Page 42 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

“Perfect,” she purrs, adjusting my collar with delicate fingers. “You’ll be the talk of the gala.”

Her touch lingers, and I find myself caught between discomfort and a strange attraction. Not to her beauty—though she possesses that in abundance—but to the power she wields so effortlessly. It’s familiar, reminiscent of how the Roman elite commanded attention and respect.

Yet something else stirs within me as I watch the staff rush to fulfill her every whim. A memory surfaces: the sting of a whip, the weight of chains, the helplessness of being property rather than a person.

I was a slave once. Though I don’t know how or why that happened, I’m sure of it now. The memory of the degradation of servitude wars with the patrician’s instinct to accept the fawning as natural.

“Is everything alright?” Dara asks, noticing my distraction.

“Yes,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just… adjusting.”

She laughs, a melodic sound that draws the attention of everyone in the room. “Well, adjust quickly. We have three more stores to visit before the gala.”

The next stop is for shoes. The attendant informs us they are the best Italian leather. They’re soft and supple and unbelievably expensive if my growing understanding of the value of American currency is correct.

The hair salon is next on the list. My hair is trimmed, washed, then sprayed and styled to look like I just got out of bed. At the same time, the nails on my hands and feet are trimmed and buffed and the calluses scrubbed off. What should make me feel pampered instead makes me feel false. Again, the dual nature of who I used to be is at odds within me.

A jewelry store is the final stop. We are escorted through the store where I catch a glimpse of a dazzling display of gold and silver chains, rings, and earrings, complete with pearls and gems. Before my overwhelmed brain can even begin to comprehend the value of what I’m seeing, we are seated on plush chairs in a private room. Tea is served and thin cookies are offered.

Out of earshot, Dara has a conversation with the attendant. He moves to me and asks to see my hands. He looks but doesn’t touch them, then leaves the room but is back within a few minutes. On the small table in front of us, he lays a plush dark cloth, then he puts three rings and three sets of what Dara tells me are cufflinks that will hold the ends of my silk shirt closed at my wrists.

Dara chooses a gold band with laurel leaves etched around the entire circumference and what looks to be a large diamond embedded in the gold. She asks me to put it on the fourth finger of my right hand. It slides on easily, a perfect fit.

She almost purrs in delight. After picking up the cufflinks to match the ring, she tells the attendant she will take them and passes the links and a small square of plastic to him. I make no effort to object to the extravagant purchases. The patrician part of me believes I deserve all of this, although another part of me wants to run out the door.

It strikes me that I don’t have anywhere to run.

Just as we finish the tea and the cookies that melted in my mouth, he returns with a small black bag tied with a filmy gold ribbon, along with the plastic card.

As we move through the afternoon, Dara’s flirtation becomes more obvious. She finds reasons to touch me—straightening a lapel, brushing lint from my shoulder, her hand resting on my arm as she speaks. Each touch is calculated, designed to entice rather than comfort.

It’s so different from Diana’s honest affection.

Diana.

The thought of her sends a pang through my chest. I push it aside, focusing instead on the strange new world Dara is introducing me to. A world of privilege and power that feels both foreign and achingly familiar.

By the time we finish our shopping expedition, I’m laden with bags and boxes—or rather, Dara’s driver is. The staff at each establishment bowed and scraped as we left, almost gushing in gratitude for Dara’s patronage.

“Ready for tonight?” Dara asks as we slide into her vehicle—a “limousine” that rivals any Roman litter for luxury.

“As ready as I can be,” I reply, watching the city scroll past through tinted windows.

She places her hand on my knee. “Don’t worry. Just follow my lead, and you’ll do fine.”

I nod, but inside, I’m less certain. The world Dara inhabits is seductive in its familiarity—the power, the deference, the luxury. But I’m no longer the pampered patrician of my memories, nor am I the same man who woke without a memory in this century.

The question is: who am I now?

Chapter Thirty-Four

Cassius

The view from Dara’s penthouse windows makes my head spin. We’re higher than Jupiter’s eagles, the city sprawling below us like a glittering mosaic. The room itself rivals any villa I’ve seen in my returning memories—all gleaming surfaces, fresh flowers, and rich fabrics.

I stand before a mirror taller than I am, wrestling with pieces of my formal attire. The “tuxedo” jacket makes sense enough—it’s not so different from a fine toga—but this strip of black fabric they call a “cummerbund” might as well be an instrument of torture.

“Need help?” Dara’s voice comes from behind me. In the mirror’s reflection, I watch her approach, her dress a creation of deep red silk that leaves little to the imagination. The tops of herbreasts spill out above the fabric and there’s a slit up her leg to her thigh. After a second look, I decide it’s not a rip, but part of the design.

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