Page 3 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Three

L ucius

Morning training with the others proves a welcome distraction from last night’s unexpected encounter. The sanctuary’s central yard pulses with life. Bodies in motion, steel ringing against steel, the familiar rhythm of combat training that spans centuries.

Varro oversees everything from the raised platform, his natural authority undiminished by two millennia.

“Your form is slipping, Lucius.” Quintus blocks my strike with practiced ease, then counters with a sweeping leg maneuver that nearly connects. “Still wandering the graveyard at night instead of sleeping?”

The observation hits closer than he knows. “The dead make for quieter company than the living.”

Quintus actually laughs—a sound rarer than honest politicians.

“Fair enough. Though you might want to be more careful with your midnight wanderings. Sulla’s in a mood this morning.” He gestures toward the main building, where our former ludus master stalks around like a caged wolf.

“Why?” Though honestly, when isn’t Sulla in a mood?

“Some woman in a red SUV has been parked outside our gate since dawn. Security cameras picked her up immediately.” He lunges forward, forcing me into a defensive position. “She’s got cameras and recording equipment—clearly another reporter trying to get footage of us.”

My sword wavers mid-strike. Raven. She came back. Bold move, parking outside our gates in broad daylight. Though nothing about her strikes me as predictable.

“Sulla’s about to run her off,” Quintus continues, “in his typically charming fashion. You know how he gets with the press. Well, you know how he gets with anybody.”

Reporters. My jaw tightens. Since awakening, journalists and documentary makers have circled like vultures, desperate for access, treating us as curiosities rather than men.

They promise respect, understanding, dignity.

Then they publish stories about “Ice Age Gladiators” and “Ancient Warriors in Modern Times” like we’re some carnival attraction.

My concentration wavers. Quintus notices immediately—he always does. But the woman seemed different last night. Her questions carried weight, not the breathless excitement of sensation-seekers. I hate to admit how much it stings to think I misjudged her.

“You know something about this woman.” Quintus’s observation cuts through my distraction like a blade through silk. The man reads people like scrolls. Always has.

“She was in the cemetery last night. Talking to the dead like they might answer back. Investigating ghosts. Or pretending to.”

Quintus pauses mid-movement, interest sharpening his weathered features. “Pretending?” He lowers his practice sword, giving me his full attention.

“Many modern people wear death imagery like costumes.” Bitterness creeps into my voice despite my efforts to remain neutral. “This one claims a near-death experience, speaks of validation, yet runs a podcast called Beyond the Veil . Business built on death’s mystery.”

“And that troubles you.” Again, not a question. Quintus states facts like a general reviewing battlefield reports.

I don’t bother answering. He already knows.

Training continues for another hour—bodies moving through the familiar dance of attack and defense, muscle memory bridging the centuries between arena sand and modern techniques.

Physical exertion brings clarity. By the time we finish, my decision has crystallized.

The shower’s hot water—still a marvel after months in this century—washes away sweat but not certainty. If she’s here to turn us into entertainment, best to find that out before we let her any closer.

When I emerge, I hear voices rising in conflict near the compound’s main security station. Sulla stands with arms crossed. His perpetual scowl deepens as Laura attempts to moderate his approach.

“She’s been sitting there for hours,” Sulla argues, gesturing to the security monitors’ feed on his pad. It shows the red SUV. “It’s a security risk. I’m handling it my way.”

“Your way usually involves unnecessary intimidation,” Laura counters.

“We don’t need another incident with the press.”

The conversation halts as they notice my approach. Laura’s relief is evident.

“Lucius, perfect timing. There’s—”

“A woman in a red SUV at the gate. I know.”

Sulla’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Flavius ran her plates. Registered to a Rosemary Vaughn. Paranormal podcaster. Another vulture looking for content.”

“I’ll handle it.” Both Laura and Sulla register surprise, though in markedly different ways. Laura’s eyebrows rise in question, while Sulla’s expression darkens with skepticism.

“You?” Sulla scoffs. “Since when do you volunteer for visitor duty?”

“We’ve met.” No need to explain.

