Page 16 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Fourteen

R aven

The powdered sugar dusts Lucius’s lips as he takes his first bite of a beignet, his eyes widening with surprise and pleasure. I can’t help but laugh at his expression—a two-thousand-year-old gladiator experiencing a New Orleans delicacy for the first time.

“This is… remarkable,” he says, examining the half-eaten pastry with the careful consideration of someone used to analyzing sacred offerings. “Sweet, yet not overwhelmingly so. The texture reminds me of something the patricians might have enjoyed at festivals.”

“Café du Monde is basically a religious experience for tourists,” I reply, taking a sip of my chicory coffee. “Though I can’t imagine Roman priests had to deal with this much powdered sugar on their robes.”

He smiles, a rare, full smile that transforms his solemn features. “The temples had their indulgences. During Saturnalia, even Pluto’s priests were permitted certain… liberties.”

My phone buzzes for the third time since our meeting. Another text from Norris. I ignore it, focusing instead on the man across from me, his pale features set against the vibrant backdrop of the French Quarter.

“Tell me about the temple,” I say, leaning forward. “Not the sanitized version for documentaries. The real experience.”

Lucius’s gaze turns distant, seeing across millennia rather than the busy café around us.

“It was… everything to me. My earliest memories are of cool marble floors, the scent of sacred herbs burning in bronze braziers.” His fingertips drag faint, deliberate lines over the tabletop—like he’s redrawing the temple’s floor plan from memory.

“I slept in a small chamber near the inner sanctum, where the senior priests conducted the most sacred rites.”

“Were you afraid? As a child in a death temple?”

“Fear comes from misunderstanding,” he replies, his voice softening. “Death wasn’t frightening in the temple—it was a transition to be respected, a journey to be guided. The living were far more unpredictable.”

A horse-drawn carriage clip-clops past our table, the driver calling out historical tidbits to tourists. On impulse, I grab Lucius’s hand. “Come on. We’re doing that next.”

His puzzled expression as I pay for our carriage ride makes me laugh again. “It’s traditional,” I explain, helping him climb aboard. “Ridiculously touristy, but the best way to see the city.”

We settle onto the worn leather seat, our shoulders touching.

The solid warmth of his frame beside me makes me excruciatingly aware of every point where our bodies connect.

Even through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel the heat of him, smell that distinctive scent that’s become as familiar as my own—herbal and clean with an underlying musk that’s purely male.

The driver begins his practiced patter about haunted mansions and yellow fever epidemics. Lucius listens with surprising interest, occasionally asking questions that make the driver pause his script.

“The miasma theory of disease,” Lucius murmurs to me as the driver describes quarantine measures. “Romans understood this concept as well—illness carried on foul air.”

The carriage turns onto a shaded avenue of grand homes, their balconies dripping with ferns and colorful bougainvillea. When the driver mentions a particularly famous ghost story, Lucius leans closer, his breath warm against my ear.

“There are no vengeful spirits here,” he whispers. “Only memories imprinted on the place. Your driver embellishes for effect.”

“How can you tell?” I whisper back, barely able to restrain myself from placing my hand on his muscular thigh.

“The same way your priests know whether consecrated ground truly holds blessing,” he answers cryptically. “Some things can be sensed by those trained to perceive them.”

As we disembark from the carriage, I spot a perfect backdrop for a quick segment—an ornate wrought-iron gate with the famous above-ground tombs visible beyond it.

“Would you mind if I record something quickly?” I ask Lucius. “Just a brief intro piece.”

He gestures permission, stepping away to examine a nearby historical marker while I set up my small camera on its portable tripod.

The recording takes less than ten minutes—a concise explanation of how New Orleans’ unique burial practices developed from necessity but evolved into cultural tradition.

When I finish and pack away my equipment, Lucius rejoins me, curiosity evident in his expression.

“You’re different when you’re recording,” he observes. “More… constructed.”

“Professional persona,” I admit. “Five years of practice. Sometimes I wonder where Raven ends and Rosemary begins.”

He considers this thoughtfully. “Perhaps this journey will help you discover that boundary.”

A voodoo shop catches Lucius’s attention with its window display of ritual items.

Inside, shelves overflow with gris-gris bags, handmade dolls, and candles inscribed with prayers. The proprietor, a woman with at least eight facial piercings, short black polished nails, and penetrating eyes, watches us from behind a counter of herbs and potions.

“You two make an interesting pair,” she observes, her gaze lingering on Lucius longer than comfortable. “Come looking for protection? Or something else?”

“Just exploring,” I answer, though something in her assessment makes me feel unexpectedly exposed.

Lucius moves through the shop with reverence, examining ritual items with the careful consideration of a scholar. When he reaches a display of ceremonial knives, his fingers hover over a bone-handled blade without touching it.

“This blade,” he says in careful English, “it is for… sacred work? Not for hurt people?”

The shop owner approaches, her bracelets jingling softly. “You have a good eye. That one’s for ritual work—opening pathways, not spilling blood. Most people assume all blades are for sacrifice.” She studies him with growing interest. “You speak as someone who knows the old ways.”

