Page 44 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

Dara moves through the crowd like Mercury through the heavens, graceful and purposeful. People part before her as if by divine command, their faces lighting up with that particular smile I remember from my visits with my father to the Senate—the one that says, “I want something from you.”

“Cassius,” she says, touching my arm to get my attention. “I want you to meet Senator Harrison.”

The translator in my ear makes their rapid conversation clear, but as more people join our circle, the overlapping voices become a confusing jumble. I discover that by turning my head slightly, I can focus on different conversations. It’s like tuning a lyre, finding the right string to pluck.

“Of course we’ll support the initiative,” someone says to my left.

“Did you see what she’s wearing?” whispers a voice to my right.

“The market forecasts are promising…” drifts from behind me.

The skill of listening to multiple conversations at once comes back to me naturally, and with it, another memory surfaces: standing in my father’s atrium, pretending to admire a statue while eavesdropping on political rivals. I was so proud of my cunning then.

A commotion near one of the marble columns draws my attention. A woman in a blue dress is speaking in harsh whispers to a man who keeps trying to touch her arm.

“It meant nothing to you?” The man’s voice is pleading. “I thought we had something special.”

“It was one night,” she replies coldly. “I told you not to expect more.”

The world blurs, and suddenly I’m in a lavishly appointed bedroom. A woman—beautiful, naked, vulnerable—looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

“But I thought you cared for me,” she whispers.

I hear my own voice, callous and dismissive: “I promised you nothing. I’m a Cornelii. You’re a commonmeretrix.”

The memory makes me physically recoil. Is that who I was? That cruel, arrogant man who used people like toys for his amusement?

Needing air, I make my way to the buffet table. The food is artfully arranged—tiny portions of exotic dishes that would have cost a fortune in my time. As I reach for a piece of fruit, I hear Dara’s voice from behind a large floral arrangement.

“So,” another woman’s voice asks, “are you hitting that yet?”

Dara’s laugh is low and throaty. “Soon. He’s still a bit… raw. But give me time.”

“He is gorgeous,” her friend purrs. “Those arms, that ass…”

“And he’s a genuine gladiator,” Dara adds. “Do you know what that’s worth in today’s market? The publicity alone… Plus, having him on my arm at political functions? It’s perfect timing with the election coming up.”

“Always thinking ahead,” her friend says admiringly. “When you run for office…”

Their voices fade as they move away, but the damage is done. My stomach churns as I realize how familiar their conversation feels—not as the objectified, but as the objectifier. How many times had I discussed women this way with my friends? How many times had I plotted to use people for political advantage?

I scan the room, seeing it with new eyes. The slaves who served in my father’s house had better treatment than the staff here, who scurry about with fixed smiles and desperate eyes. The political maneuvering is the same as in Rome, just wrapped in finer clothes and smoother words.

My gaze lands on a glowing red sign above a doorway: “EXIT.” It’s a Latin word I know—go out.

I don’t know where I’ll go. I have no money, no possessions, no real understanding of this new world, and no way to translate. But I know I can’t stay here, can’t be a pawn in Dara’s political or sexual games, nor can I go back to being the man I was.

Without a word to anyone, I stride toward the exit. The night air hits my face like a blessing from the gods. Behind me, the sounds of the gala fade—the fake laughter, the political scheming, the casual cruelty dressed up as sophistication.

I start walking, not caring which direction. Eventually, I’ll have to face reality—my memories, my past actions, my future. But for now, I just need to get away from that gilded hall of mirrors where I saw my past self reflected far too clearly.

Diana’s face floats in my mind—honest, kind, real. I hurt her, let that ancient arrogance resurface and wound her. She had baredher soul to me, and I used that knowledge to hit her where it would hurt the most. The thought makes me walk faster, as if I could outrun my own shame.

I don’t know who I am anymore—not the cruel patrician, not the skilled gladiator, not even the confused man who woke up in this century. Is it possible I can become someone better than any of them?

The city stretches out before me, vast and unknown. A warm breeze carries the scent of the sea—impossible this far inland. The air shimmers, and for a moment, I see her: a woman in ancient robes, her hand resting on a great wheel. The Goddess Fortuna.

She smiles, gesturing in the southern direction of Second Chance. The vision fades, but her message is clear. Sometimes we must lose our way to find our true path. Somewhere in this maze of lights and shadows, there must be a path to redemption. I just have to find it.

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