9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
T hrax
When I slip into the atrium, the sun hasn’t yet peeked above the horizon. Sleep didn’t come easy last night—my head was whirling with everything I’m supposed to do today. How am I supposed to help this woman, Skye, when just looking at her makes my chest tighten?
I pace the length of the atrium, my bare feet hardly making any sound on the cool, damp grass. The sky lightens, turning the clouds shades of pink and gold. It’s beautiful, but my eyes keep drifting toward the wooden table where Skye usually sits.
As if my thoughts pulled her here, she shows up, carrying that strange silver box. Our gazes lock for a moment, both of us standing here, not moving.
She talks, but I can’t make sense of the words. I nod, not sure what else to do. Should I bow? Avert my eyes? In my world, a slave would never address a free woman so directly. But Varro insists I’m not a slave anymore. The confusion makes my head spin.
Skye sits at her usual spot, opening the silver box. I edge closer, curiosity warring with caution. The box glows, displaying images and symbols I don’t understand.
She speaks again, then seems to remember I can’t understand her. She taps at the flat part of the box, and suddenly, I hear a feminine voice speaking Latin. My heart races in surprise as I hear, “It’s a computer. Would you like to see?”
The word “computer” did not translate. I have no idea what I’m looking at, but my curiosity wins.
I hesitate for a moment before slowly sitting on the bench, making sure to keep some space between us. The scent of flowers—her scent—drifts over me, and I fight the urge to lean closer.
Skye speaks again, and the feminine voice speaks again in Latin. “It’s a translation program, similar to how an abacus works. We give it information and it works out the rest like a sum. It’s not perfect yet, but it should help us communicate. Can you say something?”
The pronunciation is strange, almost comical, like one of those colorful talking birds that were fashionable amongst the wealthy families. Every word doesn’t seem to translate, but I understand the gist.
“The more you speak, the better the program will become at translating and pronouncing.”
I clear my throat, feeling awkward. “What should I say?”
Skye’s eyes light up as my words translate to her language in a man’s voice, though not mine.
“Anything!” the voice responds. “Tell me about yourself. Or… or maybe we could just get to know each other a little?”
Her eagerness throws me off. I’m not used to people wanting to get to know me. I’ve spent my life taking orders and keeping quiet unless someone asks me to speak.
“I… I don’t know what to say.” The feeble words feel clumsy on my tongue.
Skye nods, understanding in her eyes. The voice translates, “That’s okay. Maybe I could ask you some questions? And you can ask me anything you want to know. ”
I nod, grateful for the direction. Despite the odd pronunciation of most of her words, this, at least, feels familiar—answering questions, providing information when asked, following orders.
What follows is a flurry of words from Skye, translated rapidly: “What’s your favorite color? Sorry, that’s such a basic question. I don’t even know if you had the same colors we do now. I mean, obviously you had colors, but maybe you called them different things? Or maybe you had colors we don’t even know about? Oh god, I’m rambling again. I do that when I’m nervous. Not that you make me nervous! Well, maybe a little, but not in a bad way. It’s just, you know, two thousand years of history between us and all that. And I’m still talking, aren’t I? I’m so sorry.”
Her words tumble out in a rush, tripping over each other. I blink, trying to process it all. But as I watch her cheeks grow redder, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her strange clothing, I feel something unexpected—a warmth in my chest, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.
“Blue,” I say softly, cutting off her stream of words. “I like the color of the sky at sixth hour.”
She cocks her head in confusion, so I point directly overhead to make my meaning clear.
Skye’s face lights up, her smile blooms like a flower when my meaning becomes clear. “I love sky blue, too,” the female voice says. “I’ve always been partial to green myself. Like the color of new leaves in spring.”
We fall into a rhythm after that, trading questions back and forth. Skye tells me about her work as a programmer, patiently explaining concepts I don’t grasp and probably never will. In return, I share stories of my life as a gladiator, carefully avoiding the darker parts of my past.
I don’t know much about this new world I’ve woken up in, but something tells me there’s a lot I’ve been through that would shake this gentle woman to her foundations. She’s used to a peaceful existence, like here in this quiet atrium .
As the sun climbs higher in the sky, I find myself relaxing, the initial awkwardness fading. Skye’s enthusiasm is obvious. Her genuine interest in my thoughts and experiences is both confusing and oddly comforting.
Suddenly, Skye’s eyes widen, and she speaks rapidly. The voice translates: “Oh! I almost forgot. I asked one of the staff to get these for you. We had to guess at your size.” She reaches into a bag at her feet and pulls out a bundle of cloth. “Clothes. Real clothes, not just hospital gowns or… sheets.” She glances at my loincloth, then her cheeks pinken as her gaze darts away.
I take the bundle, running my fingers over the soft fabric. At first, a flicker of annoyance passes through me. Varro had already offered me modern clothes, but I preferred to stick with what I knew—my loincloth. It felt like a small piece of my old life I could hold onto.
But as I look at Skye’s hopeful expression, my irritation fades. For the first time in my life, I find myself wanting to look… nice. For her. The thought is foreign. My hand reaches to cover my left ear before I’m aware I’ve done it. No use trying to hide it, though. I’m sure she’s noticed the lumpy, misshapen thing before now.
“Thank you,” I say, touched by her gesture.
Skye smiles, then launches into another stream of words: “No problem! I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with what you’re wearing now. The whole loincloth thing is very… authentic. But I thought you might be more comfortable in modern clothes. Not that you don’t look good in what you’re wearing! I mean, you look great. Really great. Oh god, I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
I can’t help it—a chuckle slips out before I can stop it, the sound foreign to my ears. When was the last time I laughed? “You’re not bothering me,” I say, trying to put her at ease.
Skye smiles, visibly relaxing. “So, um, do you want to try them on? There’s a bathroom just down that hall to the left if you want to convert. ”
Convert? To a religion. My eyes narrow as I try to understand. Then I realize her computer translated the word wrong—change. She’s talking about me changing my clothes.
I nod, rising to my feet. Just as I’m about to leave, a question comes to mind. “Skye,” I say, turning back to her. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course!”
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “Why are you doing this? Helping me, talking to me… Why do you care?”
Skye’s expression softens. Her response comes through the feminine voice: “Because you’re a person, Thrax. A person who’s been through something unimaginable. And because… I like you. You’re interesting and kind, and I want to know more about you.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow. A person. Not a slave, not a gladiator, not a piece of property. A person.
I swallow hard, nodding my thanks before hurrying away to change. Alone in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. The man looking back at me is scarred, battered, but… free. For the first time in my life, truly free.
As I slip into the strange new clothes, something shifts inside me. It’s small, barely there, but it exists—a spark of hope, of possibility. Perhaps in this new world, with people like Skye, I can be more than what I was. Perhaps I can simply be… me. I’ll have to figure out who that is.
As I walk back to the atrium, another thought occurs to me. Skye has been working hard and it must be close to sixth hour. Perhaps I could bring us some food from the place Varro calls the “cafeteria.” It’s a small gesture, but it feels right. With a nod to myself, I change course, determined to return with food for us both.