Page 22 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Nineteen

L ucius

The small plane we’re flying in rocks beneath us, dropping suddenly before settling again.

My grip tightens on the armrest, the unfamiliar sensation of flight still unsettling despite Raven’s assurances of safety.

This modern miracle—crossing in hours what would have taken months on a horse—remains both wondrous and terrifying.

Her patron paid for the private charter. My expenses are funded by my monthly stipend from the substantial resources Laura discovered alongside our frozen forms—two chests of Roman gold that have proven invaluable for maintaining our independence.

“Look,” Raven whispers, leaning across me to point out the window. “You can see the coastline now.”

Mexico stretches beneath us—a tapestry of mountains, forests, and cities unfolding like one of the detailed maps that once decorated Roman villas.

The beauty momentarily distracts from the uncomfortable awareness of her body pressed against mine, her scent—vanilla and something spicier—filling my senses.

Since last night, we’ve maintained a careful distance, physically close but emotionally guarded.

“Rome never reached these lands,” I observe, grateful for neutral conversation. “Though I heard many temples here honored death with a reverence similar to Pluto’s priests.”

Her eyes light with genuine interest. “The Aztecs built entire structures dedicated to death deities. They believed dying in certain ways guaranteed a better place in the afterlife.”

“As did Romans. A soldier’s death opened different paths than a merchant’s peaceful passing.”

The conversation flows easily as we discuss cultural approaches to mortality.

Here, in this ill-defined space between nations, between earth and sky, the tension between us softens.

This is where we connect most naturally, through a shared fascination with how humans navigate the ultimate transition.

“In Rome,” I explain, watching her expression as she absorbs my words, “we believed the soul remained near the body for nine days. Specific rituals marked each passing day, guiding the deceased toward proper rest.”

“Nine days matches several other traditions,” she notes, pulling a small notebook from her bag and jotting something down. “The journey isn’t instantaneous in most belief systems.”

She thinks differently. Instead of focusing on how things vary, she notices the links, the patterns that repeat, the ways people are the same underneath it all. In another life, she might have been a philosopher or scholar rather than a content creator.

“What happens afterward varies considerably,” I continue. “Some souls required proper burial and ongoing offerings to find peace. Others traveled to underworld realms based on their actions in life.”

“And what did you believe? Not just as a priest reciting doctrine, but personally?”

The question catches me off guard, intimate in its directness. Before I can form an answer, the plane shudders again, this time more violently. Raven’s hand finds mine instinctively, our fingers intertwining before either of us can reconsider the automatic gesture of comfort.

“Just turbulence,” she assures me, though her grip suggests she needs the reassurance as much as I do.

Even after the plane settles, we stay as we are—close, unmoving. The connection remains; a silent acknowledgment of something unresolved between us.

We talk quietly about what we see below us until the plane begins its descent. The landscape transforms beneath us—ancient mountains giving way to cities, the blend of old and new that seems to define this country we're approaching.

The airport is small but alive with motion. Locals gather for the holiday. Tourists move among them, phones raised, eyes drinking in the spectacle. Raven moves with practiced confidence as she points me toward our luggage and secures transportation.

The moment she has a moment, Raven pulls out her phone. "Let me turn off airplane mode," she says, then immediately frowns as notifications flood her screen. "Oh god. Norris sent a barrage of texts during our flight."

I move closer, unable to avoid glimpsing the rapid-fire messages that appeared the moment her device reconnected to service. Her expression tightens as she reads, jaw clenching visibly.

"He's been messaging every hour," she mutters, thumbs moving quickly to respond. "Demanding updates on our arrival, giving instructions about shooting schedules and location scouting."

I watch her posture shift—shoulders squaring, spine straightening as she slips into her professional persona even through text communication.

"Yes, we've just entered Mexican airspace… The local celebration is perfect for the documentary's aesthetic… Of course we'll capture the essential elements…" She murmurs as she relates what she's typing.

Her responses become increasingly clipped. When a particularly long message appears that makes her grip tighten on the phone, I struggle not to react.

"That wasn't our agreement," she mutters as she types with forceful taps. "We discussed this. The focus remains on cultural practices, not sensationalizing individual participants."

Norris sends more demands. Notifications stack like blows—one after the next.

"I understand the network's position, but I'm not comfortable with—" She stops, frustration evident in her pinched expression as she deletes and restarts her response. "That's not what this documentary is about. We're exploring authentic death traditions, not creating exploitative content."

When she finally puts the phone down, silence hangs between us, heavy with unspoken tension.

