Chapter Six
Sophia
The morning light feels too bright, and I take it as a sign that I’m already bracing for today. Starting reading lessons shouldn’t feel more daunting than a conference panel, but it does—and I know exactly why.
I arrive early, as always, giving myself time to account for the room’s acoustics, adjust the chair placement, and lay out the simple order of materials—a primer, a few carefully chosen books, single sentences printed in large, clear font. The quiet ritual steadies me.
I’ve been thinking about Flavius’s admission since our last meeting. About the years it must take for shame to settle that deep. No child should grow up believing they’re unworthy of learning. No adult should have to undo that belief alone.
When he arrives—precisely on time—he pauses in the doorway.
“We do reading first today? Please?”
The eagerness is almost boyish. Beneath it, something tighter: the set of his shoulders, the smile held just a fraction too carefully.
“Good morning,” I say. “How are you feeling about the lesson?”
He lowers himself into the chair with deliberate care. “Nervous. Scared, maybe.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “Learning something new—especially as an adult—can leave you exposed.”
“What if I am too stupid?” he asks quietly. “What if brain is too old?”
“Flavius, look at me.”
When our gazes meet, I say, “You’ve spent the last week teaching me things that will change how we’ve understood gladiators for two thousand years. That’s not an easy thing. So, no, you’re not too old. And you’re not stupid. You just never had the chance before.”
He studies my face, waiting for the practiced kindness or careful distance he’s learned to expect. He finds neither.
“You really think I can learn?”
“I know you can. The only question is whether you want to.”
“Yes.” The word is immediate. “I want to read what they write about us. See if they tell truth.”
“Then let’s begin.”
We put on our translators, and I open the primer. Letters. Sounds. Familiar words. I keep my voice steady, my pace slow.
For forty minutes, a man who survived years of mortal combat wrestles with the difference between b and d.
Frustration shows in the tap of his fingers, the sharp line of his jaw, the muttered Latin curses when letters refuse to behave.
Every so often he flashes a grin—too quick, too bright—the performer trying to smooth the moment.
I let him struggle. I let him pause. We breathe. We reset.
“Cat,” he says finally, careful and precise. “C-A-T. Cat.”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s it.”
His smile this time is unguarded. “It’s real reading?”
“It’s absolutely real reading.”
He traces the word with his finger, as if memorizing not just the shape of the letters but the fact of the moment. We work through a few more simple words after that, each one landing faster as patterns begin to click.
When I call time, he looks genuinely spent.
“That’s enough for today,” I say. “Your brain needs rest for things to settle.”
“But I want more.”
“I know. Next time.”
He hesitates. “Sophia… can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
“Why are you helping me?” The question is earnest, puzzled. “Others before, they only wanted stories. You care if I learn.”
The answer isn’t academic. “Because everyone deserves the chance to read their own story,” I say. “And because you’re teaching me too.”
“What do I teach you?”
“That intelligence comes in many forms,” I say. “And that lived experience carries its own kind of knowledge.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
“In the ludus…” He switches to Latin. “They tore away our humanity, made us nothing but tools to bleed for their games.” His gaze stays on mine. “But you make me feel as though what I carry still has value.”
“You do,” I say. “Important value.”
“Even when I cannot read?”
“Especially then.”
Something in his expression settles—not confidence, exactly, but relief.
When he leaves, the room feels oddly empty.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: How is the gladiator project going, sweetheart? Your father and I hope you’re finding material you can use.
I stare at the message, then type back: The work is going well. Learning more than I expected.
It’s true. Just not in the way they mean.
I open my laptop and do what I’ve always done best—sort, connect, pattern-match. Within an hour, I’ve documented pages of insights: crowd behavior that reframes the arena as theater, combat choices that contradict textbooks but make tactical sense. None of it would exist without him.
I draft a brief update to Dr. Blackwell. Her reply comes quickly—encouraging, focused, a reminder to document methodology carefully. Useful. Grounding.
Still, when I close the laptop, it’s not the research that lingers.
It’s the look on Flavius’s face when the letters finally aligned. The quiet wonder of realizing something long denied might still be possible.
Helping him learn isn’t just instruction. It’s giving him ownership of his story.
And maybe—dangerously—it’s the beginning of something shared.
That evening, in the communal hall, I spot him mid-story, laughter ringing around the table. For once, he isn’t performing. He’s simply alive in the telling. He glances up, sees me, and his smile shifts—subtler, less practiced.
Something in my chest responds.
Not certainty. Not romance.
Possibility.