Page 11 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Ten

L ucius

The small bag sits open on my bed, containing only the essentials for our journey—clothing selected for its ability to shield my sensitive skin, the protective items Raven brought, and a few personal effects from my time in the sanctuary.

Travel still feels strange—another modern concept to adapt to, not that Romans didn’t travel, but the ease and distance of it remains jarring.

As I pack, my fingers brush against the two small leather pouches tucked into the bag’s inner pocket.

The familiar weight grounds me, connects me to who I was before the ice, before this strange new world.

Inside the first rests my ritual knife and the chalk mixture I’ve carried since my arena days—herbs and minerals combined with protective oils, designed to shield both body and spirit.

The second pouch contains a small temple amulet I recreated here at the sanctuary.

It’s a piece of carved bone and bears Pluto’s two-pronged bident symbol, blessed according to the old rites.

The urge rises unexpectedly—to perform the ritual that once prepared me for combat.

Not because I face a physical battle now, but because this journey into the wider world carries its own kind of danger.

The ritual would center me, remind me of my boundaries as I venture beyond the sanctuary’s protection.

A soft knock at my door interrupts these thoughts. Raven stands in the hallway, excitement and nervousness radiating from her.

“Varro says our car will be ready in an hour,” she says, stepping inside when I gesture her in.

“I’m hoping to be on the road by seven. Laura’s arranging some special documentation for you since travel is…

” she hesitates, searching for the right words, “complicated for someone without modern records.” I notice she’s already wearing her translator, as am I.

Her gaze falls on the leather pouch in my hands, curiosity evident in the slight tilt of her head. “What’s that?”

For a moment, I consider deflection—this ritual has been mine alone since awakening in this century.

The gladiators understand without explanation, having witnessed my preparation before battles.

But Raven? She exists in this space between stranger and confidant, her interest in death rituals giving her an unexpected framework for understanding.

“The mixture I used in the arena,” I say finally. “Chalk, herbs, oils. For protection.”

Her eyes widen with genuine interest. “From your days as ‘The Ghost’? I’ve read about how you appeared in the arena covered in white markings.”

The decision forms without conscious thought—an offering of trust. “I was about to prepare it. Would you… like to observe? It’s a private ritual, but perhaps relevant to your understanding of Roman practices.”

Surprise flickers across her features, followed by something deeper. “I’d be honored .”

Rather than the eager podcaster reaching for recording equipment, she approaches with quiet reverence that suggests she recognizes the significance of my invitation. Setting down my bag, I gesture toward the small table near the window, where light will best serve the careful work.

“The mixture must be prepared with intention,” I explain, unfolding a cloth. “Each component serves both practical and spiritual purpose.” I remove small containers holding modern versions of ancient ingredients.

“The base is calcium carbonate—similar to the chalk used by modern athletes,” I explain, measuring a precise amount into a small mortar. “In the ludus , we used it to prevent rope burns during training. In the arena, it absorbed sweat and blood, preventing the opponent’s grip from taking hold.”

Raven watches with rapt attention as I add other elements—ground herbs that once grew in Roman gardens, oils pressed from plants that have remained unchanged across millennia.

“The physical benefits were understood by all gladiators,” I continue.

“But as Pluto’s priest, I incorporated elements for spiritual protection as well.

” The pestle moves in a precise pattern, grinding the mixture to the proper consistency.

“Sacred herbs to cloud an opponent’s judgment.

Oils to make the skin slippery against blades. Minerals to strengthen resolve.”

“It’s both medicine and magic,” she observes softly.

“The Romans didn’t distinguish between them,” I confirm. “Protection was protection, whether from blade or evil eye.”

When the mixture reaches the proper consistency—not too dry to adhere, not too wet to crumble—I set aside the mortar. The familiar scent rises between us—earthy, herbal, with a hint of something sharper that modern chemistry cannot perfectly replicate.

The next step gives me pause. Applying the mixture requires removing my shirt, exposing skin that bears the map of my arena history. The scars tell stories I’ve shared with no one in this century.

Raven seems to sense my hesitation. “I can step out while you apply it,” she offers. “I didn’t mean to intrude on—”

“No,” I decide. “If you’re to understand death practices across cultures, you should see how this one binds the physical and spiritual realms.”

With methodical movements, I remove my shirt and set it aside.

Raven’s poorly stifled gasp tells me she’s noticed what the sanctuary’s medical team documented with clinical detachment—the road map of arena life etched into my skin.

But she says nothing, her respect for the ritual evident in her silence.

Dipping my fingers into the mixture, I begin with my face, tracing patterns I developed as the “Ghost of the Arena.” The symbols, along with my pale skin, made opponents hesitate, believing they faced something otherworldly.

Over the years, I met others with strong ties to the occult who taught me about special markings said to provide protection by foreign gods.

“The marks must follow specific paths,” I explain, working methodically. “Each line serves to direct energy, deflect harm, channel strength.”

As I work, the ritual’s familiar rhythm calms me, bringing clarity that has been elusive since agreeing to this journey. When I reach my chest and shoulders, muscle memory guides my fingers in patterns practiced countless times before battles.

“May I ask what the symbols mean?” Raven’s voice remains respectfully quiet.

“Each tells a story. This one—” I indicate a curved line across my collarbone, “—represents the river Styx, the boundary between worlds. It reminds death that I am not yet ready for crossing.”

Moving down my arms, I explain other markings—protection for vulnerable areas, channels for strength, barriers against fear. Raven listens with genuine interest, no hint of the commercial calculation I feared.

