Sophia
Our sessions have settled into a steady rhythm over the past week—historical analysis, literacy practice, the quiet layering of trust. With the other gladiators I’ve been meeting with, the work feels academic, almost clinical. But with Flavius, everything sits closer to the bone—more immediate, morelived.His memories carry a weight no text can replicate, a kind of authority that bypasses my scholarly frameworks and lands somewhere deeper.
Today, he’s quieter than usual as we ease into our chairs. His typical easy confidence isn’t gone—it’s just… muted. Held in check, as though he’s conserving something. The afternoon light catches the copper strands threaded through his hair, and I notice again how carefully he folds those large hands in his lap—as if he’s restraining them, aware they could disclose something he’d rather keep contained.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” I say, opening my notebook. “You have this… precision. The way you move, the way you regulate yourself. It’s almost like you’ve trained your body to respond to your will in ways most people can’t.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’m curious how you learned that level of control. Was it part of gladiatorial training, or something else?”
A flicker crosses his expression—pain, quickly suppressed. Then the faintest lift of his shoulders, as though he’s slipping a protective outer layer back into place.
“Was…” He stops. Starts again. “Not official training. Was something I learn.”
The weight of those words makes me lean forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
For a long moment he says nothing. I expect him to deflect—with a joke, a charming turn of phrase, or the same gentle performance he uses when he wants to put people at ease. But he doesn’t.
“There was… punishment,” he says finally, voice low and controlled. “Early in my time atludus. Maybe third month.”
A tightness settles under my ribs, breath catching before I can stop it. “What happened?”
His hands curl into loose fists on the table. “I was still learning. Still soft. One of younger boys—maybe thirteen—collapsed during training. Heat, tired, not enough food. I helped him to shade. Gave him my water.”
I brace myself. Something about the way he’s holding himself tells me this won’t end well.
“The trainer saw.” His jaw works. “He did not see mercy. He saw… disobey. Weakness. Waste of water.”
“Flavius…”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. His gaze has gone distant, looking at something I can’t see.
“They made example of me. In front of all fighters. So others would learn.” He exhales once—a slow breath that shudders at the end. “They stripped me. Tied me to post in training yard. Not to kill. To teach.”
My nervous system spikes—lights too bright, sounds too sharp, every sensory input magnified.
“They beat me with rods,” he continues, voice mechanical now. Detached. “Not random. Precise. Places that hurt most, but leave you alive to work next day. Backs of legs. Kidneys. Ribs. Trainer counted each strike. Made other fighters watch. Made the boy I helped hold the heavy water bucket while they hit me.”
“Oh, God—”
“Was not worst part,” he says quietly. “Worst part was after. When they untied me and I fell. Could not stand. Body would not obey. And trainer said, ‘Your body is not yours. It is Rome’s tool. You do not decide when it gives comfort or when it bleeds. We decide.’”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, then stills.
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Different.
“There was old man atludus. Greek, I think. Maybe Egyptian. Very old. The fighters called him Philos—not his real name, just what we called him. He was… healer. Not official. Just old slave who knew things.”
I lean forward slightly, drawn into the shift in his story.
“He came to me that night in barracks. Everyone else ignored me—too dangerous to show kindness after what happened. But Philos, he kneeled beside me. He said, ‘Your body is yours. They can use it. They can hurt it. But it still belongs to you. Do you understand?’”
Flavius’s throat works.
“I did not understand. Not then. I hurt too much to understand anything.”
“What did he do?”
“He taught me.” For the first time, something like warmth enters his voice. “He pressed his thumbs into points on my body—places where pain lives, where breath hides, where fear makes knots. He said body has language older than words. If you learn to listen, you can talk to it. You can help it remember it is alive, not just tool.”
His hands open on the table—palms up, vulnerable.
