Page 51 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

“You’re nothing now,patrician,” theludusmaster sneered on my first day, making the title a curse. “Just another piece of meat for the games, for the entertainment of yourbetters.”

The other gladiators were cruel, eager to torment the aristocrat’s son. They tried to break me in training, but even as a newly enslaved patrician, my natural warrior spirit emerged. Each beating only made me stronger, more determined. I learned to fight through pain, to turn their taunts into fuel for my rage.

But it was theludusmaster who knew how to truly break a man. He starved me, forced me to crawl in the dirt, made me fight for scraps like a dog.

I learned to survive. To kill. To become the weapon they wanted.

But it wasn’t enough. After three years in theludus, they sold me again—this time to a merchant bound for Britannia. The docks at Ostia… Gods, now I understand. The story the others told of my defiance on the docks never made sense. Why would a slave beg punishment or even death for his rebellious actions? Thememory crashes over me like a wave, leaving me gasping with the force of the revelation.

That day at the docks, when I spat in Sulla’s face, when I hurled insults at everyone around me—it wasn’t just about being sold or sent away. It was about being stripped of the last thing I had left—Rome herself. The city my father had served, had died for. They were sending me to the edge of the empire, to die in some foreign mud for the entertainment of barbarians.

In that moment at the docks, I became my father. Standing proud, hurling defiance in the face of power, choosing pain over submission. My arrogance wasn’t just pride—it was survival. It was the only piece of my father I had left.

Gods, what a fool I’ve been. That same pride, that desperate clinging to who I once was—it’s followed me here, into this new world. I’ve been trying so hard to be the patrician’s son that I forgot how to be simply human.

Rising from my knees, my legs trembling from the impact of the brutal memories, I lean against the fence and look around me. I’m alone. The weight of understanding settles on my shoulders—not as a burden, but as clarity.

For the first time since waking in this century, I see my behavior through unclouded eyes. Every harsh word, every condescending glance, every moment I treated others as beneath me—they weren’t the actions of a noble Roman, but of a wounded man desperately clinging to the tatters of his former status. Regaining my strength and my determination, I set outfor the barn. It’s time to break this cycle, time to honor my father’s memory, not through pride, but through courage.

I look at Jason again, seeing him with new clarity. His rage, his pride, his desperate need to prove himself—I know these demons intimately. We’re not so different, he and I. Both of us fighting against a world that tried to break us, both clinging to whatever scraps of dignity we can salvage.

“Brother,” I say softly when I reach his side, the word carrying new weight. “Let me tell you about pride, and how it can both save you and destroy you.”

As I begin to share my story, I feel something shift inside me. Perhaps in finally facing these memories, in understanding why I’ve held so desperately to my patrician pride, I can begin to let it go. Not forget—never forget—but maybe, finally, heal.

Chapter Forty-Two

Diana

As I stand, waiting for our new arrival, my mind flies to its favorite resting place—Cassius. It’s been a few weeks since his return. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a new man. He’s kinder, more patient, even better with the kids than he was before, and that’s saying a lot.

I told him not to talk to me unless it was about our work, never dreaming he would comply, yet he’s kept things strictly business between us. Being honest with myself, I’ll admit, I’m a bit disappointed, although that’s crazy.

My body betrays me daily, responding to his presence like a mare in heat. When he’s working with the horses, his muscles rippling under his thin t-shirt, my mouth goes dry. The way hemoves now, with such quiet grace and control, sets my pulse racing even as I try to maintain professional distance.

Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. His gaze carries such heat, such longing, that I have to grip whatever I’m holding to stay rooted in place. My dreams are filled with memories of his touch, his kisses, his whispered praises when he moved inside me, and the way he made me feel cherished and desired. I wake up aching, my body remembering what my mind tries to forget.

This morning, he was helping Jason groom Atlas, and a bead of sweat trailed down his neck. I found my gaze following its path, remembering how his skin tasted, how he would shiver when I kissed that exact spot. The memory of his hands on my body, strong yet achingly gentle, makes me clench my thighs together even now.

But desire isn’t enough. I need more than physical attraction, more than smoldering looks and heated dreams. I need to trust, to feel safe, to know that the man I give my heart to won’t use my vulnerabilities against me. No matter how my body yearns for his touch, my mind remembers his cruel words, his arrogance, his disdain.

Still, watching him now…

My mind snaps back to the present when a car pulls up to the corral. My heart aches as I watch Alex climb out of the social worker’s car, their body language screaming defensiveness.

Oak Hill staff did a good job of sending me information that would help me work with Alex, including their identification as non-binary.

Alex is small for fifteen, with delicate features that seem at war with the tough exterior they’re trying to project. Their dark hair is cropped short on the sides but longer on top, dyed a soft lavender that brings out the amber tones in their brown eyes. Multiple piercings line their ears—clear glass retainers now, probably required by Oak Hill’s rules. They wear baggy black clothes that seem chosen to hide rather than express, but a small rainbow pin on their backpack speaks volumes about their journey.

Despite their obvious effort to appear tough and unapproachable, there’s a vulnerability in their slight frame and the way their fingers nervously play with their sleeve cuffs that makes my protective instincts surge.

After years of working with troubled teens, and having been one myself, I know that look—the hunched shoulders, the darting eyes, the way they position themselves to keep everyone in view. This kid has been through hell.

I meet them at the car, smiling, yet giving Alex space to acclimate. First rule of working with traumatized youth: let them set the pace. I’m acutely aware of Cassius by the barn, his six-foot-plus frame impossible to miss as he works. Like all the gladiators, his muscled physique and battle-hardened presence can be overwhelming to our troubled teens when they first arrive.

I keep my body language open and relaxed as I say, “Hey, Alex. I’m Diana. Would you like to meet some horses?”

Their eyes light up for a fraction of a second before their indifferent mask slips back into place. “Whatever.”

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