Blood Fever Page 16

  When Mauro woke he was furious that he had been left behind and went into an epic sulk, but he was eventually cheered up by the thought of going home to his mother and sister.

  ‘Go quickly,’ said James. ‘Rapido. You don’t want to risk bumping into Ugo again.’

  ‘Ugo!’ said Mauro contemptuously, and he spat on to the ground again.

  ‘Exactly,’ said James. ‘Go.’ He spotted one of Ugo’s guards watching them, his eyes shaded by his cap. ‘And Mauro, please, no more spitting!’

  Mauro smiled. ‘James,’ he said, hugging him, ‘you are good friend. My sister, she would like you. I see you soon.’

  He waved, and strolled off across the square. James watched until he was swallowed up by the milling crush of people.

  Presently Mr Cooper-ffrench appeared, even more red-faced and sweaty than usual. He was amazed to see James, and even more amazed when he told him his story.

  ‘I knew you should not have gone off on your own,’ he said. ‘I should have kept my eye on you. Now, we’d best get inside or we shall miss everything.’

  James picked up his battered old suitcase. ‘Don’t let me forget this,’ he said to Perry. ‘I’m bound to leave it somewhere if I’m not careful.’

  As they shuffled through the turnstiles, James got his first glimpse inside the stadium. He could hardly believe his eyes, although he should really have expected it. Count Ugo had built himself a miniature replica of the Colosseum in Rome. There was a wide, sand-covered ring in the centre surrounded by a high wall, above which were steep banks of bench seats, and, all around the top, silhouetted against the deep blue sky, were statues of Roman heroes.

  ‘Do you suppose there’s going to be a chariot race?’ James said to Perry. ‘Or gladiators?’

  Perry snorted with laughter. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Or m-maybe even a display of Christians being thrown to the lions!’

  The locals were ranging themselves noisily on the benches and girls with trays were wandering among them, handing out fruit and bread and drinks.

  All eyes were on Count Ugo, who sat under a canopy on a raised platform with his sister, Jana. He was dressed in flowing white robes and looked every inch the Roman emperor. Jana was wearing even more jewellery than before, topped off with a gold tiara. They were flanked by several armed guards in their purple uniforms and two trumpeters in the garb of Roman legionaries.

  The trumpeters sounded a ragged fanfare and Ugo rose to deliver an epic speech in Italian.

  As he was ranting on, James took time to study the occupants of the exclusive guest of honour seats, a motley collection of about twenty men sitting next to Ugo. They didn’t appear to be locals. They looked out of place here in their flashy suits and sunglasses. They had an air of arrogance and self-importance about them, as if they were used to giving orders and being obeyed. They didn’t look like politicians, aristocrats or military men, though. There was something dangerous and secretive about them, something that said keep away. They looked as bored by the speech as James was, and sat there fanning themselves and not speaking to each other.

  As James watched, Zoltan the Magyar took his place with them. He seemed perfectly at home among these men.

  When Ugo finally finished there was a burst of applause from the audience and some cheering, then the gates opened and a brass band marched in, playing a dreary tune. Ugo conducted the music with a serious look on his face.

  After the band finished playing there were more cheers from the crowd as a procession of locals in traditional attire marched in and circled the stadium with pipes bleating, trumpets blaring, drums banging, people singing and flowers raining down on to their heads.

  The procession seemed to go on forever, and James kept nodding off as the locals tramped round and round the ring. Eventually some men in wooden masks and weird hairy goat costumes festooned with cowbells ran into the ring. They danced all over the place and acted out some sort of ritual that James found baffling but the crowd seemed to enjoy. There was a cheerful, rowdy atmosphere, but it was obvious that everyone was waiting for the main event.

  James tried to stay awake by chatting to Perry, and told him everything that had happened since he had left him in Abbasanta.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly had a more exciting time of it than we have,’ Perry babbled breathlessly. ‘It’s been so dull since you left. Dull, dull, dull. Just ruins and m-more ruins, didn’t know there were so m-many ruins in the world, beginning to think the whole world’s one big ruin. Cagliari not m-much better, dismal place, and we’ve been staying in the worst hotel, I m-mean the worst, I’m sure the place has rats. I’ve been having the m-most awful time trying to sleep. Luckily, good old Love-Haight has some m-medicine. Ghastly stuff, bitter as anything, like drinking seawater.’

