New Found Land (10 page)

It was fun, but also exhausting. Eventually Simon suggested they had done enough for one day. Brad disagreed. “Five weeks isn't long to go from amateur to top pro. I say keep playing.”

He got Bos's vote and, even more enthusiastically, Lundiga's. Nor was this, Simon realized, just her customary habit of supporting whatever her little Bradus proposed; she was really hooked on the game. She had a surprisingly good eye and considerable strength of arm—one of her angled shots, ricocheting unexpectedly, almost knocked Simon out when he failed to get out of the way. She was a somewhat comic sight, swinging her racket with the fur hat firmly planted on her head, and Brad again suggested she take it off: there was no one to see her, apart from them.

Her chin jutted firmly. “It is not proper.”

They practised each day until the room's high windows no longer gave them enough light to see by.
At the beginning, their muscles ached abominably, but gradually they toughened up. The standard of play improved, too; whereas originally it had been an achievement to get the ball through the ring a couple of times in the course of an evening, they began to score more regularly.

There was a ball game three weeks after they started, and they went along to watch.

Bos said: “We are not good enough.”

“No,” Brad agreed. “I suppose they're about three times better than we are. When we started, it would have been thirty times better. We need more practice.”

The city began to fill with people from outside, a week before the tryout games. They watched from across the street as a convoy of servants with pack llamas arrived at the house they had been using, and started making it ready for their masters.

Bos said: “Shall we look for another? There are houses still empty.”

Simon shook his head. “Not worth it.”

Brad said reluctantly: “No. They'll all be filling up now.”

Lundiga said: “There is a ruin where the children play ball. We could go there.”

“The moment we do,” Simon said, “everyone will know about the new sticks.”

“Would that matter?” Brad asked. He considered it. “I guess you're right. The element of surprise is probably worth more than the extra practice.”

That night Simon was awakened from an exhausted sleep to see Brad's figure silhouetted against bright moonlight. The first moment of consciousness had the curious effect of obliterating from his memory everything that had happened since the fireball. He thought he was at home in Surrey and could not understand why his American cousin was squatting beside him, nor why they were not in their beds. Memory came back with a bang, and brought with it a fierce hunger for all the things he had lost—a soft bed, his portable radio ready to switch on, his grandmother's voice calling him to a bacon and egg breakfast . . . He said resentfully. “What is it?”

“A clear night is what,” Brad said, “which we can have to ourselves. We can get more practice in.”

T
HE DAY BEGAN WITH A
procession that wound its way through the streets of the city towards the temple. The following mob stretched more than half a mile. Lundiga suggested they might go along to see what happened, but Bos opposed it.

“I want no part in pagan doings.”

“It's not just the pagan bit,” Brad said. “Strong Feather told me what happens. The priests go up to that pavilion at the top, taking a young girl with them. They say their prayers to the two gods; then four attendants hold the girl's legs and arms while
the Chief Priest slashes her breast, plunges his hand in, and pulls out her heart. Apparently it's important that it should still be throbbing when it's presented to the gods. After that they roll the body down the side of the pyramid, and then it's flayed, and another priest dances around wearing the skin. I don't think we want to watch that.”

Although Lundiga did not argue, Simon was not entirely sure she agreed. He thought of the Viking ceremony of the bloody eagle and wondered whether she would not have been a cheerful and interested spectator of the proceedings at the winter feast, but for taking a fancy to Brad. He had now come to think of her entirely as a companion, and on the whole a good one, but he felt there was a strong streak of the barbarian not far below her genial surface.

“What we can do,” Brad suggested, “is head over to the ball court while they're having their nasty fun. After the ceremony, there's sure to be a wild rush to get in line. The contest's limited to thirty-two teams, and at least twice that will want to take part.”

They had a long wait in the narrow street adjoining the ball courts before the flood of humanity
poured towards them. They were yelling and waving sticks, and Simon wondered if they might be tempted to attack them for preempting the number one spot next to the door; but the first four came to a triumphant halt beside them, and the remainder soon sorted themselves out behind.

What conflict there was took place much further down the street, where the question of being team thirty-two or thirty-three was in doubt. There was violent scuffling and blows were exchanged; in the end, one of the contending teams yielded, with one member being carried away by the rest, apparently unconscious. There followed a period of surprisingly patient waiting. Patient, but not quiet; they chattered and sang, and tortilla vendors did a brisk trade in sustaining them against the exertions ahead.

The procedure for the contest was straightforward. The two teams first in line played against one another, and the third and fourth, and so on until sixteen clashes had resulted in sixteen winners. This was repeated twice, leaving four survivors out of the thirty-two.

At this stage the knock-out system was replaced by one in which each team played the other three. A point was awarded for a win, and the members of the
team with the most points were given the belts which qualified them to play in the main games. A tie on points would be settled by a play-off.

The preliminary rounds were decided on a first ring wins basis. Their opponents in the initial game were a young team who were quick on their feet (which accounted for their being second in line) but not outstandingly skilful otherwise. After a few minutes Lundiga picked up a ball sidewalled to her by Brad and drove it cleanly through the ring. The crowd cheered as their opponents walked despondently off the court.

They got no material reward for their victory; it was the habit of the rich to arrive late, and the lower rows of seats were empty. There were plenty of people in the poorer seats, though. These showed considerable interest both in Bos's beard and Lundiga's hat, calling out wisecracks in Aztec and accompanying them with howls of laughter.

Their second entry to the court gained them a special roar of welcome; they had become local favourites. This game lasted longer, but only because they had several near misses, hitting the edge of the ring, before Simon thumped home a pass from Brad.

The last game before the final play-off was another quick one, and once more Lundiga scored the winning shot. By now some of the lower seats were occupied, and a few small silver ingots were tossed to them. They went back cheerfully to the long low-ceilinged area between the courts where players rested between games. It was a lot emptier since the majority had been eliminated.

