Blood Fever

by Charlie Higson

  ‘It was hot and dark and choking down there. The stench of human excrement was foul and when the enemy soldiers used the toilets above, more filth rained down on them.

  ‘The four trapped Sardinians dared not speak or make any sound in case they were discovered.

  ‘It was worst for Colombo. His wound was bleeding steadily into the wet sludge. But he was a brave man and made no sound at all.

  ‘It was the longest night of Ugo’s life. His eyes were stinging and he felt as if the filth was seeping into him, into his nose, his throat, the pores of his skin. He tried to keep his hands above the surface, holding them in the air, like this.’ Zoltan mimed the action, a look of terrible disgust on his face, enjoying the story. ‘But he was too tired, the effort was too great and over and over again his eyes fell shut and he was woken as his hands dropped into the thick slime.’

  Zoltan laughed and pretended to wipe his hands on his tunic.

  ‘What happened in the end?’ said James.

  ‘The soldiers went away and they could at last come out. But not Colombo. At some point in the night he had quietly slipped beneath the stinking layer of scum and drowned.

  ‘The other three must have been a ghastly sight, covered from head to toe in green and yellow muck.’

  ‘That’s disgusting,’ said James.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Zoltan, glancing at Ugo. ‘They stripped off their clothes and found a shower that was working. Ugo stayed there for ages, scrubbing his body until it was raw and bleeding. Even now, all these years later, he bathes at least four times a day.’

  ‘What a horrible story,’ said James, who suddenly felt dirty himself.

  ‘But it’s not the end,’ said Zoltan, ‘because as they were standing there, naked, two enemy soldiers came in. It was hard to tell who was more surprised and there was madness as the Sardinians rushed to grab their guns.’ Zoltan sighed. ‘Scared men do not shoot straight,’ he said. ‘There was a quick burst of panicked firing, after which two more men lay dead. One of the enemy and one of the Sardinians.

  ‘It was a stalemate. Ugo was without a weapon. His brother Guido and the enemy soldier standing there, pointing their guns at each other.’ Zoltan stopped and inspected James’s gloves. ‘You are ready,’ he said.

  ‘Wait,’ James protested. ‘You can’t stop there. What happened?’

  ‘I will tell you the rest of the story another day,’ said Zoltan. ‘You have a boy to fight.’

  ‘No, tell me,’ said James, but just then the room was filled with the reek of perfume and Countess Jana came in, her high heels clicking on the polished floor. She looked the two boys up and down and licked her lips.

  ‘What strong boys you are,’ she said. ‘I hope your pretty faces don’t get too badly broken.’ She slipped a silver ring off her finger.

  ‘This ring to the winner,’ she said.

  The roar of the crowds as James marched out into the sunlight was deafening. He had wondered before if Ugo was going to stage a gladiatorial combat, but he had had no idea that he would be one of the gladiators.

  He walked over to where a chair had been set out for him. The sand felt hot beneath his bare feet. Zoltan gave him a long drink of water and poured some more over his head to cool him down.

  One of Ugo’s guards, who was acting as referee, shouted a few words to the spectators, then rang the bell for the start of the bout.

  The two boys came out into the centre of the ring, circling each other warily. Fitzpaine was big, but clumsy, and plodded around in an ungainly fashion. James took Zoltan’s advice and kept on his toes

  There were shouts from the crowd. James looked up to see Ugo, smiling imperiously, his chin resting in one hand. He turned to the Contessa who was watching with hooded eyes, and shouted a few words into her ear.

  She looked at James and clamped a long, painted fingernail between her teeth.

  Fitzpaine lumbered towards James, who dodged backwards, not letting the boy get near him.

  ‘Stand still, you bunny rabbit,’ said Fitzpaine and he charged at James like a bull, fists flailing the air. James ducked the blows and skipped sideways, but still Fitzpaine came on, his punches inaccurate and leaving him wide open. James nipped in and gave him a quick jab to the side of his undefended belly and Fitzpaine swore, launching a wild punch at James’s head. The glove glanced off the side of James’s face. It should have been fairly harmless, but James felt his whole head jar and he tasted blood in his mouth

  Hell.

