“About a year ago, Dr. Laura Turner’s expedition pulled what she thought were shipwreck victims out of Norwegian ice,” Janet says. “Not sailors. Gladiators. The first to breathe again was Varro. He and Laura run this place.”
Another frame shows a young woman grinning beside a mountain of a man. It’s titled NextGenTech Engineer, Gladiator, Share Translation Breakthrough.
“That’s Skye and Thrax,” Janet adds. “Skye built our translator tech.” She produces a slim charging case and flips it open to reveal minimalist earbuds. “Pop one in and you’ll understand them, and they’ll understand you.”
My throat goes dry. Documentaries didn’t prepare me for the intimacy of slipping ancient voices directly into my ear. This isn’t just history—it’s personal now.
She sweeps a hand over a photo collage: Cassius guiding a skittish teen in a riding arena, Victor and Maya demonstrating a hold in the gym, Lucius hooded in a classroom of underworld symbols.
“We’re an educational center now—workshops, school groups, consultations. Some fees, a lot of grants through Dara Hobson’s foundation. Oh, and chefs lose their minds over our garum—Fortuna’s Gold.”
“Ancient Roman fish sauce,” I say before I can stop myself.
Janet laughs. “Exactly. Orientation with Maya starts in five. Map and schedule are in your folder.”
The orientation room holds about fifteen other women, and I’m relieved to notice I’m not the oldest or the most out of shape. There’s a mix of ages and body types, but we all have that same shell-shocked look—people who’ve decided to change everything and actually showed up to make it happen.
“Welcome to Second Chance Sanctuary,” says our instructor, a compact woman in her late twenties. She has calloused hands, a stance like a fighter, and doesn’t waste motion. “I’m Maya Andrews, and I’ll be leading your group for the next four weeks.”
Her voice is steady, no fluff. “Before we start, I want to be clear about something: this isn’t about learning to hurt people. It’s about reclaiming your right to take up space in the world.”
Although those words have been circling in my head lately, hearing them aloud sends a zing of validation through me.
“Our gladiator instructors will teach you techniques that literally kept them alive in mortal combat, but they are adapted for modern self-defense. You’ll learn to move with confidence, to project strength, and to trust your instincts. Most importantly, you’ll learn that you have the right to say no and mean it.”
A woman next to me—maybe thirty, with nervous energy radiating from every pore—raises her hand. “Are we actually going to spar with gladiators?”Maya’s smile is reassuring. “You’ll work with them, yes, but they’re incredibly skilled at gauging their partner’s ability level. These men understand survival, and they understand that true strength comes from lifting others up, not tearing them down.”
We spend the next hour going through logistics, safety protocols, and program expectations. The schedule is intense but manageable: morning self-defense training, afternoon activities like therapeutic riding or crafts workshops, and community meals in the evening. Rotation includes horse work with Cassius and Diana, conditioning with Victor and staff, and a craft block Thrax helps run.
“Any questions before we head to your quarters?”
I raise my hand, feeling like the new kid at school. “The gladiators—do they all speak English now?”
“Many are functionally fluent, though most still use translation devices for complex conversations. Don’t worry—they’re remarkably patient with communication barriers. They understand what it’s like to navigate an unfamiliar world. And yes—wear your bud anytime you’re in public. Saves a lot of charades.”
As our group walks toward the guest barracks, I catch glimpses of daily life at the sanctuary. The red-haired giant I saw earlier is now working with a group of children, his booming laugh making everyone within earshot smile. He’s younger than me by at least a decade, and enthusiasm pours off him like sunlight.
“That’s Flavius,” says the woman walking beside me. She introduces herself as Diane, a teacher from Kansas City going through a divorce. “I did some research before coming. He’s supposedly the youngest of the group and the most… gregarious.”
Gregarious is a good word for it. Even from a distance, his energy is magnetic. Safe crush material—harmless fantasy territory.
I spot another gladiator near the stables—older, deliberate in the way he handles the equipment. There’s a calm solidity to him, like the still center of a storm. He tests a gate hinge, checks it twice, and nods with quiet satisfaction before moving on. The steady competence in his movements fascinates me. Laughter from Flavius’s circle pulls my gaze away; when I look back, the older man has moved on.
My quarters are small but private—a single room with an attached bathroom and a window overlooking the training yards. No shared bathroom schedules, no negotiations about temperature or lighting. Just mine.
I text Ava:Room is perfect. Small but private. Can see the training yards from window.
MOM! Are you checking them out?
I’m observing. For educational purposes.
Sure you are. Any cute ones?
I glance out the window where Flavius is still entertaining the kids with dramatic gestures in what looks like an elaborate story.
Perhaps an interesting prospect. But I’m here to work on myself.
Work on yourself AND be open to possibilities. You’re allowed to want both.
