Page 5 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

“Cassius?” Dr. Reeves’ voice snaps me back to attention. “Are you with me?”

“Apologies,” I mutter, forcing myself to focus on the ghostly images of my brain.

She points out various areas, explaining healing pathways and strengthening connections. Most of it I don’t comprehend, but I grasp the essential point: I’m healing, slowly but surely. Yet my memories remain stubbornly out of reach.

“It’s important to understand,” Dr. Reeves says gently, “that memory loss like yours would be problematic even if you hadn’t spent two thousand years frozen in the sea. We can’t predict when—or if—your memories might return.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, though they’re nothing I haven’t heard before. Still, each time, a little of my hope dies.

The drive back to the sanctuary passes in silence. Fields stretch out on either side of the road, dotted by farmhouses, barns, and horses. It’s peaceful, in its way, but it only serves to highlight how out of place I am.

Back in the barracks, I sit on my bunk, examining the wooden gladius charm Thrax carved for me. Hanging on a leather cord around my neck, it’s supposed to be a link to my past, but it feelsas foreign as everything else. I trace the intricate carving with my fingers, willing it to spark some recognition, some connection to the man I used to be.

Quintus shouts at me. “Evening meal’s ready. You coming?”

I nod, pushing myself to my feet. Another night of trying to fit in, of listening to stories of a shared past I can’t remember. But it’s better than being alone with my thoughts.

Chapter Four

Diana

My phone rings, piercing the quiet of my tiny apartment and making me nearly jump out of my skin. Laura’s name flashes on the screen. I hesitate to answer—I’d emailed her my picks for our first two therapy horses, and I’m terrified she’ll hate them and fire me before I’ve even started.

“Diana, good morning. I wanted to discuss the horses you suggested. Can you come in today?”

My stomach twists. Has she realized a high school dropout with a GED isn’t qualified to work with ancient warriors, so famous they’ve headlined on every major newspaper around the world? “Sure, I’ll be there in an hour.”

An hour later, I’m perched on the edge of my chair in Laura’s office, launching into my pitch before she can fire me. “I chose two geldings, both around sixteen hands. Big enough to carry a gladiator, but total teddy bears personality-wise.”

When Laura nods encouragingly, some of my tension eases.

“The first is a ten-year-old Quarter Horse named Buddy—super calm, great with beginners. The technical term for a horse like him is ‘bombproof’,” I joke. “The second is Atlas, an eight-year-old Percheron cross. He’s got a bit more spirit, but he’s patient and willing to learn.”

“They sound perfect,” Laura says with a smile. “Now, about your first client. We need to discuss Cassius.”

My ears perk up at the name. So far, my research has been entirely digital, and aside from Varro, none of the gladiators have been photographed or identified. My excitement swirls through me as this job becomes real.

Laura’s expression turns serious. “Cassius suffered a severe head injury just before he was… preserved. The doctors don’t think he’ll ever recover his memories.”

My heart aches at the thought. Waking up in a new world with no memory of who you were? It must be terrifying.

“I’ve researched head injuries and equine therapy from my last job.” My hands shake slightly as I pull folders full of notes out of my backpack. “There’s evidence horses can help with balance, coordination, even cognitive function.”

Laura looks impressed, and I feel a small surge of pride. Maybe I’m not as out of my depth as I thought.

“Perfect. I’d like you to discuss your approach with his medical team tomorrow morning at eight.”

And just like that, my doubts slam back into me. “His medical team? I’m not sure I should—”

“Diana,” Laura interrupts gently, “you’re more qualified than you think. Your experience and passion are exactly what we need. Just be yourself and share your ideas.”

The next day, I clutch my backpack as I follow the receptionist to meet with the team. I battle the familiar voice in my head telling me I don’t belong. One part screams that Laura made a huge mistake when she hired me, while another insists I’m not stupid and every moment of my life has led to this.

The conference room’s packed with people in white coats. All eyes turn to me, and my throat goes dry. I grip my research folder like a shield.

Dr. Reeves, Cassius’s neurologist, welcomes me warmly. All she has to do is ask an open-ended question about my therapy ideas, and my thoughts tumble out.

As I tell the group we’ll begin with simple grooming tasks to build trust and motor skills, moving to groundwork exercises for balance and coordination, my nerves fade. Horses, therapy, helping people—this is what I know. The physical therapist seems particularly excited about the balance exercises.

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