Page 3 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

The woman smiled like she knew something we didn’t. “Just a simple libation, good sir. To ensure safe passage across treacherous waters.”

“How much?” Sulla asked.

When she named her price, Sulla nodded, which surprised me. Slave masters are seldom generous.

“Very well. A round for my men, then. Can’t have them dying before they make me a profit in Britannia.” He brayed with laughter at his own joke.

The woman pulled out a cup and a jug from her basket. The drink looked strange, catching the light in an odd, swirling manner as she poured.

“What is that?” the red-headed man next to me whispered. All I could do was shrug as I watched Sulla drink.

He made a face and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Drink if you want men, but it tastes like horse piss.”

As she moved down our line, I studied her. Might be the last woman I saw before I died at sea. She was tall and thin, with strange tattoos on her neck. Her dark curly hair was pinned up, but one long braid hung down her back.

When she handed me the cup, our eyes met. They changed color in the sun, like magic. Something in the way she looked at me sent a chill down my back.

“Drink deep,” she said softly, pushing the cup into my hands. “May the gods watch over you. Safe journey from Goddess Fortuna.”

The drink felt cool in my dry throat. Not bad, like Sulla said. Sweet at first, then bitter after. As Iswallowed, warmth spread through me, and for the first time since hearing about this trip, the fear in my gut eased a bit.

Halfway to Britannia, storms pounded our ship, driving us far off course. For weeks we fought the elements, each day colder than the last. The men grew restless, hope dwindling as quickly as our supplies.

Then came that final, terrible night. The crack of splintering wood. Icy water rushed in, stealing the air from my lungs. TheFortuna, our cursed vessel, broke apart beneath us.

Varro’s voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. “Hold on! Don’t let go, no matter what!”

I remember grabbing onto him, onto others—Cassius? Victor?—trying to keep them afloat. The names slip away like water through my fingers. Though the merciless sea battered us, we tried to cling to each other, fighting to keep our heads above the churning waves.

The cold stole our breath, numbed our limbs, and clouded our thoughts. One by one, the others slipped away into the inky depths despite my attempts to keep them afloat. Their cries haunt me still, fading into the roar of the wind and waves.

In those final moments, a strange calm settled over me. Death was no stranger; I’d faced it countless times in the arena. But this felt different. There was no crowd baying for blood, no opponent to best. Just the vast, heartless sea.

Now, drifting in this twilight state between life and death, I wonder if the Gods had some crueler fate in store. Perhaps this is my punishment—to relive those final moments for eternity, trapped in a prison of ice and memory.

A new awareness breaks through the numbness—my fingertips are tingling, the odd sensation slowly spreading up my arms. It’s almost painful, like thousands of tiny needles pricking my skin. But it’s also… warm?

Confusion wars with suspicion. Is this some new torment?

With monumental effort, I force my eyes open. Blinding light assaults me, and I squeeze my lids shut with a groan. The sound that escapes my throat is ragged, strange to my ears.

An excited voice pierces the fog in my mind. The words are strange, foreign.

Hands touch me—gentle, probing. I flinch instinctively, body tensing for a blow that doesn’t come.

More voices chatter around me, a confusing din of foreign sounds. After living most of my life around gladiators from all over the Roman Empire, I know a few words in many languages. None of these sound familiar.

Panic rises in my chest. Nothing makes sense. The sounds, the smells, the people, even my own body feels wrong somehow, like it doesn’t belong. I try to sit up but am so weak I can barely lift my head for a moment until it falls backward onto something softer than the straw of my bunk.

Someone steps behind me and holds my head down. Memories, more than I can count, faster than I can control, bombard me, reminding me of so many times in my life when I’ve been held down on a bed. Mustering all my strength, I feebly grasp the wrist pressing against my shoulder.

A woman steps forward, pries my eyelids open—what new tortures must I endure?—and drops something in my eyes. Though her tone is soothing, the liquid burns, making my already blurred vision swim.

As panic rises, I don’t know why it’s Varro’s name I manage to croak out, searching the blurry faces for the last person I spoke to before the sea took me.

A flurry of excited chatter erupts around me. One of the strangers hurries from the room, calling out in that strange tongue.

The door bursts open, and a familiar face swims into focus as the haze over my eyes clears. Varro. But… different. Part of his face is covered with a thin white mask, his hair is shorter, and his face is unlined by the constant worry of a slave’s existence. His eyes shine with a light I’ve never seen in them before.

---