Chapter Five
Flavius
Two days since our first real conversation, and I still can’t stop thinking about Dr. Vitale’s questions. Not the ones she said out loud—the ones she didn’t. The way she watched me. The way she listened. Really listened. Most people pretend. She didn’t.
I get to Conference Room B early again, this time carrying something I never planned on giving an outsider: stories.
The real kind. Not the jokes and tricks I use for tourists.
If she wants the truth, maybe she deserves to hear about the brothers I fought beside, the nights we spent teaching the new ones how to read a crowd before the crowd decided our fate.
How we kept each other alive when the world didn’t care if we lived or died.
She’s already here when I walk in, bent over her laptop, focused like she’s trying to solve a puzzle only she can see.
Something warm settles behind my ribs. She came early, too. Chose to be here.
Today she’s wearing a dark blue shirt that softens her eyes. Her hair isn’t pulled back as tightly as usual.
A few pieces slipped free, brushing her cheek. It makes her look less guarded. Like maybe she’s not hiding behind “Dr. Vitale” this morning.
I have a stupid urge to reach out and tuck that loose curl behind her ear. Where did that thought come from? The wanting surprises me.
“Good morning,” she says, looking up with a smile that seems genuinely pleased. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation since Tuesday—”
I interrupt her by holding up a finger, then turn my translation device on and nod for her to continue.
“You mentioned teaching younger fighters to read crowds—I’d love to hear more about that mentorship dynamic.”
Mentorship. There’s a word I never would have used for what we did, but maybe that’s exactly what it was.
“I did not think of it that way,” I say slowly. “But yes. It mattered. New fighters think is all about strength. About winning.” I settle into my chair, already more comfortable than I’d been two days ago. “Strength without wisdom gets you dead very fast.”
“What kind of wisdom?”
“The kind that makes a crowd love you even when you must hurt someone they also love. The kind that turns defeat into something brave instead of shameful.” I pause, searching for the right words. “And knowing how to keep part of yourself safe—even when the rest of you is bleeding into the sand.”
She leans forward, completely absorbed. “That sounds like a hard thing to juggle in your mind.”
“Had to be. Simple fighters died young.” The memories surface more easily now, maybe because she listens without judgment. “I remember a boy—Tiber, was his name. Came to the ludus when I had been there two years. Strong like bull, brave like lion. But his first time in the arena…”
I pause, seeing Tiber’s terrified face more clearly than the room around me. The boy’s fear still sits heavy in my chest, even now.
“What happened?”
“The crowd wanted to see him lose. It was obvious from the first moment—they loved his opponent, an old favorite who was getting too slow but still had a name. Tiber could have won easy, but he fought like he was training, not like he was performing.”
“Did he survive?”
“Was hurt. After that, I taught him how to lose beautifully, how to make the crowd feel proud of their mercy instead of angry at his weakness.” The sharp taste still stings. “Six months later, he was one of the most popular. He could make the crowd love him.”
Dr. Vitale is quiet for a moment, and I can see her taking it in. “So you taught them how to handle the crowd. How to stay alive.”
“Staying human was the only way we survived what they wanted us to be.” The words are sharp, though I’m not mad at her. “Sorry. Is… difficult topic.”
“No, don’t apologize. I asked because I want to understand.
” She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“That must have taken a huge toll on you. Feeling responsible for everyone like that.” No one had ever said that to me before.
Her words press deep, like she’s not just listening to the stories but seeing the weight I carried.
No one ever thought about that part before. Other researchers I spoke with wanted to know about techniques and strategies, not about the emotional cost of staying alive.
“It was… what we did,” I say finally. “We took care of each other. Romans wanted us to be enemies, to fight like animals. But we were… family, maybe? Strange family, but family.”
“Tell me about that family dynamic.”
For the next hour, I share stories I haven’t told anyone since awakening.
About Gaius, who sang lullabies to fighters having nightmares about killing friends.
About old Brutus, who knew every trick for hiding injuries from the trainers.
About the way we’d gather in the barracks after fights, not to celebrate violence but to process what we’d been forced to do.
“We had… how you say… rules,” I explain. “Never fight angry—anger makes you stupid. Never forget your opponent is also a prisoner. Always remember the crowd is the real enemy, not the man across from you.”
“That’s smart. You found ways to survive with more than muscle.”
“Had to be smart. Simple thinking gets you dead.”
She nods, making notes on her laptop. “Can you look at something for me? I found some old Roman writings about gladiators, but they talk more about fighting moves than about reading crowds. I want to see if what they wrote matches what you experienced.”
The screen is covered in tight blocks of writing—shapes that look like English but might as well be scratches on a wall for all the sense they make to me.
“There’s a passage here from Martial’s Spectacles that might connect to what you said,” she continues, pointing to a specific section. “Could you read through this and tell me if it matches your experience?”