Lucius inclines his head slightly. “Different traditions, same truths.”

She studies him with new interest. “Indeed. The boundaries between worlds thin in places like New Orleans. Those who’ve walked close to death’s door often recognize each other.”

I grip the pendant at my throat—my grandmother’s hair preserved beneath glass. The woman notices the gesture and smiles.

“Both marked,” she says cryptically before returning to her counter.

Outside, the humid afternoon heat wraps around us like a wet blanket as we make our way toward St. Louis Cathedral. My phone buzzes again—Norris, now calling rather than texting. I silence it without answering.

“Your patron grows impatient,” Lucius observes.

“Let him wait.” The defiance in my voice surprises even me. “This is more important.”

In the cathedral’s cool interior, we find respite from both the heat and Norris’s demands. Lucius studies the religious iconography with the critical eye of someone comparing it to familiar traditions.

“Just a quick audio note for the segment on religious iconography,” I whisper, pulling out my small recorder.

Lucius nods, moving slightly away as I describe the cathedral’s unique approach to death imagery and how saints’ martyrdoms are depicted with almost reverent detail.

I keep it brief but professional, making mental notes for B-roll footage I’ll need to capture later.

After finishing the recording, I rejoin Lucius, who has been examining a particularly detailed statue of a martyred saint.

“Your Christianity absorbed much from older faiths,” he notes, gesturing toward saints depicted with symbols of their martyrdom. “Death made meaningful through sacrifice. Pluto would find these concepts familiar, if differently expressed.”

“Is that what happened to you?” The question slips out before I can reconsider. “A sacrifice?”

His expression closes briefly, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then something shifts—his eyes grow distant, unfocused, as if seeing across the centuries.

“The morning bells had only just fallen silent when Marcus Antonius summoned me to the inner sanctum,” he begins, his voice shifting—less like someone recounting a story, more like someone stepping back into it.

“It struck me as unusual. I had not yet earned the right to enter the most sacred spaces. But Gaius Cornelius, the senior priest who trained me, had put my name forward for advanced ritual work.”

His fingers grip the edge of a nearby pew, knuckles whitening.

“The sacred silver vessels were missing from the treasury. Chalices blessed by three generations of priests, worth more than most men would see in a lifetime. Marcus Antonius stood there with two other senior priests, including Cornelius, and their faces…” He pauses, the memory clearly painful.

“I knew before they spoke that I was meant to be the answer to their problem.”

“‘The pale one has access,’ Cornelius said, not even looking at me directly. As if I weren’t standing right there. ‘His nocturnal habits, his… condition… who would question his movements through the temple after dark?’”

A bitter laugh escapes him. “I’d thought Cornelius cared for me, perhaps even loved me as a father loves a son. I was so na?ve. He’d been cultivating that trust for months, ensuring I had access to areas normally forbidden to someone of my rank.”

“What did you do?” I whisper, caught up in his reliving of the moment.

“I protested my innocence, of course. Swore by Pluto himself that I’d never touched the sacred vessels.

But Marcus Antonius was already speaking of execution—crucifixion outside the temple grounds to appease the Gods’ anger.

” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Then Cornelius made his generous suggestion: ‘Perhaps exile would suffice. Sell the pale one to the gladiator schools. The proceeds could replace what was stolen, and the temple’s sanctity would remain unmarked by blood.’”

“He planned it,” I breathe, understanding dawning. “He stole the vessels and set you up.”

“I realized that as I stood there, watching him perform concern so perfectly. Every private lesson, every word of encouragement, every moment I thought showed affection—all calculated to position me as the perfect scapegoat.” His jaw tightens.

“And I was so grateful for his ‘mercy’ that I actually thanked him as they chained my wrists.”

His gaze becomes unfocused for a moment as though he’s traveled back in time, then he looks at me and says, “It wasn’t until months later, after I’d won my first dozen fights, that I understood the true calculation behind Cornelius’s suggestion.

The stolen chalices were worth perhaps a year’s wages for a common laborer.

But a gladiator with my unique appearance?

My albinism made me worth fifty times that amount—a lifetime investment that would draw crowds for years.

He hadn’t just framed me for theft; he’d identified a far more valuable commodity than silver vessels.

The betrayal cut even deeper once I realized how thoroughly I’d been used. ”

The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. “You were just a boy.”

“Old enough to know better. Old enough to see the trap closing around me.” He finally looks at me directly, his pale eyes holding depths of old hurt.

“That’s why… why trust doesn’t come easily.

Why I questioned your motives for so long.

When someone shows you kindness while planning your destruction, you learn to read the spaces between words, to watch for the blade hidden behind the smile. ”

My stomach tightens at the thought. A young man raised in the temple, doing his best to be pious and helpful, allowing himself to be sacrificed for the good of others. “That’s terrible,” I whisper, imagining the betrayal that forced such a choice.

“It preserved the temple’s honor while providing restitution,” he says with that impossible dignity that makes my heart ache.

Outside once more, we walk toward Jackson Square, where artists display their work and fortune tellers promise glimpses of the future. The sunlight catches in Lucius’s white hair, creating that ghostly halo effect that earned him his arena name.