he had almost had her once—and she him, before this—but no—
No, here he was, the blinding sun-spangled arc of the net and the black-tipped trident of the god—Fisherman and Fish.
She moved one way, and the net came over for that Jula, who was no longer there, who had become the other Jula who was
here
, again beside him, and in that instant she felt one point of the trident slide deep into her thigh, which meant
her
blood, a weakening, and she must not delay any longer. And, as she recalled, his foot was turning on her own blood in the sand, he lost balance, and was wide before her. She stabbed in just abovehis belt. It reminded her, as in the beginning it so often had, of stabbing into the cattle carcasses the school had provided. The thunk of the gladius passing through the density of meat, skidding on bone, splintering it, blood-spray, and a darker blood from the liver. But it was a human scream ringing against her, so near. Nearer than the blood, this screaming.
He could not live now, not after that blow. So she carved upwards through him, strong, a butcher, knowing where to go. The gladius blade found his heart and he was dead.
He lay at her feet, his net with rubies on it.
And the wheezing water organ was playing at the rim of the arena, and the horns mooing, and somehow it was dark—she was in the stone passage, and the doors had still to open, and they opened.
They opened into a light she did not know.
The crowd howled. But their noise faded. It was a murmur now, civilized and low. She could feel the gilded palm branch in her hand.
Above her was not the sky, but a vaulted ceiling, painted palest blue.
Again a man said something in her head.
Her head would not move. So she turned her eyes and found he was not there, but out by her side, leaning forward a little.
He spoke in Latin, but clumsily, with an unknown accent and inflection, and not quite the proper words. It was not like the foreign tongue he had used before, yet still entirely alien to her.
“Are you able,” he said, “to say your name? Don’t try to move, just try to say your name.”
But she learned she was not able to do this. She was lying flat on some sort of bed, under a sky blue ceiling,in a new light, dumb and almost immobile. She could not any more feel the victory palm in her hand.
Jula was afraid. She did not yet know why she should be.
F LAYD LOOKED AWAY from the screen. As the lights came up, he rose to his feet.
The others were already upright, jabbering, exclaiming.
Oh wasn’t it wonderful? It was
wonderful
.
“What do you think, Flayd?” said Leonillo.
“Yeah. Remarkable,” said Flayd. He scowled and pushed back his mane of hair, which was coming loose from its tie. “But she doesn’t speak and she can’t move.”
“Quite the contrary. That piece of film was long ago, two or three months.
Now
she can move perfectly, I assure you. And she can speak modern Italian quite well. Better, dare I venture, than you do.”
“Ain’t hard, buddy,” snarled Flayd. “So she’s bright.”
“Of course. And with present day hypno-tutor techniques, and linguisticx—”
“What about her Latin? That was what she had taught her first, I guess.”
“Her Latin is fascinating. Not anything you’d find in a classical text. Although, when pressed, she can speak like something out of Ovid or Pliny—she was educated up to a certain standard for her master’s amusement. He liked to show her off.”
The others were crowding around, goggling. Bubbling over with praise and amaze like badly corked bottles.
Leonillo smiled, a kind uncle taking the kids on a treat. His long, pale face reminded Flayd, as it had from the first, of a shelled monkeynut. The clothes, circa 1900,fit him too well. There was not a single bulge in Leonillo’s below-neck shape, not a roll of fat, a muscle, a penis, or a heart.
“Now I think we should call on our protégée. I think we should see her face to face.”
“Is
No, here he was, the blinding sun-spangled arc of the net and the black-tipped trident of the god—Fisherman and Fish.
She moved one way, and the net came over for that Jula, who was no longer there, who had become the other Jula who was
here
, again beside him, and in that instant she felt one point of the trident slide deep into her thigh, which meant
her
blood, a weakening, and she must not delay any longer. And, as she recalled, his foot was turning on her own blood in the sand, he lost balance, and was wide before her. She stabbed in just abovehis belt. It reminded her, as in the beginning it so often had, of stabbing into the cattle carcasses the school had provided. The thunk of the gladius passing through the density of meat, skidding on bone, splintering it, blood-spray, and a darker blood from the liver. But it was a human scream ringing against her, so near. Nearer than the blood, this screaming.
He could not live now, not after that blow. So she carved upwards through him, strong, a butcher, knowing where to go. The gladius blade found his heart and he was dead.
He lay at her feet, his net with rubies on it.
And the wheezing water organ was playing at the rim of the arena, and the horns mooing, and somehow it was dark—she was in the stone passage, and the doors had still to open, and they opened.
They opened into a light she did not know.
The crowd howled. But their noise faded. It was a murmur now, civilized and low. She could feel the gilded palm branch in her hand.
Above her was not the sky, but a vaulted ceiling, painted palest blue.
Again a man said something in her head.
Her head would not move. So she turned her eyes and found he was not there, but out by her side, leaning forward a little.
He spoke in Latin, but clumsily, with an unknown accent and inflection, and not quite the proper words. It was not like the foreign tongue he had used before, yet still entirely alien to her.
“Are you able,” he said, “to say your name? Don’t try to move, just try to say your name.”
But she learned she was not able to do this. She was lying flat on some sort of bed, under a sky blue ceiling,in a new light, dumb and almost immobile. She could not any more feel the victory palm in her hand.
Jula was afraid. She did not yet know why she should be.
F LAYD LOOKED AWAY from the screen. As the lights came up, he rose to his feet.
The others were already upright, jabbering, exclaiming.
Oh wasn’t it wonderful? It was
wonderful
.
“What do you think, Flayd?” said Leonillo.
“Yeah. Remarkable,” said Flayd. He scowled and pushed back his mane of hair, which was coming loose from its tie. “But she doesn’t speak and she can’t move.”
“Quite the contrary. That piece of film was long ago, two or three months.
Now
she can move perfectly, I assure you. And she can speak modern Italian quite well. Better, dare I venture, than you do.”
“Ain’t hard, buddy,” snarled Flayd. “So she’s bright.”
“Of course. And with present day hypno-tutor techniques, and linguisticx—”
“What about her Latin? That was what she had taught her first, I guess.”
“Her Latin is fascinating. Not anything you’d find in a classical text. Although, when pressed, she can speak like something out of Ovid or Pliny—she was educated up to a certain standard for her master’s amusement. He liked to show her off.”
The others were crowding around, goggling. Bubbling over with praise and amaze like badly corked bottles.
Leonillo smiled, a kind uncle taking the kids on a treat. His long, pale face reminded Flayd, as it had from the first, of a shelled monkeynut. The clothes, circa 1900,fit him too well. There was not a single bulge in Leonillo’s below-neck shape, not a roll of fat, a muscle, a penis, or a heart.
“Now I think we should call on our protégée. I think we should see her face to face.”
“Is
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