  ‘Well, I think I would have preferred a quiet time, actually,’ said James. ‘Rather than being attacked by bandits and nearly killed. I would have been more than happy if my only problem had been not being able to sleep.’

  ‘Tommy-rot!’ said Perry. ‘I know you, James. You like a spot of danger. It adds pepper to your soup. Im-m-agine you getting the chance to drive a Hispano-Suiza, you lucky dog. And you got to see the palazzo as well. Us m-mere m-mortals can only gaze up at it and wonder. What’s it like up there? I’ve heard he’s got a lot of paintings and statues and suchlike.’

  James told Perry about the funicular railway, and Mauro spitting on Ugo’s floor, and meeting Zoltan and the strange conversation about the painting. James had thought the point of his story was Zoltan and his crazy talk of dying, but for some reason Perry seemed more interested in the painting.

  ‘A saint, you say? With a sword stuck through his head?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘You look shocked, Perry. Don’t tell me you’re squeamish. It’s only a picture.’

  ‘Do you know who the saint was?’ said Perry.

  ‘No idea,’ said James. ‘I’m not big on saints. Why are you so interested?’

  ‘Did he look sort of happy?’ said Perry.

  ‘Yes,’ said James, remembering what Zoltan had said about the picture. ‘Very happy.’

  ‘Was he wearing green and gold robes?’

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘And the m-man killing him, he had on a sort of fur hat, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said James. ‘With a big spike coming out of the top.’

  ‘It’s Saint Boniface,’ said Perry.

  ‘How do you know that?’ said James.

  ‘Because that sounds exactly like one of the paintings that was stolen from our house.’

  ‘Come off it,’ said James. ‘How could it be?’

  ‘I know it sounds m-mad,’ said Perry. ‘But it’s not a painting you’d easily forget.’

  Before James could say anything else the goat dancers left and the ring was filled with drummers who made such a racket it was impossible to hold a conversation.

  Once again the gates opened and in galloped a horseman with a silver sword, riding a horse decorated with flowers.

  There were cries of ‘Su Compoidori!’ from the crowd.

  The rider was a strange and slightly disturbing sight. He was wearing a baggy white shirt edged with puff and lace, a tight leather belt and waistcoat and an elaborate mantilla – a Spanish bridal veil – on top of which sat a black top hat. But strangest of all was his face, which was covered by a mask of a woman’s face, expressionless and doll-like. He looked neither male nor female, like the living statue of some bizarre ancient god.

  He rode round the stadium, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd and performing various stunts on the horse – standing in his saddle, lying flat, sitting backwards. And all the while, the drummers kept up an incessant rolling beat that echoed off the walls and began to have a hypnotic, brain-rattling effect, so that James couldn’t help but be caught up in the excitement.

  When the horseman was ready he rode to the centre of the ring and stopped. He saluted Count Ugo with his sword, and then waved for the gates to be open
ed again. Two more horsemen entered, in similar attire, but with simpler white masks and stocking caps instead of the top hat. Their caps matched their waistcoats, one in black, the other red.

  Still the drums rolled and thundered and James was beginning to feel light-headed, almost drunk.

  A rope was slung across the centre of the ring with a small silver star hanging down from it. The two new horsemen now took it in turns to charge full tilt at the star and try to catch it on the points of their outstretched swords.

  There was a storm of screams and cheers when they were successful and groans of dismay when they failed.

  There seemed to be a certain amount of betting going on among the spectators, and for the first time James saw Ugo’s special guests become animated. He could see a lot of passionate arguments taking place and money being thrown around.

  James was won over by the noise and excitement, all his tiredness forgotten, and, while he had no money to gamble with, he decided to cheer for the red horseman, who won by six stars to five.

