The Far Arena

by Richard Ben Sapir

  I was already going to what I thought was his attack. I hit the pommel of his short sword with my shield and snapped his open scutum arm with a clubbing of my spatha. I slammed my bare head into his helmeted face, knocking him backward and suffering a small cut on my forehead. It must have looked as though I were mounting a woman. Publius went down on his back, and I went down on him, my knees straddling. I was up in an instant. He lay beneath me, belly up, mouth open, feet and hands useless, his short sword off somewhere to my left, his scutum weighting down a broken arm. He looked at me hazy-eyed, waiting to die. It was a bad show.

  The rumours of his strength had been a trick. Granted, a trick with little chance of success, but that had been a vast improvement over his previous outlook. The old centurion had used cunning. If 1 assumed Publius was strong, I might approach him in such a manner that might be vulnerable if ever so briefly to a weak man, when not to a strong one. The former centurion has used my own retainers against me, not as it turned out for his success, but to rob me of mine, leaving a useless Publius beneath me.

  'Get up. I'll move back. Fight for your life,' I said, the smile still large on my face.

  'I cannot.'

  'You must. Just touch me and I'll fall.' 'I have no arms. My shield is holding one. The other pains me, Eugeni. It hurts.' 'Move it anyhow' 'It hurts. It hurts, Eugeni,' he cried.

  I heard a few cheers and then the growl. They were laughing. Not good. 'Hit me with your head.' 'I cannot move it. I pain.' 'Mars's ass.' 'I'm sorry, Eugeni.' 'Idiot you. I will cut your eyes out.' 'I'm sorry.'

  'Quiet. I will do you quickly. You will feel nothing.'

  I raised the spatha in a grand gesture. I could end his pain quickly, getting the bones in the back of his neck on the first lunge down, and then, with him feeling nothing, I could continue pounding at the throat, hoping a thrust would cut and then possibly wrenching the head off. The crowds would think this was a grand conclusion, not knowing I was mutilating a dead body of a person who ended his life as he had faced it, like a little boy.

  If that were not enough, I could run to the entrance and have the master of the games send out criminals singly. I would fight each on my knees, taking the weapon from the fallen man and using it against the next.

  Domitian would understand what was happening. After the fifth or sixth criminal, I would appear exhausted, and then he could raise the wooden sword above him and the crowd would cheer me home. Maybe ten criminals. It would be less dangerous than walking from this mismatch, for then rumours would start that not only was Publius drugged, but the secutor I had killed days before was drugged also, as had been all my opponents. Then I would be back here to die for certain, with Domitian thinking he would get all my wealth.

  I was grateful now for the six million sesterces he had been promised and had yet to receive.

  I thought of these things as I looked to Domitian for this signal of death that was certain. I had to wait. Formalities are vital in Rome. I put the point of the spatha to Publius' neck in case his lack of strength be a ruse also. Domitian waited for the virgin's signal. Sometimes it is a turned-down thumb, other times it is a thumb into the heart signifying, 'Give it to him here.' From the twisted folds of Domitian's toga, I knew it was the thumb and it was down. A thumb up somehow does not twist the folds of the toga as much. The virgins had called death. I barely bothered to look at the rest of the crowd. I knew it would be death there also for the virgins followed the mob It was really always the mob which decided, and all wanted death

  'Good-bye, Publius,' I said.

  'My mother,' he said. 'Where is her thumb? Tell me that last thing, Eugeni.'

  'It is a big crowd, Publius, and a far distance. I do not think I can tell.' 'Look, please. A parting gift.' 'No time.' 'Please.'

  I spotted his mother easily even at a distance, for those around her were looking at her as she stood proudly, her robe a mass of twisted cloth. Her husband's head was in his hands. I would have delighted in splitting her, from lacquered hair to perfumed vagina

  I felt at that moment truly proud to be a Greek, and if conquering the world did this to women, then I was glad that it was legion, not Greek hoplite, which proved victorious.

  "The thumb is up, Publius, Your mother stands with your father, alone, against the tide calling for your death. She is your mother, truly.'

  ‘I had thought so ill of her. I never knew her. Help me stand, Eugeni, so that she may see me take my death in a noble Roman way.'

  'Roman whelp, the Roman way is why you lie down there like a bug. Death is no more noble than your urine. It is not a big thing. Not a big thing at all. Good-bye.

  'What is a big thing, Eugeni? Before you kill me, tell me.'

  'There are no big things. Shut your eyes.'

  Tell me a great thing. You know great things. Eugeni. You are great.'

  'I am cunning, not great.'

  I heard the first rustle of boredom. I knew Domitian must be signalling madly by now, and Publius' mother more violently than her neighbours. And at that moment I realized I was proud, not ashamed of my mother. For she had yelled for me, when they took me away. If I were on the ground, instead of Roman Publius, my mother would yell for my life, if the world had come down upon her. My Greek mother, so poor I could not find her, so worthless as to not even have a name in a sale of property, was a goddess compared to the Roman mother.

  Was this what I wanted for my son Petronius ? Was Publius an example? The finest thing I had done in my life was not marry Roman.

