Winter's End

Milos kept looking for the jay through the week before he left the training camp. It was all very well trying not to be superstitious, but he couldn’t help hoping that the big, brightly colored bird would reappear and bring him luck. Every morning and late every afternoon he went around behind the infirmary to where he had seen the jay in autumn, but it never turned up on the windowsill, on the other side of the bars, or anywhere else. Milos felt it was a bad omen.

He wasn’t the only one watching out for signs. One of the premiers fell into a furious rage because someone else went to sit in his usual place in the refectory. He picked up the bench, tipping the other man off it, and laid into him with his fists shouting, “Want to get me killed, do you? That’s it — you want to get me killed, you bastard!” It took two other men to separate them.

Their training had taken a more violent turn for some time past. As the fights came closer, the gladiators seemed to be trying to toughen themselves up even more, to shake off any weakness. On their last night in the camp, Myricus summoned them all to the arena after their evening meal. There were no floodlights on, but torches fixed to logs of wood cast red light on their somber faces. The men moved away from each other and stood motionless, swords in their hands. Myricus walked slowly among them, then went up to the gallery and addressed them in his deep voice.

“Gentlemen, look around you. Look at one another, all of you: Caius, Ferox, Delicatus, Messor . . .”

He listed all thirty names without omitting a single one, taking his time about it. That grave recitation instantly conveyed a disturbing solemnity.

“Take a good look at each other, because in a few days’ time, when I call you together again in this place, many of you will be dead. So look at one another now.”

There was an oppressive silence. All the gladiators kept their eyes focused on the sand. None of them lifted their heads when Myricus told them to look up.

“At this moment, as I speak to you,” the trainer went on, “the gladiators in the other five camps are listening to a similar address. Like you, they are surrounded by torches, and every one of them is wondering: Will I be among the dead or will I survive? I tell the novices among you, and I repeat it for the benefit of the others: hatred is your only weapon. Hate your opponent as soon as you see him appear on the other side of the arena. Hate him in advance for wanting to take your life. And make sure you’re convinced that his life is not worth yours.”

He paused. The gladiators remained silent, deep in the turmoil of their own thoughts. A little way ahead of him, Milos saw the shaved nape of Basil’s neck and his massive shoulders rising and falling to the regular rhythm of his breathing. He took comfort from the sight, and then he wondered which of the two of them would fight first. He prayed that it would be him, not Basil.

Myricus went on speaking for some time. He conjured up the names of the great gladiators of classical antiquity: Flamma, who had won thirty fights; Urbicus, a winner thirteen times, and then defeated because he held back from striking the mortal blow and gave his unfortunate opponent a chance.

“We set out tomorrow,” he concluded. “Leave your swords here on the ground. You won’t be needing them during the journey. We’ll collect them and give them back to you when the time comes for you to fight.”

That night was not disturbed by any nightmares. An unreal calm reigned in the dormitories. Probably none of them really slept. Every time Milos thought he was dropping off, he gave a start and was wide awake again, as if he were determined not to sleep away any of the hours that might be his last. Basil couldn’t sleep either.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” he asked in the middle of the night.

“Helen,” Milos whispered.

“What?”

“Helen.” He had to repeat it in a louder voice, and it felt like speaking to her in the silence.

“What’s she like?”

“Well . . . normal.”

“Come on,” Basil insisted. “You can tell me. I won’t repeat it.”

“Right,” said Milos, slightly embarrassed. “She isn’t very tall, she has short hair, her face is rather round . . .”

These general remarks weren’t enough for Basil. “Tell me something special — oh, I don’t know, something she does well.”

“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.

Myricus had gone away again. The painful wait began. Flavius, deep in gloomy thoughts, was as still as a statue. Near him, Delicatus was working hard to keep a sardonic, mocking smile on his face. At the far end of the room, Caius, emaciated as ever, was darting glances at the others from his black eyes. For a moment his mad gaze met Milos’s, and the two of them defied each other in silence.

They all felt relieved when the swords were brought in. Picking up his, Milos felt better. He stroked the handle, then the hilt, and ran his fingers over the shining blade. Several men rose to their feet, took off their shirts and sandals, and began their routine exercises: jogging with their swords in their hands, jumping, rolling over on the ground, taking evasive action, leaping forward. Some got together in pairs to practice.

“Come on, Basil,” said Milos. “You have to warm up.”

