Page 27 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Twenty-Four

L ucius

The safe house in Texas is a one-story house tucked into a wooded area.

Two days we’ve been here—two days of sanctuary calls, legal consultations, and endless debate about our next move.

Raven has been relentless, arguing for a controlled interview as our best strategy.

The gladiators and Laura remain divided, their voices carrying through the speakerphone during our latest conference call.

“It’s too risky,” Sulla insists from the sanctuary. “Once they have his image, they’ll never stop coming for the rest of us.”

“The damage is already done,” Varro counters. “The video exists. It’s been shown all over the globe. The speculation is rampant. Better to shape the narrative than let others craft it for us.”

“I agree,” says Cassius, who seldom inserts himself in planning discussions. “My father was a Roman senator. I learned more at his knee than in a hundred years of courses at modern universities. Dealing with it directly is the best way. You control perception.”

When the call ends without resolution, silence settles over the small kitchen where Raven and I sit across from each other. The weight of the decision presses upon me like arena sand beneath my feet—familiar, heavy, inescapable.

I’m glad to know one of Dara Hobson’s security teams is guarding us.

I’m told she’s richer than a Roman emperor and acts as a patron.

She has provided legal and financial backing to the sanctuary since we were discovered.

I may have been a good gladiator in my time, but I’m no match against guns.

The team will ensure Raven’s safety, which gives me comfort.

“It has to be your choice,” she says finally, her fingers curled around a coffee mug gone cold. “Not mine, not the sanctuary’s. Yours.”

I rise, moving to the window. The forest surrounds us, thick and silent, as if nature itself is holding its breath.

Time stretches as I ponder. I have no idea how long I stared out the window as I played different scenarios in my mind, like I did as a gladiator.

Though this fight doesn’t involve swords. It’s a match of wits.

“If I agree to this,” I say without turning, “it must be on specific terms. One interview, carefully controlled. No gladiatorial demonstrations. No temple reenactments. Just truth.”

I hear her sharp intake of breath—surprise, perhaps, that I’ve made up my mind and have come up with my own terms. Her chair scrapes against the tile as she joins me at the window.

“Absolutely,” she confirms. “Your story, your terms. We record it ourselves, maintain complete control over editing and release. One interview, maximum distribution.”

“With you as interviewer,” I add, meeting her gaze. “Not Norris, not his network representatives, not the big names on national TV you admire so much. You.”

Her brows lift, the surprise subtle but unmistakable. “Are you sure? After everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t blame you for preferring someone with less personal involvement.”

“I trust you,” I say simply, the admission surprising us both. “Despite recent events. Perhaps because of them.”

Something shifts in her expression: relief, gratitude, determination. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know.” My simple statement hits me hard because as the words escape my mouth, I know it’s purely the truth.

The decision crystallizes with unexpected clarity. If I must become visible to this modern world, let it be deliberate rather than stolen. Let me choose the terms of my revelation rather than have them forced upon me, as has happened so many times before.

“I’ll call Laura,” Raven says, already reaching for her secure phone. “We’ll need equipment, legal documents to maintain control—”

“Not yet.” I touch her wrist, stopping her movement. “First, I need to prepare properly.”

“Prepare how?”

“As I did in the arena, when facing my most significant battles.”

She understands immediately. “The ritual paint.”

“Yes.” I reach for my small bag, retrieving the leather pouch that has accompanied me since awakening in this century. “For protection. For clarity. For strength.”

The days that follow transform the safe house into a production studio.

Equipment arrives through secure channels—cameras, lighting, sound recording devices that Raven assembles with practiced efficiency.

Encrypted legal documents flow between the sanctuary’s attorneys and Raven’s computer.

Norris is conspicuously absent from these arrangements, his frustrated messages ignored as we construct our own path forward.

On the morning of the interview, I wake before dawn. The house remains quiet, Raven still sleeping in the room next to mine. These days of preparation have repaired something between us—the breach of trust healing through shared purpose, through her fierce advocacy for my agency in this process.

I move silently to the bathroom, placing my leather pouch on the counter. The ritualistic preparation has always been private—first in the temple, later in the ludus before matches. Yet something tells me this preparation should not be solitary.

When Raven wakes, she finds me sitting on the porch, watching the sunrise paint the scrub trees in shades of amber and gold.

“Today’s the day,” she says, settling beside me. “Are you ready?”

“Not yet.” I meet her gaze steadily. “There’s one element remaining. The ritual preparation.”

Recognition dawns on her expression. “Do you want me to give you privacy for that?”

“No.” The decision comes with certainty. “I want you to assist.”

“You’re sure?” Her surprise is evident. “It’s sacred to you, personal. And this is more important than protecting yourself for the drive to New Orleans.”

“Yes, it’s more important. That’s why you need to be a part of it.” I rise, extending my hand to her.

