Page 26 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twenty-Three

L ucius

I watch Raven pace our hotel balcony here in San Luis Potosi, Mexico. Her animated conversation with Norris is growing increasingly heated. I’m still not sure she needed to reach out to him on the new burner phones we acquired on the hurried drive here.

Though the words are muffled through the glass, her tense posture and sharp gestures tell me enough.

My fingers trace the spine of the book on Mexican death rituals I purchased yesterday.

Although Raven taught me how to use a translation program through my phone’s camera, my thoughts are far from its pages.

The device has become invaluable since she showed me how to use it—allowing me to read signs, menus, and simple texts independently. Though I still struggle with complex English prose, the technology bridges gaps that months of language lessons couldn’t fill.

The balcony door slams as she rushes inside, phone clutched in trembling fingers.

“We’ve got trouble,” she says, panic etched across her face as she shows me her screen where notifications appear in rapid succession. “The video has been picked up by major news outlets.”

“Major?” I don’t understand. From the way she was acting earlier this morning, it seemed the worst had already occurred.

“YouTube, Facebook, and the other social media platforms are more for younger people. What they refer to as major news outlets are for basically every other person on the planet. They’re calling you ‘The Pale Stranger’ and speculating about connections to the thawed gladiators.”

Though I can read basic English with my phone’s help, the rapid-fire headlines and complex terminology require Raven’s interpretation. My stomach tightens with a familiar dread—one I’ve known in two vastly different eras.

“It was just supposed to be a private moment,” I say, keeping my voice controlled despite the anger building within me. “A simple connection with someone who had no family at his gravesite.”

Her phone rings again—Norris’s image appearing on the screen. Her fourth call in the last hour. She silences it with a frustrated sigh.

“He’s relentless,” she mutters, pushing her hair back. “Claims this is a ‘fortuitous development’ that we should ‘leverage immediately.’”

“Leverage.” I taste the word, finding it bitter. “As one might leverage a tool or weapon.”

The modern vocabulary may differ, but the sentiment remains unchanged across millennia.

In Rome, my value lay in my strange appearance and connection to death.

The lanista who purchased me from the temple spoke similarly of “utilizing my unique attributes” for arena profit. Different century, same exploitation.

A sharp knock at our door cuts through my thoughts. Raven approaches cautiously, peering through the small viewing hole before turning to me with alarm.

“Three men in suits are on the other side of this door. They look like the types who won’t take no for an answer,” she whispers, fear tightening her features.

I nod grimly, moving silently to gather my few possessions while assessing our options. The balcony offers no escape—three stories up with no fire escape. The bathroom has no external windows. We’re effectively trapped unless we go through them.

“Ms. Vaughn, we know you’re inside.” A man’s deep voice, clinical and impatient, carries through the door. “This is a matter of public health concern. We have reason to believe your companion may be carrying a dangerous pathogen.”

Lies wrapped in scientific terms. In Rome, they were more direct. “The pale one will draw crowds.” At least ancient exploitation lacked modern pretense.

My phone vibrates with a call from the sanctuary. I answer immediately. “We’re cornered. Three agents at our door.”

Laura’s voice carries tension I’ve rarely heard. “I’ll call Miguel and have him at the ready with the motor running?”

“Yes. But getting past these men will be harder. They control the only exit, and I assume they’re armed.”

“Get out any way you can.” This is Varro, who must have taken the phone from Laura. “You’re a gladiator, Lucius. You know the only loss of life will be the three men on the other side of the door.”

“Yes.”

Raven grabs my arm, urgency flashing in her eyes. “The maid’s cart,” she whispers urgently. “I saw housekeeping leave it in the hallway when I got ice earlier. It had cleaning supplies.”

An idea forms. In the ludus , we learned that any object could become a weapon with proper application. “Tell Miguel to pull directly to the front entrance,” I tell Varro. “Engine running. Immediately.”

The knocking grows more insistent. “Ms. Vaughn, we’re prepared to involve local authorities if you don’t cooperate.”

I move to the door, grateful for the muscle memory that never fades. Arena combat taught essential lessons about timing, leverage, and using environmental advantages.

“Stand behind me,” I tell Raven. “When I open this door, stay low and move fast toward the stairs.”

She nods, though fear flickers in her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“What gladiators do best. Adapt and survive.”

I unlock the door but keep the chain engaged, creating a narrow gap. “Gentlemen, if you’ll give me a moment to dress appropriately—”

The lead agent—a muscular man who clearly expects compliance—pushes against the door. “Open immediately, or we’ll—”

I slam the door shut, disengage the chain, then fling it open with sudden violence.

The unexpected reversal catches them off guard.

The lead agent stumbles forward into our room from his own pushing pressure.

Before he can recover, I grab the metal ice bucket from our dresser and bring it down hard on his wrist as he reaches for something inside his jacket.

The distinctive crack tells me I’ve broken his bone. He cries out, dropping whatever he was reaching for—not a weapon, but some kind of injector device.

“Run!” I shout to Raven.