  1 hated Rome, realizing only then how much contempt I had for the city spawn of my drunken father Publius begged.

  'A great thing, Eugeni. Tell me a gieat thing, Eugeni, please.' 'Quiet, you poor thing.' 'A great thing.'

  'Nothing is great. There is no great thing.' 'A last gift.'

  A rolling groan started around the arena, gathering strength. 'A great thing. My mother was a great thing. 1 love my Greek mother. Glory to her forever,' I yelled. And the action of my head stilled the crowd. They naturally thought I was yelling curses at Publius. One hundred and fifty thousand people can naturally do almost anything but be quiet.

  'For Phaedra, and her spirit, here is a great thing,' I yelled. 'Mother, for you. Forever.' I brought the spatha pommel high over my head, with the blade pointed down. I knew Rome waited now for the anxious little killing, thirsting as a latifundium slave might thirst for water, yet the crowd thought they had rights to blood, where the slave could drink only as a privilege given by a Roman master.

  I brought the spatha down with my entire body behind it. A gross stroke. An obvious stroke. A visible stroke. Away from Plubius' head. In the sand. Quivering. ‘No,' I yelled.

  And in that silence, it was heard.

  Thirteen

  Sister Olav was stopped again before class and called into the office of the mother superior. She was asked what she thought of the American who came from the University at Oslo.

  'I don't understand the question,' said Sister Olav.

  'The materials he brought. Did they interest you?'

  'Yes. Somewhat. They were very strange,' said Sister Olav. She did not sit, but stood beside the chair before the desk of the mother superior. If she did not sit, she thought, then she would be allowed to run along quickly.

  'You showed a great deal of enthusiasm.'

  'Yes. I do get carried away.'

  'You were oblivious to the crucifix around your waist on the rosary.' 'I'm sorry. I did not know.'

  'Yes. I realize. Enthusiasm and joy are not evil, and the academic life, child, is also a gift to our Lord. I am asking this because this year you take your final vows. Is the cloistered life your calling?'

  'I do not know what I am meant for other than what is promised through Scripture and revelation. I, like every other person, am meant for heaven. What you are really asking is which path there. And to that question I can only answer, I hope I have chosen the right path.'

  'It seems like a waste of your training that the worl
d seems to need now,' said the mother superior. 'I have had inquiries about your skills, which seem to be wasted here.'

  'A bigger waste is a soul.'

  'God does not give talents to be wasted.’

  'But if the talent becomes an obstacle to reaching heaven ..

  'You may think that, but I have seen these things work out quite nicely. It is in the grit and grime that He works also. Please think about it, dear.'

  Sister Olav made her class on time, but she left unfinished the beautiful passage on Roman justice. How fair it was, how inspirational it was, how incorruptible it was as compared, of course to the rest of the world, and, according to the poet, especially to the Greeks.

  In the special intensive-care unit, what was now being called the 'cryonics floor', Dr Semyon Petrovitch awoke to a gentle tug. He had fallen asleep in the chair usually used by the round-the-clock nurses. He had stayed three days with the patient, and now it was breathing easily, and the oxygen tent had been removed. The intense time had taken its toll, however, on Petrovitch, who had not left this room; his underwear was sticky, and his skin itched, and his dark beard was almost as thick as the patient's.

  The person tugging was the American.

  'Good morning, Lew,' said Petrovitch.

  'We need a translator,' said McCardle. 'Soon. Because I said to it when its eyes were open, "Requiescas," and it shut its eyes.'

  ‘Yes?'

  'That's Latin for "you rest." It you have ever seen a tombstone with "requiescat in pacem", you might recognize the word. It understands, Semyon, It hears.'

  'Well, you talk to it.'

  'I wish I could. I know very little Latin,' lied Lew. But it was only a partial lie. He really did not know enough to speak it, for Latin had been taught to him as a language for print, for only the written word had lasted. And they needed someone who could think in that language. And that left only the nun at Ringerike.

  'The chances are very good,' said Petrovitch, 'that it will regain consciousness. Very good. I expect it, Lew.'

  'Then let's talk to the nun about translating, now.'

  'I prefer a Russian.'

  'Fine. When?'

  'That is a problem.'

  Petrovitch shook himself fully awake. He looked at his watch. He had slept four hours. He could go on, he told himself.

  'Are you still trying to promote that nun who identified the language?' he asked. He took Lew back to his office, where he made them both a drink from the little boy with the red plastic hat who pissed Ballantine scotch when you pressed the hat.

  'Yes,' said Lew.

  'Why ?' asked Petrovitch. As a Russian he felt he should be able to drink more than Lew, but this American seemed to have an inexhaustible capacity. Petrovitch decided not to take drink for drink.

  'She's supposed to be good, according to the professor of Romance languages here at the university.' Petrovitch nodded, allowing that as an acceptable fact 'She's near.' Petrovitch nodded.

  'I think we can expect the highest scientific standards, and someone who is not going to sell for cash the amazing inside story of the man dead for a couple of thousand years or so. You've got to think of that, Semyon.'

  'Which is why I want the Russian. But I agree on the Norwegian holy woman, if we can get her.' Petrovitch pressed the little red hat as Lew wiggled his fingers signalling Petrovitch should continue pressing. When the tumbler was three-quarters full, McCardle made a cut with his hands.

