted the sword he held. It was a short-bladed weapon, useless unless he could hurl it like a javelin. It was even too broad to pierce an elephant's eye, the most vulnerable spot of the monster. Briefly Scipio thought of slicing off the elephant's trunk as far up as he could reach. But that would still leave the tusks and mighty tree-trunk limbs that could squash a man into red pulp.
"Well," Scipio said with grim amusement, "at least they had to use their biggest elephant to kill me."
His gargoyle face twisted into a fearless grin. In the glaring tight, he resembled a teakwood statue, thewed like a colossus.
The elephant came forward slowly, its red eyes questing viciously until it saw Scipio. It paused, and the trunk lifted, waving snakelike in the air. It snorted angrily.
Again the shadow darkened the Sun, and this time it did not pass.
The Carthaginian had no time to look up. He bent slightly from the knees, holding the sword high like a javelin.
The elephant broke into a lumbering trot. Its speed increased. Like the Juggernaut, it bore down on him…
Scipio had a flashing glimpse of the monster—flapping ears, murderously upheld trunk, gleaming tusks. The thunder of its approach was growing louder, booming in his ears. It loomed above him—
From the skies sprang a thunderbolt! Flaming with pale brilliance, the crackling beam raved down. It caught the behemoth in mid-stride, bathed it in shining radiance. And the monster vanished!
It was gone without a trace. The deep craters of its rush ended in the sand a few yards from where the shocked Scipio crouched. From the spectators rose a roar, terrified, unbelieving.
A golden ball of enormous size plunged down into the arena. Lightly as a feather it grounded. A port in its hull sprang open.
Scipio saw a thin, pallid man, with the ascetic face of a Caesar. He was clad in odd garments and was beckoning urgently. Beyond him, Scipio glimpsed a fat Chinese whose round cheeks were quivering with excitement.
A spear flashed through the air, rang impotently against the golden hull. Almost paralyzed with amazement, Scipio ran forward, leaped into the ship. What this miracle might be, he did not know, but it seemed to provide a means of escape. Whether the pallid man was a god or a devil, at least he seemed friendly. More important, to remain in the arena meant death.
The port slammed shut behind Scipio. He bounded through the inner lock and stood wide-legged, staring around. The sword was still gripped in his hand. Past him the pallid man strode, and entered an inner chamber. A quiver of movement shook the ship as it lifted. The Oriental waddled into view and beamed at Scipio.
"Relax, friend," he said, lisping the unfamiliar tongue. "You speak Latin?"
"Naturally," Scipio stated. "All the world does. Are you a god? I doubt it, for only Bacchus and Silenus are obese, and their skins are not yellow."
The Oriental shook with laughter until he had to hold his heaving belly.
"I have heard of this Bacchus. A new god, but he is a good one. Sit down." He waved toward a couch. "My name is Li Yang. Do you wish food?"
Scipio shook his head and sat gingerly on the soft cushions.
"You called me friend?" he asked.
"I might better have called you comrade. Ardath saw the hidden possibilities in you, dragon-face. He read your mind while you slept. Ah, but you have dreams of empire, poor fool!"
Li Yang shook his head, and his yellow cheeks swung pendulously.
"Ill-luck dogs me," Scipio said lightly, grinning. "The gods hate me, so I wear no crown."
"Nor will you. You are not ruthless enough. You could carve out an empire for yourself, but you could not sit upon a throne. Under all thrones the snake coils. You are too honest to be a kink, Scipio."
The Carthaginian had been about to answer, but he paused. His dark eyes widened, and a flame sprang into them. Ponderously Li Yang turned.
Two figures stood on the threshold. One was Thordred, but Scipio had no eyes for even that gigantic form. He was staring with a burning fixity at the Atlantean priestess.
She looked lovely indeed. Her delicate figure was veiled by a girdled robe, from the hem of which her tiny toes peeped. Her golden hair hung loosely about her shoulders, and framed the elfin features that showed interested admiration.
"Jove's thunderbolt!" Scipio gasped. "Nay, but this is a goddess! This is Venus herself!"
Jansaiya preened herself. Under her lashes the sea-green eyes watched Scipio slumbrously. She basked in the frank, open gaze.
"This is Scipio?" the priestess asked.