Page 35 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

Later, as I lie in bed, staring at the shadows playing across the ceiling, doubt creeps in. What if this newfound arrogance isn’t just a phase? What if it’s the man he truly was, slowly surfacing? Is the kind man I’ve fallen for just a temporary stand-in?

I want to believe in him—in us—but the Cassius who spoke with Flavius and Thrax today feels like a stranger.

I tighten my grip on the blanket, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. For now, all I can do is hope that the kindness I’ve seen in Cassius is stronger than the ghost of who he used to be.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cassius

The dining room is quieter than usual tonight. Instead of the typical boisterous laughter and loud conversations, people’s spirits are subdued as everyone focuses on their board and card games.

I sit at a table, staring at the chessboard in front of me, but my mind is far from the game. Every sound, every movement around me, seems to heighten my irritation, each one building upon the last.

Rurik’s laugh, though softer than usual, still makes me wince. “By Jupiter’s beard,” I mutter under my breath, “can the man not control himself?”

Diana, sitting across from me, raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?” she asks, her voice filled with concern.

I force a smile, but it’s insincere. “Of course,” I lie, moving a pawn forward without much thought. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it drop, returning her attention to the game. I watch her, concerned by the sight of her furrowed brow as she contemplates her next move. Diana is the only comfort I have these days, the only person who can quiet the storm raging inside me. But even that comfort is beginning to feel as though it hangs by a string.

I catch the flicker of disappointment in her eyes when I snap at Quintus for spilling his drink. I see the way she flinches when I dismiss Flavius’s suggestion for improving our training regimen. She’s pulling away, I can feel it, and the thought spikes panic through me. But I don’t know how to stop it, how to be the man I was when we met. Because I’m not that Cassius anymore.

Who am I? The question plagues me constantly. Am I the skilled gladiator who can wield a trident with deadly precision? Or am I the patrician who grew up in luxury, hunted lions for sport, and was educated in the arts of politics and manipulation? The blood of warriors and rulers runs through my veins—both the patrician commander and the unstoppable gladiator. Each piece of my past feels equally real, equally true, equally confusing.

This morning, I took Atlas for a gallop, pushing him to his limits as I sought the thrill of speed and freedom. But even as the wind whipped through my hair and my heart raced with exhilaration, a part of me scoffed at the crude beast beneath me.I remembered a finer steed, a horse of impeccable breeding and training. I remembered servants waiting at the end of my ride with cool water, fragrant oils, and sweet wine.

The contrast leaves me feeling hollow, caught between two worlds, belonging to neither.

“Cassius?” Diana’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “It’s your move.”

I blink, refocusing on the chessboard. Without much consideration, I move my knight, capturing her bishop. Diana frowns, and I realize too late that I’ve left my queen exposed. With a small smile, she takes it, her fingers lingering on the piece for a moment.

“You seem distracted,” she says softly. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Before I can answer, Thrax’s voice cuts through the general noise of the room. He’s sitting with Skye, his woman, explaining something about ancient Rome. My ears prick up, drawn to the familiar subject.

“So, in ancient Rome,” Thrax is saying, his Latin rough and unpolished, “the gladiators were like big celebrities, yeah? People would go crazy for them, like modern sports stars.”

My jaw clenches, irritation bubbling up inside me. His pronunciation is atrocious, each word mangled by his low-class accent. And the way he’s simplifying our history, reducing it to such base comparisons—it’s almost insulting.

Skye nods enthusiastically. “That’s fascinating! So, I wonder, when I’m working on the translation program, if I should try to include some of that cultural context.”

That’s it. I can’t take it anymore. The frustration that’s been building all evening finally boils over. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“By all the gods,” I snarl, my voice cutting through the room like the crack of a whip. “Is this truly how you intend to preserve our language and culture? With this… this vulgar butchery of our noble tongue?”

The room falls silent, all eyes wide and focused on me. Diana reaches for my arm, but I shake her off, stalking toward Thrax and Skye.

“You,” I point at Thrax, my voice dripping with disdain, “you claim to represent Rome, to speak for our history? Your Latin is an offense to the very gods themselves. Each word that falls from your lips is like a barbarian’s attempt at civilized speech.”

Thrax’s eyes widen, shock and hurt warring on his face. But I’ve slipped too deep into the pit of anger to care.

“And you,” I turn to Skye, who shrinks back in her chair. “You’re creating a program that will teach our language to future generations? Based on this… this travesty? Do you have any idea of the damage you’ll do, perpetuating such low-class pronunciation?”

“Cassius!” Diana’s voice cuts through my tirade. She’s standing now, her face a mask of shock and disappointment. “That’senough!”

But I can’t stop. The words pour out of me, fueled by frustration and confusion and a desperate need to assert some control over my fractured self.

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