WINTER BATTLE
ALL THE WEEK before leaving the camp, Milos was looking for a jay. No matter how hard he tried not to succumb to superstition, the hope that the colorful bird would appear at least once again and bring him good luck did not leave him, and he could not do anything about it. Every morning and every evening he wandered around the back of the infirmary, where he had seen her in autumn, but the jay never appeared - not on the windowsill, not on the branches behind the fence, or anywhere else. Milos saw this as a bad omen.
He was not the only one who became sensitive to omens. There was a case when one "candidate" literally went berserk because someone took his usual place in the dining room. He overturned the bench, shaking off the intruder from it, and began to beat him, yelling: “Do you want me to die, you bastard? Do you want me to be killed?" Two men barely pulled him away.
Workouts in Lately took on a ferocious character. It seemed that now, when only a few days remained before the battles, the gladiators tried to harden as much as possible, to get rid of any weakness in themselves. IN last night after dinner, Mirikus gathered them all in the arena. The lamps were off, only the red glow of the torches mounted on the log walls illuminated the gloomy faces. The gladiators scattered around the arena and stood motionless, swords in hand. Mirikus walked slowly between them, then climbed the gallery and spoke in his deep bass:
“Gentlemen, look at each other. Take a good look at each other, everyone: Kai, Ferox, Delicatus, Messor…
He called names, all thirty, not forgetting a single one, slowly, with an arrangement, and this severe litany gave an ominous solemnity to what was happening.
“Look carefully, because in a few days, when I gather you here again, in the same place, many of you will not be alive. Look at each other.
A heavy silence followed. The gladiators stood staring at the sand. None of them raised their heads, as Mirikus demanded.
“This very minute that I am addressing you,” the coach continued, “they say the same thing to the fighters in the other five camps. They are standing now, like you, in the light of torches, and everyone wonders: will I be among the dead or among the living? I tell the beginners, I repeat to the rest: your only weapon is hatred. You must hate your opponent as soon as he enters the arena. You should hate him beforehand for wanting to take your life. And firmly reassure yourself that his life is not worth yours.
He made a pause. The gladiators remained silent, lost in their agonizing thoughts. Milos looked up and saw Vasil's shaved head and mighty shoulders a few meters in front of him, moving up and down in time with his measured breathing. It became easier for him, and then the question arose - which of the two of them would have to fight first? Milos prayed to himself to start with him.
Mirikus spoke for a long time. He recalled the great gladiators of antiquity - Flamma, who won thirty victories, Urbicus, who won thirteen times and died because he did not inflict death blow and gave a chance to his defeated opponent.
“We leave tomorrow,” he announced at the end. “Place your swords at your feet and leave them here. You won't need them on the road. We will collect them and give them to you before the battle.
No one had nightmares that night. An unnatural calm reigned in the dormitory. Hardly anyone really slept. Every time Milos began to doze, something seemed to push him, and now there was no sleep in any of his eyes, as if it was a pity to spend these hours on him, perhaps the last. Vasily couldn't sleep either. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he suddenly asked:
“And your girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Helen…” Milos whispered back.
“Helen,” he repeated louder, and in the silence it sounded like a call.
– What is she like?
– What-what … normal.
“Well, tell me plainly,” Vasil insisted. - I won't tear it up.
“All right,” Milosz muttered, somewhat embarrassed, “she is small, her hair is short, her face is ... in general, round ...
Vasil was not enough general description.
- You say something like that, I don’t know ... special, well, what, for example, she can do ...
- She ... she, for example, climbs a rope well.
- Here you go! – Satisfiedly said man-horse and lagged behind.
In the morning, the gates of the camp opened and three military-style vans, accompanied by two covered trucks full of armed soldiers, drove into the compound and parked in front of the canteen. Fighters lined up in the wind, under wet snow. Fulgur's task was to divide them into groups and handcuff them to common circuit. He set to work with perverse pleasure, looking for signs of fear on their faces. Milos tried his best to look calm, but his pallor betrayed him, and when Fulgur winked nastily at him, as if to say: “What, are your hamstrings shaking?” - he barely restrained himself, so as not to smash his face with a blow to his head.
Until the last minute, he desperately looked for the jay with his eyes. "Come, please! Show yourself! Just for a second, so that I can see you for the last time and take your bright colors your image is the image of life itself!”
He was pushed so as not to delay the landing.
Fulgur took care to separate him from Vasil. Miloš and his group were placed in the second wagon and sat on one of the wooden benches that ran along the sides. The motorcade started and left the camp. One truck with soldiers led it, the second closed it. Any attempt to escape would be pure suicide. In the small barred window of the wagon, only a complex pattern of bare oak branches flickered. Only towards noon did they finally leave the forest for big road and drove south to the capital.
Shortly thereafter, the motorcade, moving at a moderate speed, was overtaken by a roaring bus from the north. Coming up with the second van, he rode side by side with it for some time. Paula dozed on the bus with her vast ass taking up two seats at once, her hands on her knees. Behind her at the window, Helen was trying to read a book. She lifted her head and glanced absently at the wagon in which Milos rode as a prisoner, his hands cuffed and his heart heavy. For a few seconds, only some three meters separated the lovers, and then the bus picked up speed, and their paths parted.
The convoy arrived at its destination late at night. Those of the gladiators who had never been to the capital before twisted their necks in turn, looking out of the barred window, but from miracles big city they only saw that the gray facades of the houses are the same as any others. When they climbed out of the wagons, the damp night chill immediately chilled everyone to the bone. Cars were turning to drive away, and their headlights darted across the base of the vast, dark massif—the arena. This means that their journey is over. Last way?
