by Stuart Gibbs
From the blank looks on the others’ faces, Greg realized he was the only one who even knew what a bullfight was. He was surprised to hear of them taking place here himself; he’d always associated them with Spain. But perhaps the culture here, this far south, was more Spanish than he’d realized.
He peered closer into one of the pens as he passed. A pair of angry eyes met his. The bull bellowed at him and slammed its horns into the side of the pen, making Greg jump.
The trader laughed. “I wouldn’t get too close to them without a few years of training,” he cautioned. “The bulls of Arles are renowned for their nasty tempers.”
They reached the end of the passage. The trader unlatched a thick wooden gate and slid it open, allowing them all into the center of the Arena.
Greg was shocked; inside, it looked almost exactly like a modern-day stadium. The center was a large, wide oval, ringed by a wooden fence that was ten feet high and surrounded by several tiers of stone seats. The size was astonishing: It appeared large enough to hold the entire population of Arles as well as most of the surrounding countryside.
“Where are the horses?” Aramis asked.
Greg turned back to the trader, just in time to see the man slam the wooden gate shut behind them. He heard the latch being thrown on the other side, locking them in the center of the Arena.
They were trapped out in the open. There wasn’t a single place to hide.
And then the arrows started flying.
EIGHTEEN
THE FIRST ARROW WHISTLED THROUGH THE AIR AND embedded itself in the gate mere inches from Greg’s head.
Two more plugged the ground at the girls’ feet.
The fourth struck Aramis in the shoulder.
“Ambush!” Greg yelled, just as Aramis screamed in pain.
“Run!” Athos ordered them. “Anywhere you can go! Just keep moving so they can’t get a bead on you!”
Everyone did as he ordered. It was chaos. More arrows whistled past them from all directions.
Greg chanced a look up into the stands, where the arrows were coming from. The attackers weren’t even trying to hide themselves. They had no need to; there was nothing the Musketeers could do to them from this distance. The three Spanish assassins who had attacked them outside Paris had found them again. Each stood in a different section of the bleachers, with full quivers, firing arrows with abandon.
And there, along with them, was Valois. He was standing in the shadows, overseeing the attack. A sadistic smile was spread across his face.
“D’Artagnan! Come!” Athos grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the fence. “You’re the best climber. I’m sending you over!”
There wasn’t any time to argue—or to ask what Athos’s plan was. Athos reached the fence ahead of Greg and laced his fingers together. Greg stepped into his hands and Athos lifted with all his might, launching Greg into the air. Greg caught the top of the fence, kicked at it with his feet, desperately trying to find purchase …
An arrow thwacked into the wood an inch from his leg.
Greg set his foot on the shaft and vaulted over the fence. He tumbled into the mud on the other side, safely out of firing range—for now.
He heard the whoosh of an arrow on the opposite side of the fence, followed by the sick, wet sound of it hitting flesh, coupled with a cry of pain from Athos.
Greg turned his attention to the fence. There was a sliding gate close by, leading back into the center of the Arena. Greg ran over and hacked at the bolt with his sword, trying to cleave it from the fence. The wood around it splintered, weakening, but didn’t give.
Something snorted behind Greg. He spun around. The huge bull he’d seen before glowered at him from the shadows. Greg was in its pen. It pawed the ground, preparing to charge, and aimed its massive horns at Greg.
Just when my day was going so well, Greg thought. His back was to the gate. There was no place for him to go....
Except up. As the bull bellowed and charged, Greg jammed his sword into the wood behind him, then stepped on it and lunged for the top of the gate. His fingers caught it and he pulled himself up.
The bull slammed into the gate just beneath his feet. The weakened bolt ripped from the fence and the gate swung open. The bull’s momentum carried it right out into the center of the ring.
Greg’s friends were scattered around the floor. Porthos was propping up Athos, who had been hit in the thigh. Aramis was still staggering about with the shaft of an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Thankfully, neither of the girls nor Porthos had been hit yet.
