Chapter Nine
Sophia
Our sessions have settled into a steady rhythm over the past week—historical analysis, literacy practice, the quiet layering of trust. With the other gladiators I’ve been meeting with, the work feels academic, almost clinical.
But with Flavius, everything sits closer to the bone—more immediate, more lived.
His memories carry a weight no text can replicate, a kind of authority that bypasses my scholarly frameworks and lands somewhere deeper.
Today, he’s quieter than usual as we ease into our chairs.
His typical easy confidence isn’t gone—it’s just…
muted. Held in check, as though he’s conserving something.
The afternoon light catches the copper strands threaded through his hair, and I notice again how carefully he folds those large hands in his lap—as if he’s restraining them, aware they could disclose something he’d rather keep contained.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” I say, opening my notebook.
“You have this… precision. The way you move, the way you regulate yourself. It’s almost like you’ve trained your body to respond to your will in ways most people can’t.
” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I’m curious how you learned that level of control.
Was it part of gladiatorial training, or something else? ”
A flicker crosses his expression—pain, quickly suppressed. Then the faintest lift of his shoulders, as though he’s slipping a protective outer layer back into place.
“Was…” He stops. Starts again. “Not official training. Was something I learn.”
The weight of those words makes me lean forward slightly. “What do you mean?”
For a long moment he says nothing. I expect him to deflect—with a joke, a charming turn of phrase, or the same gentle performance he uses when he wants to put people at ease. But he doesn’t.
“There was… punishment,” he says finally, voice low and controlled. “Early in my time at ludus. Maybe third month.”
A tightness settles under my ribs, breath catching before I can stop it. “What happened?”
His hands curl into loose fists on the table. “I was still learning. Still soft. One of younger boys—maybe thirteen—collapsed during training. Heat, tired, not enough food. I helped him to shade. Gave him my water.”
I brace myself. Something about the way he’s holding himself tells me this won’t end well.
“The trainer saw.” His jaw works. “He did not see mercy. He saw… disobey. Weakness. Waste of water.”
“Flavius…”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. His gaze has gone distant, looking at something I can’t see.
“They made example of me. In front of all fighters. So others would learn.” He exhales once—a slow breath that shudders at the end. “They stripped me. Tied me to post in training yard. Not to kill. To teach.”
My nervous system spikes—lights too bright, sounds too sharp, every sensory input magnified.
“They beat me with rods,” he continues, voice mechanical now.
Detached. “Not random. Precise. Places that hurt most, but leave you alive to work next day. Backs of legs. Kidneys. Ribs. Trainer counted each strike. Made other fighters watch. Made the boy I helped hold the heavy water bucket while they hit me.”
“Oh, God—”
“Was not worst part,” he says quietly. “Worst part was after. When they untied me and I fell. Could not stand. Body would not obey. And trainer said, ‘Your body is not yours. It is Rome’s tool. You do not decide when it gives comfort or when it bleeds. We decide.’”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, then stills.
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Different.
“There was old man at ludus. Greek, I think. Maybe Egyptian. Very old. The fighters called him Philos—not his real name, just what we called him. He was… healer. Not official. Just old slave who knew things.”
I lean forward slightly, drawn into the shift in his story.
“He came to me that night in barracks. Everyone else ignored me—too dangerous to show kindness after what happened. But Philos, he kneeled beside me. He said, ‘Your body is yours. They can use it. They can hurt it. But it still belongs to you. Do you understand?’”
Flavius’s throat works.
“I did not understand. Not then. I hurt too much to understand anything.”
“What did he do?”
“He taught me.” For the first time, something like warmth enters his voice.
“He pressed his thumbs into points on my body—places where pain lives, where breath hides, where fear makes knots. He said body has language older than words. If you learn to listen, you can talk to it. You can help it remember it is alive, not just tool.”
His hands open on the table—palms up, vulnerable.
“He taught me pressure points. How to breathe through pain. How to make body calm when mind is screaming. How to steady someone who is drowning in their own fear.” A faint, bitter smile. “He said, ‘They will try to make you forget that you are human. This knowledge reminds you.’”
“How long did he teach you?”
“Maybe a year. Then he was sold. Or died. I never knew.” Flavius looks at his own hands. “But before he left, he said something I never forgot.”
I wait.
“He said, ‘The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. Learn its language, or it will speak for you. Learn to heal it, and you can heal others too. This is the only power they cannot take from you.’”
His voice cracks on the last word.
“So I learned. I practiced on myself first—finding the points, the breath, the touch that makes pain ease. Then I used it on other fighters when they broke. When memories made them shake. When arena took too much and they forgot how to come back.”
His throat works before he adds, “There are wounds no healer’s hands can stitch close. But sometimes… sometimes you can teach body it is safe enough to keep breathing.”
For a heartbeat, his control falters. The grief there is naked… and devastating.
He draws a breath and steadies himself, shoulders settling back into place—not closed, but held. His attention moves to me.
The images won’t stop. My mind keeps recreating what he described—his body tied, vulnerable, the systematic brutality designed not to kill but to teach submission. The boy he helped forced to watch. The trainer’s words: Your body is not yours.
I try to imagine what that would feel like—to have your autonomy stripped so completely, so publicly, so deliberately. To be reduced to a tool while someone calmly explains that you have no right to your own mercy, your own kindness, your own flesh.
