Winter's End (35 page)

A little later a bus with a noisy engine coming from the north overtook the convoy, which was driving slowly. When it drew level with the second van, the two vehicles went along the road side by side for about fifty yards. Paula was sleeping at the back of the bus, her hands on her knees. Her large posterior occupied two whole seats. Beside her, in a seat by the window, Helen was trying to read.
She raised her eyes and looked absently at the van carrying Milos, handcuffs on his wrists, his heart heavy.

For a few seconds there were no more than ten feet between the two. Then the bus accelerated and parted them again.

The convoy reached its destination in the middle of the night. Those of the gladiators who had never been in the capital before pressed their faces in turn to the little barred window, but all they saw of the great city was the facades of dismal gray buildings. When they got out of the vans, they all shivered in the damp cold of the night. The headlights of the vehicles, now maneuvering to leave again, swept across the base of an enormous, dark structure: the arena. So this was the end of their journey. Their last journey?

Milos, handcuffed and under guard, was pushed toward the building with his thirty or so companions in misfortune. They passed through a heavy, wooden double door that was closed behind them and barred with a beam as thick as a tree trunk. The floor of the arena building was trodden earth. They passed beneath the tiers of seats, followed a corridor, and entered their prison cell, a vast room with clay walls giving off a strong smell of mold. Straw mattresses on the floor were the only furnishing. As soon as their handcuffs had been removed, the gladiators fell on their beds. Most of them, exhausted by the journey on the hard seats in the
vans, buried themselves under the blankets at once, hoping to sleep; the others remained seated, eyes burning, trying to read some secret sign telling their fortune in the marks on the walls. Four armed soldiers guarded the door.

“Aren’t they going to give us anything to eat?” asked Basil. “I’m ravenous.”

They had to wait an hour before they were brought a bowl of thick soup and a large roll each.

“Better than we had in the camp!” said Basil, pleased. “Don’t you think? I guess they want us to be in good form tomorrow!”

Milos smiled at him bitterly. For once he had difficulty swallowing, and he was not the only one. Basil, however, found himself the recipient of three bowls of soup and three rolls, all of which he ate with relish.

Guards came to take away the bowls and spoons. Then the soldiers left, and they heard the sound of keys turning. The lights all went out at the same time, except for a night-light behind wire that gave a pale glimmer above the door. Hour after hour they heard the noise of new arrivals in the rooms nearby, the sound of their unknown voices. Their opponents. The men who were going to kill them or be killed.

In the morning, Milos woke feeling somehow outside himself. He wondered if he had slept at all, if he was still in a dream, or if this was reality. The place stank of urine. One of the gladiators must have relieved himself in a corner of the cell.
He turned to Basil and saw that his eyes were wide open and that he was pale as a sheet.

“All right, Basil?”

“No. I feel ill.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Must have been that soup. It didn’t agree with me.”

The door opened, and Myricus came in with a piece of paper in his hand, flanked by two soldiers. “Gentlemen, I’ve come to give you today’s timetable. It’s eight o’clock now. The first fight will be at ten. It’s you, Flavius, so get ready.”

All eyes turned to the short-tempered gladiator, who hadn’t spoken a word to anyone for days. Sitting on his mattress with his knees drawn up to his chest, he acted as if none of this concerned him.

“You’ll fight another novice. Good luck. Your victory will encourage all the others. Is there anything you want to say to us?”

Flavius didn’t move a muscle.

“Right,” Myricus went on. “I’ve given the youngest of you the privilege of fighting this morning. I know the waiting is hard to bear. Rusticus, you’ll fight second, and Milos third. You’re fighting a champion, Rusticus. As you know, that’s the best-case scenario.”

“The best . . . what?” muttered the young horse-man, his jaw trembling. Milos thought his friend was about to throw up.

“It gives you the best chance of winning,” Myricus
explained, remembering who he was talking to. “When a novice fights a champion, he very often wins, remember?”

“I remember. So I’ll win, will I?”

“I’m sure you will, Rusticus. Just avoid looking him in the eye. His stare is stronger than yours.”

“So I don’t look at him, right?”

