Chapter 28: The coliseum
Mordred awoke slowly, a metallic taste filling his mouth. A dull pain wracked his skull, and every muscle in his body seemed to protest in unison against his every movement. He painfully opened his eyes, blinking several times to adjust to the oppressive darkness surrounding him.
A rancid smell of sweat, dried blood and filth invaded his nostrils. He was lying on a cold stone slab, his bruised back pressed against an irregular wall, without a single blanket to soften the hardness of the floor. The air was heavy, stifling, charged with an almost palpable tension. He could hear heavy breathing, discreet murmurs and the steady clanking of chains.
Slowly, he raised his head and surveyed his new surroundings.
He was locked in a cell more cramped than those in the slave dormitory, but far more sinister. The walls were rough stone, damp and covered with dark streaks that resembled dried blood. Thick, reinforced bars closed the only exit, and beyond, he could see other similar cells lined up in what looked like a long underground prison corridor.
But that wasn't what immediately caught his attention.
The prisoners.
Here, they were different from the exhausted, starving slaves he'd encountered in the mine. The men who shared his cell were far more imposing, their bodies marked by years of struggle and survival. Some had gnarled muscles, developed by incessant fighting rather than back-breaking work. Others bore deep scars, evidence of ancient confrontations. Their gaze was not deadened like that of the slaves in the barracks; on the contrary, a dangerous gleam shone in their eyes, that of beasts ready to bite at the slightest provocation.
Mordred swallowed slowly, his instincts immediately warning him that he was no longer simply a slave thrown into the hell of forced labor. He was now in an entirely different world, one where weakness meant death.
A dark-skinned man with arms as thick as wooden beams stared silently at him, leaning against the wall in front of him. His shaven head gleamed in the harsh light of a torch hanging outside the cell, and a hideous gash crossed his face from arch to chin.
- A new one, eh..." he murmured in a deep, gravelly voice.
Mordred didn't answer immediately, assessing the situation, weighing the risks. In this prison, he was no longer just a weak, broken slave. But neither was he a confirmed fighter.