Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (33 page)

      
“You had best enjoy the meal,
gadjo
. It will be your last,” Django said with a toothy grin of pure malevolence.

      
“How do we fight? Are there any rules?” Benjamin asked, sizing up his enemy. Django was of a height with him, but bigger boned and far heavier, with bulging muscles.

      
Django threw back his head and laughed. “The rules are so simple even a
gadjo
like you will understand them.”

      
Rani returned with a bowl of some dark noisome substance, reeking of garlic, and placed it in his hands. The wolf watched inquisitively, as if hoping for a share of the stuff. After one taste Benjamin would gladly have given it all to Vero, but he laid aside squeamishness and ate, knowing he needed strength to win the fight.

      
“You need to walk and loosen your sore muscles,” Rani said after he had eaten.

      
“He goes nowhere,” Django snapped.

      
“Do not act even more stupid than you already have. He cannot escape on foot.” Rani helped Benjamin to stand.

      
At first the earth spun crazily, but gradually righted itself as he forced his buckling legs to support his weight. Then a most pressing call of nature assailed him. Looking down at the girl, he decided decorum was for manor houses and royal courts, not for Gypsy camps. “I know this may bring your
phral
flying at my back with his knife poised, but I must step into the bushes and pass water.”

      
As he expected, she shrugged and smiled as if it was the most natural request on earth. Django stalked nearer and watched him perform his task in the darkness while Rani waited with her wolf near the fire.

      
Scarcely half an hour had passed before Agata returned with a group of men. One, a tall, hawk-faced fellow with a thick mane of greasy iron-gray hair strode away from the rest and confronted him. Judging from the shiny gold trim on his filthy jerkin and the tassels on his high-topped boots, Benjamin assumed he was Sandor, the
voivode.

      
“Are you ready,
gadjo
?” He spoke in Tuscan. At Benjamin's nod, he shifted his fathomless gaze to Django, who was grinning like a starved man at a twenty-course banquet.

      
Do not let your appetite grow unchecked until you are seated and served,
Benjamin thought with grim determination as they walked toward the campfire in Sandor's wake.

      
Rani leaned over to Agata and whispered, “I do not like this. My brother is renowned as a fighter. Benjamin will have little chance under our laws.”

      
“Our laws will be sufficient,” was all Agata would answer.

      
Rani held her peace, praying the old woman's magical ability to read the future included a vision of the golden man's victory over Django.

      
Sandor summoned the two combatants into a large circle, marked off by a line of salt spread at the perimeter, glowing whitely in the flickering firelight. He stood in the center and began to speak. “You will each use one knife and one hand will be bound by the scarf.” He produced a length of brilliant scarlet silk and held it up. “Do not break the circle by leaving it. He who cuts the scarf dies by default.” His eyes moved from Benjamin to Django.

      
The heavier man nodded as if well familiar with the rules and extended his left arm. “Give the
gadjo
a knife,
Voivode
. I already have mine.”

      
Sandor tied one end of the scarf to Django's thick wrist. Benjamin quirked one eyebrow at the old man as he, too, allowed his left arm to be tied to the opposite end of the four-foot length. “May I have my knife? I wore it the night he captured me.”

      
Agata handed his fine Spanish dagger to Benjamin. “Use the blade like a good surgeon...if you are one.” She cackled at some bizarre joke only she understood.

      
“I am a good surgeon.”
I also recall a few other tricks from my childhood.
He flexed his sore shoulders and gripped the knife, inspecting the short length of scarf that bound him to Django. There was no way to stay clear of his blade without cutting the scarf, or parrying every thrust. He compared their arm spans and decided his was as long as his opponent's, but he would have to be lightning swift. If that giant ever landed on top of him he would soak into the earth like meat grease into a linen tablecloth.

      
Sandor held up the center of the scarlet silk for a moment as the crowd around them murmured excitedly. Everyone seemed to understand the nature of the contest and betting was animated among the women as well as the men. More than one Gypsy woman eyed Benjamin's slim golden body with keen interest as she placed her bet. For or against him he wondered?

      
“Begin.” Sandor dropped the scarf, freeing both men's partially raised arms. The chief quickly backed from the circle and then himself made a bet with Agata, who rubbed her hands gleefully.

      
Only Rani watched with a grave expression on her face. Benjamin had no more time to observe the activities on the sidelines for Django lunged with his blade while yanking on the scarf. Benjamin was pitched off balance for an instant but quickly regained his footing as he parried the clumsy thrust.

      
Two could play at this game. He tested the tension of the scarf as he and the big
Rom
circled each other warily. The scarf was obviously designed to force the combatants into a bloody fight.
Ghoulish savages
. He felt Django once again give the scarf a swift tug, catapulting him headlong toward his foe's blade. He dropped onto the ground, pulling the
Rom
along with him as he reversed the direction of the scarf's leverage. Django landed on his knees with an oath as Benjamin leaped up beside him, his blade again holding the Gypsy's knife at bay.

      
Benjamin was weak from the drugs he had been given, and the small space of the circle gave Django another advantage. Benjamin's greater speed and agility counted for little under these rules. Unless...
Use the blade like a good surgeon.
Benjamin smiled at Django and asked, “Like you the color of crimson?” As he spoke he grabbed the scarf and threw Django off balance for an instant. His blade caught the big man's inner wrist, nicking him so the blood seeped freely.

      
“Tis but a scratch,” Django replied with a laugh, slashing at Benjamin and making a shallow cut on his left arm.

      
Benjamin feinted, favoring the arm. As Django closed in, the surgeon's knife again thrust beneath his, making a second deft nick, this time on his inner thigh. Benjamin paid with another of Django's clumsy slashes, this time across his shoulder.

