Page 69 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

I find a jeweler willing to melt down our coins, no questions asked. Google Translate is my friend, helping me negotiate the ‘off the books’ deal. The raw gold feels like a fresh start. Unburdened by its ancient history, it will provide the means to pursue our next steps.

The jeweler willing to smelt our gold knew a guy who forged a passport for Varro. That’s a relief. It was one of my biggest worries.

Through it all, Varro remains a constant source of strength, even as he grapples with the shock of modern life. His eyes light up at new discoveries—electricity, television, automatic doors that open when you approach—but I can see the underlying stress in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” I tell him one night as we sit in our hotel room, the muted sounds of the city filtering through the window. “This is a lot to take in.”

I wonder if Varro will act macho and deny how much he’s struggling. To my surprise, he nods, running a hand through his newly shorn hair. “Yes, so many new things. I feel… lost. Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

My heart aches at his words. “You belong with me,” I say firmly, taking his hands in mine. The words feel so right on my lips. Varro belongs with me. It’s as though he traveled through time to meet me. All the rest are just details waiting to be sorted out. “We’ll figure this out together.”

As we settle into bed, my mind races with plans. I called Garrison’s home to speak with him, not divulging who I was. His wife informed me he hasn’t contacted her in over six months. She presumed he was lost at sea. A quick Google investigation confirms that a search was carried out but was too hampered by the storms to find any wreckage.

I’m convinced the helicopter went down on the trip from the island to the mainland. The weather was terrible; the copter was overloaded. It should have never flown with the wind gusting like that.

Part of me wants to tick off the next item on my endless to-do list and put thoughts of Garrison and the other men behindme. Instead, I close my eyes and allow myself to experience my emotions. I fast forward through the moments when they flew away in that helicopter, Garrison practically pulling my fingers off the metal handhold.

Then I recall those terrifying days of rationing my food and fuel supplies and believing there would be a day I would simply freeze or starve to death—alone, with no one to even dig my grave. How many times did I curse that man?

Yet, I take a moment to mourn and say a prayer for him and the men who went down in that cold sea with him. Garrison was heartless and the others could have lobbied harder for me to get onto the helicopter, but being stranded on that island not only saved my life, it brought me love.

I remember the warm feeling of the Goddess Fortuna joining me in my tent, promising me that the Wheel of Fortune keeps turning and you never know what’s coming next. Whether it was real or a dream, her words were true.

One night after we’d professed our love, as we held each other in bed, I told Varro about her visit. “I’m not sure whether it was real or a dream, but I’m positive she was telling me about you.”

Varro’s eyes lit up at the mention of Fortuna. “We should honor her,” he said, his voice filled with reverence. “She brought us together across time itself.”

The next day, Varro created a small shrine in the corner of our cottage. He carefully selected a flat stone from near the stream to serve as the base. With painstaking care, he used some of Tony’s tools to carve a crude likeness of Fortuna’s wheel into a piece of driftwood.

I watched, fascinated, as he arranged small treasures we’d found on the island—pretty shells, unusual pebbles, a bird’s feather—around the carved wheel. He even wove some dried flowers into a small wreath to adorn the shrine.

“In Rome, we would have offered fruit or wine,” Varro explained as he worked. “But I think Fortuna will understand our circumstances.”

When he finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. The shrine was simple but beautiful, a testament to Varro’s devotion and gratitude.

“Fortuna,” Varro intoned solemnly, “thank you for guiding Laura to me, and bringing me through time to find Laura. Thank you for giving us this chance at happiness. We honor you and ask for your continued blessings.”

As I listened to Varro’s heartfelt words, I was struck by how seamlessly he blended his ancient beliefs with our new reality. I’m still a Catholic, but I think I’ll always want a shrine to Fortuna in any home I share with Varro.

My thoughts return to reality and I consider my next steps. I’ll need to find a boat equipped with sonar and an experienced diving crew to search for the wreck. If Garrison and the others didn’t make it, their families deserve to know what happened to them. And, selfishly, I need closure on that chapter of my life, too. Perhaps it will allow me to release the anger I’ve nursed since they abandoned me on the island. Plus, I need the gold so I can search for the other half of theFortuna.

But that’s a problem for tomorrow. For now, I focus on Varro’s warmth beside me and his chest’s steady rise and fall. We’ve survived the impossible—a two-thousand-year gap, a deserted island, a violent attack. Whatever comes next, I know we can handle it.

With that thought, I drift off, dreaming of ancient Rome and modern skyscrapers, of gladiators and cell phones, of a love that transcends time itself.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Marcus Fabius Varro

The candlelight flickers, casting a warm glow across Laura’s face as we sit in a cozy corner of the restaurant. My heart races, not from the unfamiliar surroundings, but from the sheer beauty of the woman across from me. This “date,” as Laura calls it, is my attempt to navigate the strange customs of courtship in this bewildering new world.

“Is this… acceptable?” I ask, gesturing to the table I’ve just led her to, after carefully pulling out her chair as she instructed earlier.

Laura’s smile is radiant. “It’s perfect, Varro. You’re doing great.”

Her reassurance washes over me, easing some of the tension in my shoulders. Since arriving in this future world, Laura has been my anchor, my guide through a sea of strangeness. Every question, no matter how simple, is met with patience and understanding.

I glance down at my new attire—a crisp shirt and what Laura calls “slacks”—part of my recent “makeover.” The clothing feels foreign against my skin, a constant reminder of how out of place I am. Yet Laura’s approving gaze makes me stand a little taller.

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