Page 5 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

Laura nods sympathetically. “I know the feeling. But trust me, once you meet one of them, it will become very real, very quickly.”

“Is the man you mentioned earlier…?” I stumble over the words, still struggling to reconcile the idea of an ancient gladiator in a modern hospital.

“Thrax is awake,” Laura confirms. She hugs herself as though she doesn’t know what else to do to contain her excitement. “It’s early yet, but thank God he’s alive and talking, which means there’s hope for the other twelve men. The doctors are optimistic but have decided to wait to revive anyone else until the translation device is operational. It will give them time to monitor Thrax’s recovery.”

She quirks her mouth in concern. “I met Thrax briefly. Speaking of shock, the poor guy doesn’t know what hit him and we haven’t begun to explain what’s happening. Varro’s with him now.”

Varro. The first gladiator they revived. Laura’s partner. I can’t help but wonder what he’s like, this man who’s seen the rise and fall of empires, who’s walked through time itself.

“I’m… kind of an introvert, but I have to say, I can’t wait to meet them.”

Laura’s smile widens. “Soon. Thrax will need to adjust a bit first, but as I said, you’ll talk a lot with Varro. His input will be crucial for your work.”

I nod, trying to temper my eagerness. These aren’t lab rats or strings of code. They’re people, thrust into a world they couldn’t possibly understand. My curiosity takes a backseat to compassion.

“Of course,” I say. “Whatever’s best for them.”

As Laura leaves, I pick up my laptop, filled with renewed enthusiasm. I may not be able to ease their transition into this newworld, but I can give them a voice. A way to understand and be understood.

It’s a daunting task, but as I lose myself in lines of code and linguistic theory, I feel a sense of purpose I’ve never known before. This is bigger than me. Far bigger.

With a deep breath, I dive back into my work. There’s a bridge to be built, spanning two thousand years of history. And somehow, improbably, I’m the one to build it.

Chapter Four

Thrax

The strange room swims in and out of focus as I fight to stay awake. Varro’s presence is reassuring, but everything else… everything else fills me with a depth of terror I’ve never known.

I’ve faced lions in the arena, their hot breath on my face as we grappled in the sand. I’ve stood against men equipped with shields and swords when I’ve had nothing but my wits and strength. But this? This world of gleaming surfaces and baffling silver boxes? It chills me to my very core.

Is this some circle of Infernum I never learned about? A realm where nothing makes sense, where even the air feels wrong in my lungs?

Varro speaks softly, his words a lifeline in this sea of confusion. He calms me, telling me I’ll feel stronger in a day or two, that my new life will be sweeter than honey. But my mind struggles to believe him when nothing feels right.

My gaze darts around the room, taking in sights I can’t begin to understand. Glowing boxes with moving pictures. Smells burn my nose like the most potent tanner’s workshop and an entire temple’s worth of herbs, but without the tang of urine and sulfur. Lights that burn with no smoke or flame. And the strange sounds. Do the walls sing, or is it the gods speaking?

The woman, Laura, returns, telling me little, but promising safety and peace. Her kindness reminds me of Caecilia, the old slave woman who raised me until I was eight. The thought brings a lump to my throat.

Exhaustion tugs at me, and despite my fear, I find myself slipping into darkness once more. But this time, it’s not the icy grip of the sea that claims me. It’s memory.

I’m small, so small. A rough blanket scratches my skin as I’m put to bed on a mound of straw. Caecilia, her face lined with years of hardship, tells me the story of my beginning.

“You were left in the woods, little one,” she murmurs, her calloused hand smoothing my hair. “Unwanted, cast aside like so many others. But the Gods had plans for you.”

In my childish mind, her tale helps me imagine the forest, dark and foreboding. A tiny bundle—me—left to the mercy of wild beasts or the elements. Then a cloaked figure emerges from between the trees. My firstdominus, a poor farmer with more bills to pay than coins in his purse.

“He could have left you there,” Caecilia continues. “Many would have. But he saw something in you, something worth saving.”

Worth saving. The words echo in my mind, but even at a young age I knew the truth. I wasn’t saved out of kindness, but out of greed. Another body to work the fields, another slave to add to the household’s meager wealth.

The scene shifts, and I’m older now, perhaps five or six. My hands are raw from threshing wheat, my stomach aching with constant hunger. The farmer’s wife boxes my ear again for some small transgression, and I bite back a cry of pain.

“Stupid boy,” she hisses. “Can’t you do anything right?”

The words cut deeper than any blow. I pull back into myself, learning the value of silence. If I don’t speak, I can’t say the wrong thing. If I don’t try, I can’t fail.

At night, I lie under my scratchy blanket in my corner of the barn, listening to the soft breathing of the animals. Sometimes, I imagine they understand me better than humans do. The old donkey lets me rest against his flank, offering comfort and warmth.

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