Milos and his comrades in misfortune, shackled and under escort, were driven to the building. They were led through huge double doors, which were promptly closed behind them and bolted as thick as a whole log. The floor was earthen. They passed under the stands, then along a corridor, and finally found themselves in the cell reserved for them - a vast room with adobe walls that smelled of mold. All furnishings were straw mattresses on the floor. The gladiators fell on them as soon as the handcuffs were removed from them. Some, exhausted from the long journey on the hard benches of wagons, immediately crawled under the covers to forget themselves with sleep; others sat on mattresses, peering with inflamed eyes at the stains on the walls, looking for some secret signs of their fate. Four armed soldiers watched them from the door.
- Will they give you something to eat? Vasil asked. - I'm hungry - horror!
They had to be patient - only an hour later they brought a bowl of thick stew and a large loaf of bread per brother.
- And here they feed better than in the camp! Vasil rejoiced. - Tell me, is it delicious? This is so that we will be in shape tomorrow, that's what!
Milos forced a smile in response. For the first time in his life, a piece did not go down his throat, however, not to him alone. So Vasil got three extra bowls of stew along with bread, and he devoured it all greedily.
The watchmen took away the bowls with the spoons, the soldiers went out with them, one could hear the key turning in the lock. All the lamps went out at once, except for a barred control lamp that glowed faintly above the door. From time to time, some kind of fuss broke the silence - it was another batch of fighters arriving, and steps, fuss, peals of unfamiliar voices could be heard from the neighboring cells. “Our adversaries,” everyone thought, “those who will kill us or fall by our hand ...”
In the morning Milos woke up as if he were a stranger to himself. He could not understand whether he had slept that night or was still sleeping, whether it was all a dream or reality. It smelled like urine. One of the gladiators must have relieved himself right here in the corner. He turned to Vasil: he was lying with open eyes, as pale as a sheet.
- How are you, Vasil?
- Badly. Got sick.
- What happened to you?
- From the stew, probably ... Twisted here ...
The door opened, Mirikus entered with some paper in his hand, accompanied by two soldiers.
- Attention: listen to the schedule for today. It's eight o'clock now. The first battle is at ten. You fight, Flavius. Get ready.
All eyes turned to the grim gladiator, who last days hardly uttered a word. He sat on his mattress, hugging his raised knees, as if what was happening did not concern him.
“You're fighting another rookie. Good luck! Your victory will lift everyone's spirits. Do you want to tell us something?
Flavius didn't move.
"All right," Mirikus moved on to the next item. “I won the privilege of fighting this very morning for the youngest—I know how exhausting the wait is. Rusticus, you fight second, Milos third. Rusticus, your opponent is a champion. This, as you know, is the most profitable deal...
- Profitable ... who? - with difficulty squeezed out the man-horse. His jaw was trembling convulsively, and it seemed to Milos that he was about to vomit.
“Most likely to win,” the coach corrected, remembering who he was talking to. “When a rookie fights a champion, the rookie often wins. Do you remember?
- I remember. So I have to win?
"I'm sure, Rusticus!" Just try not to look him in the eye. His eyes are stronger than yours.
So don't look?
The coach did not dignify him with an answer and continued:
“Milos, you are fighting against a candidate. I got to see him today. He is very tall. Accordingly, consider the length of the arms so that he does not get you. And remember: you do not show that you are left-handed until the very last moment, and already in the throw you intercept the sword. Think how to do it. AND last tip: When you see him, don't give in to pity. Do you want to say something?
Milos shook his head and no longer heard anything Mirikus was saying. Don't give in to pity? What could have prompted such a warning? The names of the other fighters passed by his mind. He rubbed his hands—the palms were damp; and suddenly, in one second, he was overtaken and struck, like lightning, by undisguised reality: now he has to fight to the death. He thought he had known this for a long time, but now he realized that he knew nothing. He remembered the words of Mirikus: “Until the very end, everyone thinks that somehow it will work out, that they won’t have to really enter the arena.” So it was. Without realizing it, he was deceiving himself with this pipe dream and now the truth hit him in the face. He immediately somehow fainted, felt completely overwhelmed, unable to cope even with a kitten. Will he be strong enough to even lift a sword?
At nine o'clock they brought coffee and bread. Vasil did not touch them. Milos forced himself to chew thoroughly and swallow every last crumb. “I must eat,” he told himself, not really believing it, “I must eat to maintain my strength.”
Mirikus is gone. An agonizing wait began. Flavius sat motionless as a statue, lost in his gloomy thoughts. Beside him, Delicatus struggled to maintain a haughty, sardonic smile on his face. Kai sat farther away - cheek ate cheek, black eyes darting lightning. For a second, his completely insane gaze met Milos's, and it was like a silent duel.
Everyone felt a little better when the swords were brought at nine o'clock. Milos, taking his hand in hand, immediately felt calmer. He stroked the hilt, the guard, ran his fingers over the gleaming blade. Many stood up, took off their shirts, took off their shoes and began their usual exercises: jogging with a sword in hand, jumping, falling with a roll, bending, lunging. Some, breaking into pairs, practiced combat techniques.
- Let's go, Vasil? Milos called. - You need to loosen up.
“I can’t,” he groaned, “my stomach grabbed. After…
- No, Vasily! Don't you dare freak out! Found the time! Come on, get up!
