He knew he couldn’t give them the death they wanted. How could he push his blade farther into a defeated man’s body? How could he go on living after that? He’d thought he could do it in self-defense, to save himself. But this was nothing short of murder. He wasn’t going to give them that pleasure. He would relax his hold, stand up, and then what was bound to happen would happen. The old man would be declared the winner. As for him, he would be handed over unarmed to a gladiator, then to two at once, then three if necessary, and he would die at their hands. We’ll see, he thought. We’ll see.
The crowd was shouting now, yelling words he didn’t understand. He leaned over his opponent again, almost lying on him.
“What are you doing?” the old man groaned. “Kill me. And save yourself. You’re young.”
“I can’t do it,” said Milos.
He raised his sword — the point had traced a bleeding scratch shaped like a comma on the man’s old neck — threw it six feet away from him, knelt down, and waited. Go on, do whatever you want.
At that moment, instead of the protests he expected, a strange silence fell, as if preceding some terrible event like an earthquake. The dull sound of a heavy impact shook the arena. Mouths opened, ears were strained, and then came the second impact, just as heavy and with just as deep a sound. The Phalange leaders got to their feet and fled headlong from the grandstand. Other spectators did the same. Uneasiness was spreading to all the tiers of seats.
The old man, pale-faced, had gotten to his knees beside Milos. “What’s going on?”
But no one was taking any notice of them.
“They’re breaking down the gate!” a voice shouted.
It was the signal for panic. People began running in all directions among the rows, jostling each other as they looked for a concealed exit.
Who were “they”? Who was breaking down the gate? Milos, kept in ignorance of the outside world for months, could hardly believe it. And yet he had to admit the evidence of his eyes: the Phalangists had gone, a few baffled soldiers were waiting for orders that didn’t come, and the audience was trying to leave the arena in a mad stampede. Who but the Resistance could have set off such a headlong flight?
At the moment when Milos and the old man got to their feet again, hearts beating wildly, the gates on both sides of the arena opened and the gladiators, liberated from their cells, surged in with a terrifying noise, brandishing their swords in the air. They invaded the arena and attacked the palisades. Their fierce faces and wild cries spread terror among the frightened audience.
“Basil!” Milos called, looking for his friend among the crowd of gladiators. Basil wouldn’t know he’d survived his fight, and he had to reassure him. Then he remembered that Basil had been wounded and was bleeding from his side. It might be a serious injury. Where could he find the “infirmary” that Fulgur had mentioned? It must be somewhere close to the cells. He made his way against the human tide. He passed through the gateway and underneath the stands — which were shaking with the turmoil of the audience trying to get out — went back along the corridor, and soon reached the large cell where he and his companions had spent the night. It was empty. Nothing was left lying on the floor among the straw mattresses but the shirt and sandals that had belonged to Flavius, so recently dead in the arena, and his own. He had survived. He put them on and went out.
“Basil!” he called.
This time he turned right, opening all the doors he came to as he passed. Right at the end of the corridor a steep, worm-eaten wooden staircase led up through an open trapdoor to the story above. He dropped his sword and climbed the stairs.
“Are you there, Basil?”
He put his head up through the trapdoor to inspect the room. It was empty, lit very faintly by a tiny opening in the adobe wall. He went down the stairs again and as he turned, he saw Caius barring his way, sword in hand. His own sword had landed farther away, out of his reach.
“Well, cat, not spitting anymore now?”
Milos froze.
“Caius, don’t! Stop that. We’re free now.”
The other man wasn’t listening. He advanced, madness in his eyes, crouching with knees bent and arms apart, ready to spring. He was gripping his sword so hard that his knuckles were white.
“I’ll teach you to scratch, you bastard!” he hissed through his teeth. The scars on his hate-filled face seemed uglier than ever, forming a pattern of purplish lines.
“At least give me my sword!” asked Milos, careful not to make any sudden move. “I’m a gladiator like you! I have a right to defend myself. Give me my sword — do you hear, Caius?”
There was no reply.
“Caius,” Milos breathed. “Please! This is so stupid! We’re free now. Do you realize? We’re free. And I’m not a cat, you know — I’m not a cat.”
Caius didn’t hear him. No words could touch him in his delirium. And Milos saw that he was in deadly danger. He shouted at the top of his voice. “Help! Someone help me!”
There was no reply. The corridor was too narrow for him to escape that way without coming close to Caius, who as he saw was about to attack him any moment. Without thinking anymore, he leaped back to the stairs behind him and climbed them, using both his hands and his legs. Two steps collapsed under his weight. Once at the top, he found himself up against the wall. Caius had already joined him there.
And the dreadful confrontation began again, but in the half-light this time. Milos tried in vain to find words that would halt the madman in his tracks. He could see nothing of him now but a dark shape six feet away. They stood like that for a few seconds, breathing heavily.
And suddenly, from a furtive movement, from a change in the speed of his opponent’s breathing, Milos guessed that Caius was about to fling himself on him and strike him down. He got in first, lunging forward at the other man.
It all happened very fast.
The blade went into his stomach with a long, cold, burning pain. It was the only blow that either of them struck.
Dazed, Milos fell to his knees.
When he recovered consciousness, he was alone. In the distance, the thudding on the entrance doors to the arena was still echoing through the building. He was lying on his side, curled up. His head lay on the damp, cool ground. A little way off, a gray mouse was looking at him gently. He felt like stroking its soft fur. The pretty agate of its black eyes shone behind its twitching whiskers. It wasn’t afraid of him. The mouse can see I’m not a cat. He tried to move; his body wouldn’t obey him. He wanted to call out, but he was afraid that his own cries might tear him apart and kill him. He felt as frail as a flame in the wind. The least breath of air would blow him out.
His stomach was sticky with blood. My life is flowing out of it, he said to himself, pressing both hands to the wound. “Help,” he moaned. “I don’t want to die.” His tears fell to the ground and left a muddy little trail there. The mouse came closer with tiny steps, hesitated for a moment, and snuggled close to his cheek. You’re not entirely alone, it seemed to be saying. I’m not much, but I’m here.
Then the pictures began to come.
First he saw Bartolomeo on the bridge, hugging him in his long arms and then striding away. “We’ll see each other soon, Milos! We’ll meet again somewhere else. We’ll all meet again, the living and the dead.”
“Why did you let me down, Bart?” he asked.
The tall young man didn’t reply. He simply knelt beside Milos and smiled at him, friendship in his eyes.