Page 11 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

As I slip into the strange new clothes, something shifts inside me. It’s small, barely there, but it exists—a spark of hope, of possibility. Perhaps in this new world, with people like Skye, I can be more than what I was. Perhaps I can simply be… me. I’ll have to figure out who that is.

As I walk back to the atrium, another thought occurs to me. Skye has been working hard and it must be close to sixth hour. Perhaps I could bring us some food from the place Varro calls the “cafeteria.” It’s a small gesture, but it feels right. With a nod to myself, I change course, determined to return with food for us both.

Chapter Ten

Skye

I’m in the middle of debugging a stubborn piece of code when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I look up, and my breath catches in my throat. Thrax is walking toward me, and he looks different—in a good way. The makeshift loincloth is gone, replaced by modern clothes that do nothing to hide his incredible body.

The jeans he’s wearing are a bit too tight, showing off his muscular thighs and… impressive bulge. The t-shirt is just as sexy, hugging his broad chest and sculpted arms like a second skin. I try to keep my gaze on his face, but it’s a losing battle. He’s built like a Greek god—well, maybe a Roman god—all muscle and power; I can’t ignore how incredibly attractive he looks.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus.

“You look nice,” I manage to say after turning on the translation program.

Thrax’s gaze runs from mine, but I catch a small twitch of a smile playing on his lips. He holds up a tray piled high with food from the cafeteria. My eyes widen at the sheer volume.

“I didn’t know what you would like,” he explains through the translator. “Or what I would like.”

I can’t help but laugh. “How sweet. Hmm, what have we got here?”

We spread the food out on the picnic table. “It looks like you took a couple of helpings of everything.”

He gives me an abashed nod and avoids eye contact until I add, “Well done. You’ll figure out what you like and what you don’t.” There’s everything from salads to pasta to what looks like half the dessert counter. Thrax watches intently as I explain each dish, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“And this,” he says, holding up a small container filled with brownish liquid, “is amazing. I knew what it was the moment I smelled it. Garum. I dipped my finger in it. It tastes like home.”

I’ve eaten with Laura and Varro several times since I arrived and couldn’t help but notice that Varro puts the stuff oneverything.Laura caught my eye and snarked, “Only for the strong of heart with an iron stomach. Fermented fish sauce. If you feel compelled, try the tiniest drop…ifyou can bear the stench.”

One whiff and I responded, “No, thanks.”

Thrax pours a generous amount over his pasta and urges, “Try it.”

Although I resisted the peer pressure with Laura and Varro, I cave to Thrax’s request, dipping a tiny bit on my finger. I immediately shudder. It’s incredibly salty and fishy, with a fermented tang and an unpleasant aftertaste.

“You don’t like it?” Thrax’s eyebrows rise in genuine surprise.

I shake my head, trying to be polite. “It’s… I think it’s an acquired taste.”

He shrugs and proceeds to pour it over everything on his plate, even the slice of chocolate cake. I watch in horrified fascination as he eats, seemingly enjoying the disgusting combination. I vowed to myself days ago that I would honor the gladiators’ different cultures. But the old saying, “When in Rome,” does not now, nor will it ever, extend to garum.

“It helps with the things I don’t like,” he explains, noticing my expression. “Makes everything taste familiar.”

I nod, understanding dawning. Of course, everything must taste strange to him. This sauce, as unpalatable as it is to me, is a lifeline to his past.

As we eat, our conversation flows more easily than before. Thrax is curious about everything, asking questions about the food, the hospital, the world outside. I find myself laughing more than I have in ages, charmed by his earnest curiosity and occasional dry wit.

Finally, I gather my courage to ask something that’s been on my mind. “Thrax, why do you always look at the sky when you’re in the atrium?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I worry I’ve overstepped. But then he speaks, “Varro told me about flying machines called airplanes. I… I wanted to see one.”

If I’d known that earlier, I could have shown him pictures on my computer.

“I see your machine.” He dips his chin toward my computer. “And hear voices coming out of boxes. I see everything here is made perfectly, the angles sharp. Everyone’s clothes are of styles I’ve never seen before. The food even tastes different. But it occurred to me that if I saw a flying machine, it would make this stupid head of mine fully believe that it’s been two thousand years since I drowned in the icy sea.”

A sharp pang of pain darts to my heart at his words. What strikes me the hardest is his use of the word “stupid” to describe himself. After all the talking we did this morning, this, more than anything, reveals the man inside that amazing body. The saddest part? He doesn’t even realize that what he said exposed how he really thinks of himself. Quietly, I resolve to help change that belief.

I focus my attention on what he just revealed about still not quite believing he rested lifeless under the sea for two thousand years. My heart melts a little at his struggles with this new world. Ican’t imagine how overwhelming this must be for him. “I haven’t noticed airplanes flying overhead, but when I’m deep into my work, not much other than an earthquake could shake me,” I explain gently. “But I promise you, they’re real. Maybe we can watch some videos of them later?”

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