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Chapter Two

V ictor

My makeshift cane, a tree branch Dominus brought in from outside, creaks under the strain as I push forward despite my weakness. Three steps from bed to wall. Simple. I have achieved far more difficult tasks. Yet my legs tremble like a newborn colt’s, muscles refusing to obey basic commands.

Frustration burns hot in my chest as I collapse back onto the strange bed. A warrior reduced to this—barely able to cross a room. The emotion triggers a memory so vivid it steals my breath.

“Your frustration serves no purpose, my son.” Father’s voice echoes across the years, clear as temple bells. The scent of herbs and sunshine surrounds us as we walk through the school gardens, my ten-year-old legs struggling to match his measured stride. “It clouds the mind, disrupts reason.”

“But I failed the recitation, Father. In front of the class.”

He stops, sunlight catching the silver in his dark hair. “Did you? Or did you learn something valuable?”

The memory shifts. Another walk, another lesson. I’m older now, fourteen, angry at the unfairness of a world that cares more for power than wisdom. “Even our Greek Goddess Tyche,” Father explains, “was transformed by Roman power into what they call the Goddess Fortuna . Yet her essence remains unchanged—fate’s wheel turns for all.”

“Some of Servius’s school mock your teachings,” I complain, kicking at loose stones. “They disrespect you. Some say your ideas are worthless, or worse, blasphemy.”

“Words are only dangerous to those who fear truth.” He rests his hand on my shoulder, as solid and steady as the mountains rising behind our home. “But the wise man knows when to speak truth softly.”

Standing proves impossible, but father’s teachings offer another path. Start small. Accept limitations while working to overcome them. My arms still hold strength—perhaps there lies the key.

Using the bed’s edge for balance, I persevere, just as I did during my sixteen days in the sun. The punishment meant to break me became instead a forge for strength.

I can use the same technique now. Simple movements at first: controlled lifts using the bed’s frame, careful stretches to test each muscle’s limits.

Another memory surfaces. I’m seventeen, watching Father prepare for another day at the school, his movement weighted with worries of mounting accusations from his rival, Servius.

Father pauses at the window, watching students gather in the courtyard below. “Servius claims I teach dangerous ideas,” he murmurs. “He believes questioning accepted wisdom leads to questioning the gods themselves.”

I join him at the window, catching sight of our rival watching from the shadows of the portico. Where Father’s classes overflow with eager students, Servius lectures to half-empty rooms.

His traditional approach—rote memorization and strict adherence to conventional interpretations—cannot compete with Father’s method of encouraging students to think deeply, to question, and to seek understanding.

“Let him make his accusations,” I say with youthful confidence. “Everyone knows you honor both wisdom and the gods.”

Father’s smile holds sadness. “It is not about truth, my son. Servius has the ear of those who prefer simple answers to difficult questions. And he has Roman friends who grow concerned about Greek philosophy’s influence on their sons.”

I absorb my father’s words in troubled silence as we watch the sunset paint the hills beyond our home. Worry shadows his usually confident expression. I understand the gravity of what he’s telling me. Servius’s accusations could destroy everything my father has built.

“Must we leave everything behind?” I ask later that evening, holding a precious volume of Zeno’s teachings in my hands. The thought of abandoning our home, my father’s school, our entire life, feels like a physical pain.

“We carry what matters here.” He touches my chest, then my forehead. “The body may be confined, but the mind remains free. Remember that, my son. It will sustain you in dark times.”

The next day brought the officials with their charges of blasphemy as they placed us in heavy chains. Within hours, we were separated—my father was sold to a patrician’s household, and I to the ludus . Perhaps it was lucky that my mother and sister had perished two years prior from dysenteria .

A year after we were separated, word reached me of his death—great heaviness of the chest, they said—while tutoring his master’s children. But I wondered if it was truly his heart that failed, or if it had simply broken.

Pain shoots through my thighs as they finally give out completely. The floor rises to meet me, but I manage the fall, turning it into a controlled descent. Even failure offers lessons, if observed properly.

Using the cane for leverage, I force myself back to my knees. Progress, however small, is still progress. The position reminds me of dawn prayers in the ludus , before training began.

Father’s final lesson rings clear in my mind: dignity lives in how we face our trials. These strange surroundings, this weakened body, even the lies I’m being told—all are merely circumstances. What matters is how I face them.

Gritting my teeth, I use the cane to push upright once more. Three steps. Then four. Each movement a battle, each extra step a victory. My legs shake, but they hold.

I will master first my body, then this situation.