  Fitzpaine’s punch was harder than it looked.

  James danced backwards, shaking his head to try and clear it, and he saw Fitzpaine smiling in triumph. That gave James fresh energy and he darted forward with a straight left that Fitzpaine managed to block with his raised gloves. It wasn’t an elegant defence but it worked, and to James it was like hitting a brick wall. His hand stung badly, even within the protection of the glove.

  That had nothing to do with Fitzpaine’s punch.

  The boy had merely held his hands up. Why had it hurt so much?

  As James was momentarily distracted and confused, Fitzpaine managed to step in and throw a good punch. James saw it coming a fraction of a second too late. He was just able to twist his body and jerk his head clear, and the punch, which otherwise would have landed squarely on his chin, caught him in the side of the neck.

  Again it was like a sledgehammer hitting him. He grunted and dropped for a moment to his knees, stunned. Fitzpaine saw his chance and blundered forward, but James rocked on to his heels and threw himself upwards and backwards away from the punch.

  How had he done it? How had Fitzpaine landed such a killer blow?

  James remembered the whispered conversation with Ugo – Fitzpaine looking into his gloves.

  There was something in them, weights of some sort. Sand, or maybe even metal.

  Ugo obviously didn’t like to leave anything to chance.

  Damn him.

  This changed everything. James would have the hell of a job not being knocked cold. He scurried away from Fitzpaine and threw a questioning look to Zoltan, who seemed concerned.

  By moving constantly and keeping clear of Fitzpaine, James managed to scrape through the rest of the round, but the bell seemed a long time coming.

  He went over to Zoltan and slumped on to the chair.

  ‘What is the matter?’ said the Hungarian.

  ‘He’s got weights in his gloves,’ said James. ‘It’s like being hit by a motor car.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Zoltan and he fired off a colourful string of insults at Ugo. ‘But don’t worry. You are doing the right thing, James. You have to keep out of his way. Don’t let his punches find their mark. Those gloves of his will be heavy, and with each swing they will get heavier. It will get harder and harder for him to keep them up, and as he grows tired his blows will have less strength behind them. If ever you see an opening, go in quickly, hit him and retreat before he has a chance to come back at you. You might just wear him down.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘I just don’t know if I can do it.’

  He was already exhausted. The constant tension and need to keep moving had drained him, but most tiring of all was being repeatedly hit. Well, he would have to concentrate on taking that pounding on the gloves and not the face or body.

  The referee rang the bell for the second round and James took a last swig of water before walking cautiously to the centre of the arena, not taking his eyes off Fitzpaine for a moment. It was a burning hot day and the circular stadium walls trapped the heated air. It scalded James’s lungs and caused sweat to stream down from his head to his feet. Sand stuck to his damp legs.

  But one thought cheered him.

  It was just as bad for Fitzpaine.

  James could see the strain on his face. If had he had thought this was going to be an easy win, he was having to think again now.

  Fitzpaine obviously wanted it over quickly. He grunted and charged at James. James blocked his assault, keepi
ng his gloves up and turning his body to take the punches on his upper arms. He backed away and looked down: he was already heavily bruised.

  He bided his time. He didn’t want to waste any energy. He threw the occasional light jab at Fitzpaine to soften him and keep him scared, but never powerfully enough to give him any idea of how hard he could really punch.

  In came Fitzpaine again, but slower this time, his feet dragging.

  He lashed out with a punch so wild that James easily dropped into a crouch and avoided it. The momentum of Fitzpaine’s swing kept his heavy glove moving, however, so that he was completely off balance and his defence wide open.

  James saw his chance; he forced himself up from his crouch, using the full power of his legs, and drove his fist hard into Fitzpaine’s chin. It connected perfectly and whipped the boy’s head back.