  'I don't follow,' said McCaidle.

  'If I get a Russian, I must apply for one. That will take a while. But they are not going to just go looking for a linguist proficient in a dead Western language. They are going to examine why I would want that particular person, then examine how this whole thing might be a ruse to get that person, then examine the people examining the person, and, assuming that person wants to go in the first place, then there must be people to go with him. And so we will get a group of four translators, one of them speaking Latin hopefully, and the other three watching him, each other, you, me, John Carter, and then heaven forbid one of these people should decide he wants to see the West alone, and we all get yanked back. You think the KGB is just some people sneaking around with guns and secret weapons, and women luring scientists across our western border, or planting guerrilla movements hither and yon. I will tell you what they are. They are people out to justify exorbitant budgets, fine homes and heavy consumption of Western goods. And they don't want to lose their cushy jobs by doing anything rash. Therefore they don't do anything quickly. Therefore to get our translator we would probably have to put John Carter back in ice for another sixteen hundred years. Therefore, I accept the nun, but with precautions. We will allow the nun, but under the strictest controls and agreements.'

  'If we can get her,' said Lew.

  'If?' said Petrovitch.

  They put in a request to the office of the metropolitan of Oslo, and, surprisingly, the mother superior called back, quite anxious to talk to both men. This within two hours of the call to the metropolitan's office. They could come up immediately if they wished, she said.

  Lew cleaned his breath with a clove and gave one to Semyon. At first it stung, and then you had the feeling of breathing spiced air. Semyon bathed at the sink.

  On the trip up, Semyon drove, despite his weariness, and explained how he got permission to work in Norway. He had to pretend to love his wife and two children.

  It was the first time Petrovitch had talked of his personal life to Lew, and as Lew listened he thought how similar they both were in some respects.

  'Yes. I do not love my children. They are spoiled. They are ungrateful and my wife has turned them against me. I tried to love them, Lew. And then I thought, why bother? What law says you have to love your children? And yet, I feel bad confessing. But I had to show I loved them to be able to work here. I would die if I thought I could never return to my motherland. I have no intention of flying the coop, as you say. But you see the mentality of the KGB. Back home they have their insurance, which of course is meaningless, but it looks good on paper which they pass from one to another.'

  'You didn't have to explain, Semyon.'

  'I wanted to. I also want you to know that I am grateful to my motherland. Without the Communist party, I never would have had a chance to go through medical school, or achieve the things I achieved. I may talk cynically, but I want you to know the nuisances and regulations and things like the KGB are a very small price to pay for what we have. A small price, Lew.'

  'OK,' said McCardle.

  'You have children?'

  'Yes.'

  'Do you love them?'

  'Honestly, I don't know. One thinks I am as rich as the Shah of Iran, and the other thinks I am some capitalist devil and she's Che Guevara leading some revolution.'

  'Does she shoot up things?'

  'No. She sleeps around with people who talk revolution. Her big thing was sleeping with a black.

  'What did you do? People from your part of your country are the biggest racists.'

  'I think that's unfair. But I didn't do anything. I wasn't there Kathy, my wife, was there.'

  'What did she do?'

  'I don't know. She just told me about it and then got mad at my answer.' 'What was your answer, Lew?' 'I told her it was my daughter's pussy, not hers.' 'And what did she say?'

  'She called me dirty-mouthed, trash cowboy - a peasant, sort of.'

  'You were a peasant?'

  'Yeah, I guess that would describe my father.'

  'Was he a good man?'

  'No.'

  Tm sorry. Mine was a good man. I loved my father. I loved my mother. I wish I loved my children. I wish I hadn't married my wife She had such a lovely body She was a beautiful woman. Her family was important. She had everything to recommend her but a heart. And yet that is the last thing a young man looks at. They look at breasts, at asses, at faces, and they do not look at the heart. An eighteen-year-old is a perpetual erection. And when you're hard between your legs you
are soft between your ears.'

  'I kind of examined Kathy's heart,' said Lew. 'And I got exactly what I wanted when I was a graduate student.'

  'I take it that it is not sufficient now?'

  'I don't know,' said Lew. 'I'll find out when I retire. I am going to retire soon.'

  'I would hate to have the kind of job that I looked forward to leaving,' said Petrovitch.

  'It's all right. Hey, it's a great job.'

  'Oh, that's good,' said Petrovitch kindly.

  Petrovitch asked if McCardle wrote his wife.

  McCardle said he phoned a lot.

  'What do you do for company?'

  'I find it,' said McCardle.

  'Phoning is expensive. Now, I write on the seventh of every month. I do it early in the morning before I shave and that way I don't have to put it off. It's over with. Done.'

  'Does your wife write to you. Semyon?'

  'Always. I stack her letters and then open them all at once, just before I write. It's a good system. It gives the impression I remember everything she writes. A wonderful system.'

  'Semyon, I don't think either you or I can honestly say at this point there is anything odd about the nun's sex life,' said McCardle, and at first Petrovitch didn't understand, but when he did he laughed so hard he almost lost control of the car.