Page 2 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

Chapter Two

Nicole

The GPS announces my arrival at Second Chance Sanctuary with the same bland efficiency it once used to direct me to soccer practices and PTA meetings. Only this time, instead of sticky minivans and juice boxes, I’m staring at gates tall enough to keep dinosaurs at bay.

Steel bars, cameras, and a checkpoint that looks like it could repel a Roman legion. Suburban mom drop-off, this is not.

My pulse skitters. “Holy shit.” I’m talking to myself now, apparently. But really, what else do you say when there are actual Roman gladiators walking around like it’s just another Tuesday?

I roll down my window as a guard approaches. Not a gladiator, thank God—no armor, no plumed helmet, no loincloth. Just khakis, a polo, and a Missouri drawl that feels a little like a hug.

“First time here?” His eyes are kind but sharp, like he could spot trouble before it took its first breath.

“Yes,” I admit. “And wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.” The words slip out before I can paste on a brave smile.

He grins. “That feeling passes. By week two, you’ll feel like you belong. Just follow the main road to the big log building—reception. You can’t miss it.”

I thank him and drive through, trying not to gape like a tourist.

The compound stretches across the Missouri countryside like something out of a movie: training yards full of muscle-bound men moving with fluid precision, the clang of metal on metal ringing across the air.

No amount of news clips or documentaries could’ve prepared me for this.

These aren’t pixels on a screen—they’re men, alive, breathing, and impossibly real.

Horses snort from the stables, hay mingling with leather, sweat, and something else I can’t name—like sunlight and stubborn will.

I park and grip the steering wheel, frozen in place.

Out on the yard, a red-haired giant demonstrates a sword technique to a cluster of gawking visitors.

His blade cuts through the air so smoothly it looks choreographed.

His booming laugh ricochets off the timbered walls.

Beside him, a dark-haired man in jeans strolls past with a tablet, his brow furrowed in concentration.

A gladiator reading email? My brain short-circuits.

The disconnect is staggering.

A knock on my window startles me. A cheerful woman in a staff polo waves me toward reception. I fumble out of the car, still half in disbelief.

Inside, the reception building surprises me with warmth: cushioned chairs, rustic beams, walls lined with framed photos—some ancient artifacts, some glossy shots of gladiators in modern dress. The mix makes my head spin.

“Welcome!” The woman behind the desk is about my age, with a smile so genuine it lowers my shoulders two inches. “You here for the women’s self-defense intensive?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Every woman who walks in has the same look.” She leans conspiratorially over the counter. “Half terror, half excitement, one hundred percent convinced you’ve lost your mind.”

She’s not wrong.

“I’m Janet.”

“Nicole Thompson.”

She taps on her computer. “You’re in for four weeks of sweat, bruises, and breakthroughs.”

“Bruises?” I echo.

She winks. “The good kind. We don’t let anyone break.”

Her words settle my nerves more than a dozen deep breaths.

“Before you head to orientation, want the quick history?”

“Yes, please.”

She gestures me toward a wall of framed clippings and points to a photo of a woman in field gear beside a square-jawed man with a steady gaze. The headline reads: “Dr. Laura Turner and Varro Announce Sanctuary Expansion.”

“About a year ago, Dr. Laura Turner’s expedition pulled what she thought were shipwreck victims out of Norwegian ice,” Janet says. “Not sailors. Gladiators. The first to breathe again was Varro. He and Laura run this place.”

Another frame shows a young woman grinning beside a mountain of a man. It’s titled NextGenTech Engineer, Gladiator, Share Translation Breakthrough.

“That’s Skye and Thrax,” Janet adds. “Skye built our translator tech.” She produces a slim charging case and flips it open to reveal minimalist earbuds. “Pop one in and you’ll understand them, and they’ll understand you.”

My throat goes dry. Documentaries didn’t prepare me for the intimacy of slipping ancient voices directly into my ear. This isn’t just history—it’s personal now.

She sweeps a hand over a photo collage: Cassius guiding a skittish teen in a riding arena, Victor and Maya demonstrating a hold in the gym, Lucius hooded in a classroom of underworld symbols.

“We’re an educational center now—workshops, school groups, consultations. Some fees, a lot of grants through Dara Hobson’s foundation. Oh, and chefs lose their minds over our garum—Fortuna’s Gold.”

“Ancient Roman fish sauce,” I say before I can stop myself.

Janet laughs. “Exactly. Orientation with Maya starts in five. Map and schedule are in your folder.”

The orientation room holds about fifteen other women, and I’m relieved to notice I’m not the oldest or the most out of shape. There’s a mix of ages and body types, but we all have that same shell-shocked look—people who’ve decided to change everything and actually showed up to make it happen.

“Welcome to Second Chance Sanctuary,” says our instructor, a compact woman in her late twenties. She has calloused hands, a stance like a fighter, and doesn’t waste motion. “I’m Maya Andrews, and I’ll be leading your group for the next four weeks.”

Her voice is steady, no fluff. “Before we start, I want to be clear about something: this isn’t about learning to hurt people. It’s about reclaiming your right to take up space in the world.”

Although those words have been circling in my head lately, hearing them aloud sends a zing of validation through me.

“Our gladiator instructors will teach you techniques that literally kept them alive in mortal combat, but they are adapted for modern self-defense. You’ll learn to move with confidence, to project strength, and to trust your instincts.

Most importantly, you’ll learn that you have the right to say no and mean it. ”

A woman next to me—maybe thirty, with nervous energy radiating from every pore—raises her hand.

“Are we actually going to spar with gladiators?”Maya’s smile is reassuring.

