“Wrong,” said Delicatus. No one knew what he had done, but he spoke to everyone with arrogance and contempt. “We have a one-in-two chance three times running — that’s nothing like one chance in six. In math they call it calculating the probabilities. But that’d be above your heads.”
Milos didn’t know what to think, except that each new fight would be like the first, so that the chance of survival was always one-in-two.
Basil put forward another theory, an original and surprising idea. “You ask me, we get a chance of . . . of one in four.” And in spite of Delicatus’s unkind laughter, he wouldn’t budge from his opinion. “If I kill my three men, see, and then there’s me in the fights, that makes four of us in all. And if I’m the only one surviving I have a one-in-four chance, right?”
As Delicatus could think of nothing to say, he added, triumphantly, “That shut you up, eh, Delicatus?”
The nights were never quiet. Some of the men had nightmares and woke everyone up yelling with terror; others snored or talked in their sleep; others couldn’t sleep and kept getting up to go to the lavatories or walk outside. In the few calm moments you heard the wind blowing through the oak trees in the forest, and the mournful creaking of the timber used to build the arena.
One evening as he went to bed, Milos pushed his own bed a few inches closer to Basil’s. Next day he found that Basil had done the same thing. They never mentioned it, but each felt better, hearing the other breathing closer to him than before, and knowing that at any time he could whisper or hear the simple words of comfort that made fear relax its grip slightly: “You all right? Are you asleep? Are you cold? Want my jacket?”
Another frequent subject of discussion at night was what kind of gladiator it was best to face in a fight — a novice, a premier, or a champion. Myricus had told them the results for the last few years, and they went over them again and again. There were six possible scenarios:
Two novices fighting each other. In this case the chances were equal.
Two premiers fighting each other. Here again the chances were equal, and it was the same when two champions fought.
A novice fighting a premier. In sixty-five percent of such fights, the premier won.
A champion would beat a premier in seventy-five percent of fights.
Finally, a novice fighting a champion. Here, surprisingly, the novice won in over half the fights.
So you could work it out that the ideal scenario was to fight a champion first, alarming as the prospect might seem, then a novice in your second fight, and finally, as a champion, a premier in order to gain your liberty.
But there was no real point in this reasoning, since the fight organizers picked pairs to suit themselves, even though it could happen that one of the Phalange leaders expressed a particular wish to see a fighter already known to him face a certain other man. They liked to put two seasoned champions against each other in a fierce, final fight. Or at the other end of the scale, they liked to see two terrified novices fighting, or to relish the pleasure of watching fights of two men or three men against one, which amounted to executions.
A week after Milos left the infirmary, Myricus gave him his sword. The trainer presented it to him with ceremony, like a priest administering the sacraments.
“Here. This weapon is your only friend now. Don’t count on anything or anyone else, even me, to help you get out of this alive. Never part with it; always respect it.”
Milos was impressed by the weight of the sword and its beauty. The pommel fit into the palm of his hand as if made for it. The double-edged blade bore no sign of earlier fighting. It seemed to be new, and cast golden reflections at the least movement. A coiled snake adorned the hilt.
“Thank you,” was all he said, and he slipped the weapon into its sheath.
During training sessions, Myricus referred frequently to the harmony that must exist between a fighting man and his sword. “It must be a part of yourself. You must feel it in your nervous system, in your blood. It must obey your mind as swiftly as your arm and your hand, even react ahead of them. It’s the extension of your desire, understand?”
Whatever the exercise — fighting, running, dodging — you kept your sword in your hand. Milos, who was left-handed, found that he liked the warm, reassuring presence of his weapon in the palm of his hand. However, that still left one question. “It’s the extension of your desire,” said Myricus. Presumably he meant the desire to kill. Milos felt no such thing. The dreadful memory of Pastor’s bones cracking as he slowly went limp in his killer’s arms haunted him all the time. Did he want to kill anyone? He did not. On the other hand, he felt a great desire to live. It had him shedding hot tears every night; it almost choked him.
His wrestling experience came in extremely useful. Day after day in the mock fights he realized that his reflexes were much better than those of his companions. His eye was far quicker. He could see their mistakes in the way they positioned their bodies and braced themselves. He knew he could leap at the best moment to knock them to the ground. Gradually, as his injury healed, he felt sure he would be able to beat almost all his opponents. All he lacked was the really crucial thing: acceptance of the barbaric idea of attacking an unknown man with the intention of killing him.
But one incident taught him a valuable lesson.
Winter was coming, and Milos had been in the camp for two months when Myricus picked him for the part of victim in the “three against one” exercise. He had to leave his sword on the benches and go down into the arena ahead of the others. He went along the path from which he had watched Basil’s fight a few weeks earlier. The wooden gate was closed behind him, and he found himself alone on the sand. His first opponent appeared in the gateway opposite, armed with a sword. It was Flavius, the man with a murderer’s dark eyes.
Inflicting serious injury is forbidden, Milos told himself to calm his thudding heart. Flavius took small steps as he approached and then speeded up, brandishing his weapon. Milos began jogging to keep his distance. They skirted the arena three or four times like this. Several times Flavius rushed at Milos, forcing him to throw himself to the ground, but it was more like a dance than a real attack. Flavius had obviously been told to make his adversary run and tire him out without touching him.
By the time the gate in the barricade opened again, Milos was out of breath, but he still had enough strength to avoid his second adversary for some time. However, it was a shock to see that the new man was Caius. His chest was still bandaged after his recent wound. He had hardly reached the sand before he made for Milos with a perfect diagonal approach. The nature of the contest changed abruptly. Myricus had always recommended them not to waste their energy in shouts and useless grunts. “Leave that to your opponents,” he used to say. “Keep quiet; concentrate; be pitiless.” But Caius couldn’t refrain from making muted growling noises. His mouth twisted in fury, he struck low at his adversary twice in quick succession, and Milos realized what Caius’s perverse wish was: he wanted to hit the leg that had already been wounded. Milos flung himself backward to avoid the blade, rolled over on the ground, and then, getting up in the same movement, he raised his fingers, spread like claws. Challengingly, he fixed his eyes on Caius and hissed through his teeth like a cat. The other man let out a howl of rage and flung himself into the pursuit of Milos, who was running as fast as he could go.
Up in the gallery they had all risen to their feet except for Myricus, who sat there impassively, determined to let the contest run its course. Milos was going so fast that he hit the barricade and saw Caius about to attack him. He didn’t have time to avoid the sword quickly enough. Blood flowed from his forearm. He waited for Myricus to call out, “That’s enough!” However, the trainer kept his mouth shut. He felt like calling for help, but that would have been no use. Leaping aside, he avoided a second cut, and fled at frantic speed. If only I had my sword, he thought at that moment. If only I had my sword, I’d kill him. After all, he wants to kill me.