The trainer didn’t bother to reply, but went on. “Milos, you’re to fight a premier. I saw him this morning. He’s a tall man. Watch out for his long reach. And remember, let him think you’re right-handed until the last moment and then change your sword hand as you attack. Don’t forget! One last piece of advice: don’t turn all soft when you see him. Anything you want to say?”

Milos shook his head and heard no more of what Myricus was saying. Turn soft? Why would he do that? He lost track of the names of the others who were going to fight. Rubbing the palms of his hands together, he found they were damp. Next moment the shattering knowledge struck him that he was about to fight to the death. He thought he had known it for months, but he realized he had only just understood. He remembered what Myricus had said. “Right to the end, you think something will happen to prevent the fight — you won’t really have to go into the arena.” It was true. In spite of himself he had been living in that impossible dream, and now the facts struck him in the face. He felt overwhelmingly tired, unable to fight a kitten. Would he even have the strength to raise his sword?

Around nine o’clock they were brought pots of coffee and some bread. Basil didn’t touch either. From being pale, his face had turned green. Milos made himself chew slowly and finish his breakfast.
I have to eat,
he told himself without believing it.
I have to eat to keep my strength up.

Myricus had gone away again. The painful wait began. Flavius, deep in gloomy thoughts, was as still as a statue. Near him, Delicatus was working hard to keep a sardonic, mocking smile on his face. At the far end of the room, Caius, emaciated as ever, was darting glances at the others from his black eyes. For a moment his mad gaze met Milos’s, and the two of them defied each other in silence.

They all felt relieved when the swords were brought in. Picking up his, Milos felt better. He stroked the handle, then the hilt, and ran his fingers over the shining blade. Several men rose to their feet, took off their shirts and sandals, and began their routine exercises: jogging with their swords in their hands, jumping, rolling over on the ground, taking evasive action, leaping forward. Some got together in pairs to practice.

“Come on, Basil,” said Milos. “You have to warm up.”

“I can’t,” moaned the boy, curled up under his blanket. “I have a stomachache. Any moment now . . .”

“No, Basil! Don’t let yourself go! This isn’t the right moment. Come on out.”

The young horse-man’s long head slowly emerged, and Milos saw that the soup wasn’t the only reason for his friend’s sorry state. His eyes were full of terror, and he was trembling all over.

“Right, Basil, I’ll leave you there for a bit, but you must get up as soon as Flavius has gone — will you?”

“If I can.”

Milos mingled with the others and put his mind to the movements he had automatically carried out thousands of times during training. They all suddenly froze when the door opened and two soldiers came in. The sound of the arena came to their ears, both distant and menacing: the muted growl of a monster lying in wait somewhere out there. They were going to be delivered up to it. Myricus came in too, and his voice rang out. “Flavius!”

The gladiator, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat, walked slowly toward the door, eyes fixed. He was clenching his jaw; his hard features expressed nothing but pure hatred. His companions felt it and flinched as he passed them.

As soon as the door was closed again, Milos flung himself on Basil and shook him by the shoulders. “Basil! Come on!”

When his friend didn’t move, he raised him from the floor, put him down on his feet, and put his sword in his right hand. “Come on, Basil, fight!”

The unhappy boy stood there before him, a pitiful sight, arms dangling, clearly sick at heart.

“Fight!” Milos encouraged him, slapping him on the arms and thighs with the flat blade of his sword to provoke him.

The young horse-man didn’t react. However, he raised his sword, making Milos think he was about to join in the action. Next moment he dropped it on the ground and ran full tilt for a corner of the room, where he brought up the contents of his stomach, bent double by the spasms.

A scornful and unpleasant laugh from Delicatus wasn’t echoed by anyone else. Basil ignored it too. He went back toward Milos, wiping his mouth on his forearm, and smiled faintly at his friend. “That’s better!”

There was a little color in his cheeks again. He took off his shirt, and they exchanged a dozen blows. His friend’s fencing struck Milos as very inconsistent.

“Wake up, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “Don’t you realize you’ll be fighting for real in a few seconds?”