  When the competition finished it was lunchtime and everyone trooped into the town square where several suckling pigs had been spit-roasted over fires and stalls were serving food.

  The streets were filled with the din of drums and the incessant rasp of trumpets and the locals milled around, chatting and laughing. Everyone seemed more interested in drinking than eating. There was wine everywhere and people were getting drunker and drunker.

  James was starving, however, and he realised he had had nothing to eat since last night. He found Mauro’s friend, Stefano, at one of the stalls and snapped up some of the flat crispy carasau bread that he had grown so fond of since he had been here, then helped himself to some roast pork.

  Nearby a group of locals was dancing in a big circle holding hands, accompanied by guitars and accordions, and next to them was a noisy mob of men clustered round watching something and yelling at the top of their voices.

  James and Perry went over to have a look and found that it was a competition of Sardinian wrestling.

  The display seemed to have been put on for the benefit of Ugo who sat on a platform with his hard-faced guests watching from beneath a parasol. Zoltan was standing behind Ugo, shouting encouragement.

  The other Eton boys were here too, clustered round the edge of the platform yelling as loudly as anyone else.

  The rules looked simple enough. Men in loose shepherd’s outfits grabbed hold of each other and tried to throw their opponent to the ground. As far as James could make out the loser was the man who bit the dust two times out of three.

  There was more betting on the wrestling, and Zoltan and Ugo seemed to have a major wager on between them. It all came down to the last bout. The two wrestlers paraded round the square whipping up the crowd’s excitement and Zoltan and Ugo chose their favourites.

  Just before the bout began, however, James saw Ugo whisper something to a guard, who darted over and had a quiet word with one of the wrestlers. The wrestler looked towards Ugo and nodded.

  The man lost the bout and Ugo collected his money from a disappointed Zoltan.

  ‘I’m not exactly an expert on Sardinian wrestling,’ said Perry, ‘but I’d say he deliberately lost that m-match.’

  ‘It certainly looked that way,’ said James.

  Just then Ugo spotted James and called him over.

  ‘I must apologise for my anger at the palazzo, James,’ he said. ‘I was feeling a little tense. This is an important day for me, and perhaps I was rather too quick to lose my temper. Where is your servant now?’

  ‘He’s left,’ said James. ‘Gone home.’

  ‘You must tell him when you see him that I bear him no ill,’ said Ugo. ‘I was merely being…’ he paused while he thought of the right word, ‘playful.’ He looked round and smiled. ‘These must be the other boys from Eton,’ he said. ‘When I heard they were on the island I knew I must invite them. Eton is a good school. A school for aristocrats.’

  ‘Hello, pleased to m-meet you. Perry M-Mandeville,’ said Perry, shaking Ugo’s hand before he knew what was happening. ‘Jolly good show you’ve put on. We were just saying how m-much we enjoyed the wrestling.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ugo. ‘The mountain men love to wrestle. “Prima bevono, poi stringono!”’

  The boys looked blank and Zoltan translated for them.

  ‘“First they drink, then they fight,”’ he said.

  ‘You British boys are famous for your games,’ said Ugo. ‘You must put on a display. We have shown you our Sardinian sports. Now you will show us your sports. Do you wrestle?’

  ‘Wrestling is not thought one of the more noble sports in England,’ said Zoltan. ‘But boxing is much enjoyed, I believe.’

  ‘Do you boys box at school?’ said Ugo.

  ‘M-most of us,’ said Perry.

  ‘Splendid! Then it is decided,’ said Ugo. ‘We shall have a competition of English boxing! I will choose my champion and Zoltan, you will choose yours.’

  ‘I choose James Bond,’ said Zoltan. ‘He is not the biggest, or the oldest, but he looks the fiercest.’

  The other boys cheered and jostled James, who stood there reluctantly, not wanting to be made a spectacle of.

  Ugo was smiling. ‘I have chosen my champion,’ he said and pointed to someone in the crowd. ‘You boy, there, step forward.’

  James looked round and groaned as Tony Fitzpaine walked out and joined him, baring his big teeth in an arrogant smile.

