Page 10 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Nine

R aven

The morning sun finds me pacing the sanctuary’s guest parking area, stomach tied in knots as I rehearse what to say. My overnight bag sits in the trunk, packed for what could be a much longer stay than I’d originally planned—if Lucius agrees to my wild proposal.

Fidgeting with my phone, I read David Norris’s email for the hundredth time.

Words like “substantial resources” and “groundbreaking opportunity” practically pulse on the screen.

The chance to take my exploration of death traditions from niche podcast to mainstream streaming platform is exactly what I’ve worked toward for years.

So why does it feel like I’m about to betray someone’s trust?

“You’re here early.”

I nearly drop my phone at the sound of Lucius’s voice. He stands a few feet away, wearing the sunglasses I brought him and a slight smile that makes my heart do a stupid little flip.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, tucking my phone away. “Too many thoughts.”

He hands me a translator, then asks, “About your urgent matter from yesterday?” His perception, as always, cuts straight to the heart of things.

“That obvious, huh?”

“Your energy shifted the moment you checked your phone at lunch,” he observes. “Like a gladiator who’s just spotted an opening in his opponent’s defense.”

The comparison makes me laugh despite my nerves. “That’s… weirdly accurate, actually.”

His eyes search mine behind the dark lenses. “Walk with me? There’s a place where we can speak privately.”

He leads me away from the main buildings toward a small grove of trees where a wooden bench sits facing east. The spot offers a perfect view of the sun rising over rolling hills, the kind of peaceful setting that seems to encourage honest conversation.

“This is beautiful,” I say as we settle onto the bench. “Do you come here often?”

“When I need space to think.” He runs his fingers over a small carving on the bench’s arm—a simple wheel symbol that I recognize as belonging to Fortuna, goddess of fate. “The quiet helps.”

Taking a deep breath, I decide to just rip off the bandage. “I received an email yesterday from Horizon Streaming. They want to turn my podcast into a documentary series.”

His expression remains carefully neutral. “Congratulations. That sounds like an important opportunity for you.”

“It is. It would mean reaching a massive audience, legitimate production values, actual budget.” The words tumble out faster now. “Everything I’ve been working toward since I started the podcast. Validation that what I’m doing matters.”

“I’m happy for you.” His words sound sincere, but something in his posture has shifted—a subtle withdrawal I might not have noticed if I hadn’t spent the last few days studying his every reaction.

“The thing is…” My fingers twist nervously in my lap. “They specifically mentioned my explorations near Potosi… and Second Chance.”

His stillness becomes absolute, the kind of perfect immobility that only someone with arena training could maintain. “I see.”

“They want content about ‘time-displaced individuals with connections to ancient death rituals,’” I quote the executive’s words, which sound even more hollow and exploitative in the morning air.

The silence that follows feels endless. When Lucius finally speaks, his voice carries no anger, just a quiet resignation that somehow hurts more.

“So I would be the subject of your documentary.” Not a question. A conclusion.

“That’s what they want,” I admit, unable to look at him. “But that’s not necessarily what I want.”

“No?” Now there is a hint of skepticism in his tone.

“I mean, yes—initially I was excited about the possibility.” Honesty seems the only viable path forward. “My career breakthrough, finally reaching a mainstream audience. But then I started thinking about what it would mean for you.”

His laugh holds no humor. “To be a spectacle again. A curiosity to be gawked at.” His hand rises almost unconsciously to touch his pale hair. “The Ghost of the Arena, revived for modern entertainment.”

The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. “I wouldn’t present you that way,” I protest weakly.

“Wouldn’t you?” His gaze pins me in place. “I was ‘The Ghost’ in the arena—my coloring a marketable oddity, my connection to death made me valuable property rather than a person. The crowds didn’t care about the man beneath the white chalk markings, only the spectacle I presented.”

The quiet dignity in his words strips away all my carefully constructed justifications. I’ve been thinking of this opportunity in terms of my career, my validation—treating him as content rather than a person with his own painful history of being objectified.

“You’re right,” I whisper, shame washing through me. “I got caught up in the excitement. I didn’t give enough thought to how it would make you feel.”

He turns slightly, watching a hawk circle lazily overhead.

“The irony is that I understand your position perfectly. Being offered everything you’ve worked toward, the validation you’ve sought since your brush with death.

” His profile against the morning light looks like something carved from marble.

“Fate rarely offers clear paths forward.”

The kindness in his understanding makes my self-serving arguments sound even more hollow. Here I am, supposedly dedicated to respecting death traditions, yet ready to commodify his experiences for viewers’ entertainment.

“What if there’s a compromise?” The idea forms as I speak it. “You could be a consultant, completely off-camera. I’d pay all expenses. You could see more of this modern world you’ve woken in while helping me understand the historical and spiritual contexts correctly.”

His eyebrow rises slightly above the sunglasses. “A consultant?”

“You’d have the final say on how ancient practices are presented.

No interviews, no appearances—just your knowledge and perspective guiding the content.