The long face of the man-horse appeared from under the blanket, and Milos realized that it was bad for him, of course, not only from the stew. The poor man was trembling all over, his eyes were filled with horror.
- Okay, Vasil, lie down for a while, but as soon as Flavius is called, you pull yourself together, understand?
- I'll try...
Milos joined the rest of the fighters and tried to forget himself in the movements worked out to automatism during months of training.
Suddenly, everyone froze at once: the door opened, and two soldiers entered. The noise of the arena began to be heard, distant and menacing, the muffled growl of a monster sitting somewhere there, to which they are being prepared as a sacrifice. Following the soldiers, Mirikus entered, and his voice boomed through the cell:
- Flavius!
The gladiator, half-naked, shiny with sweat, slowly, with a fixed look, moved towards the exit. His hard face with clenched jaws expressed one pure hatred. Everyone he passed by sensed it and avoided it. As soon as the door closed behind him, Milos rushed to Vasil and slowed him down:
- Vasil! Come on, get up!
He did not move, and he literally picked him up, put him on his feet, put him in right hand sword.
- Come on, Vasil! Fight!
Vasil stood in front of him with the most miserable look, his arms dangling helplessly. It didn't have a face.
- Well, run! Milos yelled at him and began to beat his sword flat on his arms and legs, forcing him to defend himself.
The horseman didn't react. Finally, he nevertheless raised his sword, giving hope that he would soon get out of apathy, but immediately dropped it, rushed at full speed into a corner and doubled over in a violent fit of vomiting.
Nobody picked up Delicatus' contemptuous laugh. Vasil also left him unattended. He returned to Milos, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, picked up his sword and smiled palely at his comrade:
- Looks like it got better...
His face was no longer so white. He took off his shirt and began to respond to his partner's blows with blows, in the opinion of Milos, completely untenable.
"Wake up, for God's sake!" he shouted. “You have to fight in a few minutes, remember?
He was tempted to throw himself at Vasil, hurt him, even, perhaps, injure him, just to make him stir, to defend himself for real. He was about to do so, but then the door opened again. Mirikus entered, accompanied by two soldiers.
- Rusticus!
The horseman stared at him, gasping for breath.
- Yes. Went!
What about Flavius? someone asked.
“Flavius is dead,” the trainer replied without any pity.
As Rusticus did not move, the soldiers stepped towards him, pointing their guns at the exit. He walked slowly, dragging his feet. His chin was trembling like a child about to cry.
So don't look at him? he asked Mirikus.
Yes, try not to meet his eyes.
Milos came up and wanted to hug his friend, but Vasil quietly pushed him away:
– Nothing, don’t be afraid… just think, champion… they didn’t scare you too much… I’ll be back, don’t think… I’m not Flavius to them.
That's when the waiting became completely unbearable. Worst of all, it was impossible to hear anything, even guess or imagine anything. Unable to continue the warm-up, Milos squatted down, leaning against the wall and hiding his face in his hands. “Vasil, oh, Vasil, my brother in misfortune, do not leave me alone! Do not die! Come back alive, please!”
It lasted a long time. All around the gladiators exchanged ferocious blows, and the air trembled with the clash of swords. In a moment of brief lull, Milos seemed to catch a burst of screams muffled by the distance from the side of the arena. What is happening there? His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. The battle has been going on for an eternity, at least much longer than in Flavius's. What does it mean?
When the door creaked open again, he did not dare raise his head and look. I heard the sound of footsteps on concrete, and then Vasil's faded voice:
- I won…
The horse-man was supported on both sides by Mirikus and Fulgur. He walked like a stunned man.
“I won,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself, but there was no triumph in his voice. A thick trickle of blood flowed from the ripped side. He dropped the crimson sword dangling limply from his hand and uttered with difficulty:
- He wanted to kill me ... I defended myself ...
“He fought bravely and won,” Mirikus announced loudly. Take an example from him!
Fulgur, blessed with double luck to get both the winner and the patient at once, was already pulling him to the exit:
- Come on, let's go to the infirmary. I'll darn you now.
Vasil, clutching the wound with his hand, followed him. At the door he turned, looking for Milos. There was no joy in those eyes, only deep anguish and disgust for what they had done.
- Happy to you, friend! - he said. – See you soon… Don’t make a mistake, okay?
“See you soon,” Milos replied, having overcome the spasm that tightened his throat.
Mirikus was the last to leave, advising him not to sit still. Next in line were two battles between gladiators from other camps, and after them - Milos.
He immediately began to exercise and with a feeling close to panic, he found that all his sensations had somehow become dulled - the weight of the sword, his own movements could not be coordinated. It was as if he had suddenly lost control of his body. It seemed to him that he was moving too slowly, standing unsteadily on his feet.
“Hands and legs are not my own,” he groaned in despair.
“Nothing, it’s okay,” someone nearby said. “It happens to everyone before a battle. Stand with me, let's wave.
The man who offered himself as a partner to him was called Messor. During their entire stay in the camp, they never exchanged a word.
“Thank you,” Milos thanked him from the bottom of his heart.
The very first blows they exchanged dispelled their stupor, and when Mirikus appeared at the door with soldiers, Milos already felt a little more confident.
- Milos! the coach called out dispassionately.
Milos wanted to say goodbye to at least someone as he left. If not with Vasil, then with this Messor, who shared his last moments with him. He stepped towards him and shook his hand.
- Goodbye, boy. Good luck to you,” the gladiator grumbled.