  Then the crowd was cheering madly and Fitzpaine was staggering backwards, arms groping for balance. He took three increasingly out of control steps before he stumbled and sat down heavily.

  He wasn’t knocked out, though. He stood up, spitting blood from his mouth, and shook his head.

  He was tough, then, and had no glass jaw. James felt a glimmer of respect for him.

  Before anything else could happen, the referee rang the bell. James was sure the round hadn’t run its full length, but he was grateful for the rest.

  He went over to Zoltan, who gave him more water.

  ‘That was a good punch,’ Zoltan said admiringly. ‘I thought he would go down for sure. But you have him now. That will have hurt. It will be hard for him to go on, but you must still keep out of the way of his gloves, or he will finish you.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ said James as he found Perry’s face in the crowd. He had a wide smile on his face. He offered James a thumbs up and that gave him new strength.

  The bell clanged and he walked over feeling fresh and ready.

  Fitzpaine was really showing the strain now. He was covered in sweat and breathing noisily through his mouth.

  ‘Come on,’ said James. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Fitzpaine once again started the first attack, raining blows on to James who managed to keep back far enough to make them land fairly harmlessly. Then he weaved around for a while, tiring Fitzpaine and frustrating him. James knew that when the older boy was angered he made mistakes.

  And now Fitzpaine made one; he let both his arms flop down in a gesture of frustration. James powered back with a counter-attack, jabbing Fitzpaine with stinging blows to his ribs in a quick combination of left, right, left, and he completed the assault with a right hook that took the boy in the cheek and sent a spray of spit into the air. But Fitzpaine was quick to retaliate, too quick for James, and he managed to a land a lucky blow to his gut.

  James gasped as the air was pumped out of his lungs and he felt like he was going to be sick. For a moment his vision darkened and black spots swam in front of his eyes. He was fighting for breath, his head spinning, and had to stop himself from panicking.

  He stepped outside his body for a moment and ordered it to function properly. Forcing it to do what it clearly didn’t want to do.

  Somehow his legs carried him away from Fitzpaine before he could hit him again, but it was a near thing; one more good punch from Fitzpaine would have ended it.

  James took a deep breath and skipped backwards as Fitzpaine came on. Then he moved sideways and around as Fitzpaine’s big heavy gloves swept harmlessly through the air. The swings were feeble now and dropping low. Fitzpaine could barely lift his gloves to James’s head height.

  But don’t get overconfident again, James.

  Bide your time. Don’t rush it. Wait for the right moment.

  There!

  Another missed punch had caused Fitzpaine to tip forward and lose his footing. His guard was down. He was distracted. James’s hands were both already coiled back and ready to strike, and now he let them go, hammering his right arm forward like a piston with all his weight behind it. It smashed into Fitzpaine’s face and the boy’s head flopped back like a rag doll. His knees buckled, he went into a low crouch, and before he could do anything else to recover James let fly with his left hand, coming down hard on Fitzpaine’s temple. The second blow flattened him, swatting him down into the sand where he lay still.

  It was over.

  James let his arms fall to his side, and stood over his opponent, feeling empty, barely aware of the cheering and calling from the stands.

  Zoltan and the referee ran forward and rolled Fitzpaine on to his back. He was still conscious but bleeding heavily from his nose. He was fighting to focus his eyes and James hoped that he was going to be all right.

  Zoltan slapped him a few times and splashed water into his face. At last he groaned and sat up. The referee quickly unfastened his gloves and rubbed the Fitzpaine’s wrists.

  James glanced up at Ugo. There was a look of contempt in the Count’s eyes. This was not meant to happen.

  James stooped down and picked up one of Fitzpaine’s discarded gloves. It felt heavy in his hand. He pulled back his arm and, with the last of his strength, he threw it up into the stadium, where it landed with a thud at Ugo’s feet.

  Jana’s weather-beaten face twisted into a smile and she tossed something down to James.

  He caught it.

  It was the silver ring.

  As the crowd cheered, Ugo stood up and disappeared into the shadows at the back of his platform.

