In theludus, I learned smiles could be as useful as fear. Sometimes more. Crowds that laughed were less likely to call for your death. That was survival, not personality.
Here at the sanctuary, I find myself playing the same role—the entertaining one, the man who makes everyone comfortable with jokes and dramatic demonstrations. It’s safe. Familiar. But sometimes I wonder if anyone sees past the performance to whatever’s left underneath.
After I clean the gladius I’d been spinning for the crowd’s amusement, I oil the edge, wipe it dry, and check the balance. My hands know this work. My thoughts drift—dark eyes, sharp questions, the feeling that maybe she noticed the difference between the show and the truth.
By the time evening comes and the hall fills with voices and plates, I catch myself glancing toward the entrance. Wondering if she’ll come. If maybe she’s different from the others who just want the show.
Chapter Three
Sophia
Conference Room B feels like a fishbowl as morning sun floods through its floor-to-ceiling windows. I arrive fifteen minutes early—my usual buffer to adjust to the lighting and acoustics so I can focus—only to find someone already here.
Flavius sits at the far end of the long wooden table, unnaturally still, shoulders squared, hands folded loosely—but I notice the way his thumb keeps tracing the grain of the table, over and over, as if memorizing it. He’s changed from yesterday’s gladiator gear into simple jeans and a forest-green Henley that makes his red hair look like burnished copper, and for a moment I lose my professional footing.
The shirt stretches across his chest when he shifts, and for a ridiculous second, I forget I’m supposed to be cataloging facts,not noticing shoulders. Without the gladiator costume, he looks younger. More approachable. Yet somehow more intimidating.
“Good morning,” I say, setting my laptop bag on the table with perhaps more flourish than necessary. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
He looks up, and that easy smile from yesterday is nowhere to be found. His thumb keeps brushing the grain of the wood, a pattern I recognize–someone keeping themselves steady under pressure. Yesterday he was larger than life, laughing and dazzling the crowd. I didn’t expect to find him this focused, this intent.
“Is no problem. I come early to…quomodo dicitur?… prepare thoughts.”
There’s something different about his posture this morning—more guarded, less of the enthusiastic performer I met yesterday. No trace of the “Jester” Laura mentioned yesterday. It shouldn’t be appealing, but the seriousness only makes his presence feel heavier, more deliberate, and somehow more compelling. I wonder if someone warned him about academics and their agendas, or if he’s simply more nervous in a formal interview setting.
I pull out my digital recorder, laptop, and carefully organized notebook filled with color-coded questions. The sight of all my equipment seems to make him even more tense, if that’s possible.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation? It helps me transcribe accurately later.”
“Is fine.” But he eyes the small device like it might bite him. Even wary, there’s nothing foolish about him—he notices everything, like a fighter sizing up a weapon.
I settle into my chair and open to my first page of questions. As I fiddle with my translation earpiece, he reaches into his pocket and inserts his own. Years of research have taught me that preparation is everything—know what you want to ask, anticipate the answers, and guide the conversation toward useful information.
“Let’s start with some background. Can you tell me about your training in theludus? Specifically, which fighting styles you specialized in?”
The question hangs in the air between us like a challenge. Flavius stares at me for a long moment, then leans back in his chair with what might be amusement.
“You want to start with training? Not with… how I feel about being alive again, or what it’s like to see the modern world?”
Oh.Heat flushes through my cheeks as I realize how clinical my approach must sound. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to jump straight into—I mean, of course those things are important too. I just thought—”
“Is okay.” His expression softens slightly. “I understand. You want facts. But facts and feelings… they are together in arena,yes? Fighting is technique, yes. But also fear. Also courage. Also what you show when you have nothing.”
I close my notebook and really look at him. Yesterday’s performer is gone, replaced by someone more serious, more complex. Someone who’s clearly thinking about how to answer questions I haven’t even asked yet.
“You’re right. I’m approaching this all wrong, aren’t I?” I lean back in my own chair—not because he’s relaxed, but because he isn’t. “Tell me what you think I should know first.”
He studies me for a moment, clearly caught off guard. “You’ve studied gladiators for long time, yes? Read many books?”
“Since I was eight years old. My dissertation focused on gladiatorial combat techniques mentioned in historical sources, but obviously I’ve never had access to…” I stop. Too formal. Too stiff. “Primary source material,” I finish anyway, gesturing toward him.
“And what do your books say about how we fight?”
I can recite this in my sleep. “Training typically began with wooden weapons, progressing to live steel. Different specializations—” I pause as I realize I’m reciting. “Sorry, I’m lecturing. You know,murmillo, retiarius—”
“Secutor, thraex,” he finishes. “Yes, but that is only part.” He nods slowly. “Not the complete story.”
“What do you mean?”
