The planks were groaning under the weight of the audience. A horn blew three long, low notes. Milos realized that they were announcing his arrival. The two soldiers stopped at a gate, and a guard opened it to leave the way clear. Myricus gently pushed Milos in the back, and the young man walked into the arena.
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?