The memory surfaces unbidden—year seven in theludus. Maximus lay dying in the corner where they’d dumped him after his final fight, stomach ripped open by a retiarius’s trident. Theludusdoctor had shrugged—too much damage, not worth the cost of trying to save a gladiator past his prime.
I should have walked away. Should have preserved my strength for my own survival. Yet I stayed, rooted beside him in the stinking darkness, using my water ration to clean wounds that would never heal.
“Why?” he’d gasped, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. “Why waste… your time on… a dead man?”
I’d had no answer then that made sense. But sitting there, holding pressure on wounds that wouldn’t close, singing the old songs my mother had taught me, I felt something settle in my chest. Purpose. Control. When everything else was chaos and death and the whims of masters who saw us as livestock, this was something I could do. Someone I could ease.
He died anyway, of course. But he died hearing music instead of screams. Died knowing someone thought he was worth the effort.
After that, they came to me more often. The young ones with nightmares, the injured ones the doctor abandoned, the broken ones who just needed someone to acknowledge their humanity. Fixing their problems became my way of fixing what I couldn’t fix about my own life. Every person I helped was proof that I was more than a weapon, more than property.
It gave me the illusion of control when I actually had none.
But in theludus, I understood the transaction. They needed help. I provided it, and in return I felt human instead of monstrous. Clear boundaries, honest exchange.
With Nicole, the lines blur in ways that make a band of pressure clamp around my ribs. She comes to me with the same physical hunger as always, but disappears emotionally the moment we catch our breath. She gives her body but guards her heart with walls that seem to grow higher each day.
It’s not enough anymore. A realization settles in my chest like a stone. Its weight drags at every breath, heavier than chains, because I know I can no longer accept scraps of her heart while giving her all of mine.
When dawn comes, the training yard calls to me, offering familiar comfort as I work through combat forms with Thrax. Muscle memory guides movements while my mind puzzles over Nicole’s withdrawal.
“You’re distracted,” Thrax observes as he blocks a strike that should have been faster.
“Thinking.”
“About her.” It’s not a question.
I adjust my grip on the practice sword, finding my center again. “She’s retreating. I can’t determine why.”
“What does your combat instinct tell you?”
The question focuses my thoughts as we circle each other.
“She connects, then withdraws. Advances, then retreats.” The pattern becomes clearer as I articulate it. “She’s protecting herself from something.”
Thrax presses an attack that requires my full attention to counter. “From what?”
“That’s what I cannot see. The enemy she’s fighting exists in her past, not in this moment.” I redirect his momentum, using his strength against him. “She’s battling ghosts.”
We separate, both breathing hard from the exertion. Thrax removes his translator earpiece and speaks in Latin, voice pitched low.
“Sometimes the fiercest warriors are the ones who’ve been broken before. They know exactly how much damage love can do.”
His words carry the weight of personal experience. Skye had needed time to trust too, had pulled away when their connection deepened beyond what felt safe.
“How long did you wait?”
“As long as it took. But I also made sure she knew I was fighting for us, not just accepting whatever scraps she offered.” Thrax cleans his practice sword with methodical care. “Patience without action is just surrender wearing a different name.”
The wisdom stays with me as evening settles over the sanctuary, and I find myself at dinner with my gladiator brothers. Varro and Cassius join us after settling their respective families for the night—a reminder of what’s possible when patience and courage align. The conversation flows in Latin, the language we use when discussing matters of the heart.
“She’s afraid,” I tell them without preamble. “But I can’t determine what she fears most.”
“Have you asked her?” Varro’s question is gentle but pointed.
“She insists everything is fine. Says she’s focused on her studies. But I know evasion when I hear it—I’ve watched men on their deathbeds whisper ‘it’s nothing’ with blood bubbling from their lips.” I push food around my plate without appetite. “Meanwhile, she gives herself completely to me when we are in bed together.”
Cassius winces in sympathy. “She pulls back emotionally while maintaining physical intimacy, as if walls can protect her from wanting more.”
