Page 7 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

“Are you alright?” Varro asks, reaching out to touch my arm.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My mind races, trying to grasp what I’ve been told. Two thousand years. How does a mind as dumb as mine grasp such a thing? He’s describing a world beyond anything I could have imagined.

“There’s more.” Though his voice is gentle, I brace myself for another blow, but this time he’s smiling. “In this new world, we’re not slaves anymore. We’refree men, Thrax.”

Free. The word echoes in my mind, foreign and frightening. What does freedom mean to a man who’s known nothing but slavery? Who am I, if not a slave, a gladiator, a thing to be used until I die on the sands of an arena?

I clench my fists to hide their trembling. “What… what happens now?” I manage to ask, my voice hoarse.

Varro’s face softens with understanding. “Now, we learn. We adapt. I awakened over six months ago. In some ways, Ihad it easier than you. Laura and I were alone on an island. She told me about today’s world, but I saw only a few examples of it, so I had time to adjust before I was thrown into it. It won’t be easy, but you’ll manage. Look what you’ve already endured.”

He gives me a moment to consider his words and I realize my childhood, theludus, and the horrible weeks at sea proved I can tolerate anything.

“And Thrax? We’re not alone.” He leans closer, his voice lowering. “There are others. Twelve more of our brothers from theFortuna. They’ve been recovered from the sea, still frozen. They’re waiting their turn to be revived, just as you were.”

My eyes widen, a jolt of shock running through me. Others? The faces of my fellow gladiators flash through my mind: Quintus, Cassius, Flavius, Lucien, Victor. Could they truly be here, waiting to join us in this strange new world?

“Will they… will they all live?” I ask, hardly daring to hope.

Varro’s expression turns cautious. “We don’t know yet. But you’re alive, and the doctors are going to do everything they can to give them the same chance you and I had.”

I nod, overwhelmed by it all. Part of me wants to retreat into silence. I’ve coped this way since I was young, hiding away, keeping my thoughts to myself. But a tiny spark of something—hope, perhaps?—flickers to life in my chest.

As Varro continues to explain, painting a picture of the life that awaits us, I listen in silence. My body may have healed—they tell me I can start walking tomorrow—but I realize the true journey is just beginning.

For the first time in my life, I have a choice. And that, I realize, is the most terrifying thing of all. My heart races and I only realize I’m grinding my teeth when I feel the jolt of pain. But I lift my chin, determined not to let Varro see how deeply shaken I am.

Whatever comes next, I will face it as I’ve faced every challenge in my life—putting one foot in front of the other and doing whatever I need to survive.

Chapter Six

Skye

The atrium has become my sanctuary since I discovered it. This patch of grass, bordered by trees and dotted with flowers, is a little oasis surrounded by the stark white walls of the hospital.

I’ve claimed a wooden picnic table as my workspace, the sturdy bench a far cry from my ergonomic office chair back home. My tailbone protests after hours of coding, but the peace I find here is worth the tradeoff.

I’m deep in a particularly tricky bit of natural language processing when movement catches my eye. Looking up, I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

A man has entered the atrium. No, not just a man—a gladiator. Thrax.

My breath catches as I take him in. He’s… massive. Where Varro is muscular and athletic, Thrax is a mountain of a man. His shoulders are impossibly broad, arms thick with corded muscle. A makeshift loincloth, fashioned from what looks like a torn sheet, is his only clothing. He seems oblivious to how out of place he looks, and I realize with a start that to him, this is normal attire.

As he moves farther into the atrium, I can’t help but stare. His body is a roadmap of violence and pain. Scars crisscross his chest and back, some clearly from combat, but others… My stomach turns as I notice patterns in some of the marks. These weren’t accidental. Someone deliberately carved into his flesh, over and over again.

Hot tears prick my eyes at the thought of such a thing, at the unnecessary pain someone inflicted for their amusement. As quickly as sadness tides through my body, it’s replaced with white, hot anger at the ghoul who did this to a human being.

Pulling my thoughts back to Thrax, I take his measure. His face is a study in contrasts. His high cheekbones and strong jaw hint at handsome symmetry, but years of fighting have left their mark. But it's his caramel-colored eyes that hold me, carrying a sadness that seems to run deeper than the moment.

Then I notice his left ear and force myself to stifle a gasp. It’s misshapen, swollen, and twisted—the telltale sign of repeated blows. Cauliflower ear, my mind supplies, remembering an article I once read about wrestlers.

He either hasn’t noticed me or is purposely avoiding eye contact—he’s looking at the sky. I should speak up, introduce myself, but the words catch in my throat. Social situations have never been my strong suit, and this… this is way out of my depth. So I fall back on an old, reliable tactic—pretending not to notice.

What do you even say to a man who’s just traveled through time? Who’s lost everything he’s ever known? Besides, my translation program isn’t working yet and I certainly don’t know a word of ancient Latin.

So I sit, silent and awkward, watching Thrax stare at the sky. Is he looking for something?

A horrible thought occurs to me. What if the revival process wasn’t entirely successful? His body may have survived the thaw, but what about his mind? Is he even aware of where he is, or is he lost in someancient memory?

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