Winter's End (36 page)

The violence of the shock left him reeling. All at once thousands of eyes were on him, and the bright beam of the floodlights on the yellow sand was dazzling. It’s like being born, he thought. Babies must feel this violence when they’re pushed out of their mothers to begin life.

Everything he had been told was true. The arena here was similar to the arena in the training camp, and so was the consistency of the sand underfoot. However, nothing else was the same. Here the space rose on and on upward: beyond the palisades, rows of seats wound their way toward the roof, coiling like a gigantic shell, and they were crammed with people. Myricus led him to the grandstand, which was occupied by a dozen Phalangists in overcoats. Among these men sitting in the best seats he immediately recognized the bearded, red-headed giant he had seen at the boarding school several months ago: Van Vlyck!

He saw himself again lying flat in the school loft, Helen beside him — two accomplices. He remembered her laugh, the touch of his shoulder against
hers, the sound of her breathing so close to him, and the emotion he had felt at that moment. Could such sweetness really have existed? Was that really him? He had felt invincible at the time — so long ago! Now the barbarians had him in their clutches, and he would have to fight to the death for them — for their pleasure and for his survival. And to see Helen again. She was waiting somewhere; he was sure of it. For her sake he must forget everything he had believed in all his life: the rules of fair play in sport, respect for your opponent. He must be nothing now but fury and the desire to kill.

Burning sweat ran into his eyes, blinding him. He passed his hand over his face.

“Milos!” announced Myricus, to the governmental representatives. “Novice.” And he named the camp they had come from.

A small, thin man sitting next to Van Vlyck narrowed his eyes. “Milos Ferenzy?”

Milos nodded.

“Then let’s see how you go about killing people,” said the man, laughing.

Milos didn’t move a muscle. Myricus took his arm and led him to the other side of the arena.

“Mind his reach. Use your right hand at first,” he repeated one last time before walking away.

The gate opposite opened, and Milos saw his opponent appear. He was a tall, thin man with his skull shaved, followed by his trainer, who was a head shorter. The two of them made for the grandstand in their own turn. At the distance now between
them, Milos couldn’t hear the name of the man he was to fight or the camp he came from.

Silence suddenly fell when there was no one in the arena but the two gladiators facing each other. About sixty feet separated them. Milos took a few steps toward the other man, who imitated him. He had the bent shoulders of men who are too tall; his chest was flabby and wrinkled, covered with white hairs. His sword was held at the end of an arm that seemed to go on forever; there was gray stubble on his hollow cheeks. Milos put his age at over sixty. There had been no one of that age in the camp where he himself had trained.
He’s a grandfather,
he thought,
I can’t fight him!
The full sense of what Myricus had said hit him now.
Don’t turn all soft.

When there was no more than fifteen feet between them, they made the same movement: both bent their knees and reached out the arms holding their swords. Milos resisted the pressing temptation to shift his weapon to his good hand. They stayed watching each other like that, hardly moving.

A few whistles came from the seats, then shouts of “Go on! Attack!” followed by grotesque encouraging noises as if they were inciting animals to fight.

They can’t wait to see our blood flow,
thought Milos with disgust.
They sit there safe in their seats, sure that nothing can hurt them. Is there a single man among them who’d have the courage to jump the palisade and come down to fight on this sand? No, they’re all cowards! They don’t deserve me to give my life up for them.

He was less than ten feet from his opponent now.
The other man’s forehead was deeply lined, and he read in his eyes the same fear that he himself felt. He made himself ignore it. He had to hate this man, not feel sorry for him. He breathed out noisily through his nose, made his glance steely, clutched his sword so firmly that it hurt, and took one more step. The other man chose that moment to lunge forward suddenly like a fencer. His blade stung Milos’s bare ankle, and then he broke away at once. Milos cried out with pain and saw blood cover his foot, while applause and laughter greeted this unusual move. The vague pity that Milos had felt a moment before instantly vanished. This thin, elderly man was here to kill him, and he’d do it at the first chance without any scruples. He realized he couldn’t let his guard down.

