Page 40 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius (Awakened From the Ice #3)

Chapter Forty

C assius

As I perform my morning chores, I quietly practice my English. Since returning from St. Louis, I’ve increased my studies. I might as well, since I’m no longer welcome at game nights. “You look lovely today,” “The students really seem to enjoy your lessons,” and “Have a good evening.” Simple words, but each one is a step toward belonging in this world. If they also happen to be words I long to say to Diana without the translator, well, that’s just an added incentive to learn.

I don’t want Diana to know I’m so focused on learning English. Not just yet.

When I see Bailey struggling with a heavy bag of feed, I ask Diana in Latin, “May I help Bailey with that?” The words taste bitter—not because I mind asking permission, but because I hate seeing the girl strain while I wait for approval. In Rome, I would have simply acted. Here, I must learn patience.

Diana considers for a moment, then, lips pinched, she nods. “Go ahead.”

I approach Bailey carefully because she’s tended to flinch away from me since my return, obviously having heard enough about my behavior to harbor anger at me. “Would you like a hand?”

Her eyes dart between me and Diana before she gives a tiny nod. As we work together to pour the feed, I keep my movements slow and deliberate, my voice soft.

“Like this,” I demonstrate, showing her how to brace the bag against her hip. “It gives you better control.”

She doesn’t respond, but I notice her copying my technique. Small victories, I remind myself. Like repairing muscle after an injury, trust must be rebuilt gradually.

Jason enters the barn, his face hardening when he sees me. His rejection cuts deep. We had connected, sharing our common experiences of father-wounds, though they were two thousand years apart. Now he treats me like a stranger—worse, like an enemy.

“Diana,” he calls out, pointedly ignoring me, “can you help me with Atlas’s bridle?”

“Cassius can show you,” she replies, busy with paperwork. “He’s good with the tack.”

Jason’s jaw clenches. “I’d rather wait for you.”

The old me would have bristled at this disrespect. Instead, I focus on sweeping the barn aisle, keeping my movements calm and non-threatening. I’ve learned to make myself smaller, less imposing. To speak softer. To wait.

Diana glances up from her clipboard, her eyes meeting mine briefly before skittering away. “Cassius,” she says, her tone professionally neutral, “would you check the back pasture fence? I thought I saw a loose board earlier.”

“Of course.” I set the broom aside, careful to return it to exactly where I found it. Everything in its proper place. Everything by the rules. That part is easy. Not so easy is her edict to avoid lingering looks.

As I walk to the pasture, I hear Jason’s voice drift out of the barn. “Why’d you let him come back? He’s just like my dad—acts nice until he shows his true colors.”

Diana’s response is too quiet to hear, but I force myself to keep walking. I have no right to that conversation, no right to defend myself. I can only prove Jason wrong through my actions, moment by moment, day by day.

My muscles flex with familiar power as I attack the physical task of mending the fence, grateful for the mindless task. My hands, once soft with privilege, are growing calloused again like they were in the ludus . It feels right somehow, earning my place here through honest work.

“You missed a nail.”

I turn to find Quintus watching me. He doesn’t quite meet my eyes, but he points to a spot I overlooked.

“ Gratias,” I say quietly, fixing my mistake.

He grunts and walks away, but it’s the first time he’s spoken to me since my return. Another small victory.

The sun climbs higher as I work, and I hear the day’s lessons beginning. Diana’s voice carries across the paddock, patient and clear as she instructs a new student. I allow myself one glance in her direction, then return to my task.

This is my penance, but also my choice. Every splinter in my hands, every suspicious glance I tolerate, every careful request for permission—they’re all steps on the path to becoming someone worthy of trust. Not just Diana’s trust, but everyone’s.

“Cassius?” Diana calls out. “We need help with the grooming lesson when you’re done there.”

“I’ll be right there,” I respond, careful to keep my tone professionally neutral despite the way my heart leaps at her voice.

Small steps. Small victories. Small moments of trust rebuilt.

It will have to be enough.