She bolts past me toward the stairs as the second agent tries to block her path. I grab the wooden desk chair and swing it in a wide arc, using my gladiator training to control distance and timing. The chair catches him across the ribs, sending him stumbling backward into the third agent.

The injured lead agent lunges at me with his good hand. Arena reflexes take over—I sidestep, grab his extended arm, and use his momentum to send him crashing into the bathroom door. Modern pharmaceutical companies clearly don’t train their people in hand-to-hand combat.

The remaining two agents recover faster than I’d like. One produces what looks like a taser while the other speaks rapidly into a radio, calling for backup. I grab the metal housekeeping cart from the hallway as Raven appears beside me.

“Lucius, cover your eyes!” she hisses, grabbing bottles from the scattered cleaning supplies.

She aims industrial cleaner at the agents’ faces while I shove the cart hard toward them.

The ammonia spray hits the radio-wielding agent directly as the cart’s wheels catch the taser-wielding agent in the shins, sending them both toppling.

The taser skitters across the tile floor.

“Lucius!” Raven’s voice echoes from the stairwell.

No time for subtlety. I slam my shoulder into the last agent. He hits the wall hard—picture frames crash to the floor. His radio skitters across the tiles.

The stairs. Three steps at a time, urgency driving my speed. I need to make sure Raven’s unharmed. Relief floods through me when I catch up to her in the lobby.

“Move!”

Shouts from upstairs. Getting closer.

Her hand in mine. We run. Tourists scatter, cameras flashing. Someone yells in Spanish, but we’re already at Miguel’s car, doors open, engine running.

“Drive!” The word tears from my throat as we throw ourselves inside.

Miguel doesn’t need encouragement. We pull away with enough acceleration to press us back into the seats, just as three more black SUVs round the corner from different directions.

“Backup,” I observe grimly, watching them converge on the hotel in our rear window.

Raven stares at me, breathing hard. “I know you’ve had years of training, but wow! You took out three people with hotel furniture.”

“Temporarily disabled,” I correct. “Though I suspect the first one will need medical attention for that wrist.”

Miguel navigates the winding streets with practiced skill, taking turns that would make our pursuers struggle to follow. After ten minutes of evasive driving, we seem to have lost any immediate pursuit.

“That was…” Raven trails off, still processing what she witnessed. “Terrifying.”

“They came prepared to take me by force. The injector device suggests they intended sedation.”

Her face pales. “They were going to drug you.”

“The pattern is familiar. In Rome, escaped gladiators faced similar pursuit. The methods change, but the intent remains constant—recapture valuable property.”

The adrenaline begins to fade, leaving me oddly energized rather than drained. For the first time since awakening, I’ve used my combat training in actual defense rather than mere exercise. My skills remain sharp, my instincts intact.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Raven says, though her tone holds admiration rather than fear.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I assure her, reaching across to take her hand. “I protect what matters to me.”

The phone rings—Laura’s voice carrying tension I’ve rarely heard. “Can you reach the transfer point safely?”

“Yes. But getting past additional agents will be harder if they have the roads covered.”

“Protocol Seven is now in effect,” Laura continues, using the contingency we’ve discussed but hoped never to use. “I’ll text you safe locations through our encrypted account. We’ve mobilized professional security and legal defenses. Stay mobile until we can make sure Second Chance is safe.”

The call ends, leaving silence between us. Raven stares out the window, her expression thoughtful.

My hand finds hers across the seat, seeking connection even as instinct urges withdrawal to protect myself.

Miguel announces our approaching transfer point. The switch happens with precision—one vehicle for another, minimal conversation. Our new driver introduces herself only as Sophia.

As we continue toward temporary refuge, Raven breaks the heavy silence.

“We can’t run forever. At some point, we need to face this.”

I turn from contemplating the landscape, an idea forming. “Running and facing are not the only options.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the arena, when outmatched by a stronger opponent, sometimes the best strategy was neither direct confrontation nor retreat.” The tactics that kept me alive for years might serve in this modern battle. “Sometimes, you change the nature of the contest itself.”

“Control the narrative,” she says slowly as understanding dawns.

This is why we connect despite our different worlds—her mind works with the strategic clarity I’ve always valued. “Instead of letting them define you, we define ourselves first.”

Since I first saw those images on her device, I’ve felt little beyond grim acceptance. But now... something stirs. Not hope, exactly. Purpose. A path I choose for myself—no master’s command, no god’s whim. Mine.

As night falls, cloaking us in darkness broken only by our vehicle’s lights, Raven reaches for my hand again. The gesture carries meaning beyond words.

“Whatever we decide, we decide together. I’m with you, Lucius.”

I interlace my fingers with hers, this simple touch bridging centuries of difference. “Together,” I agree.

Ahead lies temporary refuge while we determine our strategy. Behind us, a world increasingly curious about the pale stranger with ancient knowledge. Between us, a connection tested by circumstances neither could have anticipated.

The Romans believed fate was a wheel, eternally turning. Perhaps this challenge is merely another rotation bringing me back to familiar territory—the fight to maintain freedom and dignity in a world that wants to make me a spectacle.

But unlike in Rome, I no longer fight alone.