Winter's End

by Jean-Claude Mourlevat

  Her voice was shaking, near tears.

  “Where were you for that whole month, Paula?”

  “Why, in their prison, my beauty.”

  “In prison? You?”

  “Yes, four of them came and took me away. They were very rough. They hurt my arm and my head. It was because of the young people running away.”

  Helen felt her own mounting fury.

  “More than twenty of them escaped,” Paula went on. “You were one of the first, my beauty, and the others followed your example. We gave them clothes and food, poor children, and we hid them when necessary. So they arrested us — Martha, Emily, and me. The others were turned out of the village. And then the men came back and smashed everything. Did you see it? Not a house was spared. And Octavo isn’t here. . . .”

  She uttered a long, sorrowful sigh, and closed her eyes.

  “Oh Paula,” Helen whispered.

  “What will become of me now?” moaned the consoler. “The revolt has started, you know. There are barricades up in the town, and the Phalangists will be swept away within a few days, that’s for sure. Everyone hates them so much. I ought to be glad of that, but I can’t really manage it. I liked comforting young people, you see. I liked it better than anything! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do anything else except cooking. The doors of the boarding schools will be opened now, and all the children I loved will go away. Oh, my beauty, what will become of me? I’ll be nothing but a fat, useless old woman. And Octavo isn’t here. . . .”

  This time her tears flowed down her plump cheeks in torrents.

  “Dear Paula,” Helen repeated, overwhelmed. She got up, went around the chair, and took Paula’s hot, heavy head in her hands. She kissed her and stroked her hair and her wet face. “Don’t be upset, Paula. Octavo is fine. I saw him at Marguerite’s, and she’s sending him to school. He’s working hard. Did you get his letter?”

  Paula nodded.

  “You know what we’ll do now, Paula? We’ll go upstairs to the bedroom. You’ll sleep in your own bed and I’ll sleep in Octavo’s. And tomorrow we’ll both catch the bus and go to join them in the capital. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about anything. I love you as if you were my mother, you know I do. You’re the only mother I ever knew.”

  The consoler nodded again, and buried her face against the breast of the girl who had knocked on her door for the first time four years earlier — the girl she had described as a little, lost kitten at the time.

  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 ah
ead 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.