Page 11 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius (Awakened From the Ice #3)
Chapter Eleven
D iana
Cassius makes his last lap around the corral. Equine therapy was the perfect choice for him. He probably walks a quarter mile every lesson leading Atlas or Buddy, but he’s having so much fun he doesn’t realize it’s building his stamina.
“Great job today. You’ve made incredible progress. Tomorrow, we can get you up on the horse.”
His eyes light up, a real smile breaking through. “Really? Does this mean I’ll be barrel racing like I saw you doing the other day?”
I crack up laughing. The image of Cassius zooming around barrels is ridiculous. “Oh, sure. You’ll be winning rodeos in no time.”
He laughs with me, and for a second all that weight he carries seems to lift. I wish I heard that sound more often.
As we put away the tack, he turns to me with a puzzled look. “You know, you’ve been living here for over a week, but I haven’t seen you in the dining hall. Don’t tell me you’ve been eating alone in that tiny cabin.”
Heat creeps up my neck. Truth is, the thought of eating with a bunch of ancient warriors scares me more than I want to admit. “Well, I… I didn’t want to intrude.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Intrude? On what—our fascinating conversations about the weather and how many push-ups Thrax can do?” He shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Come. Join us for dinner tonight. Meet your neighbors.”
I hesitate, picturing myself surrounded by towering, muscle-bound men. But the hopeful look in his eyes breaks my resolve. “Alright.”
Later, as I walk into the dining hall, my heart pounds so loud I wonder if everyone can hear it. The room goes quiet for a moment as heads turn my way. I spot Cassius at the end of a long table. Thrax and his girlfriend, Skye, who I’ve already met, are sitting nearby.
Cassius waves me over, and I slip on my “no-fear” face—the one I perfected in juvie to avoid being a target. No one needs to know my insides are quaking.
“Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” Thrax booms, his voice friendly despite its volume.
Skye rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Ignore him, Diana. We’re glad you’re here.” She pats the empty seat beside her, and I sink into it gratefully.
As we eat, my body relaxes from high alert. After I’m introduced to several of the men nearby, the conversation flows easily, broken up by bursts of laughter and friendly teasing. These men might look intimidating, but they’re just… guys. They joke, argue, tell stories. It’s almost like being back in school, surrounded by rowdy friends.
My gaze keeps drifting to Cassius across the table. He seems more relaxed here than during our sessions, but there’s still a distance between him and the others. Some invisible wall I can’t quite figure out.
The conversation lulls, and a question that’s been bugging me slips out. “Do any of you know how Cassius hurt his head?” Everyone’s eyes skitter away from mine and the atmosphere shifts.
Crap! You’d think I never heard of HIPAA. Talk about a rookie move. Before I can shift the conversation, Rurik, a huge redhead, clears his throat. “Aye, we know the tale. We all saw it. At the docks in Ostia, right before we boarded the Fortuna .”
The men trade glances, some glaring toward the other end of the table. Before I can figure out who they’re looking at, Quintus, who looks like the oldest one here, picks up the story. “There was this priestess, offering blessings for the journey. Our ludus master, Sulla, bought us all a round of her special brew. ‘For our safety’, she said.”
“Foul stuff,” Flavius cuts in, nose wrinkling at the memory.
Rurik continues, “Then they brought in this new slave. Feisty bastard. His handlers pushed him toward us, told us his name, and left. From that first moment, he wouldn’t do what he was told.”
I lean forward, engrossed in the tale. “What happened?”
“By his looks, he was clearly a slave, a gladiator, but he didn’t act like one. Needed everything told to him twice. The two who brought him to the docks had to threaten him to get him out of the cart. First thing he did was call Sulla an imumator and a catamite .”
Even with my limited knowledge of ancient Rome, calling your slave master an asshole and a homosexual couldn’t have been smart. I glance at Cassius, but his face stays blank. It must be weird hearing about your own history when you can’t remember it.
“Sulla was in a generous mood.” Rurik goes on. “He wasn’t the type to buy us drinks. Maybe it was because he worshipped the Goddess Fortuna and this was one of her priestesses.”
“Get on with it,” Quintus gripes.
“Fuck you!” Rurik snaps back. Most of these guys know very little English, but they all picked up that phrase quickly enough.
“Like I was saying,” Rurik continues, “Sulla offered the cup to Cassius. He almost refused, but he took a swig and seemed to swallow without tasting it. He took a second gulp, then spit it in Sulla’s face.”
Thrax finishes the story. “Sulla grabbed the priestess’s heavy clay jar and crashed it on Cassius’s head. He crumpled to the ground. Out cold for a day. Woke up on the ship with no memory. We had to tell him his own name.”
Heavy silence falls over the table. I look at Cassius, seeing him differently. The Cassius I know speaks softly and follows instructions without question. Hard to picture him hurling insults at anyone, much less someone holding a whip.
My eyes dart around the table, searching for Sulla—though maybe he died two thousand years ago. “Is Sulla here?” I ask quietly.
The men trade looks, some uncomfortable, others angry. Thrax nods slightly and tips his chin toward the far end of the long table. A lean, hard-faced man sits alone, stabbing at his food as though it’s his enemy.
“That’s him,” Thrax says, his voice low. “Still an asshole.”
I study him from here. Even at this distance, something about him feels cold. There’s a hardness in his eyes that makes me shiver. He doesn’t seem to notice our conversation. He’s focused on shoveling his food so fast he can’t be tasting it.
“He doesn’t eat with you?” I whisper.
Quintus snorts. “Would you want to eat with the man who ordered you around at the end of a lash?”
The thought hits like a punch to the gut. Knowing these men were slaves is one thing, but seeing their former abuser sitting in the same room… I look at Cassius again, wondering how he’d act if he remembered everything.
The conversation dies as an uncomfortable silence settles over our end of the table. I pick at my food, no longer hungry, as terrible thoughts swirl through my head. Was Cassius a convict, forced into gladiator fights as punishment? If he gets his memory back, will we discover he’s a heartless killer? For a moment, fear knots my stomach.
Then I remind myself I have no idea what happened before he was dragged to the docks at Ostia to sail to another country so he could fight and die in an arena for the amusement of strangers. I try not to judge, but I can’t help wondering who Cassius really is.
Before I can say anything, Laura and Varro burst through the door, their faces etched with worry. The room’s atmosphere switches from rowdy to tense in a heartbeat.
“What’s wrong?” Thrax asks what everyone’s thinking.
Laura takes a deep breath, scanning the room. “We’ve got a situation,” she says gravely. “You all need to hear this.”
As she speaks, I notice how Cassius seems to shrink into himself, again the outsider in a group bound by shared memories he can’t access. My heart aches for him, even as anxiety builds over whatever news Laura and Varro are about to deliver.