“I’d love to hear more about that,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “The difference between combat techniques and performance art.”
His smile could power the entire compound. “Yes! Is much to tell. Inludus—training school—we learn many things, but I think you want to know real stories.”
The way he says “you” lands like a touch. Not the scholar, not the audience—me. For the first time in years, someone seems to see past my credentials to the person asking the questions.
Laura clears her throat. “Perhaps we should schedule some formal sessions? Dr. Vitale will be documenting gladiatorial practices for her university fellowship, and she’ll be spending the first three months of it here.”
“Three months!” Flavius’s eyes widen with what looks like genuine pleasure. “Is wonderful. We have much time to talk, to show you real fighting, not just…” He makes a dismissive gesture toward where he’d been performing. “Play fighting.”
There’s something about the way he says it—not dismissive of the tourists, but eager to share something deeper with someone who might actually understand the difference. It makes my stomach clench in a way that has nothing to do with academic excitement.
“I’d like that very much,” I admit. “Though I should warn you, I ask a lot of questions. Probably too many.”
His laugh is pure delight. “Good! Romans love to argue. You bring questions, I bring answers. We see who wins.”
Oh, this is dangerous.The way his eyes crinkle when he grins, the infectious enthusiasm, the hint of competitive challenge.I came here to study gladiatorial combat techniques, not to develop a crush on one of my research subjects.
But there’s something about Flavius that makes my usual professional distance feel impossible to maintain. Maybe it’s the way he treats me like a person first and an academic second. Or maybe it’s just that blazing smile.
“Tomorrow morning?” Laura suggests. “Nine o’clock in Conference Room B?”
“Perfect.” I check my watch, suddenly needing space to process this encounter before I do something stupid like blush. “I should get settled in my quarters.”
“Of course,” Flavius says, and there’s something almost disappointed in his voice. “But Dr. Vitale? Tonight is dinner in main hall. You come, yes? Meet others, eat real food. Is better than… fast food?”
I want to say yes. The way he’s looking at me makes it tempting. But I’m wrung out from travel and the intensity of this first day. “Maybe another night. I should get settled.”
Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment?—but he covers it quickly with a nod. “Another night, then.”
As I walk toward my quarters, I can feel him watching me. When I glance back, he’s still standing in the arena, but he’s not performing anymore. He raises one hand in a small wave, and his smile is different now—less theatrical, more genuine.
This is going to be more complicated than I thought.
But for the first time in years, complicated doesn’t feel like something to avoid. It feels like something that might actually be worth exploring.
Three months,I remind myself as I unlock my door.Only three months to learn everything I can about gladiatorial combat from people who actually lived it.
Though something tells me that separating the academic from the personal is going to be harder than I anticipated. Especially when my research subject has a smile that makes me forget—just for a dangerous second—that I came here as a scholar.
Chapter Two
Flavius
The crowd loves me today, just like they always do. Gasps ripple, then applause, as I spin the gladius—death in the arena two thousand years ago, delight now. They want spectacle, and by all the gods, I know how to give them spectacle.
“And this,” I announce, striking a dramatic pose with my sword raised high, “is how we salute the emperor before battle!”
Complete fiction, of course. We never saluted anyone except maybe Death herself when she came calling. But the tourists don’t need to know that—they need entertainment, something to tell their friends back home. I saw a real gladiator today, and he was magnificent.
The applause washes over me as I complete the demonstration, and I bow with the same flourish that once kept me alive in front of bloodthirsty crowds. Different audience, different century, same basic formula—give them what they want to see.
“Thank you,” I call out as they begin to gather their things. “Remember, tickets for next week’s mounted combat demonstration for sale at front desk!”
Laura’s always telling us to promote the other events. Good for business, she says, and business keeps this place running.
As the visitors leave, chattering excitedly about what they’ve seen, I spot Laura coming toward me with someone new. A woman—not tall, slight in the way that perhaps makes men underestimate her. Dark hair pulled back in a practical knot, with loose pieces escaping at her temples in the heat. Warm brown skin, dark eyes moving constantly—cataloging the yard, the equipment, me, all with the same careful precision. She wears the clothes of a professor: sensible, chosen for function, not to be seen. She carries a notebook, which usually means trouble.
Another scholar. They come now and then—asking sharp questions about accuracy, staring like I am something to harvest instead of a man who lived every breath of it. Another mind that will poke and prod at my memories, not to know me, but to take what they need for their papers.
