Chapter Seven
Flavius
I arrive at Conference Room B to find Sophia already there, but as I watch her through the open door, something is different.
She’s sitting rigidly in her chair, hands pressed flat against the table, breathing so rapidly that her chest is heaving.
Her usually neat ponytail is slightly disheveled, and there are stress lines around her eyes I haven’t seen before.
In the arena, reading people’s stress meant survival. The skill doesn’t disappear because the stakes are lower now.
“Good morning,” I say carefully, settling into my chair. “Is everything… good?”
She looks up and I catch a flash of something vulnerable before her professional mask slides into place. “Fine. Just a busy morning. Ready to continue our conversation about crowd psychology?”
Not fine at all. Everything about her posture screams tension. In the ludus, we learned to recognize when someone was pushed to their breaking point—it could mean the difference between offering help and staying clear of an explosion.
“Is okay we start slow today?” I ask, forcing myself to practice my English. “Maybe you tell me what makes morning busy?”
She blinks, clearly not expecting the question. “I… had a phone call from my parents. They’re… concerned about my research timeline.”
The way she says “concerned” tells me everything I need to know about that conversation.
“They think you waste time here?”
“They think I’m…” She pauses, and her fingers begin a subtle tapping pattern—thumb to each finger in sequence, over and over. “That I’m not following proper research protocols. That my methods are questionable.”
Ah. Parents who don’t understand what she’s trying to accomplish. Not cruel—just from a world where rules matter more than people.
“But your work here is serious, yes? You ask important questions, write down important things.”
“To them, you’re all just… research subjects who need proper academic handling.” She stops herself, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“Is okay. Many people think this.”
She winces. “Yes, but that’s not what I think.”
“I know. But is what they think.” Her fingers are still tapping. In the ludus, Gaius used to do something similar when memories pressed too close.
I wait a moment instead of filling the silence. Some things needed space before they could be named.
“Their words make you tired inside.”
Her composure cracks. “They think I’m… drifting off the traditional path.” “My father even said the work might look ‘unstructured’ from the outside. That studying gladiators without a familiar framework could make colleagues question my direction and methods.”
She presses her lips together, the movement quick and involuntary, as if more words slipped out than she wanted.
“They want to make sure I’m on solid ground,” she says softly.
“They trust Dr. Blackwell, but they’re unsure about the setting—the sanctuary, the subject matter.
My parents worry it doesn’t look as traditional as my other work.
But my mentor says my approach is innovative, even ‘methodologically promising.’”
Her voice wavers slightly. “My parents always want the best for me, but… they still manage to make me doubt myself, even when I know I’m doing good work.”
They love her, but they speak a language built from old academic walls—walls she keeps trying to climb. They don’t see that she is stronger, sharper, steadier than they think.
Her pain lands like a weight in my chest. “What else they say?”
She’s quiet for a moment, her breathing too controlled, like she’s holding herself together by force.
“They think I should be doing more traditional work,” she admits. “Something familiar. Something they recognize as safe. They’re trying to help, I know they are… it just doesn’t feel like help sometimes.”
There it is. The real wound. Not judgment—fear. Fear planted by people she loves. Fear she’ll reach too far and fall.
“Is very hard,” I say quietly, then switch to Latin to better explain what I mean, “when people who should support you make you feel small instead.”
She looks up sharply, and I see recognition flash in her eyes. Like she’s surprised I understand exactly what this feels like.
“Yes. Exactly that.”
I lean forward, using the same gentle tone I used with scared fighters in the ludus. “In training school, they told us we were nothing. Just meat for the arena. But some of us knew that wasn’t true. We knew we were more than what they saw.”
Her tapping slows slightly. “How did you handle it? Being told you were worthless?”
“Prove them wrong in small ways. Every day. Be smarter than they think, kinder than they expect, stronger than they believe.” I pause. “And find people who see truth, not just surface?”
“Surface,” she agrees softly.
“You see the truth about us. You ask questions that matter; you listen with respect. To me, that’s a big change. Maybe even a…” I switch to English, “revolution.”
The word comes out awkward on my tongue, but I can see it hits home. She straightens slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“Revolutionary?”
“Think about it. For two thousand years, people read about gladiators in books written by men who never hold sword, never felt the crowd’s hunger, never had to choose between honor and survival. You are the first to ask us what really happened.”
Her breathing is more natural now, and the frantic tapping has calmed into a gentler rhythm. “I never thought about it that way.”
“Because you are a good person who doesn’t think about being first or being important. You just want to understand the truth.” I smile at her. “But understanding truth? Is the most important work there is.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and she relaxes more. Her hands are still moving—not the aggressive tapping now, but a softer pattern, fingers tracing shapes on the table’s surface. Like the movement helps her think.
In the ludus, I learned some people need to move to stay calm. Not weakness—just how their minds work best.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much better. Thank you. I don’t usually…” She pauses, seeming to reconsider what she was about to say. “I rarely talk about family stuff with research subjects.”
“Good thing I am not just a research subject anymore, yes? I am… a friend you help with reading, who tells stories, who listens when parents are difficult.”
Her smile is the first genuine one I’ve seen from her today. “Yes. Friend.”
“Now,” I say, settling back in my chair, “you want to hear about crowd psychology, or do you want to practice letters first? Both are good, but maybe letters are easier when your brain is tired from hard talk with parents?”
She considers this. “Letters, I think. Something concrete and achievable.”
“Good choice.”
As she pulls out the reading materials, I notice how her movements have shifted from sharp and controlled to fluid and purposeful. The stress is still there—I can see it in the way she carries her shoulders—but it’s manageable now instead of overwhelming.
“Thank you.” She opens the primer. “For understanding. For not making me explain why a phone call from my parents could derail my whole morning.”
“Everyone has things that cut at them,” I tell her. “The trick is not facing them alone.” I pause, then add, “You deserve people who can see you clearly. Not people who shrink you to fit their fears.”
Her laugh is startled but genuine. “That might be the wisest thing anyone’s said to me in weeks.” This loosens something tight in my chest. I want to make her laugh again, just to feel that warmth.
“Romans have much wisdom,” I say solemnly, then grin. “And much… other things.”
This time her laugh is natural, and I feel something warm drift through me. Making her feel better feels almost as good as reading my first word.
Maybe better.
As we work through simple sentences, I find myself paying attention to the small things—how she adjusts the book’s angle so I can see it clearly, the patient way she sounds out words when I’m struggling, the quiet “good” she murmurs when I get something right.
But also the other things. The way she still taps her fingers when she’s thinking hard. The way she shifts position frequently, like sitting still takes effort. How she organizes and reorganizes the objects around her, even when they don’t need organizing.
Little patterns that remind me of the fighters I trusted with my life—men whose differences made them extraordinary. She is the same. Not broken, just moving to the rhythm her mind needs.
“You know,” I say as we finish today’s lesson, “in the ludus, we have all kinds of fighters. Some need quiet before battle, some need noise. Some think best when moving, some when sitting still. All different, all good fighters.”
She looks up from gathering her materials. “That’s a nice way to think about it.”
“It’s the true way to think about it. Different doesn’t mean wrong.”
I see it register—clean, precise, exactly where it needed to land.
“Same time next session?” she asks.
“Yes. And Sophia? Next time your parents call with harsh words, you remember—what you do here matters. What you learn from us will change how people understand history. You told me once it was important work. You were right.”
“I’ll remember.”
As she heads for the door, I catch myself watching the confident set of her shoulders, the way she seems more sure of herself than when I arrived. Making her feel valued, helping her remember her own worth—it matters more than reading words. More than performance.
The Jester cannot do this.
Only I can.