“She’s my problem to address.”

“You know her?” Laura asks, curiosity evident in her tone.

A nod serves as confirmation.

“Fine,” Sulla relents with clear reluctance. “But if she causes problems, I’m stepping in.” He stalks away, tension evident in every line of his body.

“Are you certain about this?” Laura’s concern is genuine. She has become protective of all of us since the sanctuary’s founding. “I can have someone else accompany you if—”

“No need.”

“At least take a translator.” The device is in Laura’s outstretched hand. Good, this will make our discussion easier. I won’t have to use my poor English to explain things like I did last night.

The walk to the main gate provides time to consider my approach. Raven clearly lacks patience, yet managed to wait several hours without attempting to breach security. Determination without recklessness. Interesting combination.

The red SUV sits exactly where Quintus described, parked just outside the sanctuary’s main entrance.

Raven is standing, leaning against the driver’s side door, thumbs moving rapidly over her phone’s screen.

She wears the same black attire as last night, though her jacket has been exchanged for a sleeveless top that reveals pale arms covered in symbolic tattoos.

A sugar skull on one shoulder. Three coins on the inside of her wrist. A bident silhouette on her shoulder—Pluto’s two-pronged spear, unlike Neptune’s three-pronged trident.

Images that speak of death’s domain in multiple cultures.

The morning sunlight catches her profile, illuminating features too striking to be conventionally beautiful yet compelling in their intensity. Something about the contrast between her dark attire and the vibrant hints of red at her roots draws attention in ways that feel… unexpected.

She doesn’t notice my approach until I’m nearly at the gate.

When she looks up, surprise and excitement flash across her features before being carefully schooled into professional composure.

“You’re here.” She tucks her phone away, a smile transforming her face. “I wasn’t sure I would see you again.”

I mime slipping the translator into my ear, then hand it to her. Once it’s in and she can understand me, I say, “Loitering on private property tends to eventually draw attention.”

“I prefer to think of it as persistent networking.” A smile touches her lips. “Besides, your security is impressive. I figured someone would eventually invite me in or chase me off.”

“Which were you hoping for?”

“The invitation, obviously.” She gestures toward her vehicle. “I brought coffee and those pastries from the bakery on Main Street as peace offerings. The cheese ones, not the sweet ones. You struck me as someone who prefers savory over sweet.”

She’s right, though I don’t know how she knew. Most modern people assume all Romans craved honeyed wine and sugared delicacies, ignorant of the sophistication of actual Roman cuisine.

“A gesture of goodwill,” she continues when I don’t immediately respond, “and an apology for trespassing last night. I got carried away when I found the cemetery. Professional hazard.”

Her directness is refreshing, even if caution suggests it may be calculated. “Why are you here, Raven? Beyond pastries and coffee.”

“Honestly?” She meets my gaze directly. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our conversation. About what you said regarding death marking those it touches.”

The Ouroboros tattoo winding around her left forearm catches the morning light as she pushes away from the SUV.

“Most people either dismiss my experience as a hallucination or treat it like some morbid party trick.” Her voice shifts into a mocking tone.

“‘Hey Raven, tell everyone about that time you died!’” She softens again.

“But you… you just acknowledged it. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

“Because it is.” The response comes without calculation. “Death’s touch is neither blessing nor curse. Merely reality.”

Something shifts in her expression—relief, perhaps.

Or recognition. “Exactly. That’s exactly it.

” She takes a step closer. “Look, I won’t pretend I don’t want to interview you for my podcast. I do.

Your perspective on ancient death rituals would be invaluable.

But that’s not the only reason I’m here. ”

“No?”

“No.” Her fingers tap a nervous rhythm against her thigh.

“I want to understand what I experienced. What I saw. For five years, I’ve been researching death traditions across cultures, trying to make sense of those three minutes.

But you’ve actually been there—on the other side of the veil.

Not just clinically dead, but serving in Pluto’s temple, professionally communing with those who have crossed over. ”

She seems sincere, though experience warns me to be careful.

Even in the short time I’ve walked this modern world, I’ve seen how easily people fake the truth.

