Page 24 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius (Awakened From the Ice #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

C assius

Although the first gray light of dawn slips in around Diana’s curtains, I don’t move when I awaken. Lying still, I savor the weight of her arm draped across my chest. I’ve never seen her hair so messy. I enjoy the sight, which makes me a stultus , because it gives me a little thrill to know that all those tangles are because she was thrashing her head at the pleasure I gave her.

Part of me wants to wake her, to see her smile and hear her laugh, but I resist the urge. After last night, after what we shared physically and emotionally, she deserves this moment of peace.

In the distance, I hear the distinctive whir of helicopter blades. Dara must be leaving. I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that Diana won’t have to face her again. Now that I understand why Diana is so self-conscious, it makes sense she’s especially uncomfortable around Dara. But she has nothing to worry about. Dara may have wealth and power, but Diana is so warm and genuine that it outshines any fancy clothes or hairstyle.

Diana stirs, her eyes fluttering open. “Good morning,” she murmurs, a sleepy smile spreading across her face.

Then her brow lowers in worry as she fully awakens. How do I know this woman so well that it’s as though I can read her mind? Perhaps it’s what she shared with me last night. She told me her secret fears, her insecurities. I would bet ten dinarii that her first thought this morning will be to wonder if the morning sun has made me notice all her perceived imperfections.

“Good morning,” I reply, pulling her closer.

I want to tuck her tight, to kiss her hard, to set her blood on fire and awaken the fiery part of her I made love with last night. But first, I need to gentle her, reassure her.

“I have an urgent need.” Although I keep my gaze locked on her face, she doesn’t have the same amount of self-control. Instead, her gaze flicks to my cock, assuming my phallus is hard and ready again.

“Not that, my greedy lover.” I scold with humor. “I need to lick this.” I flick my tongue on the tiny imperfection that slices across her lips. “What if a sorceress replaced you in the middle of the night? Tried to trick me? I’ll always know you’re mine by this pretty silver line. Right here.”

I lap her scar, the one I barely noticed even when we first met, but that she thinks defines her. I kiss and lick and praise her. Instead of saying outlandish things, which my Diana will doubt—I know her so well—I give honest praises she can’t help but believe.

“My patient teacher.” I nip her earlobe. “So gentle… unless she’s riding me.”

When she gasps in shock at my bold statement, I take it as an invitation to say more blatant praises.

“How many times when we were riding horses did I lose all thought, forget where I was and what I was supposed to be doing because I was watching these beautiful ubera bounce, your perfect papillis poking out, teasing me?” To illustrate, I cup one of her breasts, then pluck the hardened nipple even though her translator told her my meaning.

Our lips meet in a soft, lazy kiss. There’s no urgency, no desperate passion—just a gentle affection that warms me from the inside out.

We lie here for a while, trading kisses and soft touches, neither of us speaking of love or the future. We don’t need to. The care we have for each other is evident in every caress, every shared smile.

Finally, Diana stretches, her back arching like a cat’s. “We should probably get up,” she says, though her tone suggests she’d rather do anything but that.

I nod, but make no move to leave the bed. “Or,” I suggest, “we could take the day off. I’m sure the horses won’t mind a break for one day.”

Diana laughs, the sound music to my ears. “And what would you do with your day off, oh mighty gladiator?”

The question stirs something in me. “Actually,” I say, sitting up, “I was thinking of training with the others today. I’d like to test myself physically, see what I remember.”

Diana’s eyes light up with interest. “Mind if I watch? I’d love to see you in action.”

“Perhaps it’s you who have the head injury. Wasn’t it just a few hours ago that you already saw me in action—several times?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I don’t know what you mean. That didn’t translate.”

“Let me spell it out. You’re an asinus .” When I arch my brow at her, she explains, “The men all know what ‘fuck’ means. Well, I’ve learned one of your favorite Latin jibes—ass.

My response is to playfully slap her ass, then split her wide and ease myself inside her, since she’s already drenched and ready for me.

Later, I stand in the training yard, a wooden gladius in my hand. The weight feels odd, unfamiliar. Around me, the other gladiators stretch and warm up, their movements fluid and practiced. I try to mimic them, but my body feels clumsy, uncooperative. I would have thought, now that my memories are returning, that the feel of a sword in my hands would be second nature.

Thrax approaches, his wooden sword raised. “Ready, Cassius?” There’s a friendly challenge in his voice.