While walking along the corridor, Mirikus kept repeating his instructions:
- Consider the length of the arms - he is tall. Don't show that you're left-handed until you seize the moment, you hear?
Milos heard, but the words of the coach came as if from afar and seemed unreal. Twice he was on the verge of fainting, but his legs held him, did not buckle.
Still accompanied by soldiers, they now walked under the stands. Voices and the shuffling of feet could be heard overhead. The boards groaned under the weight of the audience. Here the horn blew - three lingering low notes. Milos realized that this was announcing his exit. The soldiers stopped, letting him through to the gate, which the guard standing near it had already opened. Mirikus gently pushed Milos, and he stepped into the arena.
It was a blow of such force that he could hardly stand on his feet. Thousands of glances fell upon him at once and the dazzling light of searchlights, in which the sand was bright yellow. It's like being born, he thought. “A child must experience the same shock when he is thrown into life from his mother’s womb.”
He was told the truth: the arena was exactly the same as in the training camp, and the sand under his feet was the same consistency. However, everything was different. Here the space opened up in height: behind the barrier to the giant shell of the roof, multi-tiered stands rose, completely packed with spectators. Mirikus led him to the box of honor, where about ten Falangists in overcoats were seated. Among them, Miloš immediately recognized the red-haired, bearded giant whom he had seen a few months ago in the boarding school: Van Vlik! I immediately remembered - here he and Helen, two accomplices, lie huddled together in the attic ... And the girl’s muffled laughter, and the feeling of her shoulder next to his, her breathing, so close in the silence of the attic, and how all this worried him then . Was there really such a good thing? And what happened to him, Milos? He then imagined himself invincible. How long ago was that! Now he is at the mercy of the barbarians and must fight to the death for their pleasure and for his own salvation. And in order to see Helen again... She was waiting for him somewhere, he was sure of it. For her sake, it was necessary to forget everything that he had believed in all his life: the rules of a fair fight, respect for an opponent. So that nothing remains but rage and bloodlust - that's it!
Hot sweat filled his eyes. He wiped his face with his hand.
- Milos! Mirikus announced to the attention of the authorities. - Newbie! “And he named the camp where they came from.
Some scrawny little man next to Van Bleek started up and narrowed his eyes:
“Milos… Ferenczi?”
Milos nodded.
“Come on, come on, let’s see how you manage to kill a man!” he giggled.
Milos was silent, nothing flickered in his face. Mirikus took him by the elbow and led him to the opposite side of the arena.
- Consider his height ... first work with your right hand ... - he repeated in the end and disappeared.
The gate on the other side opened, and Milos saw his opponent - a tall thin man with a shaved skull, who entered the arena accompanied by his coach, who barely reached his shoulder. Both in turn went to the box of honor. From his position, Milos did not hear the name of the one with whom he was supposed to fight, nor the name of his camp.
Everything fell silent as soon as the two gladiators were left alone in the arena. They were separated by twenty meters. Milos moved towards the enemy, who also went towards him. stooped like many too tall people, chest wrinkled, with saggy skin, hairy - and the hair is completely white. The sword dangles freely from an incredibly long arm, sunken cheeks gray with gray stubble. Milos would have given him at least sixty years. There were no such old ones in their camp. “Yes, this is some kind of grandfather,” he thought dumbfounded, “I can’t fight him!” Mirikus's words came back to him and now made sense: Don't give in to pity. When only five meters remained between them, both made the same stance: legs half-bent, hand with a sword put forward. Milos resisted the temptation to intercept the sword in his accustomed hand in time. So they stood, almost motionless, studying each other.
Whistles were heard in the audience, then shouts: “Come on, come on! Move!" - and mocking insinuations - “Face! face! ”, - as if they were pitting animals.
They can't wait to see our blood, Milos thought in disgust. – They sit safely in the stands, confident in their impunity. I wonder if one of them would have the courage to come out from behind the barrier here on the sand and fight? No, where are they, they are cowards! And just like that, present your life like that?
Now only three meters separated him from his opponent, whose forehead was cut with deep wrinkles, and in his eyes Milos read the same fear that squeezed his heart. He forced himself not to think about it. You should have hated this man, not pitied him. He exhaled sharply, hardened his gaze, clenched his sword until his fingers hurt, and stepped forward. It was this moment that his opponent chose to suddenly, bending over with his whole body, make a lunge. He stabbed Milos in the ankle and immediately jumped back. Milos cried out in pain and saw that the foot was immediately stained with blood, while laughter and applause greeted the successful blow. The unaccountable sympathy he had previously felt vanished at once. This skinny one is too an old man here then to kill him, and will do so without hesitation at the first opportunity. Milos decided not to yawn again. When the enemy again rushed to the attack, he intercepted the sword with his left hand and, quickly stepping over, began to move sideways, so that he could not attack with his hands. The old man was taken aback, then he lunged again, and again, and again, each time aiming at his legs. “You think you can take me with this? Milos laughed to himself, feeling all the reflexes of an experienced wrestler come to life in him. “Are you going to hit the bottom ten times, so that I only know what to protect my legs, and on the eleventh you suddenly stab me in the chest?” Well, well, go ahead, I'll wait ... "
So they continued this dance of death, each holding his own tactics. The old man kept hitting his legs, Miloš danced around him. Not much time had passed since the beginning of the battle, but the tension was such that both were already out of breath and sweating.