As the other man came toward him again, he suddenly shifted his sword to his left hand and began moving rapidly with small, sideways steps, making his adversary turn his weaker side to him. The man seemed disconcerted for a few moments and then lunged forward again, once, twice, again and again, always thrusting at Milos’s legs or feet.
You think you’ll get me like that?
thought Milos, amused, recovering a competitive wrestler’s reflexes.
You’re planning to attack me low down there ten times, make me lean forward ten times to protect my legs, and the eleventh time you’ll attack from above and open up my chest, right? Come on, then. I’m ready for you . . .

They went on with their deadly dance like this, each sticking to his strategy. The old man kept
attacking low down by Milos’s feet. Milos hopped and skipped around him. The fight hadn’t been going on long, but there was such tension between them that they were both already breathless and dripping with sweat.

Attack from above!
Milos begged, for his own sake. His foot was burning, leaving a red trail in the sand at every step he took.
Please, attack me from above. Just once. Look, I’m leaning over, offering you my chest. Come on, don’t hesitate.

It worked. The old gladiator suddenly rushed forward, his sword horizontal at the end of his long arm. He uttered a piercing cry, more of despair than rage. Milos was ready for him. He dodged but stumbled and fell on his side. The other man was thrown off balance himself by the failure of his attacking move. Now he too was lying on the ground, face in the sand. Milos was quicker to get to his feet: he was standing up in a fraction of a second, and then he leaped. He smashed his knee into the small of his slower adversary’s pale, sweating back, and with his elbow raised in the air he set the point of his sword to the wrinkled neck.

With his free hand, he immobilized the man’s head, and his lower body held his opponent’s leg trapped. But there was no need for that now. The old man was a pitiful sight, gasping for breath, saliva running from his twisted mouth and mingling with the sand. A faint wail rose from his lips. The crowd had been roaring; now it was waiting for the human sacrifice it had come to see. For a few brief
seconds, Milos felt a violent sensation of delight:
I’ve won!
But it was instantly dispelled by a terrible feeling: he was reliving a nightmare. Here he was once more, against his own will, master of the fate of another human being who was at his mercy.

A few months earlier, in the cold and solitude of the mountains, he had brought himself to do that terrible thing to save Helen, trembling with fear and cold there behind the rock, and to protect their other two friends who had escaped. Now he had to kill to save himself, and it was happening under the dazzling beam of floodlights, before the eyes of spectators whose excitement made them rise from their seats to see better, row after row of them. What did they want to watch? His humiliation? Did they want to see him kill an old man who could be his grandfather?

He knew he couldn’t give them the death they wanted. How could he push his blade farther into a defeated man’s body? How could he go on living after that? He’d thought he could do it in self-defense, to save himself. But this was nothing short of murder. He wasn’t going to give them that pleasure. He would relax his hold, stand up, and then what was bound to happen would happen. The old man would be declared the winner. As for him, he would be handed over unarmed to a gladiator, then to two at once, then three if necessary, and he would die at their hands.
We’ll see,
he thought.
We’ll see.

The crowd was shouting now, yelling words he
didn’t understand. He leaned over his opponent again, almost lying on him.

“What are you doing?” the old man groaned. “Kill me. And save yourself. You’re young.”

“I can’t do it,” said Milos.

He raised his sword — the point had traced a bleeding scratch shaped like a comma on the man’s old neck — threw it six feet away from him, knelt down, and waited. Go on, do whatever you want.

At that moment, instead of the protests he expected, a strange silence fell, as if preceding some terrible event like an earthquake. The dull sound of a heavy impact shook the arena. Mouths opened, ears were strained, and then came the second impact, just as heavy and with just as deep a sound. The Phalange leaders got to their feet and fled headlong from the grandstand. Other spectators did the same. Uneasiness was spreading to all the tiers of seats.

The old man, pale-faced, had gotten to his knees beside Milos. “What’s going on?”

But no one was taking any notice of them.

“They’re breaking down the gate!” a voice shouted.

It was the signal for panic. People began running in all directions among the rows, jostling each other as they looked for a concealed exit.

