The word comes out awkward on my tongue, but I can see it hits home. She straightens slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“Revolutionary?”
“Think about it. For two thousand years, people read about gladiators in books written by men who never hold sword, never felt the crowd’s hunger, never had to choose between honor and survival. You are the first to ask us what really happened.”
Her breathing is more natural now, and the frantic tapping has calmed into a gentler rhythm. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Because you are a good person who doesn’t think about being first or being important. You just want to understand the truth.” I smile at her. “But understanding truth? Is the most important work there is.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and she relaxes more. Her hands are still moving—not the aggressive tapping now, but a softer pattern, fingers tracing shapes on the table’s surface. Like the movement helps her think.
In theludus, I learned some people need to move to stay calm. Not weakness—just how their minds work best.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much better. Thank you. I don’t usually…” She pauses, seeming to reconsider what she was about to say. “I rarely talk about family stuff with research subjects.”
“Good thing I am not just a research subject anymore, yes? I am… a friend you help with reading, who tells stories, who listens when parents are difficult.”
Her smile is the first genuine one I’ve seen from her today. “Yes. Friend.”
“Now,” I say, settling back in my chair, “you want to hear about crowd psychology, or do you want to practice letters first? Both are good, but maybe letters are easier when your brain is tired from hard talk with parents?”
She considers this. “Letters, I think. Something concrete and achievable.”
“Good choice.”
As she pulls out the reading materials, I notice how her movements have shifted from sharp and controlled to fluid and purposeful. The stress is still there—I can see it in the way she carries her shoulders—but it’s manageable now instead of overwhelming.
“Thank you.” She opens the primer. “For understanding. For not making me explain why a phone call from my parents could derail my whole morning.”
“Everyone has things that cut at them,” I tell her. “The trick is not facing them alone.”I pause, then add, “You deserve people who can see you clearly. Not people who shrink you to fit their fears.”
Her laugh is startled but genuine. “That might be the wisest thing anyone’s said to me in weeks.” This loosens something tight in my chest. I want to make her laugh again, just to feel that warmth.
“Romans have much wisdom,” I say solemnly, then grin. “And much… other things.”
This time her laugh is natural, and I feel something warm drift through me. Making her feel better feels almost as good as reading my first word.
Maybe better.
As we work through simple sentences, I find myself paying attention to the small things—how she adjusts the book’s angle so I can see it clearly, the patient way she sounds out words when I’m struggling, the quiet “good” she murmurs when I get something right.
But also the other things. The way she still taps her fingers when she’s thinking hard. The way she shifts position frequently, like sitting still takes effort. How she organizes and reorganizes the objects around her, even when they don’t need organizing.
Little patterns that remind me of the fighters I trusted with my life—men whose differences made them extraordinary. She is the same. Not broken, just moving to the rhythm her mind needs.
“You know,” I say as we finish today’s lesson, “in theludus, we have all kinds of fighters. Some need quiet before battle, some need noise. Some think best when moving, some when sitting still. All different, all good fighters.”
She looks up from gathering her materials. “That’s a nice way to think about it.”
“It’s the true way to think about it. Different doesn’t mean wrong.”
I see it register—clean, precise, exactly where it needed to land.
“Same time next session?” she asks.
“Yes. And Sophia? Next time your parents call with harsh words, you remember—what you do here matters. What you learn from us will change how people understand history. You told me once it was important work. You were right.”
