del Nero had himself asked politely, “
Her
, Signore Picaro?”
“Eurydiche.”
The UAS men didn’t stir. Yet the silence lasted.
Then del Nero had done something strange (if anything could be reckoned separately strange in such an environment). He had looked intently into Picaro’s eyes. That was, he looked in a frank, quite unguarded way.
But, in those eyes, in that instant, Picaro had seen—had seen a terrible unspeakable thing, had seen—that there, in the eyes of the reliving dead, was to be glimpsed
the place he had come from
—death itself, Nihil, nothing—a
gap
—it was unreadable, not to be comprehended, yet
there. It was there
.
And in that moment of horror more horrible than fear, the aristocrat had said gently to him, “But I understand, signore, the lady named Eurydiche is gone.”
1
S HE HEARD HER MOTHER’S VOICE , which called her by another name. There was the dish of a flower, pink, speckled with a darker color. But then the flower, and the name, and the voice, were gone.
A sliding like stones and fine shale down the face of a cliff, shapes, noises, scents and images, an old man’s face with closed eyes—a horse running—a man bent to an anvil in a gush of sparks—night on a town and the pine-tree sound of the sea.
Then she heard, instead of all that, the tibia horns mooing from the arena.
She had been dreaming. Yes, she had dreamed she had died. Was that an omen for her fight today? It might be. It might always be. Or it might mean nothing, except that the food yesterday evening, at her master’s house, had been too rich and plentiful.
Strange, however, that she should be fighting today, when she had already fought yesterday. Normally she was not put out to fight more than two or three times a month, and even the enthusiastic crowd, lauding her as the best of her kind, did not demand more.
Jula stood up. The hot rectangular room in the sub-arena was packed with other combatants. Many saluted her. But there were always a couple who wouldmock, though it was unlucky, and someone—as always—cuffed them.
At the end of the up-sloping stone passage, she stood waiting behind the doors. Through the splits and slats of them she saw the afternoon gold of the stadium, and her ears were filled by the shrieks of the crowd— “He has it! He’s taken it—Kill! Kill!”
She had never questioned any of it, since to question was not helpful. Yet now she felt a sudden strong antipathy to the multitude. She had never wanted to delight them, only to survive—and they—disgusted her.
The tibias groaned again, and she put all ideas of disgust from her mind. She thought of the first teachers, in Julus’s school: “Empty your mind like your night pot. Rinse it with clean water. Then, and then only, pick up your sword and go to work.”
Out there, the fight finished. One gladiator, a popular swordsman, had slaughtered his opponent, who was being carried off. The winner stalked around the length of the arena, showered with small gifts from the stands. Victory palm branch in hand, he strode away. The sand was being refreshed. Jula waited, tense, her mind rinsed clean.
The doors opened.
Never had the stadium seemed so huge. Modeled after the colossal Flavian amphitheater in Rome, this provincial miniature could still seat many thousands. Light struck down on it from a white summer sky, save for the patrician areas of the seats, the places of the priestesses and the higher military, which were shaded by extended, dark blue awnings.
The gladiatrix walked on to the sand, and the crowd boomed. It chanted the pun which pleased it so—
Jugula Jula! Jula jugula!—kill, Jula, kill
.
Jula raised her arm in salute, turning to all the terraces. As if she honored them. Was happy to be there.
She thought,
I could be another. How would they know, now
?
For though she walked bare-faced like the others in the Pompa before the afternoon bouts, now she was helmeted in the secutor’s helm they called the
Her
, Signore Picaro?”
“Eurydiche.”
The UAS men didn’t stir. Yet the silence lasted.
Then del Nero had done something strange (if anything could be reckoned separately strange in such an environment). He had looked intently into Picaro’s eyes. That was, he looked in a frank, quite unguarded way.
But, in those eyes, in that instant, Picaro had seen—had seen a terrible unspeakable thing, had seen—that there, in the eyes of the reliving dead, was to be glimpsed
the place he had come from
—death itself, Nihil, nothing—a
gap
—it was unreadable, not to be comprehended, yet
there. It was there
.
And in that moment of horror more horrible than fear, the aristocrat had said gently to him, “But I understand, signore, the lady named Eurydiche is gone.”
1
S HE HEARD HER MOTHER’S VOICE , which called her by another name. There was the dish of a flower, pink, speckled with a darker color. But then the flower, and the name, and the voice, were gone.
A sliding like stones and fine shale down the face of a cliff, shapes, noises, scents and images, an old man’s face with closed eyes—a horse running—a man bent to an anvil in a gush of sparks—night on a town and the pine-tree sound of the sea.
Then she heard, instead of all that, the tibia horns mooing from the arena.
She had been dreaming. Yes, she had dreamed she had died. Was that an omen for her fight today? It might be. It might always be. Or it might mean nothing, except that the food yesterday evening, at her master’s house, had been too rich and plentiful.
Strange, however, that she should be fighting today, when she had already fought yesterday. Normally she was not put out to fight more than two or three times a month, and even the enthusiastic crowd, lauding her as the best of her kind, did not demand more.
Jula stood up. The hot rectangular room in the sub-arena was packed with other combatants. Many saluted her. But there were always a couple who wouldmock, though it was unlucky, and someone—as always—cuffed them.
At the end of the up-sloping stone passage, she stood waiting behind the doors. Through the splits and slats of them she saw the afternoon gold of the stadium, and her ears were filled by the shrieks of the crowd— “He has it! He’s taken it—Kill! Kill!”
She had never questioned any of it, since to question was not helpful. Yet now she felt a sudden strong antipathy to the multitude. She had never wanted to delight them, only to survive—and they—disgusted her.
The tibias groaned again, and she put all ideas of disgust from her mind. She thought of the first teachers, in Julus’s school: “Empty your mind like your night pot. Rinse it with clean water. Then, and then only, pick up your sword and go to work.”
Out there, the fight finished. One gladiator, a popular swordsman, had slaughtered his opponent, who was being carried off. The winner stalked around the length of the arena, showered with small gifts from the stands. Victory palm branch in hand, he strode away. The sand was being refreshed. Jula waited, tense, her mind rinsed clean.
The doors opened.
Never had the stadium seemed so huge. Modeled after the colossal Flavian amphitheater in Rome, this provincial miniature could still seat many thousands. Light struck down on it from a white summer sky, save for the patrician areas of the seats, the places of the priestesses and the higher military, which were shaded by extended, dark blue awnings.
The gladiatrix walked on to the sand, and the crowd boomed. It chanted the pun which pleased it so—
Jugula Jula! Jula jugula!—kill, Jula, kill
.
Jula raised her arm in salute, turning to all the terraces. As if she honored them. Was happy to be there.
She thought,
I could be another. How would they know, now
?
For though she walked bare-faced like the others in the Pompa before the afternoon bouts, now she was helmeted in the secutor’s helm they called the
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