“Quickly!” Greg shouted. “This way!”
Relieved at an escape route—yet terrified of the bull—the others raced for the open gate. But the Spaniards all turned their attention that way as well.
In the tier above him, Greg saw one of the Spaniards racing down toward the gate, hoping to cut off everyone’s escape. Greg dropped to the ground, wrenched his sword free, then ducked back into the bull’s holding pen.
Behind him, Aramis, Catherine, and Milady were almost through the gate, though Porthos and Athos were moving slower.
In the center of the ring, the bull turned back toward its pen, bellowed, and charged. It was so big, its hooves made the ground tremble.
There was a ladder built into the wall of the bullpen, heading up through a small gap between the fence and the stone tiers of seats. Greg scrambled up through it and leaped into the seats, only to find the Spaniard bearing down upon him.
Focus, he told himself. Stay in the moment. He’ll indicate what he’s about to do.
Aramis, Catherine, and Milady came through the gate below. Porthos and Athos were almost there, but the bull was bearing down on them.
The Spaniard whipped out his sword as he hurtled down the steps, then brought it back above his head, as though he intended to cleave Greg in two.
Greg ducked down and came in low with his own sword, catching the Spaniard just below the knee, using his attacker’s own momentum against him. The Spaniard stumbled and sailed over the edge of the tier, landing in the gateway right after Porthos and Athos ran through.
The bull slammed into him a second later. The Spaniard screamed as the angry beast tossed him about like a rag doll.
While the bull was distracted, Greg helped the others up the ladder and into the seats. More arrows sailed toward them, clanking off the stone.
Greg caught a glimpse of Valois across the Arena. He was no longer merely watching the event. He was on his feet now, rushing into battle, a frown creasing his face.
A nearby arch led out of the seating area. Greg herded Aramis and the girls toward it, then stayed behind to help Athos up the ladder. The swordsman was bleeding profusely from his wound. He couldn’t place any weight on his wounded leg, and he was beginning to grow pale.
“Are you all right?” Greg asked him.
“I’ll be fine.” Athos smiled gamely. “It’s just a scratch.”
“My uncle’s beans it’s just a scratch,” Porthos huffed. “We need to get him to safety, fast.”
He and Greg slung Athos between their shoulders and raced up the aisle and through the arch. It led to a stairwell. The boys started down it, though they’d only made it a few steps when they heard one of the girls scream.
“Go help them!” Porthos said. “I’ll take care of Athos!”
Greg started to protest, wondering what he could do, but Porthos cut him off.
“You’re the best swordsman of us, after Athos,” Porthos told him. “I’d only get myself killed.”
Greg hesitated, then ran down, wondering if that could possibly be true. Porthos’s words filled him with confidence, but it was tinged with doubt. There was no time to think, however. The others were in trouble, and he was the only one who could help.
Greg raced into the maze of archways that supported the Arena. Ahead, he caught a glimpse of one of the Spaniards pursuing Catherine out of the stadium and into the city. There was no sign of Aramis or Milady, but Greg assumed the
y must be ahead of Catherine and took up the chase.
He charged out of the Arena, into the ruins of the ancient Roman theater across the plaza, coming upon the Spaniard just as he was about to pounce on Catherine.
“Leave her alone!” Greg shouted, slamming into the assassin. They smashed through an ancient railing and tumbled into an opening in the ground beyond it. The earth dropped out from under them and they plunged into darkness.
They fell down an ancient stone staircase. Greg was battered repeatedly, landing on the hard steps—or the Spaniard—again and again until they both came to a stop with a painful thud. Greg scrambled to his feet, completely disoriented for a few moments, until he realized that he and the Spaniard had fallen down into the subterranean level beneath the city. They were in the cryptoporticus.
It was surprisingly large, the size of a subway tunnel, and almost entirely dark.
Greg had lost his sword during the long tumble down the stairs, but the Spaniard still had his. It gleamed as it sliced through the air.