"Hit the body! Milos prayed to himself. The wounded leg burned, and each step left a bloody trail in the sand. “Hit the body, please… One single time… Look, I’m leaning… Opening my chest… Come on, don’t pull…”
He didn't have to wait long. The old gladiator suddenly made a throw, holding the sword horizontally in his hand, stretched out to its full incredible length, with a cry that was more despair than malice. Although this was what Miloš had been waiting for, the blow nearly took him by surprise. He barely managed to dodge and, unable to stand on his feet, fell on his side. The enemy, having missed, also lost his balance and collapsed face down in the sand. Milos, being younger, turned out to be more agile: a fraction of a second - and he was already on his feet. He jumped, pressing down with his knee on the white, sweat-drenched back of his too slow adversary and, raising his hand high, put the point of the sword to the wrinkled neck just under the back of the head.
With his free hand, he pressed his head, and with his foot, his lower body. But this was no longer necessary. The old man was a pitiful sight: he breathed intermittently, with a groan, saliva flowed from his twisted mouth, mixing with sand. The crowd roared in anticipation of the sacrifice for which they had gathered here. For a few short seconds, Milos felt one thing with violent force: “I won!” But this feeling was almost immediately replaced by another - a feeling of a recurring nightmare. Here he is again, unwittingly, holding the life of a man in his hands.
Then, a few months ago, in the mountains, alone and cold, he decided on a terrible thing to save Helen, who was trembling behind a rock from cold and fear, in order to protect two other fugitives. And now he had to kill to save himself, in the dazzling light of the searchlights, under the eyes of the spectators, merging into a hazy haze, jumping to their feet with excitement. What do they want? See his disgrace? To see him finish off an old man who could be his father? He realized that he was unable to perform the slaughter that was required of him. How to plunge this blade into the body of the vanquished? How to live after this? He imagined he could do it defensively, in the heat of battle. And then there was the murder - no more, no less. No, he will not give them such pleasure. Now he will let go of the defeated, get up, and everything that should follow will follow. The old man is declared the winner. And on him, Milos, unarmed, they will release one gladiator, then a second, then, if necessary, a third, and he will die by their hands. "We'll see about that," he thought. - Let's see…"
The crowd was now shouting something, some words he didn't understand. He leaned towards his opponent, almost laid down on him.
- What are you doing? croaked the old man. - Kill me. And live ... You are young ...
“I can't,” Milos said.
He drew back the sword, the point of which left a bloody comma on his wrinkled neck, threw it aside and. kneeling, waiting. "Now do what you want with me."
And then, instead of an inevitable, it would seem, outburst of indignation, a strange silence reigned in the stands - like a calm before something terrible, an earthquake, for example. From the first thud, the whole building shuddered to the ground. The mouths opened in astonishment, everyone turned into hearing - and heard the second blow, just as heavy and booming. The representatives of the Phalanx jumped up and hurried out of the box. The rest of the spectators followed suit, and there was a fuss in the stands.
The old man, pale as a dead man, got up and knelt beside Milos.
- What is this?
Nobody else paid any attention to them.
They're breaking down doors! someone yelled.
The panic began. Everyone was rushing about, bursting into the aisles, choking and pushing in search of some kind of emergency exit.
What are "they"? Who's breaking down the doors? Milos, who had been cut off from the outside world for a month now, was afraid to believe. However, the fact was obvious: the ranks of the Phalanx left the stands, the soldiers looked around in confusion, waiting for orders that were no longer received, and the public only thought how to get away. What else, if not the Resistance, could be the cause of such a stampede?
As Miloš and the old man got to their feet (both hearts nearly jumping out of their chests), the gates on either side of the arena swung open, and gladiators poured out of them, bursting out of their cells, screaming wildly and brandishing their swords. They crowded the arena like some kind of savage army and climbed the barriers. Their ferocious faces and wild cries terrified the already frightened spectators.
- Vasil! Milos shouted, looking for a friend in this violent crowd. The horse-man did not know how the battle ended, and it was necessary to calm him down. Then Milos remembered that he was wounded, remembered the blood pouring down his side. What if the wound was serious? Where could this "infirmary" that Fulgur spoke of be? Probably somewhere near the cameras. He pushed his way against the current to the gate, passed under the stands, shaking from the clatter of spectators, then along the corridor, and soon he was looking into the cell where he had spent that night. She was empty. Only the shirt and sandals of Flavius, who fell in the arena, and his survivor, Milos, were lying around. He put them on and left.
- Vasil!
Now he went to the right, opening all the doors in a row. At the end of the corridor, an almost sheer wooden staircase, riddled with worms, led to the second floor - above it was an open hatch. Milos put his sword on the floor and climbed up.
- Vasil! Are you there?
He poked his head through the hatch to look around the room. An empty room, lit only by a small hole in the adobe wall. He went back down, and when he turned around, in front of him, blocking his path, stood Kai with a sword in his hand. His own sword lay farther away, out of reach.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, will you hiss some more?
Milos was dumbfounded.
– Kai, come to your senses… We are free…
He didn't hear. He was advancing, his body drawn up, arms outstretched, ready to jump. His eyes were like those of a sleepwalker, his hand gripped his sword so that his knuckles turned white.
"I'll show you how to scratch, you bastard!" he growled through his teeth.
The scars on his face, contorted with hatred, were even worse. They acted as an embossed glossy purple pattern.
“Kai,” Milos pleaded, “stop it!” Let's talk calmly, shall we? What have cats done to you? Tell me, Kai… Let's talk… come on…
The madman heard nothing. He stepped closer still, panting, drunk with anger.
