Page 12 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

Yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the picture she makes, so alive, so vibrant it almost hurts to look at her. My chest aches with the growing realization that I grow more attracted to her every day.

Laura and Varro didn’t invite Diana here as ameretrixto service the gladiators. She’s a professional, like Dr. Reid. What do I do with my attraction that’s almost grown to obsession? The smart thing would be to pull back, to keep a distance and let her work with me, just as she’s contracted to do. I should focus on my recovery and nothing else. But the thought of distancing myself from her, of giving up the moments of connection we share, is almost physically painful.

Diana dismounts gracefully, leading Buddy in a cool-down walk. She hasn’t noticed me yet, and I debate whether to make my presence known. In another life, I might have boldly approached, but uncertainty holds me back now. What could I possibly offer her—a man who can’t even remember who he is? I have nothing worthwhile to give except broken pieces and unanswered questions.

Chapter Ten

Cassius

My muscles burn as I lift the weighted band. Lucy, my physical therapist, hovers nearby like a hawk watching her prey. Her voice filters through my translator, encouraging me to complete five more reps. Easy for her to say.

“You’re doing great, Cassius.” She scribbles notes on her tablet. “Remember—control matters more than raw strength. Keep the movements smooth.”

I grit my teeth, forcing my trembling leg through another repetition. Sweat drips down my temples as I struggle with an exercise that would have been child’s play before… before what? The memories slip away like smoke.

Three more to go. My body—once honed for combat I can’t remember—now betrays me with even the simplest tasks. By the time I finish the set, my muscles scream in protest and familiar aches pulse behind my eyes. Lucy tosses over a towel and water bottle.

“Excellent progress today.” Her focus is on her tablet as she takes notes.

I gulp down water, then wipe my face. “Progress? Doesn’t feel like it.”

“It’s hard to see day-to-day changes,” Lucy says gently. “But think about where you started—your chart said you could barely sit up in bed when you woke up in Switzerland.”

The memory should encourage me, but it only highlights how far I still have to go. Every milestone feels like a mountain.

One of the cleaning staff walks in, talking loudly on her phone and I catch myself almost snapping at her rudeness before remembering where—and when—I am. These people aren’t slaves, yet sometimes odd reactions surge forth out of nowhere. Rude behaviors and crude mannerisms grate on me for reasons I can’t quite understand.

“You’re pushing too hard.” Lucy pulls me out of my reverie. “Recovery isn’t a race, Cassius. Your body needs rest between sessions.”

But it is a race—against time, against my fractured memories, against this gnawing need to be whole again. To be… someone. Anyone.

“Same time Tuesday?” I change the subject as I gather my things.

Lucy nods. “Rest this weekend. Monday, you can start your new set of home exercises.”

I make a noncommittal sound. Rest. As if I could rest with my mind constantly racing, filled with a few wispy fragments of memories I can’t quite catch and thousands of unanswered questions.

In the lobby, I sink into an uncomfortable chair to wait for my ride. As I absently massage my aching muscles, a commotion near the entrance draws my attention. Two uniformed men escort a boy—he can’t be more than twelve or thirteen—with a hastily bandaged arm. Metal shackles circle his wrists and ankles.

I blink hard, certain I must be seeing things. But no. The chains are real, clinking with each shuffling step.

“What’s going on?” I ask Lucy as she’s about to go outside to check on my ride. “Why is that child in chains?”

She glances over, frowning. “He’s probably from Oak Hill—the youth home nearby.”

“He’s injured,” I press. “Why treat him like a criminal?”

“It’s complicated,” Lucy sighs. “Some of these kids have violent histories. The restraints are for safety.”

I stare in disbelief as they lead him to an exam room. “He’s a child,” I say, my voice dropping dangerously low as forgotten memories stir—the bite of chains, the weight of helplessness. “In my time, we only chained slaves and the worst criminals. Is that what he is to you? A slave?”

Lucy’s eyes widen. “Of course not! We’re trying to help these kids.”

But I barely hear her. I watch the boy’s slow progress, the metal rings rattling with each step. His eyes briefly meet mine and I recognize that look—defiance masking despair. I may not remember my gladiator days, but I know that expression from the endless months on theFortuna, seasick and lost.

I thought this new world was meant to be advanced, civilized. Yet here they chain children like animals. The hypocrisy burns in my chest.

“Your ride’s here,” Lucy interrupts my dark thoughts.

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