Caius stopped talking. His head fell to one side, and a few seconds later, he was fast asleep.
Attempting to make some kind of sense out of what he had just heard, Milos tried not to give in to panic, but whatever he did, the words came together inexorably into a single meaning. His pulse and breathing were racing. The Latin names, the arena, the fights: it was all crystal clear.
So he hadn’t been spared either out of compassion or so he could be handed over to justice. The Phalange didn’t care about any of that. They’d left him alive for an entirely different reason: to make him risk his life in front of them in the arena. To make him die or kill before their eyes, for their pleasure. A gladiator. They wanted to make a gladiator of him! Hadn’t such barbarity been abandoned centuries ago? This was a nightmare.
The day brought him little fresh information. Fulgur came back as he had said he would, but only to bring in meals and check up on their injuries . The food was not very appetizing, but Milos’s instinct for survival made him eat everything put in front of him. As for Caius, he was sleeping like a log, and in his few waking moments he seemed to have forgotten everything he had said in the morning.
As evening drew on, the jay came to perch on the windowsill again and stayed there for several minutes, stepping from one foot to the other.
“Hello, you!” said Milos, touched by the bird’s fidelity. “Do you feel sorry for me? Did you come to tell me not to despair? Don’t worry. I’m pretty tough.”
When he woke up next day, he saw that Caius had gone. So had his bed. Fulgur walked into the room as abruptly as usual.
“Wondering what happened to your mate there, eh?”
“No,” said Milos, more determined than ever to ask no questions.
“I’ll tell you all the same: he asked to be taken back to the dormitory last night. Said he didn’t fancy your company.”
Dumbfounded, Milos tried not to show the slightest surprise but waited impassively to hear more. Fulgur leaned against the wall by the window, hands in his pockets. The bones of his forehead, cheeks, and jaw occupied most of the room on his face; by comparison his eyes and mouth looked tiny.
“Did you know it can be a very bad thing for a guy like Caius not to fancy your company?”
Milos said nothing.
“Now with me it’s the other way around. I like you. You don’t natter away like a girl, you never complain; you seem to know your own mind. I ask myself, What is it Caius doesn’t like about you? Any idea?”
No reply.
“Right. Well, it’s my job to explain the rules of the place to you and how it works. Are you listening?”
Silence.
“OK. This is one of the six training camps in the country. One for each province. Six provinces, six camps. Are you with me so far? Ours is in the middle of the forest. If you run away, you’re fair game: you’ll be pursued by a hundred men, caught, and killed immediately. So forget that idea. It’s for your own good. You were chained up the other day because you didn’t know about it yet. Now you do know, so there’s no need for the chain. Got it?”
Silence.
“Right. You’ll train here with about thirty other fighters — all of them criminals who’d have ended up on the gallows but were pardoned and sent here. Scum, the entire lot of ’em. Expect a bunch of little angels and you’re in for a big disappointment. There’s an arena in each camp. All of them identicaclass="underline" same size, same shape, same sand. And there’s a seventh in the capital, just like the other six except there’s tiers of seats around it for the spectators. No seats here because there’s no spectators. Still with me?”
Milos nodded in assent. In fact he had never listened so intently to anyone. Every word Fulgur said was etched on his memory as soon as he heard it.
“This is where you’ll train. You’ll fight for real in the arena in the capital. The fights are held over three days. They’ll be single combat against men from the other camps, guys you don’t know. You’re training with your mates here, and if you injure one badly, you’ll be punished. Everything clear?”
Milos did not reply.
“Your first fight will be in three months’ time, in midwinter. You have plenty of time to get better, grow some scar tissue, learn the techniques. If you win and if you survive, your second fight is in spring. Like I said, if you survive. Because the winner of a fight often dies of his wounds. Look at Caius! He came pretty close to it. Right. Then, if you win your second fight, the third’s in early summer. If you’re still alive after that one, then you’re free. Got that?”
Milos nodded.
“In fact you’re better than free. You’ve earned respect. You’re a celebrity. The Phalange will get you a cushy, well-paid job for life, give you total protection. You’re young; you’ve been shut up in a boarding school. You may not realize what that means, but I can tell you it means a lot. You’ll only have to say your name to get the best table in all the best restaurants and free meals. You’ll be able to travel in any taxi for free too. And even if you were ugly as sin, the most gorgeous women will be fighting over you. Whereas you’re a good-looking lad to start with, say no more! It gives the girls a thrill to think a man’s risked his life three times — even more of a thrill to know he’s killed another man three times. That’s women for you — can’t be helped.”
Milos felt himself blushing and thought of Helen. Would the idea that he was a murderer four times over make her love him more? He doubted it.
“In this camp,” Fulgur went on, “you’ll meet men training for their first fight, like you. They’re called novices; others who have already won their fights are called premiers; and then there’s the champions who’ve won two, like Caius. You’ll soon tell them apart. A word in your ear: make sure they all respect you. This isn’t a summer camp. The trainer’s name is Myricus. Listen to him. He knows what he’s talking about. He’s a former winner — he won three times. Any questions?”
“No,” said Milos, on the brink of nausea.
There was silence. Fulgur didn’t move. “You don’t ask whether I’m a former winner too?”
“No.”
Fulgur, obviously dying to talk about himself, was annoyed by this response. “Just as you like. One last thing: you have to take the name of a fighting man. I picked Fulgur because I’m as fast as lightning. You want to find a name that suits you. I’ll get them to show you the list and you can choose one.”
“I don’t want to. I’ll keep my own.”
“Just as you like,” Fulgur repeated with pretended indifference. “Show me your leg.”
Milos put back the sheet and uncovered his thigh. The wound had closed up well and looked clean and almost dry already.
“Excellent,” Fulgur said approvingly. “I’ll take the stitches out in a few days’ time.” And then, before Milos had time to protect himself in any way, he raised his right arm and hit the thigh as hard as he could directly on the injury. Milos screamed and almost fainted.
“So now,” said the man in unctuous tones, “kindly ask me if I’m a former winner. You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you a former winner?” Milos groaned.
Fulgur’s small blue eyes, staring into his own, were cold as a reptile’s.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a former winner. I killed my three opponents. So I could be living it up in the capital, but I’d rather stay here. Ask me why I’d rather stay here, why don’t you?”
“Why would you rather stay here?”
“Well, seeing as you ask, I’ll tell you. I’d rather stay here because I like it. Training hard every day, seeing the fear men feel getting into the vans to go to their first fight, watching the winners, hearing about what they did, watching the losers die and hearing about their deaths, the yellow sand in the arena, the red blood flowing into it, all that — I can’t do without it. It’s like a drug. You wouldn’t understand. I was like the rest of them at first, just wanted to save my skin. Kill my three men and get the hell out of this awful camp. But after my second victory, I started thinking what a great place it was — and liking what went on here too. It’s a matter of life or death. You don’t find that anywhere else except in war, but seeing as there’s no war on right now. . . . Well, any more questions?”