Page 14 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Just as soon as I have that thought, I realize that if he wants to kill me, he’ll do it whether he’s two feet away in my tiny tent or in the men’s tent across the compound from my room. There’s no way to be safe, not really. But even as that chilling thought settles in my mind, I know I can’t just leave him to die.

Fortuna’s words circle in my mind. “Be brave. Be compassionate. And above all, be open to the possibilities that lie ahead.”

Although I’ve never been given to flights of fancy, for some reason I take those words to heart.

I return to my tent and assess the space. There’s enough room for two beds with a few inches of space between them.

Despite Garrison being a notorious miser, he bought us all decent beds.

The bottom platform is like a rectangular canoe with thick Bungie-like cords crisscrossing the top. The self-inflating mattress lies on top of that, giving a cushy sleep experience. Because the bottom component is empty, it’s a great place to stash gear without cluttering my small living space.

I move my bed out of the tent to allow me more room to make up the second bed. Back in the men’s tent, I check on my Roman. He’s still cold but his heart is steady and sois his breathing. I haul a mattress and frame into my tent, then place an open sleeping bag on top. My little tent is now ready for its new occupant.

After allowing myself a two-minute break to devour a protein bar and guzzle some water, I give myself a quick pep talk. I’m going to try this, but I’m not stupid. I stride to Tony’s mechanical area and rummage by lantern light until I find some rope. If the iceman even hints that he’s going to hurt me again, I’ll tie him up so fast he won’t know what hit him.

Back in the men’s tent, I summon all my strength, tighten my grip on the rope attached to the front of the skid, and pull.

The skid inches forward slowly. Sweat beads on my brow, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I drag it across the floor, inch by painstaking inch.

It feels like an eternity before I travel through the large common area to reach the entrance to my tent. My arms tremble with exertion, but I don’t pause, knowing that if I stop now, I may not have the strength to start again.

After maneuvering the skid beside the bed, which is slightly lower than the skid, I gently roll the iceman onto the open sleeping bag, which I zip around his still, naked form.

After gently tucking another sleeping bag around him, I take his pulse. His heartbeat is slow, steady, and strong, but his skin is still cold and his lips still have a blue tinge.

Later, I’ll try to figure out how this man isn’t just a two-thousand-year-old rotting carcass. Right now, all I know is that he still needs my body heat.

I pause, trying to convince myself that this time when he awakens, he’ll know I mean him no harm and he won’t try to hurt me. After pushing the skid back into the main room, I retrieve my bed and butt it next to his, then zip the doorway closed. Finally, I pull on my flannel pajamas and settle in beside him under my sleeping bag, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest and the flicker of life beneath his eyelids. Is he dreaming?

I tell myself I’m just doing what any decent human being would do, that I’m not actually risking my life for a man who may very well be a murderer.

But as the hours stretch on and exhaustion tugs at my limbs, I realize something else. Not once, in all the chaos and confusion, did I ever consider killing him to keep myself safe.

I’m a bookish, driven person who has always prioritized achievements over relationships. Even my parents stopped asking about my dating status or plans for children. If you asked my friends to describe me, “warm” would not be a word they would use.

The fact that it never crossed my mind to kill this man, even to potentially save my own life, makes me feel a bit better about myself. Besides, if I don’t find more food and fuel soon, my date of death will arrive sooner than I’d like. And now, if he survives, I’m going to have to find a way to feed him or he’ll revive only to die for real in a matter of weeks.

Chapter Fourteen

Marcus Fabius Varro

With Domina’s cloying scent in my nostrils and my back against the wall, I realize the folly of my actions. I have nowhere to go, and despite the two men I killed, there are a dozen more guards on the grounds. Just what, exactly, did I think this would accomplish other than bringing about my early death?

As my heart pounds against my ribs, my eyes wide in panic, Gracchus breaks the shocked silence—with a laugh. It’s a deep guffaw, so enthusiastic that his corpulent body shakes with mirth. Mirth? Two men are lying in a lake of blood. Their heads, completely severed, have rolled a few feet away and are creating their own smaller pools of blood.

Gracchus set the tone for the room, and now most of the others are laughing, though their glee doesn’t seem as genuine as his. I’m still slashing at thin air, afraid to plunge the sword into my chest and fearful of setting it down.

Gracchus calls for more guards and now the room is almost bursting with men angry at me for killing their comrades. The captain of the guard steps toward me with his sword ready to engage. I’m still clutching my sword, even though I know he can disarm and kill me in the blink of an eye.

Gracchus’s commanding, “Halt!” stops him in mid-step. Sitting back, his arms across his barrel chest, he still has a smile plastered across his face.

“I thought you were best suited as a bedslave. It appears I was wrong.”

My mind had been pinpoint-focused on killing and escaping, but now my attention widens as I take in the big picture, starting with the awareness that I’m still nude.

Gracchus rubs his rotund belly with one hand as he strokes his chin with his other.

“I decree that you, Varro, will henceforth be known as Marcus Fabius Varro and considered of my lineage, though I’ll be selling you immediately to train as a gladiator. You’ve proven you have a taste for death and the ballsto wield a sword against your foes. I consider myself lucky to still have my head.” He chuckles as though it’s hilarious that he’s lain with me and fucked me raw and had the good luck to live to tell the tale. “Varro, you have one minute to drop the sword, or I’ll have to tell these men to kill you.” All humor has drained from his face. He’s serious.

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