Winter's End

Five days after he had arrived, around midday, Milos felt well enough to leave his room, leaning on a pair of crutches. As he went down the corridor, he discovered that the room next to his was fitted out as a rudimentary operating room, with a table covered by a white sheet and globe-shaped medical lamp at the end of an articulated mechanical arm. Jars and bottles stood around in no particular order on dilapidated shelves. This was clearly “Dr.” Fulgur’s domain, the sinister scene of his experiments!

Milos shivered when he thought that he had been lying there, unconscious, at the mercy of a sadist like Fulgur. However, since his leg wasn’t hurting too badly now, he ventured outside. Fulgur had shaved his head the evening before, and the cold air froze his skull and temples.

The camp did indeed stand in a clearing in the forest. You could see the bare branches of tall oaks on the other side of the wire fence. There was a watchtower at the entrance. The man in military uniform guarding it, gun in hand, gave Milos a nod. It was hard to tell whether he meant it as a threat or a welcome. Milos returned it, and laboriously made his way farther on.

After skirting the wooden huts that he thought must contain the dormitories, he came to the canteen hut. An unappetizing smell of cabbage wafted out of it. From here he could see that two more watchtowers guarded the back of the enclosure. Fulgur was right: this was no summer camp.

A square building with no windows occupied the center of the clearing on its own. It was made of tree trunks, like a trapper’s log cabin. Milos had to go all around it to find the way in: a low door, unlocked. He pushed it open with his left crutch, went in, took a few steps along a trodden-earth pathway, and came to a gate made of planks. Beyond it lay the arena, like a circus ring. It measured roughly sixty feet across and was entirely enclosed by a palisade the height of a man.

Four men in canvas pants, their chests and feet bare in spite of the cold, were fighting on the sand. A handful of spectators was watching from the gallery. They glanced at Milos, registered his presence, and then ignored him. The men in the arena were not equally matched. Three of them, armed with swords, were harassing the fourth, whose head was shaved and who was fighting them with his bare hands. The unfortunate man had to keep watch on all sides at once, throw himself on the ground, roll over to avoid blows, get up again, and run. His adversaries pursued him relentlessly, surrounded him again, and threatened him with their swords. He didn’t stand a chance, but he faced them with an expression of fierce defiance as if he could still hope to win.

Even from a distance Milos noticed the blunt features of his young face, his flattened nose and bushy eyebrows, his sturdy limbs. He felt as if he had met the young man before, but where? The fight went on in startling silence. No cries, no calling out, no encouragement. There was nothing to be heard but the crunch of feet on the sand and the gasping breath of the man under attack. He managed to escape his pursuers several more times, losing none of his fury and showing no sign of fear. Then a moment came when he stumbled as he fled and fell to the ground. The next moment, the man closest to him leaped up and struck him on the shoulder. Then he immobilized him, one knee on his chest, the point of his sword to the man’s throat.

“That’ll do,” called a cavernous voice. “Let him go now.”

The fighters obeyed and retreated without a glance for the breathless young man, who was dripping with sweat and swearing under his breath as he held his bloodstained shoulder.

The man who had given the order rose to his feet. He was half a head taller than everyone around him. Thick black stubble covered his angular face.

“See that, all of you?” He was addressing the spectators. “He lost because he fell. If you fall, you’re dead. Never forget that. Ferox, Messor, take him to the infirmary; tell ’em to patch him up. The rest of you go and eat.”

They climbed down a small flight of steps at the side of the arena — it came down to the pathway just behind Milos — and left in silence. The colossus bringing up the rear stopped. His massive size was impressive.

“You the one who strangled Pastor?”

Milos saw in his eyes the same spark of admiration as Fulgur’s had shown a few days earlier.

“Yes,” he said soberly.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Good. My name’s Myricus and I’m your trainer. Welcome to the camp, laddie.”

With these words, he turned his back and walked away. His shoulders only just fit through the door.

Tired after his outing in the morning, Milos dozed through part of the afternoon, but around five o’clock he was woken by the creak of a bedstead being wheeled into the room. The man injured in the arena was lying there, on his back and covered by a sheet that was none too clean. The cut on his shoulder, although not very deep, had been stitched up. Fulgur hadn’t been able to resist his little weakness for playing with needles.

“Doing all right?” asked Milos.