The page might as well be blank. Lines of marks march across it—orderly, confident, meaningless. I recognize the shape of the script, the way the words are spaced, but none of it resolves into language.
Heat crawls up my neck. I would rather face an armed opponent than admit this to her.
“I…” My throat goes dry. This is the moment every conversation with educated people eventually reaches—the moment they discover I’m not the intelligent person they thought they were talking to, just the Jester who made them laugh long enough to forget to look deeper.
“Is there a problem?” Her voice is gentle, but I can hear the confusion.
“I cannot…” The admission sticks in my throat like a bone. “I never learned to read.”
She blinks, clearly processing this information. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
“Is not your fault.” I push back from the table, suddenly needing distance. “Most smart people, they assume… but I never learned. In ludus, it was not needed. I learned by doing, by listening.”
Silence stretches, and I brace for the shift—when she’ll start looking at me different.
This is why I stick to demonstrations and tourist entertainment—no one expects the performing monkey to be literate.
“Flavius.” Her voice is careful, neutral. “Can I ask… is this something you’d like to learn? Reading, I mean?” Her voice is steady, but her gaze holds something softer—like this isn’t just about research. Like she wants this for me.
What? I look up to find her watching me with an expression I can’t quite name. Not pity, exactly, but something else.
“You would… teach reading? To a gladiator?”
“To someone whose insights are valuable and whose intelligence is obvious.” She closes the laptop decisively. “Reading is just a skill, like sword work. It doesn’t reflect intelligence, just opportunity.”
The words touch me deeper than any blade ever has.
The casual way she says it—like not being able to read is just another fact about me, not a flaw or source of shame—loosens a tight, familiar knot in my chest.
“Romans tried to teach me, in the beginning,” I admit. “But I was… angry. Scared. Did not want to learn things from men who saw me as property.”
“That makes perfect sense. Learning to read their language felt like helping them control you.”
Exactly. She understands without my having to explain why learning from your captors feels wrong, even if it might save your life.
“But now?”
I consider the question seriously. “Now… maybe is different. Maybe learning to read your language will help me tell our stories better. Make sure people understand what really happened.”
Not the stories Rome wanted told. The truth.
Her smile brightens. “That’s a perfect reason. And I’d really love to help. Honestly, the best way to understand history is to be in conversation with it, not just read about it.”
“You really want to teach a gladiator who cannot read?”
“I want to teach someone who’s already changing how I understand that entire period.” She gives a small shrug. “Besides, you’ll be teaching me things no textbook ever has. Seems like a fair trade.”
“My faculty mentor, Dr. Blackwell, will be thrilled. She’s been incredibly supportive of this work. She keeps urging me to push deeper into oral history methodology, and combining that with literacy might actually change how we approach primary sources.”
For the first time since I admitted my shame, I find myself smiling. “It’s a good trade. I’ll bring stories, you bring… how you say… letters and sounds?”
“Letters, words, eventually whole books if you want.” Her enthusiasm is infectious. “We could start with simple texts and work our way up to historical sources. Maybe eventually you could read some of the accounts about gladiators and tell me where they got things wrong.”
The thought of calling famous, dead Roman writers liars almost makes me laugh. Shouting at their ghosts sounds better than any applause. “When do we start?”
“How about we spend the last part of each session reading? That way, it’s connected to our discussions.”
I nod, then hesitate. “You will not… tell others? Make big… show of lessons?”
“Of course not, Flavius. We can work on it quietly during our sessions.”
My relief is immediate. She isn’t going to make this public. She’s going to help me without making me feel small.
“Dr. Vitale?”
“Sophia,” she corrects gently. “If we’re going to be working together this closely, you should probably use my name.”
The word sits in my mouth for a moment before I decide to say it out loud.
“Sophia. Thank you. For… understanding. For not making me feel like less.”
“You’re not stupid, Flavius. You’re one of the most perceptive people I’ve ever met.
” She reopens her laptop, but this time she turns it so I can’t see the screen.
A gentle gesture—protecting my pride without making it obvious.
“Now, tell me more about those rules you mentioned. How did you decide what was right and what wasn’t? ”
As we continue talking, I realize something has shifted between us. The interview feeling is gone now, replaced by something more like a real conversation. She’s not just pulling answers from me—she’s learning, and offering her own knowledge in return.
For the first time since awakening in this century, someone sees potential in me beyond the tricks I show tourists. Like maybe there’s more to my story than just sword tricks and knowing how a crowd breathes.
Like maybe, with her help, I could become someone who doesn’t have to hide his limitations behind the Jester’s mask I learned to wear to survive.
My stomach twists, danger and hope tangled together.
But as Sophia takes notes about our conversation—her handwriting neat and confident where mine would be slow, uneven marks—I realize I want to try. Not just for her research, but for myself.
And maybe—dangerous thought—she’s the one who might actually see me.
Not the performer.
Not the fighter.
Me.