Page 18 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Sixteen

L ucius

After receiving permission and funding for our Mexican journey, Raven suggested we spend our remaining three days “like proper tourists.” Our final day in New Orleans begins beneath a perfect autumn sky.

“First stop,” she announces, leading me toward Jackson Square. “Breakfast with a view.”

We sit at a small cafe, its tables spilling onto the sidewalk.

Across from us, the white face of the St. Louis Cathedral rises tall against the morning.

Light catches on its surface, clean and sharp.

Along the iron fence, artists set up their easels, brushing bright colors across paper, trying to trap the moment before it slips away.

“Try the crawfish eggs benedict,” Raven suggests, ordering for both of us. “It’ll ruin regular breakfast for you forever.”

The waiter brings steaming mugs of chicory coffee, rich and earthy with a hint of bitterness that Raven tempers with cream and sugar.

“Local tradition,” she explains. “During the Civil War blockades, they stretched limited coffee supplies with chicory root. The taste stuck around even when the need disappeared.”

“Adaptation becoming tradition,” I observe. “Rome had similar practices after resource shortages.”

She smiles. “History repeats itself in the strangest ways.”

Our food arrives—poached eggs perched on round bread disks topped with crawfish and sauce.

“You must try this,” she insists. “The perfect bite.”

She holds out a forkful with a little of everything in what does, indeed, look like the perfect bite. The gesture feels intimate. Feeding another was reserved for lovers or close family in my time.

Rather than taking the fork from her hand, I lean forward, accepting the offering directly from her. Our eyes meet as the sweetness dissolves on my tongue, and something shifts in her expression—surprise followed by awareness.

“Good?” she asks, her voice slightly lower than before.

“Beyond compare,” I answer, though my focus has shifted from the food to the woman offering it.

The food, like Raven herself, is a revelation. The spicy, buttery flavor explodes on my tongue, nothing like the simple meals at the sanctuary.

“The Romans would have invaded Louisiana for this alone,” I admit, earning her delighted laugh.

After the meal, the city takes hold of us. Brass horns cry from open doors, sharp and aching. A dancer’s feet strike the stones with purpose. Vendors call out in a language the translator doesn’t fully catch, but the rhythm speaks clearly enough.

We walk past restaurants throwing their doors wide, the air thick with steam and spice—charred meat, rich sea-creatures, and something sweet and slow-cooked in copper. It’s loud, alive… and nothing like the Rome I knew.

“Close your eyes,” Raven suggests as we turn a corner.

I comply, and immediately my other senses heighten—the sticky embrace of humidity against my skin, a feeling both foreign and reminiscent of Rome’s summer bath houses. The air tastes different here, heavy with river moisture and history, salt and sweetness competing on the back of my tongue.

“Now breathe,” she instructs.

Beneath the obvious food scents, I detect subtler notes—the earthy dampness of aging buildings, the metallic hint of approaching rain, and something floral that reminds me of temple gardens.

“Jasmine and magnolia,” Raven explains when I identify this last element. “The city’s unofficial perfume.”

A nearby horn player begins a mournful melody that rises above the street noise, the notes hanging in the humid air longer than they would in drier climates. The sound seems to penetrate deeper here, vibrating against skin and bone.

“They say music sounds better in New Orleans because the air holds onto notes,” Raven says, her voice dropping to match the horns’s mood. “Like the city doesn’t want to let anything go.”

As we wander, Raven purchases a bottle of champagne. “For celebration later,” she explains with a smile that quickens my pulse. The easy rhythm we’ve developed over these days feels dangerously natural, as if we’ve known each other across centuries rather than mere days.

When a street performer plays a haunting melody on a differently shaped horn, Raven pauses, swaying slightly to the music. Without conscious decision, my hand finds the small of her back, a gesture that seems to surprise us both. She leans into the touch rather than pulling away.

“Dance with me?” she asks impulsively.

“I don’t know modern dances,” I admit, suddenly reminded of my limitations in this world.

Her smile holds no judgment. “Then I’ll teach you. Just follow my lead.”

She places one hand on my shoulder, the other clasping mine palm to palm, and begins a simple swaying motion.

Having her this close sends heat through me—a feeling I’d almost forgotten, both comforting and terrifying.

We move together on the uneven cobblestones, her body gradually drawing closer to mine until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.

“See? You’re a natural,” she murmurs, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes that seem to hold secrets in their depths.

“I have an excellent teacher.” The compliment emerges without calculation, earning a smile that transforms her features.

As afternoon fades toward evening, we make one final visit to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, completing the circuit of New Orleans’ famous Cities of the Dead. Unlike our previous cemetery visits, this one carries a different energy—less about research and more about appreciation.

“I wish we could stay for All Saints’ Day,” Raven says as we walk among the above-ground tombs. “The locals bring flowers and candles, and clean the family crypts. It’s a precursor to what we’ll see in Mexico, but I’ve read it has a distinctive New Orleans flair.”