Who were “they”? Who was breaking down the gate? Milos, kept in ignorance of the outside world for months, could hardly believe it. And yet he had to admit the evidence of his eyes: the Phalangists had gone, a few baffled soldiers were waiting for
orders that didn’t come, and the audience was trying to leave the arena in a mad stampede. Who but the Resistance could have set off such a headlong flight?

At the moment when Milos and the old man got to their feet again, hearts beating wildly, the gates on both sides of the arena opened and the gladiators, liberated from their cells, surged in with a terrifying noise, brandishing their swords in the air. They invaded the arena and attacked the palisades. Their fierce faces and wild cries spread terror among the frightened audience.

“Basil!” Milos called, looking for his friend among the crowd of gladiators. Basil wouldn’t know he’d survived his fight, and he had to reassure him. Then he remembered that Basil had been wounded and was bleeding from his side. It might be a serious injury. Where could he find the “infirmary” that Fulgur had mentioned? It must be somewhere close to the cells. He made his way against the human tide. He passed through the gateway and underneath the stands — which were shaking with the turmoil of the audience trying to get out — went back along the corridor, and soon reached the large cell where he and his companions had spent the night. It was empty. Nothing was left lying on the floor among the straw mattresses but the shirt and sandals that had belonged to Flavius, so recently dead in the arena, and his own. He had survived. He put them on and went out.

“Basil!” he called.

This time he turned right, opening all the doors he came to as he passed. Right at the end of the corridor a steep, worm-eaten wooden staircase led up through an open trapdoor to the story above. He dropped his sword and climbed the stairs.

“Are you there, Basil?”

He put his head up through the trapdoor to inspect the room. It was empty, lit very faintly by a tiny opening in the adobe wall. He went down the stairs again and as he turned, he saw Caius barring his way, sword in hand. His own sword had landed farther away, out of his reach.

“Well, cat, not spitting anymore now?”

Milos froze.

“Caius, don’t! Stop that. We’re free now.”

The other man wasn’t listening. He advanced, madness in his eyes, crouching with knees bent and arms apart, ready to spring. He was gripping his sword so hard that his knuckles were white.

“I’ll teach you to scratch, you bastard!” he hissed through his teeth. The scars on his hate-filled face seemed uglier than ever, forming a pattern of purplish lines.

“At least give me my sword!” asked Milos, careful not to make any sudden move. “I’m a gladiator like you! I have a right to defend myself. Give me my sword — do you hear, Caius?”

There was no reply.

“Caius,” Milos breathed. “Please! This is so stupid! We’re free now. Do you realize? We’re free. And I’m not a cat, you know — I’m not a cat.”

Caius didn’t hear him. No words could touch him in his delirium. And Milos saw that he was in deadly danger. He shouted at the top of his voice. “Help! Someone help me!”

There was no reply. The corridor was too narrow for him to escape that way without coming close to Caius, who as he saw was about to attack him any moment. Without thinking anymore, he leaped back to the stairs behind him and climbed them, using both his hands and his legs. Two steps collapsed under his weight. Once at the top, he found himself up against the wall. Caius had already joined him there.

And the dreadful confrontation began again, but in the half-light this time. Milos tried in vain to find words that would halt the madman in his tracks. He could see nothing of him now but a dark shape six feet away. They stood like that for a few seconds, breathing heavily.

And suddenly, from a furtive movement, from a change in the speed of his opponent’s breathing, Milos guessed that Caius was about to fling himself on him and strike him down. He got in first, lunging forward at the other man.

It all happened very fast.

The blade went into his stomach with a long, cold, burning pain. It was the only blow that either of them struck.

Dazed, Milos fell to his knees.

When he recovered consciousness, he was alone. In the distance, the thudding on the entrance doors
to the arena was still echoing through the building. He was lying on his side, curled up. His head lay on the damp, cool ground. A little way off, a gray mouse was looking at him gently. He felt like stroking its soft fur. The pretty agate of its black eyes shone behind its twitching whiskers. It wasn’t afraid of him.
The mouse can see I’m not a cat.
He tried to move; his body wouldn’t obey him. He wanted to call out, but he was afraid that his own cries might tear him apart and kill him. He felt as frail as a flame in the wind. The least breath of air would blow him out.