“Skye’s brilliant with programming. She’s with Thrax, one of our gladiators.”
We walk through corridors lined with photographs—modern shots of men in work clothes and casual gear teaching children, working with horses, building things with their hands. Living full lives in the twenty-first century.
“There’s a demonstration starting soon if you’d like to observe before we schedule formal interviews,” Laura suggests. “Flavius is leading today—he’s our most… enthusiastic performer.”
Here goes nothing.
We step onto a covered pavilion overlooking a sandy training area, and the sudden brightness off the sand hits me all at once—maybe that, maybe the sight below. Thirty or so visitors sit on wooden bleachers while a man in authentic gladiator gear addresses them with animated gestures.
The air smells of cut grass and sun-warmed leather, with something underneath it—sawdust and iron, ancient and immediate at once. The sand in the training yard is pale gold, almost white where the afternoon light hits it full on, darkening to amber near the fence posts.
The noise spikes—metal striking metal, scattered applause, the hum of conversation—and for a moment it presses too hard against my ears. I anchor myself by watching his stance and footwork instead of listening.
Even from this distance, I can see he’s extraordinary. Copper-red hair—thick, wavy, pulled back but already escaping—catches fire in the afternoon sun. Shirtless except for leather armor strapped across his chest and shoulders, he’s heavily muscled in a way that speaks of years wielding actual weapons, not gym equipment.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, abs carved in sharp definition, arms corded with the kind of strength that comes from survival. His skin is sun-weathered, tanned, and marked with old scars that map a brutal history. The easy strength in his stance, the casual way he grips a gladius like it weighs nothing, sends a prickle of awareness down my spine—totally unprofessional, but impossible to ignore.
“That’s Flavius,” Laura says as if there could be any doubt. “In the arena, they called him the Jester,” Laura adds quietly. “Crowds remembered him.”
When he laughs—a rich, booming sound that carries across the space—his whole face transforms. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, features that suggest Germanic or Gallic heritage rather than Roman. There’s a magnetism to him that has nothing to do with historical accuracy and everything to do with presence. He’s explaining sword techniques to the crowd, but something about his movements hits me harder than it should.
“True Roman gladiator never hold sword like this—” He demonstrates an awkward grip, his English charmingly imperfect. “Is stupid Hollywood way. We hold likethis.” His stance shifts, becoming fluid and deadly despite the obvious entertainment value.
I pull out my notebook and scribble observations. The repetitive motion of writing helps me process the sensory input—his voice, the crowd noise, the mid-May afternoon sun that’s almost too bright despite my sunglasses.
Grip position matches Livy’s description, not modern film interpretation. Footwork suggests retiarius training but adapted for a different weapon class. Movement patterns show genuine muscle memory.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” Laura’s voice carries warmth and protective pride.
Of course he is. Even I can feel the magnetic pull of his personality from up here. There’s something about his enthusiasm that’s completely infectious—the way he makes fighting techniques sound like the most fascinating thing in the world, how he draws the audience into his excitement.
He’s demonstrating a combat sequence now, moving through forms that are undeniably skilled but with theatrical flourishes that make the crowd gasp and applaud. Still, underneath the showmanship, I can see genuine expertise. This man knows exactly what he’s doing with that sword.
Fascinating. Living history, but filtered through someone who clearly loves an audience. But is it scholarship, or just entertainment with historical costumes? The distinction matters. My old dissertation committee would have called this “performance studies,” not serious Roman history. I need to see the real techniques, not crowd-pleasing showmanship.
“Dr. Vitale?” Laura touches my arm gently. “Shall we go down? I’d like to introduce you.”
We make our way to ground level as Flavius concludes his demonstration with a flourish that sends the audience into enthusiastic applause. Up close, he’s even more impressive—tall, powerfully built, with an energy that seems to radiate from every movement.
“Flavius,” Laura calls out as the crowd leaves. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Sophia Vitale from Palmyra University. She’ll be studying gladiatorial combat techniques with us this summer.”
He turns toward us, and I get my first good look at his eyes. Bright green, intelligent, framed by lashes that should be illegal on someone this masculine. Laugh lines speak of easy joy, and he’s younger than I expected—late twenties, maybe—but when his focus lands entirely on me, it’s like being caught in a spotlight. My stomach does an inconvenient little flip.
“Dr. Vitale.” His voice is warm, the accent more pronounced up close. “Is great honor. You enjoy watching?”
Oh.There’s something disarming about his directness, the way he asks, as though my opinion actually matters to him. I adjust my translator earpiece, suddenly very aware that this conversation is important.
“It was impressive,” I say honestly. “You clearly know your weapons. Though I noticed some techniques that were… adapted for your audience?”
Instead of taking offense, his face lights up with genuine interest. “Yes! Is very smart you see this. In arena, yes, we make people laugh, make crowd cheer—but always we fight for life. Here is different because no one dies, so I can be… how you say… more big with the fun?” He gestures around the modern setting. “Must be different, yes? People come to learn, but also to enjoy.”
His enthusiasm is completely unexpected. Most academics get defensive when challenged. But Flavius seems delighted that I’ve noticed the difference between historical accuracy and crowd-pleasing performance.
“How do you balance entertainment with historical facts?” I ask, leaning closer despite myself.
“Ah, is good question!” His expression becomes animated. “In arena, every move has purpose—live or die. Here, I try to keep the… the feeling? But make safe, make fun.” He pauses, searching for words. “Is like… like telling story that is true, but also good story.”
There’s something about his sincerity that catches me off guard. He’s not just performing—he’s genuinely thinking through the problem, trying to articulate something complex with his limited English vocabulary.