” I warm to the idea as I elaborate. “We could travel to sites with significant death-related history. You could experience more of this century beyond the sanctuary’s boundaries. ”

Something shifts in his expression—interest flickering behind the caution.

“I have existed at the margins here,” he admits quietly, “much as I did in my original time. The others have found their places—Thrax with his whittling and leatherworking, Varro leading alongside Laura, even Sulla with his security obsession.” His fingers trace the wheel symbol again.

“Perhaps seeing more of this new world would help me find where I truly belong.”

Hope rises in my chest. “You’d consider it?”

“I would need certain guarantees,” he says carefully. “Written agreements that I would never be on camera. Control over how temple practices are portrayed. Freedom to leave the project if it becomes… problematic.”

“Absolutely.” The words tumble out eagerly. “I’ll have everything drawn up formally. You can review it with Laura, or whoever handles legal matters for the sanctuary.”

“And what would you tell your streaming executives? They clearly want the gladiator to be in front of the audience.”

A fair question that requires honest acknowledgment.

“I’ll tell them I’ve secured expert historical consultation on ancient death rituals, but that the consultant requires anonymity.

The series would focus on the traditions themselves—how different cultures have understood and processed death throughout history—rather than on individuals. ”

“And if they want more? Of me?”

I shrug. “Then the answer’s no. I don’t want to get this gig at your expense, Lucius. It wouldn’t be worth it.” It’s only when the words leave my mouth that I realize how true they feel.

He considers this for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. Finally, he removes them, meeting my gaze directly. The morning light turns his unusual eyes almost silver.

“A trial arrangement,” he says finally. “Two weeks. After which, both of us can reassess without obligation.”

Relief floods through me. “Two weeks. Absolutely.”

“And we begin with clear boundaries,” he continues. “Professional collaboration, not exploitation.”

“I promise.” The words carry all the sincerity I can muster. “This will be about the traditions themselves—respectful, educational. No spectacle.”

He extends his hand in the modern style he’s been taught—a gesture that seems both ancient and entirely new coming from him. “Then we have an agreement.”

As our hands clasp, a warmth spreads up my arm that has nothing to do with the morning sun. An unexpected partnership formed from conflicting needs—my career ambitions balanced against his dignity, my drive for validation tempered by his right to privacy.

“When would we start?” he asks.

“I was thinking…” The words catch in my throat as I realize how presumptuous I’ve been. “I actually packed my bag already. There’s a paranormal conference in New Orleans next week—perfect timing to meet the production team. But that’s rushing things, and you probably need time to—”

“New Orleans?” Something like curious interest crosses his features. “The city with unique burial practices?”

“Yes! The above-ground tombs in the cemeteries. They’re absolutely fascinating from a cultural perspective.”

For the first time since I’ve met him, Lucius smiles fully—a transformation so striking it momentarily steals my breath. “It seems my education about this century’s approach to death continues.”

“Is that a yes?” I barely dare to hope.

“I will need to speak with Varro and Laura about arrangements,” he says, rising from the bench. “But yes, I believe it is.”

As we walk back toward the main buildings, a strange lightness fills my chest. This isn’t how I imagined things would go—not a straightforward documentary about a death priest turned gladiator, but something potentially more meaningful.

A true collaboration that honors boundaries instead of exploiting them.

For the first time in years, I feel like I’m doing something genuine rather than performative. I’m not just crafting content for an audience, but creating something with actual integrity. Norris might not get what he wants, but he’ll get something real.

As I head back to my motel to respond to David Norris, I’m filled with both excitement and trepidation. Opening my laptop, I craft a carefully worded email:

Dear Mr. Norris,

I’m thrilled by your interest in expanding Beyond the Veil into a documentary series. Your vision aligns perfectly with my goals of exploring death traditions across cultures with authenticity and respect.

I’ve secured an expert historical consultant who can provide unprecedented insights into ancient Roman death rituals. Their knowledge will elevate our content far beyond typical paranormal programming. However, my consultant requires anonymity and will serve in an advisory capacity only.

Our series will focus on the traditions themselves—examining how different cultures have processed death throughout history, creating a truly educational experience while maintaining the compelling elements that draw viewers.

I look forward to discussing this approach in person at the New Orleans conference next week.

Best regards,

Raven Vaughn

The response comes within minutes:

Raven,

Excellent news about your historical consultant!

While we certainly hoped for on-camera participation from your “unique connections,” we understand the sensitivity required.

That said, I’m confident once production begins, your consultant may become more comfortable with a featured role.

Your personal connection to these gladiators is precisely what caught our attention.

It offers something no other creator can provide.

Looking forward to meeting you in New Orleans to discuss how we can maximize this extraordinary opportunity.

Best,

David

His meaning is crystal clear—he expects me to eventually deliver access to the gladiators, specifically Lucius. He’s just giving me rope and expecting me to use it to lasso my consultant onto camera.

My stomach sinks as I close my laptop. I’ve made promises to Lucius I fully intend to keep, but Norris clearly has other expectations.

To carry this off, I’ll need to dance on the edge of a razor.