Page 23 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twenty

L ucius

The next morning, after a surprisingly restful sleep, we venture into the heart of the town.

San Miguel de Allende unfolds before us in a riot of color that defies anything I’ve encountered in this modern age.

The cobblestone streets wind between buildings painted in shades of terracotta, golden yellow, and deep blue, tones that stir memories of Pompeii before the ash stilled its breath.

Yet where Pompeii once celebrated life, this city seems to dance with death, not as an enemy, but as a companion.

“It’s beautiful,” Raven breathes beside me, her usual dark attire subdued amid the surrounding brilliance.

Indeed, the entire town thrums with preparation for Día de los Muertos.

Altars bloom in doorways and windows, laden with marigolds and their spicy-sweet scent.

Paper cuttings flutter from strings overhead, whispering in the breeze like offerings to unseen spirits.

Vendors line the streets, selling sugar skulls—each one a remembrance rather than a warning.

“The flowers,” I observe, brushing a fingertip over a marigold petal. “You said their scent is said to guide spirits back to the realm of the living?”

Raven nods eagerly. “ Cempasúchil —marigolds. The Aztecs believed they represented the fragility of life.” Her eyes meet mine with the open joy she reserves for unguarded moments. “The Romans had similar beliefs about certain flowers, didn’t they?”

“Yes. We placed violets on graves during Parentalia. Their scent was thought to soothe the manes —the ancestral spirits.” The parallel strikes me deeply. “Different blooms. Same purpose.”

As we near the central plaza, families bustle around us carrying baskets of bread, bottles of tequila, and framed photographs. Children, their faces painted as skulls, race past laughing. The collision of youth and death’s imagery somehow feels natural here.

“Romans feared the dead,” I explain as we pause beside an elderly woman lighting candles on a small altar. “Our festivals—Lemuralia, Parentalia—were designed to appease spirits, not welcome them.”

“And here?” Raven asks, her hand slipping into mine.

“Here, they invite them to dinner.”

The simple truth makes her smile. Her fingers tighten around mine, her shoulder brushing mine as we continue. Since New Orleans—since that intimacy shared, then set aside—we’ve lingered in a space between decisions. Each touch now carries weight. Each glance, an echo.

A young woman approaches, her English accented but fluent. “You’re visitors? For Día de los Muertos?” When we nod, she grins. “My grandmother has a stall nearby. She makes the best pan de muerto in all of San Miguel. You must try.”

Before we can answer, she takes Raven’s hand and leads us through winding alleys to a small market. Dozens of stalls offer traditional foods. Her grandmother, small and sharp-eyed, inspects us with frank curiosity before pressing loaves of sweet bread into our hands.

“ Coman ,” she says. “Eat. The dead rejoice when the living savor life.” I know she’s speaking a language other than English, but the device in my ear tells me what she is saying.

The translation device was originally designed to translate English to Latin and vice versa, but it has recently been upgraded to translate many languages.

I am very grateful for this bit of modern technology.

The bread surprises me—soft within, lightly crisp outside, flavored with orange and anise. As I chew, the old woman speaks quietly to her granddaughter.

“She says the pale one knows death well.” Her eyes rest on mine. “She asks if you are returning or merely visiting.”

The question halts me. Its insight is too precise to dismiss.

“Both… perhaps.” I say in English.

The elder nods, as though this confirms something she already believed. Then she reaches into a clay bowl filled with vivid pigment. Before I can react, her fingers dip into the orange-yellow paste and draw a line across my forehead.

“Marigold,” the girl explains. “So your ancestors can find you.”

Instead of bristling at the gesture, I feel something stir, something long buried. It has been centuries since anyone acknowledged my ancestors. They lie forgotten beneath the dust of modern Rome, their names remembered by no one… but me.

Raven watches closely. When the woman gestures to her, she bends without hesitation. A swirl of crimson appears on her cheek.

“For those who walked death’s path and returned,” the girl translates. “A mark for the almost-taken.”

Raven’s eyes shine with sudden tears. “ Gracias, ” she whispers.

The old woman pats her cheek and turns away. Her granddaughter tells us the main celebration begins at sundown, when families will walk to the cemetery with their offerings.