My body does what it does when I take in others’ trauma too directly: it tries to embody it. The phantom sensation of restraints. The imagined impact of wood against skin. The humiliation of being displayed as a warning.
The buzzing lights, the scrape of chair legs in distant rooms, the rough grain of the wooden table—all of it crashes in at once, indistinguishable from what I’m imagining. My breath comes shallow and quick. Black specks gather at the edges of my vision.
Flavius notices instantly. “Sophia? What is wrong?”
I can’t answer. Everything is too loud, too bright, too overwhelming. My fingers tremble violently.
He moves—quiet, controlled, not touching me yet. “Hey. Is okay. You are safe.”
“Can’t… too much…” I manage.
“Is all right.” His voice drops into something deep and steady. “I know this. I see this before.”
Nodding frantically, I try to signal that I understand, even as the world tilts sideways.
“May I touch your hands?” he asks gently. “Philos teach me this. Helps when mind is overwhelmed.”
The name registers through my panic—Philos, the healer who taught him the only power they couldn’t take away.
I should be nervous about this. I’ve never liked unexpected touch—hands on my shoulder in crowds, surprise hugs from relatives, the casual physicality most people take for granted. My sensory system treats uninvited contact like an invasion, something to brace against.
But he’s asking, giving me time to process and decide. His approach—slow, visible, seeking permission—makes consent feel possible instead of theoretical.
When I nod, his hands close around mine—warm, calloused, impossibly careful. He handles me the way he handles a new weapon: with respect, with intention, giving no chance of harm.
“Close eyes,” he murmurs. “Just feel my hands. Listen and follow my words.”
His thumbs press into specific points on my palms—slow, circular pressure that sends warmth up my arms. My breath hitches, but the pattern grounds me.
“In for four… hold for four… out for six…” His voice guides the rhythm until my breathing steadies.
“How do you know this?” I whisper, but I already know the answer. Philos. The old healer who saw a beaten boy and taught him his body could still belong to himself.
“Philos taught me many things,” he says softly. “Pressure points. Breath. Touch that tells body it is safe.” He hesitates. “After the beating, I could not sleep. Could not eat. Body stayed afraid even when punishment was over. He showed me how to calm it. How to remind it… it is mine.”
The warmth of his touch loosens something deep inside me. But I’m aware—keenly aware—this is dangerous territory. This isn’t romantic, but it is intimate in a way I’m not used to navigating.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I swallow. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”
“Is not weakness.” A faint, almost-smile. “Mind becomes full. Body reacts. Is normal. Philos said this too. Said some people feel others’ pain like it is their own. He called it… gift and burden both.”
The gentleness in his voice tugs at me. I lock down the reaction immediately.
“You don’t have to help like this,” I tell him, dipping my chin toward our linked hands.
His expression flickers—pride? Or surprise that his care matters? “I want to help.” Then more cautiously: “But only how you want.”
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it more deeply than I intend. “For trusting me with that story. For telling me about Philos. And for… this.”
He looks away for a moment—almost as though he’s pulling something back behind the performer’s surface before it shows too clearly.
He exhales. “It helps me too. To speak of things that hurt. To use what Philos taught me. Makes his knowledge… not wasted.”
We sit like this for another moment—hands still joined, the worst of the overload past. When he finally releases my hands, my palms feel warm, my fingers loose, my mind steadier.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You did not interrupt,” he says simply. “You listened. That is rare thing.”
His words are spare, unqualified. They land with more weight than reassurance ever could.
“Would you… maybe teach me some of that?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral. “The pressure points. The regulation methods that Philos taught you. It would be valuable to document. To preserve.”
He brightens. “Would be good,” he agrees. “Healing knowledge is old. Philos learned from tribes, from other healers in barracks. Should not be lost. You help put into words. Make it useful for others.”
There’s that tug again—connection, yes, but also academic intrigue, and the promise of collaboration that feels bigger than either of us alone.
“Perhaps we could integrate it into the sanctuary’s trauma-support program,” I think aloud. “Document it rigorously. Validate it. Honor where it came from.”
He nods, pleased. “Yes. Make Philos’s gift useful. He would like that.”
Useful. He says it like it matters, like being taken seriously—like honoring the man who helped him—is… rare for him.
“Same time Thursday?” I ask.
“Yes.” A pause. “And Sophia? Next time you feel overwhelmed… you can tell me sooner. No need to carry alone.”
It’s not flirtation. It’s care. And somehow, that’s more disarming.
As I gather my materials, I feel myself moving differently—more grounded, more regulated. I pull out my phone and draft a quick email to Dr. Blackwell:
Breakthrough today documenting somatic regulation strategies used among gladiators. Potential connections to trauma-informed practice. Requesting guidance on framing these within a cross-disciplinary methodology.
I hover before sending—Blackwell always pushes for rigor, but her feedback has a way of subtly reshaping my framing, sometimes more than I intend.
Still, this is important work.
Send.
When I glance back at Flavius, he’s adjusting the chair he used—lining it up perfectly with the table. A small, careful gesture. A way of restoring order after revealing more than he intended.
I’m struck again by the duality in him. The performer. The man beneath.
I don’t understand it yet. But I want to.
The thought follows me out of the conference room and all the way through the long walk to my cabin—a quiet, steady awareness, warm but contained.
For the first time since arriving at the sanctuary, I’m looking forward to our next session for reasons that are no longer entirely academic.