Page 21 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
The bitterness in his voice makes me flinch. “I wouldn’t present you that way,” I protest weakly.
“Wouldn’t you?” His gaze pins me in place. “I was ‘The Ghost’ in the arena—my coloring a marketable oddity, my connection to death made me valuable property rather than a person. Thecrowds didn’t care about the man beneath the white chalk markings, only the spectacle I presented.”
The quiet dignity in his words strips away all my carefully constructed justifications. I’ve been thinking of this opportunity in terms of my career, my validation—treating him as content rather than a person with his own painful history of being objectified.
“You’re right,” I whisper, shame washing through me. “I got caught up in the excitement. I didn’t give enough thought to how it would make you feel.”
He turns slightly, watching a hawk circle lazily overhead. “The irony is that I understand your position perfectly. Being offered everything you’ve worked toward, the validation you’ve sought since your brush with death.” His profile against the morning light looks like something carved from marble. “Fate rarely offers clear paths forward.”
The kindness in his understanding makes my self-serving arguments sound even more hollow. Here I am, supposedly dedicated to respecting death traditions, yet ready to commodify his experiences for viewers’ entertainment.
“What if there’s a compromise?” The idea forms as I speak it. “You could be a consultant, completely off-camera. I’d pay all expenses. You could see more of this modern world you’ve woken in while helping me understand the historical and spiritual contexts correctly.”
His eyebrow rises slightly above the sunglasses. “A consultant?”
“You’d have the final say on how ancient practices are presented. No interviews, no appearances—just your knowledge and perspective guiding the content.” I warm to the idea as I elaborate. “We could travel to sites with significant death-related history. You could experience more of this century beyond the sanctuary’s boundaries.”
Something shifts in his expression—interest flickering behind the caution.
“I have existed at the margins here,” he admits quietly, “much as I did in my original time. The others have found their places—Thrax with his whittling and leatherworking, Varro leading alongside Laura, even Sulla with his security obsession.” His fingers trace the wheel symbol again. “Perhaps seeing more of this new world would help me find where I truly belong.”
Hope rises in my chest. “You’d consider it?”
“I would need certain guarantees,” he says carefully. “Written agreements that I would never be on camera. Control over how temple practices are portrayed. Freedom to leave the project if it becomes… problematic.”
“Absolutely.” The words tumble out eagerly. “I’ll have everything drawn up formally. You can review it with Laura, or whoever handles legal matters for the sanctuary.”
“And what would you tell your streaming executives? They clearly want the gladiator to be in front of the audience.”
A fair question that requires honest acknowledgment. “I’ll tell them I’ve secured expert historical consultation on ancient death rituals, but that the consultant requires anonymity. The series would focus on the traditions themselves—how different cultures have understood and processed death throughout history—rather than on individuals.”
“And if they want more? Of me?”
I shrug. “Then the answer’s no. I don’t want to get this gig at your expense, Lucius. It wouldn’t be worth it.” It’s only when the words leave my mouth that I realize how true they feel.
He considers this for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. Finally, he removes them, meeting my gaze directly. The morning light turns his unusual eyes almost silver.
“A trial arrangement,” he says finally. “Two weeks. After which, both of us can reassess without obligation.”
Relief floods through me. “Two weeks. Absolutely.”
“And we begin with clear boundaries,” he continues. “Professional collaboration, not exploitation.”
“I promise.” The words carry all the sincerity I can muster. “This will be about the traditions themselves—respectful, educational. No spectacle.”
He extends his hand in the modern style he’s been taught—a gesture that seems both ancient and entirely new coming from him. “Then we have an agreement.”
As our hands clasp, a warmth spreads up my arm that has nothing to do with the morning sun. An unexpected partnership formed from conflicting needs—my career ambitions balanced against his dignity, my drive for validation tempered by his right to privacy.
“When would we start?” he asks.
“I was thinking…” The words catch in my throat as I realize how presumptuous I’ve been. “I actually packed my bag already. There’s a paranormal conference in New Orleans next week—perfect timing to meet the production team. But that’s rushing things, and you probably need time to—”
“New Orleans?” Something like curious interest crosses his features. “The city with unique burial practices?”
“Yes! The above-ground tombs in the cemeteries. They’re absolutely fascinating from a cultural perspective.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Lucius smiles fully—a transformation so striking it momentarily steals my breath. “It seems my education about this century’s approach to death continues.”