      
“You, too, wear crimson,
gadjo
, ” the
Rom
replied as they circled again.

      
When Django again moved in with his blade, Benjamin's foot slid out, tripping his foe by sweeping behind Django's boot heel. The big man lost his footing and fell backward on the seat of his pants. Benjamin rolled beside him and again placed another nick, this time at the base of his throat before Django's blade could parry to save his life.

      
Now the Rom sensed how close he had come to having his throat slit. With a great roar he rolled up, tugging on the scarf as Benjamin did the same, keeping his distance.

      
As a boy he had wrestled with the Tainos. They often used their feet as well as their hands to great advantage. The knives and the scarf were great handicaps, yet if he could cut one more critical place where the blood pumped in surges, he knew Django would go down. Benjamin observed the giant's blood loss to gauge his weakness. The
Rom
shook his head as if dizzy. Good. Then all too quickly he once more lunged, this time watching Benjamin's feet as he thrust.

      
Benjamin deflected the blade from its course by grabbing Django's right wrist for an instant as his knife again nicked Django's other wrist. His grip quickly loosened, so slippery was the big man's arm with blood. He shoved against Django and they parted the length of the scarf once more. Now the Rom was staggering. Blood pooled on the dusty ground, soaking into the earth, making black mud. Slippery black mud.

      
Benjamin again circled, then moved in, feinted and danced back. He quickly repeated the move until Django yanked on the scarf. Once more Benjamin's boot caught behind Django's and they went down in the slick mud.

      
Rani watched the contest with her hands clenched into fists, scarcely daring to breath. Both men were soaked with blood and sweat, both gasping for air like banked fish. Django had never lost a duel such as this, yet Benjamin was slimmer and quicker and did magic things with his feet, tripping her brother. “Why does he use the knife so sparingly?” she whispered to Agata.

      
The old woman's shrewd eyes never left the contest. “He uses it like a surgeon, Django like a butcher. Only wait.”

      
This time when Django hit the ground he brought his nemesis down atop him by grabbing the scarf near Benjamin's wrist. In so doing he hoped to impale the
gadjo
, but Benjamin jerked the scarf free and rolled away, then struck Django's knife with his foot, sending it flying from the circle. The only problem was that in his fall, he too had dropped his knife. It lay beneath him. Benjamin tried to rise but this time Django grabbed the scarf and sent the
gadjo
sprawling. Unable to reach his knife and not seeing Torres' weapon, Django grinned as he raised the scarf between them and then lowered it, falling atop his foe. The scarf cut into Benjamin's throat. Django applied more pressure, his great barrel chest heaving as he towered above his slim opponent.

      
Strangely, his hands grew weaker and weaker. He was dizzy. The
gadjo
lay still beneath him. The last thing Django heard was Rani's scream. Then he tumbled over into blackness.

      
Benjamin felt the
Rom's
grip loosen as the big man passed out from blood loss. He gulped air into his lungs and raised his hands to keep Django's unconscious weight from crushing him. He shoved the
Rom
off him and rose to his knees to check Django's injuries. Rani was the first to race into the circle, sliding in the bloody mud at his side.

      
“Are you hurt? I thought he was strangling you.” Her eyes traveled to his knife laying on the ground. “You may kill him now. Tis your right.”

      
“I told your wise woman, I am a healer, not a killer. Fetch my bags—the ones you doubtless stole at the same time you took my horse.” His blue eyes blazed at her for an instant, sending her scurrying to do his bidding. Then he returned to his task, using his knife to cut the silk scarf into lengths to bind up Django's wrists. For the neck and groin he would need the needle and thread in his bag. Somehow he doubted if a woman in this whole accursed camp possessed such simple tools.

      
Agata watched as the girl returned with his bag. Sandor walked up to her, a sour look on his face. “You knew he would win.” It was not a question.

      
Many of the
Rom
were busy giving coins to a few who had bet on Benjamin, but after the important monetary business was transacted, all watched in puzzlement as the
gadjo
treated his fallen foe.

      
“I doubt there is anything clean in this filthy place, but fetch me
fresh
water in this.” He handed Rani a metal flask from his bag.

      
“The stream is far from camp and tis dark,” she called out as she scurried off with the container.

      
“Fresh water,” he called after her.

      
Since the time he had watched Miriam sew Rigo's wounds, Benjamin had become quite proficient at the skill himself on the bloody battlefields of Italy. “I may have done my surgery too well,” he mused as he reapplied fresh compresses to Django's injuries. How much blood could a man lose and live? From his recent experiences, Benjamin knew it varied widely and often depended on how skillfully a surgeon could staunch the flow. He poured powdered yarrow onto the innocent-looking nicks, but because of where the cuts were, the clotting herb could not staunch the blood flow by itself.

      
When Rani finally came dashing back with the clean water, he had the needle and thread ready. After cleansing the cuts, he instructed her to bring a torch from the fire so he could see more clearly. Then he attempted to restitch the severed vessels that carried blood. Sometimes they held and healed, often they did not. He could but try.

      
“You sew him like a cobbler would repair a slipper,” Rani said in amazement.

      
He quirked one golden eyebrow at her and replied, “I am surprised you have ever seen sewing.” His gaze quickly scanned the ragged skirts hanging with the hems in muddy tatters.

      
“I have seen many marvelous things at the fairs, but never this.” She was too fascinated to be affronted.

      
“Well, it may not save him. I am sorry,” Benjamin said simply.

.
      
“But why? Django would have killed you,” she replied ingenuously.

      
“He is your brother. My mistake for thinking you cared about such a small matter.”

      
“He has killed many men. Now you must beware Rasvan. In truth, I have had naught but grief from them both,” she added, looking at the tall, menacing figure who argued fiercely with Sandor even now.