Page 7

Chapter Seven

V ictor

The new domina’s visit 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 first ludus , kneeling in the dirt while the lanista, 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. The lanista saw it as a weakness.

He abruptly turned to the ludus master 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 a domina who 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 the ludus. 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.

Yet Domina’s concern 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 the ludus . “Philosophy won’t save you here,” the ludus master 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 the ludus master’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 the ludus cared if I ate, only that I performed. Yet Domina brought 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 the ludus , 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 as Dominus, in a style and type of cloth I’ve never seen before.

More questions pile upon questions. Why does a woman of obvious wealth and training share ownership of a single gladiator? Why these strange surroundings instead of a proper ludus ? Why do both she and Dominus seem to hide deeper worries behind their eyes?

My body’s response to her presence troubles me more than the weakness in my limbs. Years of training taught me to control such reactions, to focus mind and flesh on survival rather than base desires. Yet something about her pierces those carefully maintained barriers.

The memory of her flushed cheeks and quickened breath stirs something I haven’t felt since before being thrown into the ludus . Not mere physical attraction—I learned to ignore that early in my training. This feels deeper, more dangerous. Like standing at the edge of a canyon, knowing the fall could either kill you or teach you to fly.

The sound of her footsteps returning draws me from these unsettling thoughts. I straighten despite protesting muscles, maintaining the dignity Father taught me while showing the proper respect my position demands.

When she enters carrying folded fabric and some kind of footwear, her eyes still perform that fascinating dance—meeting mine, darting away, then drawn back as though by some invisible force. “I found some clothes and sandals with adjustable straps,” she says through the device. “They might be a little small, but…”

“ Gratias, Domina .” I accept the offerings, noting how she turns away quickly when our fingers brush. The fabric feels strange, impossibly soft yet sturdy. Like everything else here, it defies my understanding.

“I’ll let you dress,” she says, retreating toward the door. But she pauses there, one hand on the frame. “When you’re ready… we should talk. About your circumstances. About… everything.”

Something in her tone catches my attention. Worry? Guilt? Before I can analyze it further, she’s gone, leaving me with more questions and a growing certainty that nothing here is what it seems.

Something within me—some core of strength forged in arena sand and tempered by survival—refuses to surrender to despair. Whoever these people are, whatever their intentions may be, I will observe, I will learn, and I will adapt.

The weight of Tyche’s coin against my chest reminds me that fate’s wheel never stops turning. If it has brought me to this strange place for a reason, I will discover that purpose. And I will face whatever comes next with the dignity of a warrior, not the fear of a slave.

I will learn the truth of this place, no matter the cost.