Page 45 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

As I get up and help with breakfast, I can’t help but marvel at how comfortable we’ve become with each other. The awkwardness from our argument two months ago has long since faded, replaced by an easy friendship that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Varro observes as we sit down to eat. “Everything okay?”

I nod, taking a bite of yesterday’s rabbit stew. He’s terrific with the spear he created with a diving knife fasted to a straight tree limb. Without him, I imagine I would have already starved to death. “Just thinking. Do you realize it’s been three months since… well, since we ended up here?”

Varro’s expression softens. “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right. Time flies when you’re having fun, eh?”

My chest bursts with pride at his use of modern slang. If it weren’t for the stab and slash wounds all over his body and his penchant for walking around in nothing but a loincloth made out of a torn sheet, he might be mistaken for someone born in this millennia.

“Yeah, something like that. Actually…” I hesitate, suddenly feeling nervous. “I’ve been keeping track of the date. It’s December 24th. Christmas Eve.”

Varro’s eyebrows shoot up. “Christmas? That’s the big winter holiday you told me about, right? With the trees and the presents?”

“That’s the one,” I confirm, impressed that he remembers. “I know we can’t exactly have a traditional celebration, but I thought maybe we could do something small. If you want to, that is.”

To my surprise, Varro looks almost… shy? He rubs the back of his neck, a habit I’ve come to recognize is a sign of nerves. “Actually,” he says slowly, “I’ve been preparing for Saturnalia. I didn’t know the exact date, but I knew it was around this time of year.”

My heart swells with affection. “Varro, that’s… that’s really sweet. Why didn’t you say anything?” Actually, I feel like a jerk for not mentioning it. I know that Saturnalia was celebrated around December 23rd.

He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “I wanted it to be a surprise. And I wasn’t sure if you’d want to celebrate a Roman holiday.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do! We did it every year in my high school Latin class. The modern festival is actually a mix of loads of different pagan festivals, the Saturnalia included. We can combine them. A Chrismurnalia extravaganza!”

Varro laughs, the sound warm and rich. “Chrismurnalia? I like it. So, what should we do first?”

We spend the morning decorating our little cottage using pine boughs and holly we gather from the surrounding forest. What I assume are poisonous red berries give the cottage a pop of color. I tie sprigs of them onto rags from old clothing and make bunting. Mistletoe from the wooded patch behind the house was tempting, but it stayed outside—there’s no need for another awkward conversation.

Varro tells me about Saturnalia traditions—the role reversals where the masters served the slaves, the feasts, the gift-giving—while I explain Christmas customs. It’s a fascinating blend of old and new, and I find myself wishing I could show my old archaeology professors this unique cultural exchange.

As we work, I notice how freely Varro smiles now, how openly he shares his thoughts and memories. It’s a far cry from the guarded, haunted man I first met. The nightmares that used to wake him (and me) almost nightly have become less frequent. I can’t remember the last time I heard him cry out in his sleep. He’s healing, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves a peaceful life more than him.

“What are you thinking about?” Varro asks, catching me staring.

I blink, realizing I’ve been lost in thought. “Just… how different things are now. How different you are from when we met.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Different how?”

I gesture vaguely. “You’re more… open. Relaxed. You smile more. And you hardly have nightmares anymore.”

Varro’s expression turns thoughtful. “I hadn’t noticed,” he admits. “But you’re right. I feel… lighter, I suppose. Like some of the weight I’ve been carrying has lifted.”

“I’m glad.” My tone is soft and sincere: I mean it with every fiber of my being.

We lapse into comfortable silence as we finish decorating. Finally, Varro steps back, admiring our handiwork. “Not bad,” he declares. “Now, I believe it’s time for the feast!”

Our “feast” consists of our fish stew—note to self, eating nothing but fish and rabbit does not merit daily thoughts of jumping off a cliff. As a nod to the celebration, we throw in the last of our canned vegetables to make it special. As Varro stirs the pot, he suddenly grins. “Oh, I almost forgot! The garum is ready!”

I groan dramatically, but I can’t hide my smile. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.” Althoughno oneis nose blind enough to forget about the caustic stew brewing just outside our door.

It wasn’t long after Varro made the garum mixture that he realized the sun wasn’t going to be hot enough to promote the fermentation as the outside temperatures continued to drop. He built a stone oven just outside the door, keeping the small fire stoked beneath the stones that enclosed the pottery in the chamber above. Not that I was invested in the garum, but I was happy to find the enclosure helped contain the smell.

“Forget my garum? Never.” His voice is solemn, but his eyes are twinkling. “Come on, it’ll be delicious. Trust me.”

To my surprise, it’s… not terrible. Strong, certainly, and unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. But there’s a depth of flavor that’s actually quite interesting. “Okay,” I admit grudgingly, “I can see why you Romans put this stuff on everything.”

Varro beams, looking so proud that I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn him. “I still prefer ketchup.”

After dinner, we exchange gifts. I’ve been working on mine in secret for weeks, stealing moments when Varro was out fishing, hunting, or gathering firewood (or watering the cucumbers). When I hand him the carefully wrapped package (okay, it’s just some leaves tied with flexible reeds, but I did my best), his face lights up like a child’s.

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