“Would you like to come with us?” she offers. “My brother Alejandro died last year. This is his first Día de los Muertos on the other side. We’d be honored to have your company.”

Raven looks to me. I see no trace of the podcaster now, only a woman moved by what she’s witnessed.

“We would be honored,” I reply.

Throughout the afternoon, we help Elena, our guide, and her family prepare their ofrenda , a tiered altar laden with Alejandro’s favorite foods, his photo, small pieces of his life. They speak of him in the present tense, as though he’s merely abroad.

“The Romans kept the worlds apart,” I say quietly to Raven as we arrange marigold petals. “The living and the dead were separated by law, ritual, fear. Here… the boundary is thinner.”

“That’s why I wanted you to see this,” she says, earnestness grounding her words. “This isn’t Halloween. It’s not for show. It’s real.”

As the sun dips low, Elena presents us with traditional clothing. A white shirt wide enough for my shoulders, embroidered with skulls for me. A marigold-patterned dress for Raven.

The transformation feels right. We arrived as strangers. We walk now as kin.

Night falls, and San Miguel glows. Candles fill every window, every doorway. The procession to the cemetery begins as rivers of light flow through the streets. Children carry toys. Elders bear flasks and framed portraits. Music drifts like incense, celebration and mourning mingled.

At the cemetery gates, I pause.

Graves bloom with marigolds and light. Families gather around them, laughing, eating, pouring drinks for the dead.

“It’s not what you expected,” Raven says, watching me.

“In Rome, cemeteries were places of silence. Ritual. Fear. We did what was necessary, then left quickly.” My fingers close around hers. “This is…”

“Beautiful,” she finishes.

Elena leads us to Alejandro’s grave. Candles flicker beside plates of tamales, chocolate, and tequila. Her family welcomes us without hesitation, offering cups. Her father raises his voice.

As the family shares stories, I notice how the candlelight transforms everyone into silhouettes against the decorated tomb.

With Elena’s subtle nod of permission, Raven captures a few shots from behind the group—shadows and light painting their grief and celebration in equal measure, faces hidden but the profound intimacy of the moment preserved.

“To Alejandro, who joins us tonight. And to the friends who came to honor him.”

We toast. And as the tequila burns its warmth through me, I feel something shift.

This is what the priests hinted at but never fully believed: death as not a severing, but a continuation.

As music rises and the stories flow, we allow our faces to be painted in calavera designs. The brush is cool. The hands gentle.

Raven hands her camera to Elena, gesturing for her to take shots of our hands as the brushes move across our skin. The transformation is captured in close-ups that preserve the sacred nature of the ritual without showing our faces.

“She’s given you marigold eyes,” Raven says, admiring the result. Her own face is transformed—death and beauty mingling without contradiction.

Beneath the paint, something unspoken dissolves. The distance between us, held in place since New Orleans, falls away in the candlelight.

When Raven’s hand finds mine again, there is no hesitation.

Later, as the families begin to drift home, Elena’s grandmother presses something into my palm. It’s a sugar skull with our names intertwined.

“ Para recordar, ” she says. To remember.

But how could we forget?

She leads us to a quieter part of the cemetery. A circle of moonlight rests on the ground.

“ Un momento especial, ” Elena translates. “A moment for those who know both worlds.”

She places a bowl of marigold paste in the center, steps back, and nods.

“What is this?” Raven asks softly.

“In my time, we called it a thin place , where the veil bends, and what is hidden may be seen.”

Elena’s grandmother speaks again: “You are marked by death, each in your own way. Tonight, the veil is at its thinnest. You must acknowledge what binds you.”

We kneel. I dip my fingers in the mixture, ancient memory guiding my hands.

“In Rome,” I say, “priests of Pluto performed rituals like this. Not to command the dead, but to honor them. To acknowledge the path we all must walk.”

I meet her eyes. “Will you join me?”

She kneels across from me, the moonlight turning her face ethereal. “What do I do?”

“Offer something personal,” I say quietly. “Something that connects you to those you’ve lost.”

Without hesitation, she removes the pendant containing her grandmother’s hair, placing it beside the bowl.

