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

Chapter Five

R aven

The entrance to the Potosi mines looms before us like a gaping mouth in the hillside. Weathered timbers frame the opening, with a barely visible rusted sign warning, “DANGER - NO TRESPASSING.”

“How legitimate is our access to this place?” Lucius asks, his voice betraying no judgment, only practical concern.

“Semi-legitimate,” I admit. “I have permission from the historical society, just not for after-hours visits… with company.”

His lips quirk in what might be a smile, and my stomach does an unexpected flip. “Bending rules rather than breaking them,” he observes.

“I operate in gray areas.” The familiar pre-investigation excitement tightens my chest, though tonight it’s different—more electric with him beside me.

Lucius studies the dark opening, his unusual eyes reflecting the flashlight’s beam in a way that makes them appear almost luminous.

He’s dressed simply tonight—black jeans and a long-sleeved dark gray Henley that makes his pale skin seem to glow in the darkness.

The fabric stretches across his broad shoulders in a way that’s impossible not to notice.

I force my attention back to the mine entrance.

“Ready?” I ask, trying to sound more confident than I feel. Something about exploring with him makes this different from my usual investigations—like I’m being tested in ways that have nothing to do with capturing good content.

He nods, taking the extra flashlight I offer.

“Lead the way.” His words flow through the translation device.

The mine’s entrance gives way to a surprisingly well-preserved main tunnel.

The walls glisten wetly in our flashlight beams, veined with dark streaks of lead ore that seem to pulse in the shifting light.

The ceiling presses down, barely six feet high in places, forcing Lucius to duck his head occasionally.

The walls seem to close in with each step deeper, the weight of earth above us almost palpable.

My breathing grows shallow—not just from the thin air, but from the crushing sense of being buried alive.

The beam of my flashlight wavers slightly as my hand trembles, and I focus on Lucius’s steady presence beside me to combat the rising panic.

“These mines date back to the 1700s,” I explain, my voice automatically dropping. “They made Potosi one of the richest mining towns in Missouri—and one of the deadliest.”

“The worst disaster?” His question comes as his fingers trace a support beam warped under centuries of pressure.

“1856—a cave-in trapped nineteen men in the northern shaft. By the time rescuers reached them three weeks later, only three had survived.”

Lucius stops suddenly, his head tilting as though listening to something beyond my perception. “This path has witnessed much suffering.”

His simple statement sends a shiver down my spine. There’s no theatrical delivery, no dramatic flair—just calm certainty that somehow carries more weight than any performance could.

“Do you sense something specific?” I ask, feeling the urge to grab my audio recorder out of habit.

“Not yet. The meaning drifts like smoke.” He advances, unhindered by shadow. “In the depths, truth gathers form.”

The air grows thicker as we descend, each breath tasting of copper and time.

The darkness beyond our flashlight beams feels alive, hungry, and I fight the urge to turn back toward the distant promise of sky and open air.

Moisture beads on the stone walls, creating an oppressive humidity that makes my clothes stick to my skin.

Water seeps through my boots, cold as death against my skin. Our flashlight beams catch abandoned equipment—pickaxes rusted to a dark reddish-brown, the remains of a cart with wooden wheels half-rotted away, metal lanterns scattered recklessly in a pile.

“The north shaft should be ahead,” I say, consulting the rough map I’ve studied. “That’s where the 1856 disaster happened.”

Lucius pauses at a junction where our tunnel meets another. “This way,” he says with certainty, turning left down a passage I wouldn’t have chosen.

“How do you know?” But I follow without hesitation.

We move deeper. The tunnel narrows, the ceiling dropping even lower. Support beams groan ominously overhead, bowing under centuries of pressure.

My chest tightens as claustrophobia claws at the edges of my consciousness.

The walls seem to pulse inward with each heartbeat, and I have to resist the primitive urge to claw my way back to the surface.

When I visited before, I hadn’t gotten half this far.

Only Lucius’s calm presence keeps me moving forward.

A distant rumble makes us both freeze.

“Thunder?” I ask hopefully.

“Perhaps settling rock.” His voice stays calm, but his hand finds mine in the darkness, strong and surprisingly warm. “Stay close.”