But there’s something in her urgency that feels different.

The need to understand what lies beyond ordinary explanation, that part, at least, feels real.

“You said your podcast explores validation,” I observe neutrally. “Yours, or your audience’s?”

“Both, I hope.” She gestures toward a three-winged pendant hanging around her neck.

“This contains a lock of my grandmother’s hair.

Victorian mourning jewelry reproduction.

She was the only one who believed me after the accident.

” A wistful smile touches her lips. “Said some people get glimpses behind the veil. That it didn’t make me crazy—it made me a bridge. ”

“A bridge.” The concept aligns with certain temple teachings. “Between living and dead.”

“Exactly.” Her eyes light with something like hope. “That’s my goal with the podcast. A bridge. Not just entertainment for the morbidly curious, but genuine exploration of how different cultures understand the boundary between life and death.”

The passion in her voice carries conviction.

Yet the carefully constructed aesthetic—the dyed hair, the symbolic tattoos, the chosen name that matches her podcast logo—speaks of intentional branding as much as genuine spiritual exploration.

I’ve been awake in this century long enough to be able to identify these things.

“Please,” she continues when I remain silent. “Just one conversation. Doesn’t have to be recorded. Just… talk to me. Then, if you never want to see me again, I’ll respect that.”

Decision forms, not from her words, but from something deeper.

The memorial pendant. The desperate sincerity in her eyes.

The three-coin tattoo on the inside of her wrist—the exact payment required by Charon for passage across the Styx.

Not a detail many would know to incorporate into modern body art.

“One hour,” I concede finally. “Not here. Not recorded.”

Relief softens her features as she steps closer, placing her hand flat against my chest, as if to anchor herself to the rhythm of my heart. The touch is simple, but it sends a warmth through me—quiet, steady, and potent. Her nearness steadies me even as it stirs something deeper.

“Name the place. I’m free anytime.”

“The Ironwood Cemetery. Not the one we were at last night; it’s in town. I’ll answer some of your questions… but I expect you to speak about your own experiences. I’ll see you tonight. Midnight.”

Surprise flickers across her expression, followed swiftly by intrigue. “The town cemetery? Why there?”

“Neutral ground. And an appropriate setting for the conversation you seek.”

“Midnight at the cemetery.” A smile lights her features, revealing perfectly straight modern teeth behind blood-red lips. “How wonderfully on-brand for both of us.”

The term confuses me. “On-brand?”

“Sorry. Modern expression.” She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “It means consistent with one’s public image or identity.”

Her explanation only worries me more. If she views our meeting through the lens of performance and image, can anything genuine emerge from the conversation?

“Tonight, then.” She steps back toward her vehicle. “Thank you, Lucius. Seriously.”

“One condition, Rosemary.” The words emerge with temple authority. “Speak to me as yourself, not the mask you wear for others

She blinks, startled at the intimacy, her mask slipping just a little, revealing something more vulnerable beneath. Then composure returns, though not without effort.

“It’s just Raven now,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “Has been for years. But I take your point.” Her hand rises to the black hair with its hint of red roots. “I’ll leave the recording equipment behind.”

She seems to mean it—that “Raven” is who she is, not just a name for show. Maybe that’s true. Time will tell.

As she turns away, sunlight brushes the curve of her neck, the elegant line awakening a longing I haven’t known in millennia.

She slides into her car, then says, “Oh. I promised coffee and pastries. I keep my word.” With that, she passes me a paper cup and a white bag I assume is full of the food she brought.

Questions linger as the SUV pulls away. Is her quest for validation genuine, or is she merely seeking content for her audience?

Does she seek truth… or only echoes of what she already believes?

And why does her presence unnerve me so?

One part of me doubts her—another feels as if I’ve known her across lifetimes.

Caution pulls me back, yet something deeper draws me in.

This is not idle curiosity. It runs deeper. Older.

Perhaps midnight will bring answers—or at least reveal whether this modern woman, marked with death upon her skin, truly seeks the shadowed truths of the underworld… or merely wears its symbols for show.

The dead, after all, always reveal the truth in time.