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The beast had been taken to the arena.
Princess Beatrice thought hard. How could she find her way to the arena and get inside without being seen?
The princess considered following the guards who had taken the beast but ruled this out as too easily risking discovery. The princess thought of attempting to find her own way through the city to the arena, but ruled this out as too readily risking getting lost. The princess thought of the six tunnels she had not yet taken. She turned and hurried back down the tunnel opening from the dungeon cell (carefully replacing the stone slab trapdoor behind her) back to the parting of the way. When she stood at the fork in the tunnel, facing the entrances to the nine tunnels, she thought of the view of the city of stone laid out like a map before her from the high ledge, and of the stone amphitheatre that stood a short distance away from the palace at the centre of the city. If each tunnel corresponded to a different level and location in the city of stone, from the highest summit of the ledge to the royal hall in the centre to the lowest level of the dungeons, then one of the tunnels must lead to the arena.
Princess Beatrice took a deep breath and stepped into the third tunnel from the right.
The tunnel wound downward, although not so steeply as the tunnel into the dungeons. It gradually narrowed and began to shudder with vibrations from somewhere ahead and a distant roaring that sounded like a waterfall or battleground was near.
Princess Beatrice guessed that she was approaching the end of the tunnel as the roaring and shudders grew in intensity and volume.
The tunnel brought her to a dark sculpted alcove pierced by shards of light coming from eye-shaped apertures in a granite wall.
When she peeked out of two eye-shaped apertures, she saw that the light came from outside and that the roaring did not belong to a waterfall or battle but arose from the roars of the crowds of spectators filling the amphitheatre, watching a public spectacle in the arena.
She had picked the right tunnel.
The tunnel had led her into the heart of the amphitheatre, with its multi-storeyed, arcaded facades elaborately decorated with marble statues and reliefs, to a small hidden alcove beneath a podium box. The enclosure must have been reserved for royalty, Princess Beatrice supposed, since it was distinguished by regal statues and carvings and appeared to provide the best views of the arena. The princess wondered if Prince Caspar was seated above in the podium box enjoying the view. The podium was flanked by tiers of other galleries, filled with gargoyle spectators and armed guards. The roars from the crowds penetrated into the cavity beneath the podium where she was hidden. At such close proximity, they were deafening.
Princess Beatrice wondered how this alcove in such an open and prominent place had not yet been discovered until she realised that she was standing inside the hollow body of one of the granite columns, sculpted in the shape of a gargoyle, holding up the podium, and the apertures out of which she was peering were the pupils of its eyes.
Princess Beatrice looked about the alcove and discovered a trapdoor partition in the floor of the alcove which dropped to a large gutter—a channel at ground level which, the princess found, was connected to the nearest axial entrance into the arena.
The arena was ringed by nine axial entrances, each with a closed portcullis, at ground level.
The beast from the dungeon stood in a corner of the arena. Around him, lying in the dirt and sand of the arena floor, were the bodies of the defeated gargoyle champions who had been sent to meet him.
The roar of the amphitheatre spectators filled the surrounding air. Guards marched into the arena and took the bodies away so that the captive beast was left alone in the vast arena.
Trumpets sounded and the portcullis to one axial entrance was drawn up. A large sleek grey wolf came out.
The beast was sent into the centre of the arena to fight against the ravenous wolf. The beast’s wings were bound and he had no recourse to any weapons besides his own strength and cunning.
The wolf prowled about the beast and attacked without restraint or mercy. The beast wrestled savagely with the wolf and slit its throat with one precise swipe of his talons.
Barely a moment after the beast had crawled out from underneath the corpse of the slaughtered wolf, the trumpets sounded again and the portcullis to a second entrance rose. A giant black panther stalked out. The panther leapt towards the beast with a ferocious snarl like a bolt of black lightning, only to impale itself on the beast’s deadly unsheathed talons. Despite his injuries from the round with the wolf, the beast’s reflexes had been as swift as the panther’s in attack.
Arising bloodied from the struggles with the wild creatures, the beast turned to the sound of a third trumpet call. When the third portcullis rose, the beast faced another gargoyle who was even larger than himself, broader in chest and limbs, and at least a head taller.
The gargoyle who entered the arena had removed his royal ermine cloak. He was Prince Caspar, the gargoyle that Princess Beatrice had seen on the throne.
‘Hello cousin,’ said the new combatant.
