Page 15 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

I’m a slave who only minutes ago was willing to die rather than have my body used against my will. Become a gladiator? Be trained to die gloriously, with honor in the arena? That sounds better than being slain in this dining room.

My eyes pop open to find I’m in that odd room I awakened in before. No. The white ceiling and walls are the same odd, opaque cloth, but this room is different. It’s smaller and not as cold.

When I turn my head, I notice the woman who climbed on me is now lying by my side. I reach down and find my loincloth is off. Idly, I wonder what drug she gave me to addle my thoughts and what she did to my body as I slept. The thought of strangling her pops into my mind, but that might be too good for her. Turning on my side to contemplate how to make her pay takes monumental effort, just underscoring how many drugs she must have slipped into my drink.

I’m confused. My thoughts are hazy. One of the last things I remember is the storm that pushed the boat bound for Brittania so far north we hit catastrophic weather. I watch my memories float: jumbled fragments from Hispania, Gracchus’spalatium, theluduswhere I trained and fed and grew muscular and strong. Then I cry out as I recall the lightning strike, the ship cracking in two, and the swift plunge into the icy depths where I thought I met my death.

The woman turns to me, eyes wide as she asks a question in that strange language. She presses her palm against my forehead, and although it’s a chaste touch, I shake my head to get her flesh off mine.

“Are you okay?” she asks in stilted Latin. When I don’t deign to respond, she says, “You cried out. What hurts?”

“I am unharmed.”

“Wiggle your fingers.”

Who is she to give orders to Marcus Fabius Varro? And why do I comply?

“Good.” She sounds relieved. “I worried about frostbite.” She sits up, turning slightly to her other side. There is an odd metallic whir as she follows the sound to the bottom of this strange thick cover. She lifts it to expose my feet and says, “Wiggle your toes.”

Although I don’t know what her game is, I play along.

“Good. Hungry?”

I’m starved, so I nod.

She rises and I note that although I suspect she took her pleasure with my body after drugging me last night, she’s wearing an odd tunic that falls past her knees. She pulls on a long, thick coat and shoves her feet into boots, then slides her hand in an arc. The action makes a continuous clicking sound similar to what she made in the bed and an entrance magically opens. It seems she performs the same action on the other side, because now I’m closed into this odd room again.

I only need to sit up to realize I won’t be following her, and I probably won’t be killing her today. I’m too weak to stand.

Perhaps I drowsed because she returns with food, fragrant with the smell of basil and oregano.

“Pizza.” She points to the square of bread covered with sausage and cheese.

I take one bite and toss the plate onto the blanket. “This is food? Not only did you drug me, but now you’re trying to poison me?”

She brought what looks like water in an odd container, not made of metal or glass.

“Water?” I ask warily. If she gave me food that isn’t food, perhaps this is water that isn’t water.

“Water.” She offers it to me, then snatches the square she gave me to eat and practically inhales it.

“How can you eat that?” It tasted like sewage, but now I realize I might have hurt her feelings. Why I care, I can’t fathom.

She hands me a cup of peaches and a spoon made of some white material I’ve never seen before. They don’t exactly taste like peaches and are entirely too sweet, but I’m starving. Besides, I don’t want to sound ungrateful.

“Food is scarce. I’ve been rationing,” she says between bites of the bready thing, eating every crumb. “This is the best-tasting thing in the pantry. If you didn’t like this, you’re definitely not going to like the rest of what I’ve got to offer.”

She eats like she’s starving, says it’s the best thing she has. Why would my new owner offer me food before she has enough to eat?

Perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll wake up in a world I understand.

Chapter Fifteen

Laura

I didn’t get much sleep last night. In addition to the iceman’s panicked shouts from nightmares every few hours, I did a lot of tossing and turning, worrying that he would wake up and decide to strangle me again. Not to mention my concerns about how to tell him he’s two thousand years old.

That pizza I handed him was from one of our last MREs. I’d been saving it. Tony, our mechanic, had been in the Army years ago and said the pizza variety was the holy grail of MREs. He used the tone of voice normally reserved for describing a lover.

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