“You’ll work with them, yes, but they’re incredibly skilled at gauging their partner’s ability level.

These men understand survival, and they understand that true strength comes from lifting others up, not tearing them down. ”

We spend the next hour going through logistics, safety protocols, and program expectations.

The schedule is intense but manageable: morning self-defense training, afternoon activities like therapeutic riding or crafts workshops, and community meals in the evening.

Rotation includes horse work with Cassius and Diana, conditioning with Victor and staff, and a craft block Thrax helps run.

“Any questions before we head to your quarters?”

I raise my hand, feeling like the new kid at school. “The gladiators—do they all speak English now?”

“Many are functionally fluent, though most still use translation devices for complex conversations. Don’t worry—they’re remarkably patient with communication barriers.

They understand what it’s like to navigate an unfamiliar world.

And yes—wear your bud anytime you’re in public. Saves a lot of charades.”

As our group walks toward the guest barracks, I catch glimpses of daily life at the sanctuary.

The red-haired giant I saw earlier is now working with a group of children, his booming laugh making everyone within earshot smile.

He’s younger than me by at least a decade, and enthusiasm pours off him like sunlight.

“That’s Flavius,” says the woman walking beside me. She introduces herself as Diane, a teacher from Kansas City going through a divorce. “I did some research before coming. He’s supposedly the youngest of the group and the most… gregarious.”

Gregarious is a good word for it. Even from a distance, his energy is magnetic. Safe crush material—harmless fantasy territory.

I spot another gladiator near the stables—older, deliberate in the way he handles the equipment.

There’s a calm solidity to him, like the still center of a storm.

He tests a gate hinge, checks it twice, and nods with quiet satisfaction before moving on.

The steady competence in his movements fascinates me.

Laughter from Flavius’s circle pulls my gaze away; when I look back, the older man has moved on.

My quarters are small but private—a single room with an attached bathroom and a window overlooking the training yards. No shared bathroom schedules, no negotiations about temperature or lighting. Just mine.

I text Ava: Room is perfect. Small but private. Can see the training yards from window.

MOM! Are you checking them out?

I’m observing. For educational purposes.

Sure you are. Any cute ones?

I glance out the window where Flavius is still entertaining the kids with dramatic gestures in what looks like an elaborate story.

Perhaps an interesting prospect. But I’m here to work on myself.

Work on yourself AND be open to possibilities. You’re allowed to want both.

Am I? The concept still feels foreign. Twenty-five years with Brad trained me to call my wants selfish and impractical.

But maybe Ava’s right. Maybe I’m allowed to want more than just safety and independence. Maybe I’m allowed to want connection too.

I unpack my suitcase and lay out my clothes for tomorrow’s first training session. Sports bra, moisture-wicking t-shirt, yoga pants that actually fit my body instead of hiding it. Small rebellions that add up to a revolution.

Dinner is in the communal hall, and the atmosphere is surprisingly relaxed.

The gladiators eat with everyone else, and while they’re clearly the center of attention, they handle it with grace.

Flavius holds court at one table, regaling listeners with what sounds like an epic tale involving considerable embellishment. His audience hangs on every word.

The other gladiators are scattered throughout the room, but my attention keeps drifting back to Flavius’s table, where his animated storytelling has everyone completely captivated.

At another table sits a lean, hard-faced man whose angry vibe makes others give him a wide berth—this must be Sulla, the former ludus master people whispered about in online reviews—half gossip, half warning.

“Mind if I sit?”

I look up to find one of my fellow participants—a woman about my daughter’s age with short dark hair and kind eyes. “Please. I’m still processing that this is all real.”

“I’m Jessica. Librarian from Columbia. You?”

“Nicole. I’m working on my nonprofit management degree. Just dropped my youngest at college and decided to do something completely outside my comfort zone.”

“This definitely qualifies.” Jessica nods toward the gladiators’ tables. “I keep expecting someone to yell ‘cut’ and reveal this is all an elaborate movie set.”

But it’s not. These men are real, their stories are real, and somehow I’m sitting in their dining hall about to learn defense techniques that kept them alive in mortal combat.

“Also,” Jessica adds, “is it true they sell fish sauce?”

“Fortuna’s Gold,” I say. “Chefs go wild for it. Between that, workshops, and grants from Dara Hobson’s foundation—this place runs like a community, not a tourist trap.”

Jessica whistles. “Found family,” she says. I find myself nodding.

Halfway through the meal, a hush moves like wind through tall grass.

The older man from the stables stands to adjust a buzzing light fixture.

He pulls a small screwdriver from his pocket, makes two quick turns, and the hum dies.

A few people clap softly; he dips his head and answers a question I can’t hear—his voice carrying warm and steady over the clatter, though I can’t make out what he’s saying.

I register the calm in it, unexpected for a man his size, and then look back to my plate.

“Who’s that?” Jessica asks under her breath.

I realize I’m leaning to listen and sit back. “No idea,” I say too briskly, and stab a carrot. “I’m here to train.”

Jessica’s mouth quirks. “Sure.”

Later, in my cabin, I crack the window to hear crickets and the clang of distant steel on a practice post. I set an alarm, set out my translator bud like a talisman, and then meet my own eyes in the mirror as I say, “I belong here.”

Tomorrow I’ll learn where to put my feet and how to hold my hands. I’ll learn to take up space with my body before I can do it with my voice.

I came here to grow stronger, not to flirt. Whatever else happens here, my focus has to stay on me.

Tomorrow, I won’t just learn to fight. I’ll learn why I’m worth fighting for.