“Yeah, I’m OK,” grunted the injured man.

There was nothing of him to be seen but his pale skull, with the hair roughly shaved. A scar traced a pink comma above his forehead. But when he turned a little to one side to spare his wounded shoulder, his face showed clearly, and Milos looked at him, his jaw dropping.

“Basil!” he cried. “I must be dreaming. It’s you!”

Astonishment and delight choked him. The other young man opened his eyes and broke into happy laughter. “Ferenzy! Ha, ha, ha! I don’t believe it!”

“Basil! I thought you were dead!”

“Dead? Why would I be dead? You’re crazy!”

“But I saw them take you out of the detention cell! And carry you away on a stretcher! Basil, you were covered with blood!”

“You bet! So I fooled you too! Ha, ha, ha! It’s easy to make yourself bleed, you know. Look at this: I got a thumbnail as hard as a bit of old iron. I nicked my scalp with it; blood flowed like someone had bashed my skull in. I wiped it all over me, my face, my neck, everything. Then I bashed my fists on the door, and when they came, I flung myself down and played dead. They thought I’d bashed my head in. Only way of getting out of that rat hole. I was getting bored, see? Only trouble is, instead of chucking me out of the school and sending me to another, same as usual, they locked me up in here. Which is worse.”

“But you haven’t done anything serious,” Milos interrupted. “I thought they only put criminals in this camp.”

“Yeah, but they kind of explained it was . . . Oh, I dunno what now. . . . It was, like, for all I’d done, see?”

“For all you’d done?”

“That’s kind of what they said. Hey, you hit the jackpot first go, right? Did you really kill a dog-handler?”

“So it seems,” Milos admitted.

“Go on, tell me about it. I always like to hear how one of those Phalange guys got done in.”

“I’ll tell you about it, but first you tell me why they were fighting you three to one this morning. You didn’t have a chance.”

“It’s kind of a test thought up by that trainer, Myricus. We all take it in turn. He wants everyone wounded at least once. After that, he says, you’re — well, sort of baptized. Mainly it’s to show what’ll happen if you refuse to fight in the arena. If you just run to save yourself, after ten minutes they’ll send in another opponent, and five minutes later a third if you go on trying not to fight. So the more you chicken out, the less your chance of surviving. Get it?”

“I get it. And apart from that, what’s this Myricus like?”

“Myricus? Three times stronger than you and me put together. But he’s no fool either. Guesses everything you’re thinking. For instance, the other day he says to me, ‘Listen here, Rusticus —’”

“Is that what you’re called here, Rusticus?”

“Yeah, they gave me the name — I dunno why. Don’t even know what it means. Do you know, then?”

“No,” lied Milos, suppressing a wish to laugh.

“Well, he takes me to one side, says, ‘Listen here, Rusticus. You know why you’re not scared?’ I say no. And it’s true: I’m not scared. ‘You’re not scared because you believe you won’t really fight,’ he says. ‘You think something will happen, you don’t know what, but that’s what you think, and you think no one can make you fight, isn’t that so, Rusticus?’ I don’t know what to say because he was dead right, and I don’t want to admit it. So he explains how it’s the same when everyone comes here; they all reckon they’ll escape fighting. ‘But they’re wrong,’ he says, ‘and that’s the best way to lose a fight. No, you want to know for sure you’ll be fighting.’ Follow me?”

Milos followed him only too well. During the hours alone in this room, he had worked out his own secret conviction that he wasn’t going to fight. Discovering that he was thinking exactly like the others was extremely annoying.

“There’s some of ’em feel sure right up to the last moment they won’t go into the arena,” Rusticus went on, “and them, they’re dead already. Listen, Ferenzy, this is what I’ve learned since I’ve been here: first, it’s no use thinking you won’t fight; second, it’s no use chickening out when you do.”

“I see,” murmured Milos, although he couldn’t bring himself to admit that this line of reasoning had also been his own. He wondered whether it was simply a question of time — after all, he’d only just arrived — or whether his own intrinsic nature would rebel to the very end against the terrible idea of entering the arena with intent to kill.

Basil had closed his eyes and seemed to be dropping off to sleep.

“Can I ask you one last question?” said Milos softly.

“Go ahead.”

“You talked to Myricus about the best way to survive, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“But did the two of you talk about how to live with yourself afterward? I mean, once you’ve killed a man. Or two men, or three?”

