Chapter 1 #2
“Flavius,” Laura calls out as the crowd leaves. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Sophia Vitale from Palmyra University. She’ll be studying gladiatorial combat techniques with us this summer.”
He turns toward us, and I get my first good look at his eyes.
Bright green, intelligent, framed by lashes that should be illegal on someone this masculine.
Laugh lines speak of easy joy, and he’s younger than I expected—late twenties, maybe—but when his focus lands entirely on me, it’s like being caught in a spotlight.
My stomach does an inconvenient little flip.
“Dr. Vitale.” His voice is warm, the accent more pronounced up close. “Is great honor. You enjoy watching?”
Oh. There’s something disarming about his directness, the way he asks, as though my opinion actually matters to him. I adjust my translator earpiece, suddenly very aware that this conversation is important.
“It was impressive,” I say honestly. “You clearly know your weapons. Though I noticed some techniques that were… adapted for your audience?”
Instead of taking offense, his face lights up with genuine interest. “Yes! Is very smart you see this. In arena, yes, we make people laugh, make crowd cheer—but always we fight for life. Here is different because no one dies, so I can be… how you say… more big with the fun?” He gestures around the modern setting.
“Must be different, yes? People come to learn, but also to enjoy.”
His enthusiasm is completely unexpected. Most academics get defensive when challenged. But Flavius seems delighted that I’ve noticed the difference between historical accuracy and crowd-pleasing performance.
“How do you balance entertainment with historical facts?” I ask, leaning closer despite myself.
“Ah, is good question!” His expression becomes animated. “In arena, every move has purpose—live or die. Here, I try to keep the… the feeling? But make safe, make fun.” He pauses, searching for words. “Is like… like telling story that is true, but also good story.”
There’s something about his sincerity that catches me off guard. He’s not just performing—he’s genuinely thinking through the problem, trying to articulate something complex with his limited English vocabulary.
“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. In ludus—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.