  Fitzpaine was standing, supported by Zoltan. He looked at James and tried to smile.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘That was a good fight. And…’ His eyes dropped for a moment, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the last punch,’ said James. ‘I knew the right had finished you. It was cruel to follow with the left… But I suppose I just wanted to make sure.’

  ‘It’s always best to make sure,’ said Fitzpaine and he held out his hand.

  James shook it.

  ‘No hard feelings, eh?’ Again Fitzpaine attempted a smile, though it looked horrible and twisted on his swollen face.

  ‘No hard feelings,’ said James.

  He just hoped that Count Ugo Carnifex would feel the same way.

  Somehow he doubted it.

  17

  Blood Brothers

  Mauro had been walking all afternoon, but he didn’t mind. He was walking away from the nightmare at La Casa Polipo; he was leaving Count Ugo behind him; but best of all he was going home. He hadn’t been back since Easter and he was looking forward to seeing his mother and little sister.

  He enjoyed life at Capo d’Orso. He liked working for Victor and he liked relaxing on the beach in his spare time, but he still didn’t think of Casa Polipo as his home. He never would. The village was home, and Victor and Poliponi would never replace his family.

  The people of the Barbagia were tough and fiercely loyal to their families. Arguments here were usually settled with the gun. There were feuds going back generations, the original reasons for the fights long forgotten. Mauro’s own father had been killed in just such a feud when Mauro was only three years old and his mother was pregnant with his little sister. She had bravely approached the other family and begged them to end the feud, as she didn’t want to risk losing her only son. The other family, also sick of bloodshed, had thankfully agreed.

  But the feud had not been entirely forgotten and Mauro’s sister had been christened Vendetta. Vendetta Maria Grazia Benetutti.

  She was thirteen years old now, small and dark, with the eyes of a cat and the temper of a wild animal. She was growing up fast and Mauro missed her.

  He was nearly home. He had left the Gennargentu Mountains and was in the Supramonte to the north. These mountains were stark and dramatic, with great, sheer walls of jagged grey rock thrusting up above the tree line as if they had been pushed through from below. The peaks were bare and gaunt, tinged here and there with burnt orange.

  Mauro knew this land well. He had gro
wn up here, playing among the rocks and trees. He breathed in the scent of wild thyme and rosemary.

  He crested a ridge and startled a big moufflon, a mountain sheep, with the curled horns of a ram. It leapt away across the rocks, scattering stones in its wake.

  From here Mauro got the first sight of his village. Past a small wooded valley the ground rose sharply and he could clearly see a little cluster of white buildings, clinging to the side of the far mountain.

  He was soon hiking through the woods, singing a song to himself, a silly thing that he used to sing with his mother when he was little. He heard the noise of a large animal in the trees, but thought nothing of it. It was another moufflon, probably, or perhaps a boar rooting for acorns.

  It was certainly nothing dangerous. There were no wolves or bears on the island.

  As he pressed on, however, he became aware that the animal was following him. No wild animal would do that; they were all too nervous of humans.

  He carried on walking, and gradually the animal got nearer. He could clearly make out the sound of heavy feet stepping on the ground and twigs snapping.

  It was too large to be a person. What was it?

  Mauro stopped, standing in the centre of the track.

  ‘Chini sesi?’ he called out. Who’s there? But there was no answer. ‘Faidi biri!’ Show yourself.

  The footsteps had stopped. There was only the sound of the woods now, the wind teasing the leaves in the upper branches of the holm oaks, a tiny brook rattling over a stony bed, a bird twittering, bees humming in a nearby strawberry tree.

  Mauro peered into the woods to one side where he thought the sound had been coming from, but could see nothing.

  Maybe he’d imagined it.

  He turned to carry on, and, as he did so, a horse and rider emerged from the trees ahead of him.

  Mauro frowned and had a sudden urge to laugh.

  The rider had on the outfit of Su Compoidori from the festival. With full bridal veil, black hat and the mask of a woman’s painted face.