Page 16 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

Dr. Diaz settles into a chair, leaning forward with genuine interest. “Thrax, I’ve been wondering if you might be willing to help us understand more about daily life in your time. The staff here—we work with you, but we know so little about your world, your customs.”

Thrax straightens, interest flickering in his eyes. Though still reserved, he nods encouragingly.

“I had an idea,” she continues. “What if we organized a small gathering? A chance for you to share your culture with us? We could try to recreate some aspects of a Roman feast—the food, the atmosphere. It would help us understand your world better, and perhaps make you feel more at home.”

To my surprise, Thrax’s expression shows genuine interest. “You wish to learn of our customs?” he asks carefully.

“Very much so,” Dr. Diaz confirms. “And it could be helpful for when we revive the others. The more we understand about your time, the better we can help all of you adjust.”

I watch Thrax consider this, noting how his shoulders relax slightly at the mention of helping his fellow gladiators. “The food was… different then,” he offers. “The spices, the preparation…”

“Yes!” Dr. Diaz’s enthusiasm is infectious. “Perhaps you could guide our kitchen staff? Help them understand the authentic flavors?”

As they discuss various dishes and customs, I notice something subtle in Thrax’s demeanor—a slight tension in his jaw, a fleeting shadow in his eyes when certain topics arise. But his interest in sharing his knowledge seems genuine, particularly when Dr. Diaz asks about specific foods and traditions.

“It’s settled then,” Dr. Diaz says, clearly pleased. “A small cultural exchange. We’ll keep it intimate, just key staff members. Would you be comfortable with that, Thrax?”

He nods, though I catch a brief hesitation. “Yes, it could be… interesting.” His choice of words strikes me as careful, measured.

After Dr. Diaz leaves, I turn to Thrax. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? We don’t have to proceed if you’re not comfortable.”

He meets my gaze, and for a moment, I see a complexity of emotions. “It might be good,” he says slowly, “to share some things from my time. To help the people who work with us to understand… maybe even appreciate.” He pauses, then adds quietly, “To help them understand my brothers when they wake.”

Something in his tone makes me want to probe deeper, but before I can, he turns back to our work. “What is the next word you want me to pronounce?”

As we return to our task, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to his thoughts about the gathering than he’s letting on. But his desire to help his fellow gladiators seems to outweigh whatever reservations he might have.

I make a mental note to watch him carefully during the event, to be ready to support him if needed. For now, though, I follow his lead and focus on our work, letting the rhythm of Latin words fill the air between us once more.

Chapter Fifteen

Thrax

Every day, I feel more on edge about the party. I can’t quite put my finger on why the idea unsettles me. Perhaps it’s the memories of being left out of the raucous celebrations in the gladiator barracks, watching from the shadows as my comrades drank and joked. Or maybe it’s recalling the disappointment in the eyes of the women brought to entertain us on feast days, their gazes sliding past me to settle on the more handsome, less scarred men.

Despite my worries, I find myself caught up in Skye’s growing excitement. Her eyes sparkle when she describes the black toga she’s been sewing late into the night. I don’t have the heart to tell her that women wore stolas, not togas, or that black was the color of the lower classes. Her joy is too pure, too precious to tarnish with such unimportant corrections.

As I wait in my room, tying the knot on my loincloth, she knocks softly. Skye’s never looked so pretty as she stands in her handmade black stola.

My breath catches in my throat. She glows in a way that goes beyond the faults of her costume. Her gaze meets mine, and I wonder if she likes the way I look, although I’m only wearing theloincloth I made from a torn sheet, just as I wore in Rome two thousand years ago.

“You look…” I struggle to find the right words.

“Wait!” She holds up a finger for me to pause, then fiddles with what she’s told me is called her phone. Switching it on, she says, “I installed a version of my translation software on the phone. More convenient.”

When I say nothing, she gets an embarrassed smile as she says, “Go on. You were saying I look…?”

This woman wants to hear my praises? If I weren’t so dense, I would shower her with the prettiest words. The best I can do is say, “Pulchra.” Beautiful. I manage to spear her with my most sincere gaze, hoping it makes up for my pathetic answer.

Skye blushes, her eyes taking in my appearance. “You look amazing too,” she says softly. “So authentic. Like you’ve stepped right out of history.”

If only she knew how true that was. “This isn’t a costume for me. The loincloth is the only clothing I’ve known for most of my life. The idea of wearing a toga is as foreign to me as seeing a horse in human clothes.”

She nods in understanding with a last sweeping look that goes from my chest to my feet. When her gaze comes back to my face, she’s blushing. I’ve never liked being assessed, not by women or men. It usually meant someone was about to buy me, either for the night or to be part of their stable of gladiators. When Skye gives me that look, though, it makes me want to kiss her.

We walk together toward the cafeteria, chatting easily. Skye tells me about the decorations she’s heard about, her excitement so high it affects me, too. I allow myself to be swept up in her joy, to believe that this night might be fun.

But as we approach the cafeteria doors, a knot of unease tightens in my stomach. The sound of laughter andsyrinxmusic drifts out, along with the scent of food that smells promisingly familiar.

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