"He wants sensational footage," she says finally, not meeting my gaze. "Dramatic reenactments of ancient rituals. Mysterious figures in ceremonial paint."

The implication hangs clear—now he wants to exploit the Mexican people, and later he'll insist on getting me in front of the camera, performing my former duties like a circus curiosity.

"And you?" I keep my voice carefully neutral.

"I want to honor these traditions properly," she answers, finally looking at me directly. "But damn, I also need this career opportunity. I've worked for years to reach this level of recognition."

The conflict within her is plain to see—ambition locked in battle with her conscience. I've seen it before, in young priests torn between true devotion and the temple's hunger for power.

"Crossroads often appear when we least expect them," I observe, offering neither judgment nor solution.

She manages a wry smile. "Is that priestly wisdom or gladiatorial experience speaking?"

"Both. In the arena and the temple I learned that moments of decision reveal more about us than years of comfortable certainty."

The phone buzzes. She looks once, then silences it with a steady hand and slips it into her bag—no hesitation, no drama. Just resolve.

"I want to be present for this experience," she explains. "No more interruptions from Norris or his production team."

The gesture feels significant, choosing connection over obligation, even if only for now. The space between us shifts again, boundaries dissolving and reforming as we continue this journey between worlds.

As the plane begins its descent, Raven leans toward the window, pointing out landmarks below: ancient ruins threaded through modern sprawl, churches balanced atop crumbling temples. The past and present exist side by side, layered like sediment.

“That’s our destination,” she says, gesturing toward a small town in the distance. “San Miguel de Allende. Their Día de los Muertos celebrations are especially elaborate.”

Even from the air, I see signs of preparation—streets branching in precise patterns, central plazas already dressed in color.

“The festival begins tomorrow,” she adds, the tension in her voice replaced by excitement. “Families are probably working on their ofrendas now—altars with photos, favorite foods, small offerings for their dead.”

As the plane touches down with a soft jolt, her words linger.

In Rome, our rites were about order—ensuring the dead stayed where they belonged.

Appease the gods. Bury the body. Keep the spirit quiet.

This—this reveling in the nearness of the dead—is something else entirely. A different kind of reverence.

The airport is small but alive with motion.

Locals gather for the holiday. Tourists move among them, phones raised, eyes drinking in the spectacle.

Raven moves with practiced confidence—retrieving luggage, securing transportation—while I take in the overlapping voices, the scent of grilled meat, perfume, warm pavement, and the orange flowers I now know are marigolds.

From the taxi window, we see marigold petals spilled along the roadside—bright orange against the muted earth.

“Tomorrow night,” she explains as the driver turns into a winding street, “families will stay in the cemetery all night. Eating, drinking, telling stories. Celebrating with the dead like they’re right there beside them.”

“For these two days… they believe they are,” I say quietly, and this time I don’t need to borrow the words from a book—I understand them.

The taxi stops before a small hotel wrapped around a courtyard. Bright yellow stucco walls rise behind flowering vines. A stone fountain murmurs at the center, and cut-paper banners stretch in vivid color overhead. Candles flicker in small alcoves, casting gold across gathering shadows.

We step out of the cab into the thick scent of incense and marigolds. It wraps around me, sweet, earthy, and familiar in a way I can’t explain. It reminds me of temple smoke, of sacred rituals meant to blur the line between one world and the next.

Raven watches me. “What do you feel here?” she asks, her voice low.

I inhale slowly, letting the sensation settle. “Thinness,” I say at last. “The boundary is already fraying.”

Her smile holds something softer now—understanding, not study.

“Welcome to Mexico, Lucius,” she says. “You might find something here that even Rome couldn’t offer.”

And as we step inside, surrounded by a celebration meant to honor the dead—not banish them—I wonder if she’s right.

The long journey has taken its toll, and despite the vibrant energy of the town’s preparations visible through our window, exhaustion weighs heavily on both of us. We order simple food from room service—tamales and fresh fruit that we eat while discussing tomorrow’s plans.

“The celebration officially begins at sundown tomorrow,” she says. “Families will start gathering at the cemetery around eight.”

“Then we should rest,” I say, though I glance out the window where paper banners flutter in the evening breeze. “Tomorrow will be… significant.”

We retreat to our separate rooms—the hotel fortunately had two singles with a connecting door available.

As I lie in bed, I can hear the distant sounds of preparation through the thin walls: music, laughter, the occasional firework.

But sleep comes surprisingly easily, my body finally relaxing after days of travel and anticipation.