“The dead appreciate remembrance in any form,” I observe. “Whether elaborate festival or quiet prayer.”

She studies me with unexpected seriousness. “Do they? Can you truly sense that?”

The question deserves honesty. “Yes. In the temple, we could perceive their gratitude when properly honored. Their restlessness when forgotten. Their peace when finally acknowledged.”

“That’s why I’m drawn to these traditions,” she admits. “Not just for content or anthropological study. I want to understand… to honor properly.”

“I know.” The simple acknowledgment seems to please her more than elaborate praise might have.

As twilight descends, we return to our guesthouse, climbing the stairs to our shared room in comfortable silence. The champagne bottle swings gently from Raven’s hand, a promise of celebration waiting to be fulfilled.

In our room, Raven pulls her phone from her bag and immediately taps its surface with practiced fingers.

“Our flight to Mexico leaves tomorrow morning,” she announces. “Just double-checking the flight times.”

I watch as images flicker across the device. “In Rome, journey preparations took weeks.”

She glances up, amusement dancing across her features. “Welcome to the digital age. Need anything from Amazon? Could have it delivered before we leave.”

My brow furrows. “Do I remember correctly? That’s the river in South America? It delivers packages now?”

Her laughter fills the room. “Different Amazon. The online marketplace? Basically, any item you can imagine, delivered to your door.”

“Your century’s conveniences continue to bewilder me,” I admit, watching as she returns to packing. “In one breath, you summon transportation across continents. In the next, goods appear at your command.”

“Says the man who communicated with the underworld,” she teases, but her expression softens at my obvious discomfort. “Does it bother you? All this technology?”

I consider the question carefully. “Not bother, exactly. But there’s something… disconnected about it. Romans understood the effort behind actions: the physical toll of travel, the labor of creation. In your world, that weight seems to have been stripped away.”

“That’s… actually profound,” she says, setting down her phone. “We gain convenience but lose connection to the process.” She picks up her suitcase, struggling with its weight. “Though right now, I wouldn’t mind a Roman porter.”

Despite my reluctance to use the phone, I find myself reaching for it later, curious about this Mexico we’ll soon visit. The images that appear at my touch still feel like sorcery: ancient pyramids, elaborate skull decorations, families gathered around gravesites with orange flowers and candles.

On our balcony overlooking the darkening cemetery, Raven struggles to open the bottle, laughing as she tells me she’s never done this before, but the drink is commonly used in celebrations. The cork makes a satisfying pop before she pours the bubbling liquid into two glasses.

“To Mexico,” she says, raising her glass. “And to unexpected journeys.”

“To boundaries crossed,” I add, the double meaning intentional.

Our glasses meet with a sharp, clean ring that lingers in the night. The champagne is bright on my tongue—light, biting, and full of cheer. It brings to mind Falernian wine, the kind reserved for senators and feasts, though this carries the sharp joy of something new.

“In Rome,” I say, finding myself wanting to share something genuine, “we would pour the first drops as libation to the gods before drinking.”

“Show me?” Her request carries genuine curiosity rather than the pretense of being interested.

Taking my glass, I tilt it slightly over the balcony’s edge, allowing a few drops to fall toward the earth below. “To Fortuna, who guides our paths. To Pluto, who guards our final journey. To the Lares of this house, who shelter travelers far from home.”

As I complete the simple ritual, Raven’s expression holds… reverence. She mimics my gesture, adding her own words: “To those who’ve crossed before us. To those waiting beyond the veil. To unexpected connections.”

The last phrase hangs between us, laden with meaning neither of us has fully articulated. When our eyes meet, the careful distance we’ve maintained crumbles like ancient stone.

“Lucius,” she whispers, setting down her glass. My name in her mouth sounds like an invocation.

My hand rises to touch her face, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. When she turns her face slightly to place a kiss against my palm, the simple gesture ignites something I’ve kept carefully banked since our cemetery kiss.

“Raven,” I respond, my voice rough as arena sand.

Her smile holds a hint of mischief. “Rosemary,” she corrects softly. “Tonight, I’m just Rosemary.”

The significance of this offering—her true name, her unmasked self—is not lost on me. In Rome, names held power. To give someone your true name was to grant them influence over your essential self.

“Rosemary,” I repeat, the syllables a caress.

What happens next feels as inevitable as the tide.

My lips find hers, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as her arms wrap around my neck, drawing me closer.

Unlike our cemetery kiss, this holds no hesitation, no questioning.

Her mouth opens beneath mine, tongue seeking entrance that I gladly grant.

Time loses meaning as we explore each other with increasing boldness. Her hands slide beneath my shirt, fingers tracing paths across my back that send lightning through my veins. When we finally part for breath, her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with desire that surely mirrors my own.

“Inside,” she whispers, taking my hand to lead me from the balcony into our room.

The space we’ve shared yet kept neutral transforms into something else entirely as night falls around us like a protective veil.