My parents flew in from Cambridge two months ago. It was the first time either of them had met someone I was seeing, which we all pretended not to notice was significant. My mother brought a good bottle of wine because she never arrives anywhere empty-handed. My father shook Flavius’s hand for a long moment and then said, to me, not to him, “He’s real.” As if he’d needed to verify it in person.
It was awkward in the specific way our family does awkward—everyone very articulate about everything except feelings. But my mother sat next to me at dinner and at one point put her hand over mine and left it there, which is more than she usually manages. And before they left, my father said, “We’re proud of you, Sophia” — plainly, without qualifiers — which from him is the equivalent of a standing ovation.
They flew back to Cambridge after two days. My mother has emailed three times since.
I think about them sometimes when I walk this path. How far the version of me who arrived here in May feels from the one writing this paper, living this life.
I close the gate to the Roman garden and follow the sound of low voices toward the side yard.
Flavius is teaching again.
Not performance. Not weapons. Healing.
A small group stands in a loose half-circle: two staff members, a grad student intern, and—of all people—Sulla, who looks faintlyalarmed at being included. They’re barefoot in the morning grass.
Flavius kneels in front of Diana, hands hovering over her knee. His voice is soft, almost reverent: “Do not press first. Listen first. Hands know things before eyes.”
He demonstrates the sweeping, grounding motion he taught me months ago—thumbs tracing the line of the tibia, palms warming the connective tissue with gentle pressure. Diana’s exhale is audible from ten feet away.
He catches my presence before I speak.
His gaze lifts. Not the Jester’s grin. Not the fighter’s stillness. Something quieter, warmer.
His whole face changes.
The others follow his look and smile in that way people do when they witness something private but beautiful.
He rises and ends class with a simple, “Good work. Again tomorrow.”
They disperse, murmuring appreciatively.
He walks toward me—slow, unhurried, a man who knows where he wants to be.
“You are early,” he says, voice low with that morning softness he’s no longer afraid to show.
“I missed you,” I say. Direct. Simple. True.
His lips curve in something closer toglowthan smile.
He offers his forehead.
I lean in. Our brows touch.
The gesture settles between us, steady and familiar, a quiet promise we’ve woven into the daily rhythm of our lives.
He breathes out, slow and sure. “You smell like rosemary,” he murmurs.
“You smell like grass,” I counter. “And self-satisfaction because Varro did the exercise wrong.”
His laugh is soft, chest-warm, all for me. “He is trying.”
“So are you,” I say gently.
That lands. I see it in the way his shoulders drop—the release he doesn’t hide anymore.
I slide my hands up his arms. “When’s your language lesson?”
“Later,” he says. “My tutor thinks I’m doing well. Says my memory helps.” A wry grin tugs at his mouth. “He also says my accent is a war crime.”