When I reach my back, practicality interrupts ritual. “This part is more difficult,” I admit. “In the ludus , my comrades helped me.”

“I could help,” she offers immediately, then catches herself. “If that wouldn’t violate the ritual’s meaning.”

The offer surprises me—not because of the assistance itself, but because of her keen awareness of boundaries. “The intention matters more than the hand that applies it. If you’re willing.”

Wordlessly, she moves behind me, accepting the small bowl of mixture I pass over my shoulder. Her touch, when it comes, is hesitant at first—clearly aware of the trust being placed in her hands.

“Like this?” she asks, following the pattern I’ve already established on my shoulders.

“Yes,” I confirm. “Follow the natural lines of muscle and bone.”

Her fingers move with increasing confidence, following my directions as they trace paths across my back with unexpected precision. The sensation of her touch sends sparks through muscles that have known only combat and survival for centuries.

Each stroke brands me. Not with the mixture, but with the memory of contact. I’m keenly aware of every point of contact: the firm, measured pressure as she traces along my shoulder blades; the breath that grazes my skin when she leans in to study her work; her heady scent mingling with the herbs.

My body betrays me—muscles tightening beneath her touch, breath catching before I stop it. The mixture cools, but her fingers leave trails of heat, as if drawing fire into flesh.

“What next?” she asks, her finger pausing on the back of my neck.

“ Memento mori ,” I say softly. “Remember you must die. Central to Pluto’s teachings, embraced by Stoics too. One of my comrades tattooed it there two nights before he died in the arena at Pompeii. Before battle, this symbol reminded me that each moment could be my last.”

Her finger traces the small skull flanked by wings at the nape of my neck.

“The skull for death’s certainty, the wings for the soul’s liberation.”

“That sounds… intense to carry into a fight,” Raven murmurs, her voice close to my ear.

“On the contrary—it brought clarity. When you accept life’s impermanence, you fight from purpose, not fear.” My eyes meet hers as I half-turn. “The irony isn’t lost on me that I carried this reminder into battles, only to wake two thousand years later.”

Her smile holds a hint of sadness. “Life has a dark sense of humor.”

Her finger pauses at a small tattooed symbol beneath my left shoulder blade.

“What about this one?” she asks. “It’s different—almost where your heart would be from behind.”

“Intentional,” I explain. “Protection against darkness, not physical harm, but the shadow that enters the heart during battle. Taking life changes a man. This preserves what’s essential within.”

She sets down the bowl, then surprises me by pulling aside her shirt collar to reveal a tattoo just below her collarbone. A symbol strikingly like the one she traced on my skin.

“After the accident,” she whispers, “I researched protection symbols. This one felt right, even before I understood why.”

The coincidence—or fate—leaves me momentarily speechless. The symbol dates to pre-Roman times, yet here it is, inked over her heart.

“May I?” I ask, hand rising without thought, fingers hovering near but not touching.

She nods, holding perfectly still as my fingertips gently trace the outline of the symbol. The connection deepens—her warm skin beneath my chalk-dusted fingers, pulse visible at her throat’s base.

“Each mark tells a story,” I say softly, echoing earlier words. “Protection. Strength. Passage between worlds.” My fingers linger, aware of her quickened breath. “What story does yours tell?”

“That I walked through death’s door and returned,” she whispers. “That something of that journey stays with me, even now.”

Our faces draw closer, unnoticed. The ritual’s intimacy wraps around us like a physical presence. Her eyes flick briefly to my lips, then rise with a silent question.

The moment stretches, suspended between impulse and restraint. I lean forward, drawn by something beyond reason.

A sharp knock at the door shatters the tension. We spring apart as Thrax’s voice booms from the hallway.

“Lucius! Laura sent these for your journey.” The door opens without waiting for a response, a gladiator’s habit from communal living that persists despite modern concepts of privacy.

Thrax steps inside, massive frame filling the doorway. He pauses, taking in the scene—me shirtless, marked with ritual symbols; Raven too close, both startled.

“Ah,” he says, a knowing smile touching his scarred face. “Interrupted a ritual.” He sets down a bag with surprising delicacy. “Travel documents, emergency contacts, and supplies Laura thought might help.”

His gaze flicks between us, amusement clear. “The car’s ready in twenty minutes. Perhaps enough time to finish your… preparations.”

After he leaves, the charged space between Raven and me hums with unspoken possibility. She clears her throat, nodding at my half-finished markings.

“We should finish,” she says. “If the ritual’s incomplete—”

“Yes,” I agree, offering my back again. “The protection would falter.”

Her touch returns, businesslike now, finishing symbols efficiently. The moment—whatever it might have become—fades, reality reasserted by Thrax’s interruption.

When done, I pull my shirt on, hiding markings that now feel like armor against more than physical threats. Protection for boundaries, autonomy, and my very essence. I don’t want to be a piece of meat again.

As Raven gathers supplies, something has shifted between us. The ritual meant to prepare me revealed vulnerabilities I hadn’t intended to share. Her careful respect, her connection to my world’s symbols, shows an understanding I hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” I say, meeting her eyes. “For honoring this.”

Her smile is genuine. “Thank you for trusting me.”

As we prepare to leave the sanctuary behind, I wonder which will be harder—navigating the modern world, or navigating this unexpected connection between a death priest from ancient Rome and a woman marked by death’s journey.

Perhaps, like the protection now etched on my skin, some boundaries are meant not to be broken, but carefully crossed.