“No one has asked how you’re coping with reliving traumatic memories for academic research?”
“Traumatic?” He considers the word. “Is… past. Is finished. But sometimes…” He trails off, then shakes his head. “Is not important.”
It’s absolutely important. But I can see this conversation is over for now. He’s shared enough, maybe more than he intended.
“Well, I hope our next session is as productive. Same time Thursday?”
“Yes. I will be here.” He stands, then pauses at the door. “Dr. Vitale? Your questions… they are good questions. Make me think about things in new ways.”
Something warm slides under my ribs. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s something I shouldn’t examine too closely.
“Before you go—” I pull out a printed copy of my interview framework. “I have a document outlining the topics I’d like to cover in future sessions. Would you like to review it before Thursday? It might help you prepare your thoughts.”
He glances at the paper, then back at me with an easy smile. “Maybe you could tell me about it then? I think better when we talk, not when I…” He gestures vaguely. “Sit alone with papers. Is better to discuss, yes?”
And there it is—the flicker of something like shame beneath the surface.
I nod, keeping my tone gentle. “Of course. We’ll just talk it through on Thursday.”
“Yes.” Relief crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it.
After he leaves, I sit alone in the conference room, staring at my notes. Two hours of conversation have completely upended my understanding of gladiatorial combat. Everything I thought I knew about technique and strategy was only the surface of a much more complex system.
But more than that, I’m beginning to understand that the man I’m interviewing isn’t just a source of historical data. He’s someone who survived something unimaginable—and is choosing, carefully, to share it with me.
That trust feels heavier than I expected. Like something I need to handle with precision.
My phone buzzes.
Mom:How are the interviews going, darling? I hope the material is proving useful, even if it’s not what your original research plan emphasized.
I stare at the message, jaw tightening, then delete it without responding.
Another buzz.
Dad:Your mother mentioned your interviews. Remember to maintain professional distance. The academic world values objectivity above all.
I silence my phone and slip it into my bag. They’ve always emphasized rigor and prestige—sometimes so strongly that anything outside the traditional canon feels like a risk I’m taking alone.
If only they knew that at least one of these men understands human psychology better than most of their tenured colleagues.
As I pack up my equipment, I realize I’m looking forward to Thursday’s session with an anticipation that feels… risky. Not just because of the research, but because I’m beginning to see past his performer’s brightness—to the places where the mask doesn’t quite hold.
The walk back to my quarters feels different from yesterday. The sanctuary looks the same—the wooden walkways, the wide sky, the horses grazing near the fence line—but my perspective has shifted. Everything feels sharper, like I’m seeing both my field and my own assumptions through a new lens.
Back in my cabin, notebook still in hand, a realization settles in as I reread my notes from the morning session.
He switches languages based on emotional load, not vocabulary. Latin when the memories grow heavy. English when he stays on the surface.
The pattern clicks into place.
Language isn’t just communication for him—it’s armor.
Thursday, he’ll walk back into Conference Room B expecting me to treat him like a scholar treats a source.
But today changed the balance between us.
And I’m already more invested than I intended.