Greg quickly dodged and rolled. The sword whooshed past him. He scrambled away, searching for anything to defend himself, but the crypt was barren as could be.
The Spaniard attacked again. Greg ducked away once more. His entire body ached with exhaustion, and yet he needed to run. He skirted another attack and headed deeper into the shadows.
Only to find himself in a dead end.
Greg whirled back toward the assassin. Aware Greg was trapped and unarmed, the Spaniard laughed, and the sound echoed ominously through the crypt. He raised his sword a final time....
And then he gave a startled gasp of pain.
The tip of Greg’s sword was now protruding from his chest. The Spaniard looked down and stared at it, as surprised to see it as Greg was.
Then he toppled forward, face-first, revealing the rest of the sword sticking out of his back.
Catherine stood behind him, stunned by what she’d done. “Oh my,” she gasped. “I … I killed him.”
Before Greg knew it, he was hugging her tightly. “If you hadn’t, he’d have killed me.”
Catherine clutched him tightly as well, and then began to cry onto his shoulder, overwhelmed by everything that had happened. Greg wasn’t sure what to do. He stood there in the dark, wishing he could think of something reassuring to say.
As he did, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could now see that the cryptoporticus was partly built from pieces of other, even older buildings. Many had writing on them—at least two appeared to be ancient tombstones, now tilted on their sides—almost all of it Latin. But one was different. It was an ancient stone, extremely worn with age, decorated with the type of writing from an era that predated the Romans.
Greg sucked in a breath. To his astonishment, several of the characters looked familiar. They matched the ones on Richelieu’s map.
“It’s Greek,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Catherine pulled back from him, red eyed and sniffling. “What is?”
Greg pointed to the stone nearby. “The inscription on Richelieu’s map,” he explained. “It’s not a code. It’s ancient Greek, like this.”
Catherine looked closely, then broke into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Greg asked.
“You,” she said. “Here we are, in a crypt, after men have just tried to kill us … and instead of dealing with that, you’re off solving mysteries.”
“I’m sorry,” Greg said. “I just happened to notice it and …”
“No need to apologize,” Catherine said. “I meant it as a compliment.”
It occurred to Greg that his arms were still around her. He suddenly found himself looking into her eyes, overwhelmed by a tumult of emotions. She stared back, appearing equally unsure what to do.
“D’Artagnan!” Porthos’s voice echoed down the stairs. “Are you down there? Are you all right?”
Greg and Catherine pulled apart awkwardly, the moment between them over. “Yes!” Greg called back. “And I’m with Catherine and one of the Spaniards—although he won’t be causing us trouble anymore.”
“You mean Milady isn’t down there with you?” There was now concern in Porthos’s voice.
“No!” Catherine raced for the stairs. “We thought she was with Aramis!”
“He thought she was with you!” Porthos yelled back.
Greg tugged his sword out of the Spaniard’s back. There was blood all over the shaft. Queasily, he wiped it off on the dead man’s clothes, then ran from the cryptoporticus.
He found the other Musketeers and Catherine gathered at the top of the stairs. Aramis and Athos were nursing their wounds, but while both were in great pain, they appeared far more concerned about Milady than themselves.
“What happened to Valois and the last assassin?” Greg asked.
“They fled,” Athos said. “I didn’t see where. But I’m guessing they captured Milady.”
“No.” Aramis shook his head. “They couldn’t have. She’s too clever to let that happen. She must be still hiding around here somewhere.”
He was wrong, however. The Musketeers combed the area but found no trace of Milady. She was gone.
NINETEEN
THE MUSKETEERS QUICKLY RETURNED TO ST. TROPHIMUS to see if Milady might have returned there. The monks hadn’t seen her, but one of them knew where to find the horse trader who had betrayed the boys. His name was Augustus, and he had a small office just off the market square.
Athos set off for it immediately, even though he was in terrible pain. He hobbled along so quickly that his fellow Musketeers had to pursue him through the streets.
