Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Winter's End

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.