Civrais looks amused. He doesn’t have to go anywhere to get the cash; he opens his jacket, pulls out a wad of purple five-hundred-euro notes and peels off the stake. ‘Ten thousand.’ He slaps it in Jean-Paul’s hand. ‘You try to run off with this, mon ami, and I’ll have people hit you so hard we’ll be able to spread you like pâté.’
It doesn’t take the beast long to swat his latest challenger like a fly. While the boy is being scraped from the ring, the promoter announces the night’s surprise new challenger.
Tom walks over to where the other innocents are lining up. He kicks off his black shoes and grey socks, takes off his casual blue shirt and rolls up the bottom of his faded Levis.
Two ring lackeys lead him beneath the rope and into a corner, where there’s a small three-legged stool. They’re jabbering to each other about how they’d never set foot in the ring with the monster in the opposite corner.
None of it bothers Tom.
He’s staring at the money being raked in, fistfuls of it being stuffed into a big red bucket as the odds are taken. Young Civrais certainly knows how to turn a quick buck.
Sitting on the tiny stool, the one thing Tom does regret is the several beers he’s had.
He’s nowhere near as sharp as he should be.
He must have been crazy to have talked himself into this.
Someone pulls him upright and whips the stool away.
A bell dings behind him. The noise of the crowd evaporates.
It’s just Tom and the beast.
Face to face across the canvas.
Neanderthal lets out a roar and smacks his clenched fists together.
A kick slaps into Tom’s thigh. It’s a good shot, plenty of weight, and delivered deceptively quickly for a big man.
The giant Frenchman looks pleased. He smiles and shows off two lines of broken teeth. Massive shelves stacked with ivory trophies.
He thunders forward and swings a haymaker of a punch at Tom.
It misses.
He swings again.
Tom sidesteps it.
The crowd shouts encouragement and it seems to fuel the beast’s anger. He snaps another kick against Tom’s thigh. The leg muscle starts to deaden. The big guy’s not as dumb as he looks. Another kick like that and Tom knows he won’t be able to stand, let alone trade blows.
The beast is thinking the same thing. Another grin and he goes for it. Harder and more vicious this time, a brutal kick aimed at bringing the action to a quick close.
But it doesn’t connect.
Tom steps inside it. He slams the palm of his hand under the big guy’s heel and lunges forward.
The giant doesn’t topple, but he wobbles precariously.
Tom drops to the floor and delivers a sweep kick to the back of his standing leg.
Now he goes down.
The whole ring shakes. The crowd goes crazy.
Tom bounces on his toes, fists up, ready to fight when the beast finally gets back on his feet.
But that’s not going to happen quickly.
The bell rings for the end of the first round.
Tom walks back to his corner feeling pleased. He got hit twice but at least he didn’t end up on his back like the other mugs.
Shame the bell went; he was getting the measure of the brute.
The satisfaction is short-lived.
Tom never makes it to the stool.
A punch like a wrecking ball cracks into the back of his head.
Tom stumbles sideways.
A kick slaps into his kidneys and drops him to his knees.
The crowd explodes.
Instinctively, Tom drops totally flat and rolls away.
The beast aims a rugby-style drop-kick at his head, but only connects with his shoulder.
Whatever rules there were have now vanished.
Tom stops rolling. Most fighting is done with your brain, not your hands and feet. He thinks about what the beast will do next.
He’s either going to kick at his ribs or, more likely, stamp on his face.
He goes for the stamp.
Tom guessed right. He shifts his head and grabs the outstretched ankle. He hooks his forearm around the back of the knee and pulls like he’s heaving the root of a giant tree from a swamp.
The beast goes down.
Tom rolls to the centre of the ring and gets to his feet.
The beast gets up quickly and produces a flurry of high kicks and low punches.
Tom takes one in the mouth and feels his lip split.
But it’s worth it.
He ducks inside and delivers a sledgehammer blow to the stomach and a perfect uppercut to the jaw.
The Frenchman stands flat-footed. The crowd holds its breath.
Tom feigns a right-hander and then delivers a left-handed punch to the side of the head that would topple a factory chimney.
The beast’s eyes go glassy.
His knees shake.
Finally, his legs crumple and he falls.
A rush of primitive energy goes through Tom. He stares at his opponent and prays the guy won’t get up.
For his own good, please Lord don’t let him get up.
Suddenly the ring is full of people.
Shouting. Cheering. Slapping Tom’s arms.
Even embracing him. The beast is down and staying down.
Maybe he’s not so stupid after all.
9
They gather my bones and ashes.
Loyal fingers seek out every part of me — what I was, what I am, what I shall be.
They search for the stone. The sacred triangle stolen from around my neck by the thief at the Bocca.
It is gone.
When they discover what has happened, they will find him. Find him and recover the precious scalene.
Then they will kill him.
They poke among the embers of a pyre that was soaked in cups of oil and bouquets of perfume.
My husband is not among the grubbers.
He is no doubt in our matrimonial bed, slaking his thirst for wine and boys.
Arria is here, of course. Sweetest Arria. She will be among the first to remember me at Parentalia. Was not Dies Parentales made for women with faces as sad as Arria’s?
The urn they have fashioned for me is a cheap one. From its lack of elegance I know already that they will not carry me to my husband’s tomb.
I am pleased. Lying with him in death would be even more unpleasant than in life.
I shall not wait for him beyond the three canine heads of Cerberus. I pray to Pluto that his wasted flesh sticks in their jaws and is chewed for eternity in Hades.
Before me I see my sisters. The others of the spirit world. Those who have for ever been and will for ever be.
They are the keepers of the secrets.
The prophetesses. The betrayed. The goddesses.
They surround me as the mortals take my burned remains to their dank resting place in the Columbarium. Here among the shelved peasantry is my place in the potted history of poorest Rome. My niche in society.
No ornately engraved plaque marks my spot. No statue or portrait. Nor any message of love.
Just a number.
My sisters and I wonder if beyond the grave they can hear us laughing.
The number is X.