“I can’t,” moaned the boy, curled up under his blanket. “I have a stomachache. Any moment now . . .”

“No, Basil! Don’t let yourself go! This isn’t the right moment. Come on out.”

The young horse-man’s long head slowly emerged, and Milos saw that the soup wasn’t the only reason for his friend’s sorry state. His eyes were full of terror, and he was trembling all over.

“Right, Basil, I’ll leave you there for a bit, but you must get up as soon as Flavius has gone — will you?”

“If I can.”

Milos mingled with the others and put his mind to the movements he had automatically carried out thousands of times during training. They all suddenly froze when the door opened and two soldiers came in. The sound of the arena came to their ears, both distant and menacing: the muted growl of a monster lying in wait somewhere out there. They were going to be delivered up to it. Myricus came in too, and his voice rang out. “Flavius!”

The gladiator, bare-chested and gleaming with sweat, walked slowly toward the door, eyes fixed. He was clenching his jaw; his hard features expressed nothing but pure hatred. His companions felt it and flinched as he passed them.

As soon as the door was closed again, Milos flung himself on Basil and shook him by the shoulders. “Basil! Come on!”

When his friend didn’t move, he raised him from the floor, put him down on his feet, and put his sword in his right hand. “Come on, Basil, fight!”

The unhappy boy stood there before him, a pitiful sight, arms dangling, clearly sick at heart.

“Fight!” Milos encouraged him, slapping him on the arms and thighs with the flat blade of his sword to provoke him.

The young horse-man didn’t react. However, he raised his sword, making Milos think he was about to join in the action. Next moment he dropped it on the ground and ran full tilt for a corner of the room, where he brought up the contents of his stomach, bent double by the spasms.

A scornful and unpleasant laugh from Delicatus wasn’t echoed by anyone else. Basil ignored it too. He went back toward Milos, wiping his mouth on his forearm, and smiled faintly at his friend. “That’s better!”

There was a little color in his cheeks again. He took off his shirt, and they exchanged a dozen blows. His friend’s fencing struck Milos as very inconsistent.

“Wake up, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “Don’t you realize you’ll be fighting for real in a few seconds?”

He felt like flinging himself on Basil to hurt him, even wound him if he had to, just to get him to react and defend himself. He was making up his mind to do it when the door opened again. Myricus came in followed by the two soldiers.

“Rusticus!”

The young horse-man stared at him, panting. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes. Come on!”

“What about Flavius?” someone asked.

“Flavius is dead,” the trainer replied briefly.

Since Basil still made no move, the two soldiers took a step forward and impelled him toward the doorway with the butts of their guns. He started slowly walking. His chin was trembling like a child about to burst into tears.

“I don’t look at him, right?” he asked Myricus.

“No, don’t meet his eyes.”

Milos went over to give him a hug, but Basil pushed him gently away. “Don’t worry. I don’t care about this champion. They don’t need to know I’m scared. I’ll be back. I’m not like Flavius.”

The wait was unbearable. The worst of it was being unable to hear anything or imagine what was going on. Milos couldn’t go on warming up. He crouched down by a wall and hid his face in his hands. Basil, my companion through all this, don’t leave me alone! Don’t die! Please come back!

It went on for a long time. Other gladiators were exchanging fast and furious blows around him. The air vibrated with the clash of their blades. There was a brief respite in which he thought he heard a muted roar from the arena in the distance. What was going on there? His heart was racing. This fight was going on for an eternity, much longer than Flavius’s fight, anyway. What did that mean?

When the door opened again, hinges squealing, he didn’t dare to raise his head. All he heard was the sound of feet on the concrete, then Basil’s faint voice: “I got him.”

The young horse-man walked in, flanked by Myricus and Fulgur. He was in shock.

“I got him,” he repeated, as if to convince himself. But his triumph was a joyless one. Thick blood was seeping from a wound in his side. He dropped the reddened sword from his hand and murmured, “He was going to kill me . . . had to defend myself . . .”

“He fought bravely and he won!” Myricus announced. “The rest of you follow his example!”

Fulgur, delighted to have a winner who was also wounded on his hands, was already leading Basil away. “Follow me to the infirmary. I’ll fix that for you.”

Basil started moving, right hand holding the edges of his wound together. At the door, he turned and looked at Milos. There was no triumph in his eyes, only an expression of profound sadness and disgust at what he had just done.

“Good luck, friend!” he said. “See you soon. . . . Don’t let them get you, right?”