Together, we navigate the increasingly claustrophobic passage until it opens into a larger chamber. My flashlight beam swings across collapsed rubble on one side—timbers splintered like matchsticks, massive rocks jumbled in what was once a passageway.

“The cave-in,” I whisper, my free hand rising instinctively to the memorial pendant at my throat.

Lucius releases my hand—I feel the loss immediately—and moves toward the ruined passage with deliberate steps. He crouches beside the debris, his fingers hovering just above the surface without touching.

“What do you feel?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I’m grateful for the translation device that lets us have such a personal conversation in the mine’s depths.

“Fear,” he says softly. “Confusion. The shock of sudden darkness.” His eyes close, face going perfectly still in concentration. “They didn’t die immediately. Not all of them.”

My chest tightens at his words. I’ve researched this disaster extensively—read the newspaper accounts, the survivor testimonies, the rescue attempts. But hearing him speak makes it immediate in a way no historical document ever could.

“Most of what lingers is… imprinted emotion.” His brow furrows. “The strongest remain—fear, desperation, resignation. Like echoes caught in stone.”

“Are they still here?” I ask. “The miners themselves?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Not as conscious entities. Just impressions. Moments frozen in time.”

“Can you… help them move on?” I’m not even sure what I’m asking, but it feels important.

Lucius reaches into his pocket and removes a small cloth pouch. Opening it carefully, he extracts what looks like herbs and a small vial of oil.

“What are you doing?”

“A simplified version of what we would have done in the temple.” He sprinkles the herbs over the rubble, then uncorks the vial. “Helping these impressions find their proper rest.”

His voice shifts, taking on a deeper, more formal cadence as he speaks in Latin.

Through my translator, I hear references to Pluto and peace, his words carrying a rhythmic quality like an ancient prayer.

The oil he drips onto the collapsed timbers carries a scent I can’t identify—something earthy yet sweet.

It’s nothing like the dramatic séances portrayed in movies.

No flickering candles or theatrical gestures.

Just a man speaking with quiet authority to something beyond ordinary perception.

Yet there’s an undeniable power to the simplicity of his ritual—a sense of rightness that makes the hairs on my arms rise.

The air in the chamber seems to lighten somehow, though I couldn’t explain exactly how. A subtle shift, like pressure equalizing after a change in altitude.

“Did it work?” I whisper when he falls silent.

“It’s not about success or failure.” He rises, pocketing the empty vial. “Just acknowledgment. Recognition that what happened here mattered.”

Something about his approach touches me deeply. In all my investigations, I’ve been focused on capturing evidence, on proving the existence of something beyond physical death. His perspective is entirely different—not about proof, but about respect.

“There’s something else I’d like to explore with you,” I say, surprising myself with the impulse. “It’s farther in. I didn’t have the courage to get this far alone, but… would you be willing to go with me?”

He follows without question as I lead us through another series of tunnels, deeper into the mine’s labyrinth. The path slopes downward, the walls closing in until we have to turn sideways to squeeze through a particularly narrow section.

“Just ahead,” I promise, hearing the strain in my own voice. The passage suddenly opens into a small chamber unlike the others. Our flashlights reveal crude carvings on the walls—initials, dates, simple crosses, and other symbols etched by miners’ tools.

“They called this the prayer room,” I explain. “When blasting or conditions became too dangerous, miners would come here to pray before continuing their work.”

Lucius moves to the nearest wall, his fingers tracing a simple cross etched beside the date 1832. “A sanctuary within darkness.”

“I thought… given your background…” I hesitate, suddenly unsure why I felt so compelled to bring him here. “This place has a different kind of energy than the collapse site. Almost peaceful, despite being so deep underground.”

He nods, continuing to examine the carvings with gentle fingertips. “Sacred spaces can form anywhere people bring genuine devotion. The specific deity matters less than the sincerity of the connection.”

“That’s what I’ve always believed,” I admit. “That’s why I’ve explored so many different traditions on my podcast—trying to find the common threads in how we all approach death and what might come after.”

His eyes find mine in the confined space, searching. “Yet you wrap this genuine quest in drama and entertainment.”

The observation stings, but I can’t deny its accuracy. “The packaging matters if I want people to listen. Nobody tunes in to watch some ordinary redhead talk about death philosophies. They want the whole goth experience—the look, the atmosphere, the intrigue.”