“I'll show you how to scratch,” he repeated, his eyes burning with bloodlust.
“Give me at least a sword!” Milos said, trying not to sudden movements. "I'm a gladiator just like you!" I have the right to defend myself! Give me my sword! Are you listening, Kai?
He didn't answer.
“Kai,” breathed Milos, “please… this is too stupid… we are free… do you know that we are free?” And I'm not a cat, you know... I'm not a cat...
Kai didn't hear. No words could break through his obsession. Then Milos realized that in front of him was death. He yelled with all his strength:
– Help! Someone help!
No answer. The corridor was too narrow to slip past Kai, who, Milos saw, was about to rush. Without thinking more, he jumped back to the stairs and flew up, helping himself with his hands. Two steps broke under his weight. He leaned against the far wall. Kai was not far behind. And again the same terrible confrontation, this time in the twilight. Milos searched and did not find words that could overcome the madness of this man, towering in a dark silhouette some two meters from him. They stood like that for several seconds, only their ragged breathing breaking the silence.
But by some fluent movement, by a changed rhythm of breathing, Milos felt that the enemy was about to rush at him and hit him. Then he did the only thing left to do - he rushed first.
Everything happened very quickly. The steel entered his belly like a long, cold lightning bolt. And that was the only blow. He collapsed to his knees and lost consciousness.
When Milos woke up, he was alone. From somewhere in the distance, thumps were still heard at the arena doors. He lay on his side with his knees drawn up. The damp earthen floor chilled his cheek. A gray mouse was sitting a few centimeters from his face, looking at him kindly. I just wanted to stroke her soft fur. The quivering tendrils rippled like the thinnest veil, behind which the black agates of the eye gleamed. The mouse was not afraid at all. "She understands that I'm not a cat..." Milos tried to move - the body did not obey. He wanted to call for help, but he was afraid that his own scream would tear him to death. He felt fragile, like a light in the wind. The slightest breath and it will fade away. The stomach was sticky with blood. “It is from me that life flows out ...” he thought, and clamped the wound with both hands. “Help…” he groaned, “I don't want to die…” His tears dripped onto the floor, soaking the ground into mud. The mouse came closer with tiny steps, hesitated a little, as if in thought, and lay down, pressing against his cheek. “You are not alone,” she seemed to say. "I'm just a little bit, but I'm with you."
Then the visions came.
The first was Bartolomeo - he hugged him on the bridge with his long arms and walked away with a wide step: “We will meet again, Milos! We will all meet, both the living and the dead!”
"Why did you leave me, Bart?" - he asked. The friend did not answer. He simply squatted down next to Milos and smiled at him affectionately.
Vasil also came. It was nice to see his honest, rough face. He clumsily consoled: “Don’t be afraid, friend… everything is fine… Look, it’s already over!” - and showed his healed wound.
Then all sorts of other faces followed. The coach who once taught him wrestling: “I repeat again, boys, you can’t choke!” Milos was just a boy again and practiced a series of somersaults in the gym. More and more faces surfaced from the past, long forgotten: little comrades at the orphanage who exchanged balloons with him, boarding friends who clapped him on the shoulder. “How are you, Milos? they called cheerfully. “Glad to see you!” His comforter let everyone in, seated them, grumbled at those who were too loud. Carefully asked if they were hungry, and immediately began to cook some food. Milos was surprised - where could she cook here, when there were so many people, and how they could only fit in such a cramped room - and he began to laugh.
Finally, Helen appeared. Frozen, in a boarding cape with a hood. Snow fell on her shoulders, white and weightless. She, too, knelt beside him and carefully took his face into the oval of her icy palms. “Don't go, Milos,” she cried, “don't go, my love…” He looked into the round face of the young woman bending over him, into her deep eyes, and she seemed to him incomparably beautiful. “I will not leave,” he wanted to answer, but his lips were stone and did not move. And he said to her with his heart: - I will not leave, my love. I stay with you. Word".
And then everyone who leaned over him - Bartolomeo, Vasil, everyone with whom his life brought him together, and Helen, who illuminated this short life such a dazzling light, - everyone quietly parted and turned to the entrance, where a man and a woman were standing, young, beautiful. A woman in a light spring dress and a hat with flowers and a man, tall, strong, with the same laughing eyes as Milos. Milos, whose eyelids were already heavy, smiled at them, and they immediately found themselves near and knelt beside him. The woman slipped her hands under his shaved head and gently stroked it. "Where are your curls, son?" she asked. The man over her shoulder nodded to him and looked at him with approval and pride. There was no worry on their faces. On the contrary, they shone with joyful confidence, like those who met their loved one after a long separation and knows that now they will live happily and never part.
“Father…” Milos whispered. – Mom… Have you been found?
“Shhh…” the woman said, putting her finger to her lips. And the man also said "shhhh..."
Then Milos became, as once, small and obedient. He curled up into a ball, protecting with his body the warmth and tenderness given to him, in order to take them with him to where he went.
Then he closed his eyes and left.
The mouse ran back and forth on his leg, on his shoulder, on his back. She returned, rubbed herself against the motionless face, clung to him for a minute or two, quivering with her sensitive nose. She waited for some signs of life, but there were none. Suddenly, a particularly powerful blow came from afar, followed by a terrible crack. This finally broke a massive bolt entrance doors. The frightened mouse rushed to the wall and darted into a hole.