“Yes, he talked about that. He said . . . Oh, I can’t remember just what. . . . You mustn’t worry about that.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, meaning if your opponent dies, it’s because his time had come.”

“His destiny?”

“That’s it, his destiny. And if you think you’re here for some good reason, you’re fooling yourself. You’re just a tool, see? And then you have to . . . Oh, and he said if you ask too many questions like that, you’re finished.”

They remained silent for a while. Milos thought Basil had fallen asleep when his friend muttered, in a thick voice, “Hey, I’m glad I found you here, Ferenzy. Really glad.”

Milos and Basil left the infirmary together the next day. They had made a kind of pact without needing to put it into words, and no doubt to compensate for their youth compared to the others: they would stay together and help each other through whatever trials they faced. They’d support each other to the last.

The other fighters were all between twenty-five and forty, and none of them seemed inclined to make friends with anyone. During training in the arena, Milos found none of the lively, cheerful atmosphere he had known in the wrestling ring. The cruel fate they all shared might have been expected to create a bond between these men, but no. Everyone here seemed solely preoccupied with becoming strong and implacable enough to survive.

Caius, only just recovered from his injuries, proved to be the most formidable of all. The rules forbade the inflicting of any serious injury on a training partner, but the definition of “serious” was very vague, and Caius was constantly trying to see how far he could go. He always had to cut or bruise his opponents, make blood flow. Myricus never told him not to. Knowing that Caius didn’t like him, Milos took care to avoid him and did his utmost not to face him in the arena. He still had no idea why Caius didn’t fancy his company until the night when Basil told him. The two of them often spent hours whispering from bed to bed in the dormitory that they shared with about ten others.

“Seems that the more you win, the more you get to be super — suterspi —” he began.

“Superstitious,” Milos helped him out.

“That’s it. For instance, if a man’s won twice with the same driver taking him to the arena in the van, he’ll never agree to set off for his third fight with a different driver. Or if someone sees a mouse in the arena cell while he’s waiting for his fight, you can bet he’ll look for that mouse second time around, and if there’s no mouse, he’ll be trembling like a leaf when he goes into the arena, get it?”

“Yes,” said Milos. “And you think Caius dislikes me because of something like that? I mean, I never did anything to hurt him.”

“Could be that. All I know is he hates cats. And I know why. When he was little, he shut himself up in a cage with a cat, just in play. Then he couldn’t get out, and they stayed there together quite a while. That cat went crazy and made for him. There was no one to stop it, understand? It clawed half the face off Caius. Seen those scars he has? The cat done it. Since then he can’t stand cats. But hey, you’re not a cat.”

“No,” smiled Milos, beginning to understand. “I’m not a cat, but it seems I must have been in a previous incarnation.”

“In a what?”

“A life. Someone said I must have lived before this one, and I was a cat in it.”

“You a cat? Where’d you pick up that daft idea? Who said so?”

Milos felt a pang. Where was Helen now? Did she even know he was still alive? He would so much have liked to reassure her and hold her in his arms. Did she often think of him? The idea that he might have to kill three men before he could be reunited with her made his stomach contract painfully.

“She . . . she’s a friend. My girlfriend. She told me one day I was just like a cat. She’d seen me climb a roof. So I expect Caius senses that, he’s scared of me, he panics, and he hates me because of it.”

“A girlfriend? You got a girlfriend?” asked Basil dreamily.

“Yes.”

“You’re in luck. Me, I got no one.”

“Can we get some sleep, right?” snapped an irritated voice from the back of the dormitory.

They fell silent for several minutes, but there was still something Basil wanted to know. “Hey, Ferenzy, what kind of animal d’you think I was in my — my earlier life?”

“I don’t know, Basil.”

“I do. I was a draft horse, a big strong horse pulling a cart and doing what its master says. A cart-horse, that’s what.”

On the next night they had an impassioned discussion with two of the other novices on their chances of survival.

“One in six,” said Flavius, a taciturn, shorttempered man who, so rumor said, had murdered his two wives in turn. “Three fights at odds of one in two, that makes it one chance in six.”

“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.

He reached the other end of the arena, not too bothered by Flavius, who was now reduced to the role of spectator. Then the gate opened for the third time, and Basil came in. He looked savage. He was faster than Caius, and quickly reached Milos, who was backed up against the barricade. He struck fast and precisely, and Milos’s hip was covered with blood.