He felt like flinging himself on Basil to hurt him, even wound him if he had to, just to get him to react and defend himself. He was making up his mind to do it when the door opened again. Myricus came in followed by the two soldiers.

“Rusticus!”

The young horse-man stared at him, panting. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes. Come on!”

“What about Flavius?” someone asked.

“Flavius is dead,” the trainer replied briefly.

Since Basil still made no move, the two soldiers took a step forward and impelled him toward the doorway with the butts of their guns. He started slowly walking. His chin was trembling like a child about to burst into tears.

“I don’t look at him, right?” he asked Myricus.

“No, don’t meet his eyes.”

Milos went over to give him a hug, but Basil pushed him gently away. “Don’t worry. I don’t care about this champion. They don’t need to know I’m scared. I’ll be back. I’m not like Flavius.”

The wait was unbearable. The worst of it was being unable to hear anything or imagine what was going on. Milos couldn’t go on warming up. He crouched down by a wall and hid his face in his hands.
Basil, my companion through all this, don’t leave me alone! Don’t die! Please come back!

It went on for a long time. Other gladiators were exchanging fast and furious blows around him. The air vibrated with the clash of their blades. There was a brief respite in which he thought he heard a muted roar from the arena in the distance. What was going on there? His heart was racing. This fight was going on for an eternity, much longer than Flavius’s fight, anyway. What did that mean?

When the door opened again, hinges squealing, he didn’t dare to raise his head. All he heard was the sound of feet on the concrete, then Basil’s faint voice: “I got him.”

The young horse-man walked in, flanked by Myricus and Fulgur. He was in shock.

“I got him,” he repeated, as if to convince himself. But his triumph was a joyless one. Thick blood was seeping from a wound in his side. He dropped the reddened sword from his hand and murmured, “He was going to kill me . . . had to defend myself . . .”

“He fought bravely and he won!” Myricus announced. “The rest of you follow his example!”

Fulgur, delighted to have a winner who was also wounded on his hands, was already leading Basil away. “Follow me to the infirmary. I’ll fix that for you.”

Basil started moving, right hand holding the edges of his wound together. At the door, he turned and looked at Milos. There was no triumph in his eyes, only an expression of profound sadness and disgust at what he had just done.

“Good luck, friend!” he said. “See you soon. . . . Don’t let them get you, right?”

“See you soon,” Milos managed to say. The words stuck in his throat.

Myricus went off too, recommending that he should not stand about motionless now. There were two fights between gladiators from the other camps before his, he said. Milos immediately began his exercises, but he noticed, with a sense of panic, that fear was changing all his perceptions: the weight of his sword, the length of his arm, the speed of his legs. It was as if he had suddenly lost control of
his body. When he ran, he seemed slow; when he started a movement, it seemed uncertain.

“I can’t feel anything,” he groaned, close to panic.

“It’s normal,” said a voice close to him. “It’s always like that before you go in. Try a bout with me.”

He recognized Messor standing in front of him, offering to act as his partner. The two of them had never exchanged a word before this day.

“Thanks,” said Milos gratefully.

Their few sallies brought him out of his lethargy, and when Myricus appeared at the door again with the two soldiers, he had regained a little confidence.

“Milos!” called the trainer, without any apparent emotion.

As he went out, Milos felt a need to salute one of his companions. Since Basil wasn’t there anymore, he chose Messor, who had shared these last few moments with him. He went up to the man and shook hands.

“See you later, my boy, and good luck,” growled the gladiator.

In the corridor, Myricus repeated the same advice as before. “He’s a tall man. Watch out for his long reach. And remember, let him think you’re right-handed until the last moment. Don’t forget!”

Milos got it, but his trainer’s words were distant and unreal. Twice he almost fainted, but his legs went on carrying him and did not give way.

The four men followed the corridor and came out under the rising tiers of seats. Voices and the sound
of the spectators’ feet mingled above their heads.

The planks were groaning under the weight of the audience. A horn blew three long, low notes. Milos realized that they were announcing his arrival. The two soldiers stopped at a gate, and a guard opened it to leave the way clear. Myricus gently pushed Milos in the back, and the young man walked into the arena.