“She . . . well, she’s good at climbing a rope.”
“There we are, then!” said the young horse-man, satisfied, and he turned over.
Next morning, the camp gates opened, and three military vans drove in and stopped outside the canteen, followed by two tarpaulin-covered trucks full of armed soldiers. The gladiators were assembled in the wind and drizzling rain. It was Fulgur’s job to divide them into groups and handcuff them to chains linking them together. He did it with perverse pleasure, scanning their faces for signs of fear. Milos did his best to hide his emotions, but his sickly, pale face gave him away, and when Fulgur gave him a meaningful wink, as if to say, Got the jitters, have you? it was all he could do not to rush the man and headbutt him.
He looked desperately for the jay until the last moment. Please come back! Let me see you! Just for a second. Let me see you one last time, and I’ll take your bright image away with me, the image of life!
He had to be pushed to make him climb into the van.
Fulgur had taken care to separate him from Basil. He was put in the second van with a number of others, and sat on one of the wooden benches running around the sides. The convoy set off and drove out of the camp, with one of the trucks full of soldiers going ahead and the other bringing up the rear. Any attempt to escape would have been sheer suicide. A small barred window had been cut in the side of the van, and for a long time they saw the complex pattern of the bare branches of oak trees moving up and down past them. Around midday they finally left the forest, joined the main road, and drove south toward the capital.
A little later a bus with a noisy engine coming from the north overtook the convoy, which was driving slowly. When it drew level with the second van, the two vehicles went along the road side by side for about fifty yards. Paula was sleeping at the back of the bus, her hands on her knees. Her large posterior occupied two whole seats. Beside her, in a seat by the window, Helen was trying to read. She raised her eyes and looked absently at the van carrying Milos, handcuffs on his wrists, his heart heavy.
For a few seconds there were no more than ten feet between the two. Then the bus accelerated and parted them again.
The convoy reached its destination in the middle of the night. Those of the gladiators who had never been in the capital before pressed their faces in turn to the little barred window, but all they saw of the great city was the facades of dismal gray buildings. When they got out of the vans, they all shivered in the damp cold of the night. The headlights of the vehicles, now maneuvering to leave again, swept across the base of an enormous, dark structure: the arena. So this was the end of their journey. Their last journey?
Milos, handcuffed and under guard, was pushed toward the building with his thirty or so companions in misfortune. They passed through a heavy, wooden double door that was closed behind them and barred with a beam as thick as a tree trunk. The floor of the arena building was trodden earth. They passed beneath the tiers of seats, followed a corridor, and entered their prison cell, a vast room with clay walls giving off a strong smell of mold. Straw mattresses on the floor were the only furnishing. As soon as their handcuffs had been removed, the gladiators fell on their beds. Most of them, exhausted by the journey on the hard seats in the vans, buried themselves under the blankets at once, hoping to sleep; the others remained seated, eyes burning, trying to read some secret sign telling their fortune in the marks on the walls. Four armed soldiers guarded the door.
“Aren’t they going to give us anything to eat?” asked Basil. “I’m ravenous.”
They had to wait an hour before they were brought a bowl of thick soup and a large roll each.
“Better than we had in the camp!” said Basil, pleased. “Don’t you think? I guess they want us to be in good form tomorrow!”
Milos smiled at him bitterly. For once he had difficulty swallowing, and he was not the only one. Basil, however, found himself the recipient of three bowls of soup and three rolls, all of which he ate with relish.
Guards came to take away the bowls and spoons. Then the soldiers left, and they heard the sound of keys turning. The lights all went out at the same time, except for a night-light behind wire that gave a pale glimmer above the door. Hour after hour they heard the noise of new arrivals in the rooms nearby, the sound of their unknown voices. Their opponents. The men who were going to kill them or be killed.
In the morning, Milos woke feeling somehow outside himself. He wondered if he had slept at all, if he was still in a dream, or if this was reality. The place stank of urine. One of the gladiators must have relieved himself in a corner of the cell. He turned to Basil and saw that his eyes were wide open and that he was pale as a sheet.
“All right, Basil?”
“No. I feel ill.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Must have been that soup. It didn’t agree with me.”
The door opened, and Myricus came in with a piece of paper in his hand, flanked by two soldiers. “Gentlemen, I’ve come to give you today’s timetable. It’s eight o’clock now. The first fight will be at ten. It’s you, Flavius, so get ready.”
All eyes turned to the short-tempered gladiator, who hadn’t spoken a word to anyone for days. Sitting on his mattress with his knees drawn up to his chest, he acted as if none of this concerned him.
“You’ll fight another novice. Good luck. Your victory will encourage all the others. Is there anything you want to say to us?”
Flavius didn’t move a muscle.
“Right,” Myricus went on. “I’ve given the youngest of you the privilege of fighting this morning. I know the waiting is hard to bear. Rusticus, you’ll fight second, and Milos third. You’re fighting a champion, Rusticus. As you know, that’s the best-case scenario.”
“The best . . . what?” muttered the young horse-man, his jaw trembling. Milos thought his friend was about to throw up.
“It gives you the best chance of winning,” Myricus explained, remembering who he was talking to. “When a novice fights a champion, he very often wins, remember?”
“I remember. So I’ll win, will I?”
“I’m sure you will, Rusticus. Just avoid looking him in the eye. His stare is stronger than yours.”
“So I don’t look at him, right?”
The trainer didn’t bother to reply, but went on. “Milos, you’re to fight a premier. I saw him this morning. He’s a tall man. Watch out for his long reach. And remember, let him think you’re right-handed until the last moment and then change your sword hand as you attack. Don’t forget! One last piece of advice: don’t turn all soft when you see him. Anything you want to say?”
Milos shook his head and heard no more of what Myricus was saying. Turn soft? Why would he do that? He lost track of the names of the others who were going to fight. Rubbing the palms of his hands together, he found they were damp. Next moment the shattering knowledge struck him that he was about to fight to the death. He thought he had known it for months, but he realized he had only just understood. He remembered what Myricus had said. “Right to the end, you think something will happen to prevent the fight — you won’t really have to go into the arena.” It was true. In spite of himself he had been living in that impossible dream, and now the facts struck him in the face. He felt overwhelmingly tired, unable to fight a kitten. Would he even have the strength to raise his sword?
Around nine o’clock they were brought pots of coffee and some bread. Basil didn’t touch either. From being pale, his face had turned green. Milos made himself chew slowly and finish his breakfast. I have to eat, he told himself without believing it. I have to eat to keep my strength up.