“That’s enough!” boomed Myricus’s deep voice at last.

“Sorry — I’m sorry,” stammered Basil, who was kneeling beside his friend. “I didn’t have any choice. That bastard, he’d have finished you off. Took you for a cat, didn’t he?”

“Thank you,” breathed Milos. “I think you’ve saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it. That’s OK. Me, I always liked cats.”

Fulgur didn’t trouble to hide his delight when he saw the injury to Milos’s leg. “There’s a pretty sight! Who gave you that, Ferenzy?”

“Rusticus.”

“The cart-horse, eh? Think yourself lucky. He usually strikes harder. Anyone can see you two are good mates. Come on, then, I’ll give you a little encore.”

Without more ado, he gave Milos an injection and didn’t even wait for it to take effect before setting to work. Milos turned his head aside and gritted his teeth under the piercing pain of the needle. Then, gradually, he felt it die down, until at last he felt only the unpleasant sensation of the thread as it was pulled through the edges of his wound, drawing them together.

“That cart-horse, he ever talk to you about his brothers?”

“What?”

“Rusticus. He ever tell you about ’em?”

“Tell me about what?”

Milos remembered the conversations he’d had with Basil at the school. The other boy had indeed introduced himself as a cart-horse, but without explaining exactly what he meant.

“No, he didn’t,” he said, careful not to insist on keeping quiet to Fulgur anymore. “He hasn’t told me anything.”

“Pity. You’d have enjoyed it, especially the last bit. Because it all turned out badly for them. Very badly. I could have been a cart-horse myself, you know. I had all the qualifications: I’m hefty and I didn’t exactly invent hot and cold running water. Problem is, I like to be on the winning side. Yup, that’s my problem.”

Fulgur finished his stitching. Hearing the little sound as the thread broke, Milos knew that the brute had just bitten off the remains of it with his teeth, as you might bite the thread after sewing on a button. He preferred not to look. Fulgur completed his care of his patient by painting the place with iodine.

“There, you can go back to your room. Getting into the habit of this, aren’t you? Soon there won’t be space on you for any more stitching! And don’t forget: next chance you get, ask your friend Rusticus to tell you all about his mates — if you want a good laugh. Ask him how Faber is, for instance. Oh yes, that’s a very funny story.”

Milos didn’t have to wait long for his next chance to talk to Basil. Late in the afternoon, Milos was dozing in the infirmary sickroom when the door opened. His friend’s large head appeared around it.

“You asleep?”

“No, come in.”

Basil sat down on the edge of the bed and raised the sheet. “Dammit, I didn’t miss you.”

“That’s OK. It’s not deep,” Milos reassured him.

“Sorry, but I didn’t know where to strike. Finding the right place isn’t easy. I mean, finding somewhere to bleed a lot that’s not too dangerous. I thought of a buttock, but you didn’t turn your back, and then sitting down’s tricky later.”

“Really, don’t worry. You aimed very well.”

“Caius is furious with me. Told me if I ever found myself facing him, he’d make a hole in my hide. But he doesn’t scare me, just because he’s won twice . . . Hey, look! A jay!”

The big, colorful bird had settled on the windowsill without a sound. It just fit between the bars and looked almost as if it wanted to come in.

“We know each other already,” said Milos, smiling. “He comes visiting the sick.”

The two of them fell silent and watched the jay. They were both thinking the same thing: you’re free, bird. You can come and go; you can fly away over the wire fence and perch on the forest trees when you like. Do you know how lucky you are?

As if guessing, the jay turned weightily on the sill, took off, and flew away.

“Who’s Faber?” asked Milos into the silence that followed.

Basil’s mouth dropped open. “You know Faber?”

“No, but Fulgur mentioned his name just now. Who is he?”

Basil bent his head. He was frowning. “Faber is the leader of the horse-men,” he muttered at last. “Our leader, see?”

“And . . . and something bad happened to him?”

“Yes.”

“Did they kill him?”

“Worse than that.”

Milos dared not say any more. Basil sniffed noisily and then wiped his nose and eyes angrily on the back of his cuff.

“They did worse than kill him, Ferenzy. They made fun of him. I’ll tell you, but some other time. I kind of don’t feel like it here.”