I read this book on the advice of a friend. At first I thought that the volume is large and the name is banal. But I started reading... And I just fell in love with her! Such vivid emotions! Love and struggle, life and death are intricately intertwined, creating a unique plot. At the end I cried... This book taught me compassion, sympathy, mutual assistance... I advise everyone!
Ratueva Nadezhda0, Tula/Russia
How much "Woe of the Dead King" did not let go of herself, that she thought that all the books of the author were like that. It's not a real book, maybe I just didn't like it. The heroes seemed stilted, sketchy, it is written about love in such a way that - "I don't believe it." Too bad it could've been better. I am very ashamed, but the cover in this book I remember the most.
elena, 45, Kemerovo
The history of open confrontation, the struggle against the dictatorship and the totalitarian system. It is not clear how such a situation arose in an unnamed abstract (but no less plausible) country. Yes, it doesn't matter. The main thing is that the people of the Phalanx came to power, bred cruel and unthinking man-dogs, got rid of all dissidents, and their children were sent to special boarding camps. But this cannot go on forever. And now these children have grown up, matured and wanted to break free. Moreover, they decided that they were strong enough to fight the regime and could join forces with the meager handful of oppositionists who are sure to be found in any, even the most totalitarian, country. But it is impossible to defeat the enemies of freedom with their own weapons - that is, with fists and force. It needs something exceptional, some kind of miracle. This miracle is the singing talent of one of the heroines. Because art is eternal and stronger than any weapon. It is the most powerful and remedy for any misfortune. Well, of course, love, because without love people are nowhere!
It can be recommended as a gift for a high school student - a boy or girl 15-17 years old. It will seem to adults that social transformations took place unnaturally easily (although there were barricades and underground). The ease with which the revolution took place and the sun shone makes one recall "Three Fat Men" (who was the leader of the opposition there - the gymnast Tibul or the gunsmith Prospero?). But except for the "Winter Battle" serious adult book- Murleva still wrote for teenagers - it turns out that for his audience this work is very, very serious. The plot is captivating: love, friendship, the struggle for freedom.. It will be especially close to those who are learning to sing, play an instrument, and are generally interested in music. main character, the daughter of the deceased singer, almost does not remember her mother, but remembers the melodies folk songs heard from her in childhood. The theme of memory, spiritual connection with deceased parents, the desire to learn and remember as much as possible - connects everyone actors apart from mutual sympathy. First love is described touchingly and tenderly, but the author focuses on the theme of growing up, responsibility, the first serious actions. The young man had to kill - he defended himself and his girlfriend - but this does not come easy to him, as they show in modern action films. Shock and moral suffering make him think painfully, and these lonely thoughts in captivity gradually prepare him for main battle in his life. Winter battle .. Enemies wanted to make a gladiator out of him (the guy was very gifted in the sports sense), but they could not kill his soul. In winter, the main competitions are held in the capital - something like Olympic Games. If you enter the arena and do not fight, a painful public punishment will follow, very bloody - to please the audience. You could say it's a punishment. This is the thought of every fighter before the battle. The guy won - he refused to kill. After the romanticization of gladiators in films, various gangsters and cowboys, killing right and left the guilty and not guilty by the tens and hundreds - and at the same time remaining " nice guys"- this book is sobering. Like a breath of fresh air.
Yakushkina Tatiana0, Novosibirsk
I read The Winter Battle by Jean-Claude Murlev and was subdued. Finally, you can enjoy a high-quality and competent translation. Without stylistic blunders, clumsy phrases and inept interlinear. "Winter Battle" - fiction and not second-class recycling. Of course, it also contains the spirit of E. Zamyatin's novel "We", and involuntary associations with Kurt Wimmer's "Equilibrium", and references to other anti-utopias ... But the book only benefits from this. A brilliant translation + a thoroughly constructed plot - and we get a work that takes your breath away, you want to quickly turn the page, find out what's next. In frosty winter city, where the walls breathe cold and freeze at home, seething human feelings, prohibitions are broken, pride is revived and love flares up. All for the sake of freedom, all for the fall of the imposed rules of life. At the center of the Resistance are four teenagers. Four against Phalanx (Evil). Not everyone will be able to win and survive, because the book is a reality, not a pretty fairy tale. To be honest, Jean-Claude Murleva does not let go of the reader's attention until last pages, and then does not allow you to forget about the existence of the "Winter Battle" in two hours, you remember it! This is the literature to which we are all accustomed, almost a classic. Why almost? It is not the people who decide this, but time. Fantastic book with amazing characters. There is a System, but there are also people who tend to make mistakes, love, hate, drive crazy, give orders and fight for the lives of friends, forgetting about themselves. There are no blacks and whites, and there are no grays either. Colored? Perhaps so. In the book, the characters come to life, they cannot be accused of one-sidedness and falsity. I never thought that I would be delighted with modern book, published in a children's publishing house, but it happened. As the saying goes, never say never.
Jean-Claude Murleva is already familiar to those who read his allegorical fairy tale story “The River Flowing Back”, also published by “Scooter” (see: Murleva J.-C. The River Flowing Back). And here in front of us A new book French writer- "Winter Battle" ("Le combat d'hiver", 2006).
A cursory scrolling first of all causes a cowardly desire to put the novel aside - scary! In fact, it becomes uncomfortable from the oppressive atmosphere of closed boarding schools, reminiscent of strict regime colonies, from the ruthless henchmen of the sinister Phalanx, who treacherously seized power in an unnamed European country and established their barbaric rules there, from the terrible half-intelligent man-dogs that the Phalanx uses to persecute and physically eliminate the disaffected ... But it’s worth reading, and the story is addictive, forcing you to sharply empathize with the heroes, young and brave, and fiercely hate the villains who have committed unrighteous and cruel coup d'état.
