Page 52 of Black Sea

Darkness enveloped us for a few steps, after which the glow of the wall-mounted torches guided us down a sequence of steep, uneven steps.

There was no air down here. I felt as if the oxygen in my lungs was depleting as we descended through the tunnels one after another. A strange metallic smell lingered in the back of my throat. I attempted to swallow, but it felt like something lodged behind my tongue was preventing the saliva from flowing down. My breathing became heavier and faster, ringing in my ears more intensely than the hiss of fire in our path.

I needed to go back to the surface, to the sun.

I didn’t want to be underground.

I wanted . . .

Suddenly, I felt Amlach’s left hand creep into my right. He squeezed it so tightly that my mind was emptied of any sensation other than his warm palm against mine. Gradually, my breathing slowed, and Amlach’s grip on my fingers loosened.

After what felt like a century, Roxior stepped into the only room at the end of the dead-end corridor. A long crack with bars stretched across the basement wall, aligning with the sandy field of the arena.

On impulse, I moved toward the rays that filtered diagonally, stretching my hand between the dust particles floating in the air and relishing the sun’s warmth on my knuckles.

Roxior sat in a chair and poured himself a glass of wine from the carafe on the round table next to it.

A table with water, wine, and lots of cut fruit was leaning against the other wall.

“Help yourself while it’s all fresh,” Roxior said as he crossed his legs. He gulped down his drink and filled his glass again, visibly anxious.

Amlach poured the water into two glasses and passed me one.

Soon after, two brown-skinned female slaves with long black braids adorned with beads as white as their tunics, which were cinched at the waist by belts, appeared at the threshold. Red and black pigments decorated their eyes, and a single line, golden like the collar they wore, cut through their lower lip.

One carried a bowl of blue paint, while the other brought two soft leather armors with armguards and greaves attached.

Roxior signaled for us to move to the bench beneath the crack in the wall with the newcomers. They started prepping us, beginning with the armor.

As my armor was strapped tightly behind my back, I couldn’t help but grimace when I felt its mediocre quality under my fingers. It was so light that perhaps even a dull blade could cut through it.

I dropped an irritated look in Amlach’s direction.

He lifted an eyebrow, amused. “Better than nothing.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to avoid protesting loudly as the rest of the protections were applied to us.

Then, the two slaves had us sit down to paint our faces. Amlach was smeared between the root of his nose and his eyebrows, a little below his eyes, and on his cheek with two fingerprints that extended under his jaw and along the side of his neck. In contrast, I was painted with more color: The woman’s fingers created a bold stroke that began at my hairline, just above my right temple, and moved down to the area below my left temple.

Suddenly, the slaves knelt before us and placed their hands on our knees in a manner that felt a bit too suggestive for my liking, prompting a strange exchange of looks between Amlach and me.

“That’s enough,” Roxior said point-blank, his voice even more stentorian in the low room. “Go.”

The two women traded surprised glances, their eyes suddenly bright with relief. In the next moment, they bolted for the door, perhaps worried that the Master might change his mind.

That was when I realized they were pleasure slaves, and their responsibility was not just to prepare the gladiators but also to fulfill any desire they had before the battle.

I cast a wild glance at Roxior, who watched me intently from above the rim of the chalice. Amlach nudged my foot with the tip of his boot, and I channeled my rage, clenching my fists on my thighs while taking a deep breath.

At the same time, a breathless young servant with brown curls stuck to his forehead appeared in the doorway. He did not dare to cross it until Roxior beckoned him closer. The boy leaned in to speak in his ear in an agitated tone, wringing his hands.

Little by little, anger etched on Roxior’s face, and he dismissed the servant with an abrupt gesture.

Amlach frowned. “What is it?”

The old man propped his elbow against the armrest of his chair, gently caressing his white goatee. “My enemies are more cunning and powerful than I remembered, Commander.”

I gave Amlach a leery look. “What does it mean?” I asked Roxior.