Page 47 of Black Sea

So, I relaxed my shoulders and exhaled, letting go of all my adversities. “Yes, it is so,” I said. “I apologize for my . . . rigidity. I know you’re trying to help us as much as you can.”

The man licked his canine, not entirely convinced of my surrender. “In that case,” he replied in a less harsh voice, “allow me to show you my house, Your Highness.” He nodded obsequiously. I nodded back, and he waved the fan, motioning us to follow him. “Make sure everything is ready for when we arrive,” he told Lotte.

She nodded, glaring at me, and walked in the opposite direction from us.

Escorted by armed guards, Master Roxior accompanied us down the opulent corridors of his home, strolling beside us as if we were longtime friends. As the old man told Amlach that he personally contributed to the design of each luxurious piece of furniture, I was captivated by the stunning mosaics on the floors and the architectural and floral motifs painted on the walls.

Crossing a peristyle enlarged by an apse that housed a fountain with a sea-blue mosaic pool, we entered the large reception room. It was hexagonal, with curved sides, domes decorated with glass mosaics and gold-leaf tiles, and striking marble-inlaid floors. Even the smaller dining room featured skirting boards adorned with multicolored marble friezes.

I savored the coolness of every room, trying to hold it inside me to withstand the heat that awaited us outside.

As a final stop, Roxior led us into his private garden, where tall, dense palm trees softened the already dazzling light of the early morning sun. I wished I were still barefoot so that I could feel the softness of the lawn, so vividly green that I wondered if there was some magic at work, as in my kingdom.

A table was placed between the two elongated armchairs, laden with eggs, ham, cheese, pastries, fresh fruit, and drinks. After days of fish and chicken on the grill, the slop from the galleon, and the poor loaf of bread accompanied by a glass of milk last night, my stomach growled at the sight of all that delicious food.

“Princess, Commander.” Roxior pointed to the refreshment with the fan. “Your breakfast.”

“Your thoughtfulness flatters and moves us, Master,” Amlach said, dipping into a bow. “We thank you.”

I mirrored his gesture, and, with a small grateful smile, I added, “We could have eaten with the other servants, Master. There was no need for such trouble.”

“You will soon learn, Highness, that, unlike common slaves, gladiators enjoy many comforts.” He beckoned us closer to the table and the armchairs. “In fact, you shall stay in the main dwelling, not in the servants’ buildings.” He settled into the chair on the left. “And given your rank, I think you will yield the pleasure of your company to my wife and me during many meals.”

“We would be honored,” I said, grateful.

“Indeed, Master,” Amlach agreed. He inched closer to the tempting food. He was obviously hungry. “Can we help ourselves, with your permission?”

“Of course,” the man answered, and his eyes took on something of an ambiguous glint.

I reached for the apple pie and the chocolate cake. However, before either Amlach or I could even grab the saucers to fill them, Roxior opened the fan, causing us to stop.

“But first,” the man added with a sly grin, “I’d like you to entertain me with a little . . . performance, if we can call it that.”

“Performance?” I echoed him, unable to conceal my anger. What did he take us for? Some acrobats?

My reaction caused Roxior’s grin to widen, and he started to fan himself. “The news of your presence has already reached the ears of all the Masters and Mistresses of Rubra, Highness, as well as the fact that I bought you to return to participate in the Games. I’d like to be sure that that scum Escrain didn’t lie about your . . .”—he breathed in between his teeth, staring at us as if we were a freak show—“talent.”

“All right,” Amlach said, perplexed.

We exchanged a long, cautious look, then I nodded imperceptibly.

“We can do it,” Amlach added resolutely. He turned to the guards who had stayed at the garden entrance, extended his wrists, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully toward the one holding the key to our shackles.

But the soldier didn’t move.

“I’m afraid those must stay on, Commander,” Roxior said.

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I frowned and slowly turned toward the old man. “For what reason?”

He propped his elbow against the seat’s backrest and rested his cheek on his palm. “You are a creature of superhuman strength and speed, Princess. You could face ten soldiers with minimal effort.” He tapped his index finger on his temple. “Is that correct?”

I narrowed my eyes, searching his sharp gaze. Why was he asking? Did he suspect that I was hiding something? Or was he just excited to see me fight?

“It is,” I lied.

His expression gave nothing away. “So . . .” he continued, pitching forward to take a slice of melon from the fruit tray and begin eating it. “The Masters who participate in the games with their gladiators voiced an immediate complaint upon hearing about you. An emergency meeting with the Games’ organizers was held yesterday afternoon. After several discussions, it was decided that you, Your Highness”—he first pointed at me with the remaining half of the melon between his fingers, then at Amlach—“will fight tied to the commander, putting you at a disadvantage”—once more that small, cryptic smirk—“compared to the humans you will face.”