I reach into my pocket and withdraw the small bone amulet I’ve carried since my temple days—a piece of carved ivory bearing Pluto’s symbol that survived both my fall from grace and two millennia in ice.

It’s the last tangible connection to who I was before the arena changed me. I place it opposite her pendant.

“A priest guides the ritual,” I explain softly, “but he must also make an offering. Something that connects him to the threshold he seeks to open.”

We draw the spiral together. When our fingers meet at the center, the world tilts.

The clearing fills with golden light, warm and welcoming despite the cool night air. The very air shimmers, reality bending as the veil between worlds grows gossamer-thin. Raven gasps, wonder blooming across her face, but she doesn’t pull away. She can see them too.

My God stands at the edge of our circle, but he’s not alone. Beside him, a woman of ethereal beauty watches us with ancient eyes. Her hair flows like spun moonlight, and in her hands she holds marigolds that seem to glow with inner fire. The flowers pulse with an otherworldly rhythm.

“Pluto,” I breathe, then turn to the woman with growing understanding. “And… Proserpina.”

His queen, who bridges the worlds of living and dead through her own journey between realms, nods gracefully.

The temperature around us rises, as if we’re standing in sunlight despite the midnight hour.

The marigold petals at our feet begin to lift and swirl in an otherworldly breeze that touches nothing else in the cemetery.

Though neither deity speaks aloud, their message flows between us like warm honey, penetrating not just our minds but our very souls: You are both marked by death’s touch.

One who has glimpsed beyond the veil, one who has served as its guardian.

Together, you bridge worlds that were never meant to remain forever separate.

Proserpina steps forward, her luminous form radiating compassion. The work you will do together—teaching the living to understand death’s mysteries, honoring the traditions that connect all realms—this is a sacred purpose.

Pluto’s voice follows, deep and resonant as the earth itself: My priest, your service continues, but in new form.

Guide the living toward understanding. Show them that death is not the ending, but a transformation.

And you, death-touched daughter— his gaze shifts to Raven —your journey to the threshold was not an accident but preparation.

The divine presence intensifies, enveloping us in warmth that penetrates to our very souls.

For a breathtaking moment, I feel what Raven experienced during her near-death journey—that expansion beyond physical limits, that connection to something vast and eternal.

But this time, we share it, our consciousness briefly joining in that boundless space where all understanding converges.

Walk forward together, Proserpina’s voice whispers as the vision begins to fade. Bridge the worlds. Teach the mysteries. Your paths have converged for a purpose greater than either could achieve alone.

When the light fades, we remain trembling and awestruck, our hands still connected by the marigold mixture that now seems to pulse with its own inner light.

“Did you see—?” Raven whispers, eyes full.

“The lord of the underworld and his queen,” I say. “They say our work is vital.”

She’s quiet, then says, “I need to tell you what really happened when I died.”

I listen, knowing this ground is sacred.

Her voice trembles. “It wasn’t the impact that stayed with me. It was what came after. The walls of my world fell away. Time collapsed. I became… everything.”

“The temple texts spoke of that state,” I say. “ The unbound soul. A truth most never touch.”

She nods, tears falling freely now. “Coming back felt like shrinking. Like forgetting how to breathe.”

“And now you build bridges,” I say. “You chase meaning. You guide others.”

“And I found you,” she whispers.

“Perhaps that’s why we both returned,” I answer. “Not just to survive—but to meet.”

Elena’s grandmother nods, satisfied. “ El círculo está completo.” The circle is complete.

We leave the spiral intact. The marigold glows between our fingers.

“ Para recordar, ” she says again. But we will not forget. How could we forget this moment?

Later, beneath an arch of marigolds, I stop.

“I understand now,” I say. “It was never about proof. It was about connection.”

My thumb brushes the painted swirl on her cheek.

“You’re not just Raven tonight, are you?”

“No,” she says, her voice like a promise. “Tonight, with you, I’m Rosemary.”

My gaze holds hers as I lean in. The kiss that follows is centuries in the making.

Above us, petals drift like blessings.

And for the first time since awakening, I feel not like a relic—but alive.

Truly alive.

With her.