I nod, trying to project more confidence than I feel. We square off, circling each other slowly. Thrax makes the first move, a quick thrust that I barely manage to parry. The impact jars my arm, nearly causing me to drop my weapon.

As we spar, I become increasingly frustrated even though it’s obvious Thrax is taking it easy on me. My body doesn’t respond the way I expect it to. Moves that should feel natural are awkward and forced. Thrax lands blow after blow, each one chipping away at my already fragile self-assurance.

After a particularly embarrassing fumble that leaves me sprawled in the dust, I hear Sulla’s voice cut through the air. “Stop!” His tone is that of a commanding ludus master, brooking no argument as he strides from the barracks. “This isn’t right.”

I push myself to my feet, shame burning in my cheeks. But Sulla isn’t looking at me with disdain. Instead, his brow is furrowed in concentration.

He was the ludus master to all my comrades, though I never met him before the day the Fortuna set sail. This was the man who trained every one of my comrades. Out of all of them, he’s the expert, even though we all agree he’s a fucker of the highest order.

“I never asked,” he says slowly, “what type of fighter you were, Cassius. Your arrival at the docks was so rushed. But looking at you now, your build… you’re not a murmillo . Not built to fight with a gladius.” His eyes light up with sudden understanding. “You’re a retiarius , aren’t you?”

The word echoes in my mind, stirring something deep within me. Retiarius . Net-fighter.

Flavius, the youngest of us disappears into the wooded area nearby, emerging moments later with a long, straight stick. “It’s not a proper trident,” he says, still peeling off smaller twigs from the main shaft, “but it should do for now.”

The moment my fingers close around the stick, something shifts. The world around me blurs, and suddenly I’m no longer in the training yard at Second Chance.

I’m in the ludus , the familiar scent of sweat and sand filling my nostrils. The wooden trident in my hand is well worn, its weight a comforting presence. Across from me stands my training partner, a burly murmillo named Gaius.

“Come on, pretty boy,” Gaius taunts, his voice muffled by his helmet. “Let’s see if you can do more than just look good for the crowd.”

I grin, twirling the trident with practiced ease. “Why don’t you come find out?”

We circle each other, both looking for an opening. Gaius charges, his gladius flashing in the sunlight. But I’m ready. I sidestep his attack, bringing my trident around in a sweeping arc. The blunted prongs catch Gaius behind the knee, sending him stumbling.

Before he can recover, I press my advantage. My movements are fluid, instinctive. The trident is an extension of my arm, striking with precision and speed. Gaius fights back fiercely, but I can see the frustration building in his stance.

Finally, I see my opportunity. As Gaius lunges forward, I drop low, sweeping his legs out from under him. In a real fight, this would be the moment I’d cast my net, entangling him for the killing blow. But here in the ludus , I simply place the prongs of my trident against his throat.

“ Cede ,” I command, breathing heavily, unable to keep the triumph from my voice. It takes self-control to tell him to yield rather than order, “ Supplica,” —beg for mercy.

Gaius laughs, pushing the trident away. “Well fought, Cassius. Looks like there’s more to you than just a pretty face, after all.”

The scene fades, and I’m back in the present, the wooden pole still gripped in my hands. But something has changed. My body thrums with energy, what Dr. Reid calls “muscle memory” is awakened by the familiar weapon.

“Well?” Thrax asks, a hint of a challenge in his voice. “Care to try again?”

I nod, a smile spreading across my face. This time, as we square off, everything feels right. My stance is balanced, my movements sure. When Thrax attacks, I dance away, the pole a blur as I parry and strike.

It’s not a perfect match for the trident and net I once wielded, but it’s close enough. My body remembers what my mind has forgotten. I weave and dodge, using the longer reach of my makeshift weapon to keep Thrax at bay.

The fight seems to last both an eternity and no time at all. When we finally break apart, both breathing heavily, I realize the entire yard has gone silent. Everyone is staring at us—at me—with a mixture of shock and admiration.

Diana pushes through the crowd, her eyes wide with wonder. “Cassius,” she breathes, “that was amazing!”

I shake my head, still trying to process what just happened. “I… I remembered,” I say, my voice filled with awe. “Not everything, but… I know who I was. Who I am.”

Though I don’t. Not really. Were all those memories of my so-called father just dreams? The opulent mansion? The tutelage on how to act like a senator? How does that fit with my skill with the trident? Of these two things, only one is provable—I just acted like a master retiarius. I’m no patrician. I’m a gladiator slave.