Every teenager is partly a dissident and an underground fighter. With what truly maniacal zeal he invents secret ways of communicating with peers - he develops ingenious systems of "appearances and passwords", letters and notes not intended for the eyes of teachers and parents, thereby trying to protect his inner world from the obsessive-well-intentioned intervention of adults. Usually it is only a game designed to help a teenager find his own path to independence. What if it's an absolute necessity?
Helen and Milena, prisoners of one of these prison boarding schools, have no time for games at all. Their entire life, ordered to the limit, is permeated through with all sorts of prohibitions - one cannot do without notes. Even singing in a circle of classmates is strictly forbidden, except perhaps a falsely peppy boarding anthem. The only outlet is the so-called "comforters", kind women, trying to the best of their ability to brighten up the girls' dreary time in the boarding school. True, they are allowed to go to them only occasionally and with an escort, and any attempt to escape threatens another pupil, arbitrarily chosen as a victim, with imprisonment in a cold and dark punishment cell.
However, it is impossible to completely stifle the growing resistance, and soon four teenagers - Milena, Helen and two pupils of the boarding school for boys, Milos and Bartolomeo - become fugitives. They learn the terrible truth about their parents, who once tried to resist the Phalanx and died, and decide to continue the unequal fight against the invaders.
Despite the fantastic form Murleva wrote an extremely truthful and convincing novel. A novel about the indestructible desire for freedom and the desire for it, about true love and about the power of real art that can give people hope.
And more this difficult romance- not every teenager will be able to do it. "Scooter" does not hide this and points out honestly: "for high school age".
Jean-Claude Murleva
winter battle
I want to thank the people
who accompanied me in my work
over this novel:
Thierry Laroche of "Gallimard Jeunesse" for his sensible and always friendly remarks;
Jean-Philippe Arroux-Vignault of the Gallimard Jeunesse, who managed to allay my fears that I write "by touch";
doctor Patrick Carrera - for information related to medicine;
musician Christopher Murray - for his equally precious help in musical matters;
Rachel and my children Emma and Colin - for the fact that they, all three, are nearby, and this is priceless for me and always new gift.
I would also like to express my deep gratitude to the British singer Kathleen Ferrier, whose exciting voice and fate echoed in everything written here.
Without her, this novel would not exist.
J.– K. M.
In memory of Roni
my boarding school friend
J.– K. M.
IN BOARDING
AT A SIGN by the warden, one of the girls seated in the front row stood up, walked over to the light switch, and flipped the metal lever. Three bare bulbs lit up the classroom with a harsh white light. It was getting dark, and it had long been difficult to read, but the rule was strictly observed: in October the lights were turned on at eighteen-thirty and not a minute earlier. Helen waited another ten minutes before finally making up her mind. She hoped that the light would dispel the pain that had nested in her chest since morning, and now approached her throat, Helen knew perfectly well the name of this pressing lump: longing. She had already experienced this, and she was convinced by experience that she was not able to fight it, and there was nothing to wait for it to pass, it would only get worse.
So, so be it, she will go to her comforter, and that now is October and the year is just beginning - well, nothing can be done. Helen pulled out a piece of paper from a draft notebook and wrote: “I want to go to the comforter. Should I take you as an escort?" Didn't subscribe. The person to whom the note was intended would recognize her handwriting from a thousand. Helen folded the paper in half, then twice more, and wrote the name and address: “Milena. Window line. Third table.
She slipped the note to her neighbor Vera Plasil, who was dozing with her eyes open over her biology textbook. The secret mail is up and running. The note passed, passing from hand to hand, along the corridor where Helen was sitting, to the fourth table, from there flew unnoticed to the center row, then to the window, and then continued its way to the other end of the classroom, right into the hands of Milena. All this took less than a minute. Such was the unwritten law: messages must be transmitted flawlessly, quickly and without fail to reach the addressee. They were passed on without hesitation, even if they hated the sender or recipient. This forbidden correspondence was the only way to communicate both in the classroom and during self-study, because the rules prescribed complete silence. For more than three years spent here, Helen never saw that the sent note was lost or returned without being passed on, and even more so that it was read - if this happened, the culprit would not be in trouble.
Milena ran her eyes over the note. Lush blond hair spilled over her shoulders and back - a real lion's mane. Helen would give dearly to have such hair, but she had to be content with her own, coarse and short, like a boy's, with which nothing could be done. Milena turned around, frowning disapprovingly. Helen perfectly understood what she wanted to say: “I'm crazy! It's only October! Last year you lasted until February!”
In response, Helen tossed her head impatiently, narrowed her eyes tightly: “So be it, but I want to go now. Are you coming with me or not?"
Milena sighed. It meant consent.
Helen neatly stacked all the school supplies on the table, got up and, followed by a dozen curious looks, went to the matron's table.
From the matron, Mademoiselle Zesch, there was a sharp smell of sweat, on the neck and upper lip despite the cold, an unhealthy perspiration appeared.
“I want to go to my comforter,” Helen said in a whisper.
The matron showed no surprise. She just opened the large black notebook in front of her.
- Surname?
— Dormann. Helen Dormann, Helen replied, sure that she knew her name perfectly, but did not want to show it.
The warden ran her fat finger down the list and settled on the letter D. Checked, not
