11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
T hrax
I head back to my room, feeling different…lighter. The day with Skye keeps replaying in my mind—her laughter, her kindness, the way her eyes lit up when she showed me something new. And she was just as excited when I gave her glimpses into my life. Even though I only gave her peeks of some of the few good moments of my life, I’ve never before felt so truly seen. Not as a slave or a gladiator, but as a person.
As I ease onto the edge of my bed, it’s as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and something swirls in my belly. Is this what attraction feels like? The thought is exciting… and terrifying. I’ve never met anyone like Skye before. Well, that’s obvious. I grew up surrounded by gladiators and masters.
Still, she’s a tempting combination of smart, kind, and genuinely interested in what I have to say.
What I have to say.
The realization hits me like a blow to the gut. I spoke today. A lot. More than I have in years, perhaps decades. That warmth in my chest turns to ice as panic sets in .
What was I thinking? Speaking so freely, sharing my thoughts and feelings? I know better than that. Safety lies in silence, in being unseen and unheard. It’s how I’ve survived this long.
My breathing quickens as doubts flood my mind. Did I say too much? Make a fool of myself? Will Skye think less of me now that she’s heard me ramble on like an idiot? I’m a stultus!
I close my eyes, breathing long and slow to calm myself, but the darkness behind my eyelids is a blank canvas that allows unpleasant memories to bombard me.
From one breath to another, I’m no longer in my hospital room. I’m eight years old again, standing in the dusty courtyard of the ludus I’ve just arrived in, trembling with fear.
The sun beats down mercilessly, so different from the cool shade of the farm where I’ve spent my entire life. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and something else—fear, maybe, or desperation.
Around me, men of all ages train with wooden swords and shields. Their bodies are scarred and muscled, nothing like the lean farmers I’m used to. Their narrowed eyes follow my arrival. Their frowns tell me all I need to know about what they think of me.
“What’s this?” a gruff voice calls out. “They’re sending us babies now? He probably hasn’t gotten his first hard-on yet.”
Laughter erupts around me, harsh and mocking. I want to disappear, to sink into the ground and never be seen again.
The ludus master , whip in hand, is a bear of a man with a face like weathered leather. He circles me slowly. “Name?” he barks.
“Th-Thrax,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Speak up, boy! Are you a mouse or a man?”
More laughter. My cheeks burn with shame in front of all these seasoned gladiators.
“Thrax,” I say again, louder this time, but my voice wavers .
The ludus master’s eyes narrow. “Gods help us,” he mutters. “Alright then, let’s see what you can do. Valerius! Give the boy a practice sword.”
A wooden sword is thrust into my hands. It’s heavier than I expected, and I nearly drop it.
“Now,” the ludus master says, “show us your stance.”
I’ve never held a sword before, never even seen one up close. I’ve never had a chance to watch gladiatorial games—I’ve only heard of them. Stance? I panic and try to copy the poses I’ve seen around me in the last few minutes, but my body feels clumsy, like it’s not quite mine.
The courtyard bursts into laughter again. Even the ludus master can’t hide his smirk.
“Well, men,” he says, his voice carrying across the yard. “I think we’ve found ourselves the perfect example of what not to be. Watch closely, boy, and you’ll learn how to fail spectacularly.”
That day sets the tone for my life in the ludus . I become the target of every joke, the example of what not to do. No matter how hard I try, or how much I improve, I can’t shake that first impression.
The physical training is brutal, but it’s the constant mocking that cuts deepest. Words like “stupid” and “useless” become so familiar they might as well be my name. And when words aren’t enough, fists and whips drive the point home.
I quickly learn to keep my head down. I recall the lessons from the farm—speak only when spoken to, and even then, say as little as possible. Silence becomes my armor, invisibility my shield.
The memory fades, and I’m back in my hospital room, gasping for breath as if I’ve just fought a battle in the arena. As I sit up, tears run down my cheeks. Tears! The last tears I remember crying were my first night in that first ludus .
The gladiator in the bunk next to me told me to shut up and quit crying or he’d give me more to cry about. I tried, but when one more little sniff came out, he punched me in the gut so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. For long moments, I thought I would die.
Now here I am, shedding tears held inside for decades. Well, for millennia.
What was I thinking, opening up to Skye like that? People like me don’t get to have normal conversations, to share thoughts and feelings. We’re meant to be silent, to serve, to fight and die for the entertainment of others.
But even as these thoughts spiral through my mind, another voice—quieter but insistent—speaks up. Skye isn’t like the others. She listened. She cared. She saw me—really saw me—and didn’t turn away.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions raging inside me. I’ll see Skye again tomorrow. Part of me wants to hide, to retreat to the safety of silence and invisibility. But a larger part, a part I’m just finding within myself, wants to be brave enough to connect, to be seen.
As I lie down, exhausted, I make a decision. Tomorrow, I’ll try again. I’ll speak, I’ll listen, I’ll allow myself to be known. It terrifies me, but for the first time in my life I have a reason to take a risk. This feels more dangerous than stepping into the arena.
With that thought, I close my eyes, hoping for dreams of brown eyes and gentle smiles rather than the nightmares of my past.