The third round in the arena was the most vicious of all. It was hand-to-hand combat. No fire or weapons were allowed, but Princess Beatrice felt keenly the unfairness of the match: Prince Caspar was larger and more heavily built than his cousin; he was fresh and uninjured, and his wings were free.
The beast fought on, tenaciously and ruthlessly, not yielding to his opponent’s advantages. The beast met his cousin’s airborne taunts and strikes and attacked in return with force and agility, drawing blood and his cousin’s wrath.
Impossibly, when Prince Caspar stood at one end of the arena half an hour later, panting angrily for breath and bleeding from gashing wounds to his torso and wings, the beast, ravaged and bloody from head to toe, still remained alert and upright at the opposite end of the arena.
Princess Beatrice recognised something in the beast besides the pure instinct for survival, something like pride or the principle which compelled the knights of Trasimene to charge into battle when they knew that there was no hope of victory or return. It was perhaps the one thing which kept him standing. But she also saw that his strength was fading. The beast had fought and survived the savage rounds with the gargoyle champions and the wild creatures, he was withstanding his cousin’s brutal affronts, but his body had suffered too much; it had been too mauled, too wounded, used too well to obey his dogged resolve to outlast Prince Caspar much longer. Dangerously, his cousin also seemed to have perceived the beast’s weakening and began, slowly, to circle his prey.
Watching the fight hidden in the stone statue, Princess Beatrice saw a momentary flash—a glint of metal. It came from a tiny hidden dagger that had been stealthily drawn out by Prince Caspar from his belt and vanished as quickly into his large hand as he stood poised for an attack.
Prince Caspar lunged at his cousin suddenly. The beast fought back with powerful motions. When they broke apart, the beast flinched. He felt a painful sting and something wet on his skin. When the beast looked down, he saw that a long, deep cut freshly scored his abdomen.
‘Ever true to your nature, cousin,’ hissed the beast, gasping for breath.
Prince Caspar bared the poisoned assassin’s dagger in his hand, no longer bothering with the subterfuge. He approached the beast in heavy, arrogant strides.
‘I am bored of this play, cousin,’ said Prince Caspar, and attacked.
The earth shook with the clash of the two gargoyles. Prince Caspar pounced and grappled the beast to the ground. The crowd roared with bloodlust. In her hiding place, Princess Beatrice trembled in terror and anger as she felt about her pockets, steadied her hand and took aim.
A blood-curdling howling tore through the air.
Prince Caspar staggered back on his feet, dropping his dagger and releasing his vice-like hold on his cousin to grasp his own temple. The beast, lying prone in the dirt and sand, froze in startled confusion.
Another agonising howl rent the air as Prince Caspar fell to his knees, writhing, covering his right eye with both his hands. This time the beast had seen the missile, the small flying rock whistling through the air and falling, smeared with blood from his cousin’s eye, bouncing, and rolling away in the agitated dirt.
The diversion was all that the beast required to stagger to his feet and finish off his cousin in three clean swipes of his talons. Then the beast collapsed to the ground next to him.
A hush fell over the amphitheatre.
Princess Beatrice had been scolded from a young age for having more heart than sense. She ran out from her hiding place, through the trapdoor partition and the gutter connecting to the axial entrance, squeezed under the portcullis, and hastened into the arena towards the beast, pulling out the small crystal vial which hung on her necklace. By the time Princess Beatrice reached and knelt beside the beast, the silver cap had been unscrewed and she was applying the potion to the wound across the beast’s abdomen which had begun weeping black from the poison. She then held the vial to the beast’s mouth and let three drops fall between his lips. After a few seconds, the beast began to shudder violently. After a few more moments, the princess let out a little startled gasp: the beast had opened his eyes.
––––––––
IT WAS USUALLY AT THIS point that the children listening to the story began either to cheer or cry.
The baker’s curious son did neither.
‘What happened next?’ asked the little boy.
‘What do you think happened?’ replied the school mistress.
‘It was not a fair fight,’ observed the baker’s son, speaking from the wisdom of experience.
‘No,’ agreed the school mistress. ‘It was not.’
––––––––
THE GUARDS ARRIVED in the arena and surrounded them. The beast was recaptured, chained, and returned to the dungeons. The princess was captured; her weapons were confiscated, and she was thrown into a dungeon cell of her own to await her fate.