“Athos, wait!” Porthos implored him. “You need to go easy on that leg! We need to clean and dress that wound!”
“There will be time for that later!” Athos said. “As soon as this trader gets wind of what’s happened, he’ll most likely flee as well.”
“And you’ll die from blood loss,” Greg argued. “Listen to reason, will you?” He looked toward Aramis—who was usually the voice of reason—for help. But Aramis had said almost nothing since Milady’s disappearance. He, too, had refused to tend to his wound. He was so distraught about Milady, he barely looked up to see where he was going.
Athos, meanwhile, was consumed by rage. Despite his wounded leg, he hadn’t stopped moving since the Arena. He’d merely cinched a tourniquet around his thigh and had been charging about the city, determined to track Milady down.
“What’s got into him?” Porthos whispered to Greg as they reached the market plaza. “The way he got along with Milady, I’d have thought he’d be happy she’s gone.”
“You know how chivalrous Athos is,” Greg said, afraid to divulge the truth. “If there’s a damsel in distress, he has to save her.”
Catherine was right on their heels. Her emotions seemed to be a mixture of Aramis’s despair and Athos’s resolve.
But Greg was wary. The more he played the ambush at the Arena over in his mind, the more convinced he was that Milady had betrayed them. He thought back to the day at the waterfall. Had Milady somehow left a message for Valois? That would explain how Valois and the assassins had found them. And now that the attack had failed, Milady had fled with Valois before being exposed as a traitor. Most likely, they had gone to regroup with Dinicoeur, Richelieu, and the army.
But there was no way Greg could tell the others that. He had no proof—and was sure Athos and Aramis wouldn’t even believe him if he did.
And yet, even Greg had to admit there was still a chance he was wrong about Milady. What if she truly was innocent? Perhaps Valois and the assassins had tracked the boys down without any help and now had captured Milady. If that were the case, Greg would feel terribly guilty if anything happened to her. But there was something about this that didn’t quite make sense, and he had a nagging feeling that he’d missed something important.
Once the Musketeers reached the market, it wasn’t hard to locate the horse trader. They merely had to follow
the smell. There was a stable on the far side of the plaza that reeked of horse manure, as if it hadn’t been cleaned out in days, if not weeks. There was only a single horse in it at the time—a flea-bitten nag so starved her ribs poked through her skin—and Augustus was currently trying to sell her.
He went white with fear the moment he saw the Musketeers. “You!” he gasped, as though they’d risen from the dead. Then he ran for the door.
Athos was on him in a second. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he charged through the stables and pounced on the trader. They smashed through the gate of an empty stall and slammed into the ground. Augustus was driven face-first into a two-day-old pile of manure.
Athos grabbed a handful of Augustus’s hair, yanked his head up, and hissed in his ear. “Where did they go?”
“Who?” Augustus asked.
Athos slammed the trader’s face back into the manure. “You don’t want to play stupid with me,” he snarled. “Four men hired you to help them kill us. Only two of them are still alive. Unless you want to be next, answer the question.”
He yanked Augustus’s face up again. The trader gasped for breath. “I don’t know where they went …” he began.
Athos snapped a knife out of his boot.
“Wait!” Augustus pleaded. “Let me finish! I’m telling the truth about not knowing where they went.... But I do know some things that may be of help.”
“Like what?” Athos demanded.
“They were an odd group: three Spaniards and a Frenchman. Although the Frenchman was the leader, the Spaniards didn’t like him. They talked behind his back—in Spanish, so he wouldn’t understand.”
“But you did?” Athos asked.
“Yes. I speak Spanish,” Augustus replied. “They didn’t know, so they didn’t realize I could understand them. They said they were glad this mission would soon be over so they could regroup with their countrymen.”
“That’s exactly what they said?” Porthos asked. “‘Regroup with their countrymen?’ Not ‘Return to Spain’?”
“Yes,” Augustus said. “Regroup. Like there were more of them around here. You’re aware that someone has been buying up every bit of food and livestock in the countryside?”