Page 8 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

A slight frown crosses his features. “Forgive me,Domina. I did not mean to offend.”

“No. No offense.” I have to look away from the play of muscles across his chest as he sits. And I forbid my glance to trespass south of his waist, though the impulse is becoming more urgent by the second. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

He accepts the plate with grave courtesy, his movements speaking of ingrained manners despite what I imagine is his history of slavery. Everything about him radiates dignity and control, making the lies we’re telling him feel even more reprehensible.

“I’ll find you something to wear,” I say, backing toward the door before I can do something stupid like stare at him all day. “Just… eat. Rest. We’ll talk more later.”

It’s only when I’m safely in the hallway that my shoulders sag in relief. This is so much worse than I imagined. Not just the ethical nightmare of the situation, but my own visceral response to him. I need to stay focused, need to figure out how to fix this mess.

Instead, I’m standing in a dark hallway, trying to slow my racing pulse, while the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen eats breakfast and thinks of me as his “Domina.”

I hate the lie, but what choice do I have? If I tell him the truth now—that he’s been frozen for two thousand years, that everyone he’s ever known has been dead for centuries—he’ll either think I’m insane or the shock might break him.

I don’t have the training to deal with depression or PTSD or whatever might happen when he learns the truth.

And then what? We’re trapped with bad guys possibly watching our every move. We have nowhere safe to run. He’s only just regaining his strength. I need to protect him, not just from whoever’s after my dad and him, but from a truth so devastating it might destroy his will to live. Sometimes kindness looks like lying, at least until there’s a better option.

Chapter Seven

Victor

The newdomina’svisit brought confusion that cuts deeper than this lingering weakness. Her presence filled the small room with an energy unlike anything I’ve encountered—not the cruel anticipation of the arena masters or the cold calculation of wealthy patrons. When she entered, something in the air shifted, became charged like the moment before lightning strikes.

The way she looked at me… no owner has ever looked at me like that. Heat in her eyes, yes, but mixed with something else. Concern? Uncertainty? Even after years of reading opponents’ intentions in the arena, her expressions leave me puzzled.

Settling back against the wall behind the bed, I savor the eggs she brought—perfectly cooked, seasoned with unfamiliar spices that dance on my tongue. Simple food, but prepared with obvious care. Another oddity to add to the growing list.

A memory surfaces, sharp and clear despite the haze of time. My arrival at my firstludus, kneeling in the dirt while thelanista,my new owner,circled me like a wolf sizing up prey.

“Strong bones,” he said, prodding my shoulders with his stick. “Good height, though too thin, not enough muscle. Too much philosopher in him. Too much of his father’s softness.”

I was seventeen, newly enslaved after our family was torn apart. I still believed I could maintain Father’s teachings while surviving my new reality. Thelanistasaw it as a weakness.

He abruptly turned to theludusmaster and barked, “Break him. Break him or deem him useless and sell him for pit fighting.”

For dinner, I was handed watery soup in a wooden bowl. A piece of moldy bread was tossed at my feet like scraps for a dog. Now I eat from fine plates with strange utensils, served by adominawho avoided my eyes, not from contempt but from something that made her cheeks flush pink.

Even the lack of strength in my limbs feels different from those early days in theludus.Then, exhaustion came from endless drills under the scorching sun, from regular beatings meant to “toughen” me or break me, from nights spent sleeping on packed earth. This weakness feels deeper, as though my very bones have forgotten their purpose.

YetDomina’sconcern seemed genuine. “You shouldn’t kneel with your legs still weak,” she’d said, her voice carrying none of the usual masks of false sympathy I had learned to recognize. No hidden tests, no veiled threats. Just… worry. For me. A slave.

The memory shifts to my third day in theludus. “Philosophy won’t save you here,” theludusmaster said, watching me struggle up from the dirt after another “lesson” in proper submission. “Your father’s teachings mean nothing now.”

But I knew my father well and knew theludusmaster’s words were wrong. I imagine those same teachings helped Father survive his own enslavement, maintaining his dignity even as he tutored his master’s children. I wouldn’t learn of his death until months after he passed, the news delivered carelessly between training bouts.

Looking down at the empty plate, I consider the differences. No one in theluduscared if I ate, only that I performed. YetDominabrought food herself rather than sending a slave. Watched to ensure I received it. Spoke to me directly rather than through overseers.

In my early days at theludus, I learned quickly that outright defiance brought only pain and death. My instructor Claudius beat this lesson into a young Thracian who arrived the same day as me. The boy fought every command, refused every order. By the third day, his broken body was carried out, a cautionary tale for the rest of us.

Father’s teachings provided a better path—acceptance without surrender, patience without submission, compliance without losing one’s soul.

“The wise man,” he told me, “knows when to bend like the reed in the wind, gathering strength for the moment when standing firm truly matters.” So I observe, I learn, I wait. In weakness, there can be strategy. And in apparent submission, the freedom to prepare.

The translation device in my ear remains silent now that she’s gone, but her warm voice lingers in my memory. Even through the device’s strange filtering, something about her tone struck deeper than mere words.

And her appearance… I’ve known beautiful women before. In noblewomen and pleasure slaves alike. But she carried herself differently—strong and graceful like a gladiatrix, yet with none of their deliberate deadly allure. Her carriage emphasized the elegant line of her neck, the delicate curve of her ear. The way she moved spoke of a warrior’s training, yet her hands fidgeted like a young girl’s when our eyes met.

Her clothing is nothing I’ve ever seen a woman wear. She dresses like a man in clothing much the same asDominus,in a style and type of cloth I’ve never seen before.

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