  ‘This time you won’t take me by surprise, Bond,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ready for you. It’ll be a fair fight, and you will lose.’

  16

  Gladiators

  James and Fitzpaine were taken to a private area behind the stadium to get ready. A guard showed them into a spotless, marble-floored room with paintings of sportsmen on the walls and a big sunken pool in the middle. A waiting attendant gave them towels and shorts and James started to get changed.

  After a few minutes Zoltan came in with Ugo. They were both carrying boxing gloves and each one went to his champion.

  ‘Do you think you can do it?’ said Zoltan, slipping a glove on to James’s hand. ‘Do you think you can beat the big fellow?’

  James swallowed hard. He had wanted to get his fight with Fitzpaine out in the open, to put an end to it, but not quite this far out in the open.

  He looked across at him on the other side of the room.

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said.

  He had done a bit of boxing at Eton and was pretty good. He was light and fast on his feet with a determination never to give up. He had a strong clean punch and could take a battering. But this was different. He would be boxing out in the stadium, in front of all those people, in the fierce heat, against a boy who hated him. On top of all that he had been knocked unconscious the night before and had had very little sleep.

  These were not the perfect conditions for going into a boxing match.

  ‘He is taller than you,’ said Zoltan, ‘but he has shorter arms. So I think maybe you have the longer reach. Use it. He is heavier and maybe stronger, so you must be faster. Be a dancer not a fighter. Keep moving. Keep out of his way until you see your chance.’

  James watched as Ugo’s guard laced on Fitzpaine’s gloves. The boy grimaced and spoke sharply to him, but Ugo leant over and whispered something in Fitzpaine’s ear. The boy’s eyes widened for a moment before he nodded his head and smiled.

  What was Ugo up to now? James remembered how the Count had paid the wrestler to lose the match earlier. How was he going to cheat his way to victory this time?

  Ugo and Fitzpaine briefly glanced over at James, as if they both knew something he didn’t.

  Well, whatever it was, there was nothing he could do about it now.

  ‘Look at him,’ said Zoltan, quietly. ‘The great Count Ugo Carnifex. I will tell you a secret, James: Ugo is no more a count than I am.’

  ‘I know,’ said James. ‘He’s a goatherd, from the mountains.’

  Zoltan
chuckled. ‘You seem to know a lot,’ he said and grimaced. He was not finding it easy to lace the gloves with his bad arm and he had to call the attendant over to help.

  ‘Maybe you also know why Ugo has such a hatred of dirt?’ Zoltan went on.

  ‘No,’ said James.

  ‘Then I will tell you,’ said Zoltan. ‘He grew up here in the Barbagia, and his family was as poor as everyone else. So when war broke out it was a chance for him to escape. He joined the famous Brigata Sassari and went off to fight. For two years he fought against the army of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in the mountains along Italy’s north-east border.

  ‘At the battle of Triangular Woods he was wounded in the head and his younger brother, Guido, who had fought alongside him for the whole campaign, carried him to safety on his shoulders under heavy fire.

  ‘The wound was not serious, but the shock of it caused Ugo’s hair to turn white.

  ‘In the confusion of the battle they found themselves cut off from the brigade behind enemy lines. There were four of them and Ugo was not the only one who was wounded. Another man, Colombo, had caught a bullet in the thigh and was weak from loss of blood, so the men could not travel fast. Lost and scared and confused, they found refuge in a deserted building.

  ‘But it was no ordinary building. It was an abandoned palazzo whose owners had fled and taken everything with them, so that the rooms were bare and empty. The place was still magnificent however, and Ugo had never seen anything like it. The four Sardinians wandered from room to room, amazed. There were so many rooms they soon lost count. How could anyone need so many rooms?

  ‘And then they heard the sound of trucks and they knew they must hide. They searched the palazzo and at last found a small trapdoor that led down into a septic tank, where the waste from all the toilets was collected.

  ‘They climbed down and stood up to their waists in stinking filth.

  ‘All that night they stayed there, listening to the voices in the palazzo above and shaking with fear, waiting for the soldiers to leave.