“See you soon,” Milos managed to say. The words stuck in his throat.

Myricus went off too, recommending that he should not stand about motionless now. There were two fights between gladiators from the other camps before his, he said. Milos immediately began his exercises, but he noticed, with a sense of panic, that fear was changing all his perceptions: the weight of his sword, the length of his arm, the speed of his legs. It was as if he had suddenly lost control of his body. When he ran, he seemed slow; when he started a movement, it seemed uncertain.

“I can’t feel anything,” he groaned, close to panic.

“It’s normal,” said a voice close to him. “It’s always like that before you go in. Try a bout with me.”

He recognized Messor standing in front of him, offering to act as his partner. The two of them had never exchanged a word before this day.

“Thanks,” said Milos gratefully.

Their few sallies brought him out of his lethargy, and when Myricus appeared at the door again with the two soldiers, he had regained a little confidence.

“Milos!” called the trainer, without any apparent emotion.

As he went out, Milos felt a need to salute one of his companions. Since Basil wasn’t there anymore, he chose Messor, who had shared these last few moments with him. He went up to the man and shook hands.

“See you later, my boy, and good luck,” growled the gladiator.

In the corridor, Myricus repeated the same advice as before. “He’s a tall man. Watch out for his long reach. And remember, let him think you’re right-handed until the last moment. Don’t forget!”

Milos got it, but his trainer’s words were distant and unreal. Twice he almost fainted, but his legs went on carrying him and did not give way.

The four men followed the corridor and came out under the rising tiers of seats. Voices and the sound of the spectators’ feet mingled above their heads.

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?

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.

Basil came too. His faithful, rough-hewn face was a good sight. He stammered several clumsy, reassuring words. “Don’t you worry, friend . . . I’m all right. Look!” And he showed Milos his own wound, healed.

Then other faces came. A wrestling coach from the past. “No strangling, boys, I repeat, no strangling.” Milos saw himself, very young, rolling over and over on a mat in the gym. Other faces, forgotten, came back from the past: small companions of his in the orphanage offering to swap marbles; friends from the boarding school slapping him on the back. “All right, Milos?” they cheerfully asked. “Good to see you again!” His consoler let them in, she told them to sit down, scolded those who made too much noise. She wanted to know if anyone was hungry, and went to make something to eat. Milos wondered how she would be able to do any cooking, how all these people could fit into this tiny room, and it made him laugh.

And then at last there was Helen. She seemed to be freezing under the hood of her school coat. Snow was falling, white and soft, on her shoulders. She knelt beside him too, and took his face between her icy hands. “Don’t go, Milos,” she said. “Don’t go away, my love.” He looked into the deep eyes of the young woman leaning over him, he saw her round cheeks, and he thought there was no one more beautiful in the world. “I won’t go away,” he wanted to say, but his lips were made of stone. So he told her, with his heart alone: I won’t go away, my love. I’ll stay with you. I promise.

And then all of them who had been leaning over him — Bartolomeo, Basil, the friends he had known through his life, Helen, who had brightened that brief life with such a dazzling light — they all gently moved aside and turned to the doorway, where a man and a woman stood, young and elegantly clothed. The pretty woman wore a spring dress and a flowered hat. The man was tall and strong, with the same laughing eyes as Milos. Although his own eyes were already closing, Milos smiled at them both, and they came to kneel beside him at once. The woman passed her hands over his shaven head, caressing him. “What happened to your hair, my darling?” she asked. The man, a little way behind her, nodded and looked at him with intense pride. There was no uneasiness on their faces. Far from it: they seemed as confident as if seeing someone they loved after a long absence, knowing they would be able to live happily together for always.

“Father,” murmured Milos. “Mother. Have you found me?”

“Hush,” said the woman, putting her forefinger to her mouth.

And so did the man. “Hush,” he said.

So Milos became a good little boy again. He curled up in a ball to keep all this warmth and love inside his body and to take it with him wherever he was bound.

And then he closed his eyes and let himself go.

The gray mouse scurried up and down his leg a little longer, over his back, up to his shoulder. It went back to rub against his face. Not moving now, it stayed there for a few minutes, its soft nose quivering. It was waiting for a sign of life, but there was none. Suddenly, in the distance, came an impact stronger than the others, followed by an ominous crack. The beam barring the gate had just given way. Frightened, the mouse scuttled over to the wall and disappeared down a hole.