Brad counted the takings. “It doesn't make us rich, but it's a start. Better than beans.”

“So far it's been easy,” Simon said.

“So far. We shouldn't get overconfident.”

“The important thing is that we got away with using the rackets. What did that official say when he called you over and looked at yours?”

“I couldn't follow. He didn't stop us from using them. That's what matters.”

“We can beat them all,” Bos said happily. He patted Lundiga's right arm. “Lundiga is playing very well.”

Lundiga stretched, and announced: “I'm hungry.” Her appetite had always been healthy, but since the period of strenuous exercise had started, her capacity for eating had outstripped even that of Bos. “Is there a tortilla seller outside?”

•  •  •

Only one court was used for the second session. Every seat was taken, and the centre front row in particular had turned into an eye-wrenching kaleidoscope of colours. That was where friends and relations of the governor sat, on either side of his elaborately carved pew. A group of priests robed in purple and white sat behind him, and directly beneath was the judges' box, with the two officials who presided over the games, timing them by means of a smouldering twine knotted at regular intervals.

There was a small area where players could sit and watch, and the Romans weighed up the opposition from there. Two of the surviving teams had players who were around their age (excluding Bos), but the third team was the one which had fought for and won the last place in the line. Its members were two or three years older.

This gave them a physical advantage which they were far from reluctant to use. Simon nicknamed them the Gorillas. Striking an opponent deliberately with a stick was not permitted, though it happened accidentally more often than was probable, and punching, kicking, and similar assaults were also
banned. Body checking, on the other hand, was in order, whether or not the opponent was playing the ball, and was indulged in with gusto.

Having been drawn to play second, they were able to watch the Gorillas in action. Their shooting was not particularly good and they had only scored two rings before time was called, but their opponents were scarcely permitted to get a shot in, being flattened every time they went for the ball. At the end, two of them were limping pitifully.

There was a round of applause for Bos and Lundiga when they went on court. They had little trouble in the first game, scoring four rings (three by Lundiga) without reply. They stayed on court to play the team the Gorillas had beaten, and that was easier still. Their opponents were psychologically as well as physically battered—one could barely hobble—and got in only a few hopeless shots. Lundiga got four rings out of seven this time, and a frenzy of cheers at the end.

In the next game, the Gorillas hammered the second team of youngsters as they had the first. Their opponents scored a ring right at the beginning, which infuriated them. They abandoned
serious pursuit of the ball while they slammed into their challengers, and subsequently they were able to take more or less unopposed potshots at the ring. They scored three, and missed ten times as many.

“They're tough,” Brad said. He looked at Bos. “Think you can handle them?”

Bos rubbed his hands together. “I can handle them.”

The excitement of the crowd was at fever pitch; they howled with joy at the sight of Lundiga and Bos. To the Gorillas they displayed an equivalent hostility, hurling imprecations as they came on court. It was nice to be favourites, Simon thought, but it didn't remove his apprehension about what lay ahead.

The apprehension was justified in the first minute. Brad had angled a ball high off a wall intersection; Simon was standing in a position to receive it, with an outside chance of a ring. He was concentrating on the ball rather than watching his back, and in the instant of swinging his racket, a brawny figure rammed into him and sent him sprawling. He hit the stone floor of the court with a thump that drove the breath from his lungs.

A little later, after similarly putting Brad down,
the Gorillas had a shooting chance. It missed, and so did their second, but the third went through the ring. Limping towards Bos, Simon said: “They really are tough.”

“Not tough enough,” Bos said grimly.

The major part of the damage was being done by the Gorillas' leader, a scarred and broken-nosed bruiser. Bos disregarded the ball and stalked him. When he caught him, he hit him with his full two hundred pounds. The Gorilla went down. One of his companions bounced Lundiga, but Bos was on to him immediately, smacking him against the wall. The ball came loose to Brad, who hit it sweetly through the ring.

From that point, they had their measure, and Lundiga and Simon both scored. The Gorillas, more through luck than accuracy, got a second, but when one of the presiding officials dropped his scarf to signal the end, the score was 5-2.

This time they collected quite a bit more silver and even a couple of quills of gold dust. They were also presented with the gold-trimmed leather belts which qualified them to play in the big games. Afterwards they treated themselves to sweet maize
cakes topped with cocoa cream, previously an unaffordable luxury.

“A nice change from bread,” Brad said. “In fact, I believe we can say we're finally off the bread line.”

“No more humping stone blocks,” Simon said.

“Yes,” Lundiga said. “I am glad. It was all right for Bos and for you, Simonus; but Bradus should not have to do such work.”

All right for her, too, Simon thought; she was at least as strong as he was.

Brad, who was learning to switch off from that sort of remark, said with satisfaction: “And the big games next week.”

Bos nodded. “Good.”

“More loot,” said Simon.

“I don't see why we shouldn't win a game or two,” Brad said, “even against the big boys. On the other hand . . .”

“What?”

“The team that wins the final really makes it rich. They usually retire from playing after it.”

“We're doing fine,” Simon said. “Let's not get too ambitious.”

“Why not?” Bos asked.

Simon gingerly fingered a huge bruise on his thigh; various bits of his anatomy were starting to ache quite badly. He said: “Just because we brought down the Roman empire doesn't mean we're kings of the ball game.”

“What do we have to lose?” Brad asked.

Lundiga said tenderly: “I agree with Bradus.”

Simon touched another bruise and winced. “Well, that's a surprise.”

•  •  •

The following days passed quickly. They rented a house and converted one room into a ball court where they practised assiduously. Simon, who did not share the optimism over the possibility of winning the jackpot, was less keen but went along with the others.