In the bathroom, I arrange the components while Raven watches with reverent attention. The mixture forms under my hands—chalk, herbs, oils combined with precise movements. When the mixture reaches proper consistency, I remove my shirt.

“Where do I begin?” she asks softly.

“Here.” I guide her fingers to the mixture, then to my shoulder. “Follow the natural lines. The body’s structure dictates the pattern’s flow.”

Her touch is tentative at first, but grows more confident as she works, fingers tracing patterns across my skin.

Unlike the arena preparation, which always carried tension and fear beneath its ritual surface, this application brings unexpected peace.

The cool mixture against my skin, the gentle pressure of her fingers, the shared silence—all create a sacred space between worlds.

“This symbol,” she asks, pausing at a spiral pattern, “what does it mean?”

“Boundary,” I explain. “Between worlds, between life stages, between choices. To be crossed with intention, not accidentally.”

“Like the boundary we’re crossing today.”

“Yes.”

Her fingers continue their work, completing patterns across my back, shoulders, and chest. When she finishes, I meet my reflection in the mirror, the familiar yet always startling transformation.

My pale skin and hair, now accented with the ritual markings, create the image that once struck fear in arena opponents.

“The Ghost,” Raven whispers, seeing him fully for the first time.

“No longer,” I correct gently. “Just Lucius.”

The interview setting remains deliberately simple—two chairs in the living room, a neutral backdrop, soft lighting with no hint of theatrics. Raven checks camera settings one final time while I settle into position, the ritual markings still drying on my skin.

“Remember,” she says, taking her seat across from me, “we can stop anytime. Edit anything. This belongs to us, not them.”

I nod, oddly calm now that the moment has arrived.

The camera lens, though intimidating in concept, proves less threatening than an opponent’s blade.

The red light blinks on, Raven settles into her chair, and begins with simple questions about my awakening in this century, my adjustment to modern life.

She has allowed me to speak in Latin so I can answer freely and not struggle with translating in my head.

She said the documentary will be translated to every language around the world.

Gradually, we move deeper, into temple life, into the falsified charges that sent me to the arena, into the strange circumstances that led to our preservation on the Fortuna .

The questions feel less like an interview and more like the midnight conversations we’ve shared since that first cemetery meeting.

“The ritual markings you wear today,” she says, gesturing toward the patterns visible on my exposed arms and neck, “what do they signify for this moment?”

“Protection,” I answer honestly. “Not against physical threats, but against exploitation. Against becoming a mere spectacle. They remind me that I chose this revelation, that I control my own story rather than having it stolen from me.”

“And what would you want people to understand about you—about all the gladiators—from this conversation?”

The question resonates in ways I hadn’t anticipated. What do I want from this modern world that never expected my existence?

“That we are not artifacts or curiosities,” I say slowly, finding words for thoughts long held.

“We are men who have crossed an impossible boundary between times. We carry knowledge and perspective unique in the human experience. We have value beyond our biological uniqueness or historical significance.”

“One final question. After everything you’ve experienced—ancient Rome, the arena, awakening in this century—what matters most to you now?”

“Connection,” I answer without hesitation, my gaze meeting hers with an intensity that transcends the camera between us.

“Finding genuine understanding across boundaries of time, experience, and perspective. The Romans feared death as separation. What I’ve learned—in the temple, in the arena, and especially in this new life—is that true connection transcends even the most impossible divides. ”

Something in my words reaches her deeply. Tears gather in her eyes, though her professional composure holds.

“Thank you,” she says simply, before turning to address the camera with closing remarks.

When the recording ends, silence falls between us—not uncomfortable, but weighty with significance. What we’ve created today cannot be undone. My image, my voice, my story now exist as a record rather than merely a memory.

“It was perfect ,” she says finally, playing back segments on the camera’s small screen. “Honest, dignified, powerful. Nothing sensationalized.”

“Will it be enough?” I ask. “Will it satisfy their curiosity without creating more?”

“I don’t know,” she admits honestly, one quality I’ve come to value most. “But it’s done on our terms. That matters.”

She rises, crossing to where I sit, still marked with the ritual patterns. Her fingers trace one of the symbols on my forearm—boundary crossing, transition.

“What happens now?” she asks softly.

“We return to the sanctuary,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “We face whatever consequences come from this choice.”

“Yes.”

Outside, wind stirs dust into small whirlwinds that dance across the landscape. Boundaries remain always in flux—between earth and sky, between past and present, between safety and risk. Today I’ve chosen to cross one such boundary deliberately, reclaiming power long surrendered.

Whether this modern world receives the offering with respect or hungry curiosity remains to be seen. But for this moment, the choice itself brings a sense of peace.

As I pack away the ritual supplies, one certainty emerges: I am no longer The Ghost performing for others' entertainment. I am Lucius, speaking my own truth.

And soon, the world will finally hear it.