Page 34 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Early morning light filters through the lace curtains of our shared room, casting patterns across the floor that remind me of the temple’s mosaic tiles. I stand at the balcony doors, watching the city awaken while Raven sleeps. The quiet moments before dawn have always been sacred to me. In the temple, in theludus, and now in this strange modern world.
New Orleans pulses with an energy unlike any place I’ve experienced since awakening. The boundary between living and dead feels permeable here, as if the city exists in that misty space where worlds touch. Perhaps that’s why I find myself more at ease than expected, despite the constant barrage of modern sensations.
Behind me, I hear Raven stirring, the rustle of sheets as she reaches for her phone—the ever-present device that seems an extension of modern human hands. Mine sits unused on the nightstand, another concession to this century I’ve yet to fully embrace.
“Lucius, listen to this.” Her voice carries the particular excitement I’ve come to recognize—the tone that emerges when she discovers something that bridges her interests with my experience. She reads from a message about a celebration in Mexico called Día de los Muertos.
Turning from my contemplation of the morning, I allow curiosity to surface. “The Day of the Dead? I caught mention of it on the television Flavius was watching, but know little of it.”
Her face animates as she describes the festival: families creating altars for their deceased, decorating graves with flowers, and preparing special foods. The reverence in her voice catches my attention more than the words themselves. Here is something she respects rather than merely finds entertaining.
“Much like the Roman Lemuralia,” I observe, moving to sit beside her on the bed where we’ve avoided each other since we arrived. The proximity sends a now-familiar warmth through my chest despite our careful maintenance of physical boundaries. “That festival focused on appeasing potentially troublesome spirits, while this sounds more… celebratory.”
Her enthusiasm grows as she connects ancient and modern practices, the scholar in her momentarily overtaking the professional content creator. This is the Raven I find mostcompelling, the one who genuinely seeks understanding rather than performance. The one whose intelligence and curiosity might have earned respect even in Rome’s intellectual circles.
When her device signals an incoming communication, I watch the subtle shift in her demeanor—shoulders straightening, voice modulating to a more controlled register. The patron calls, and the performer must answer.
I listen to their negotiation with grudging admiration. Raven navigates Norris’s resistance with strategic precision, highlighting elements that will appeal to his commercial interests while maintaining her scholarly integrity. It reminds me of watching skilled senatorial orators at the games, deploying arguments calibrated to specific audiences.
“We’re going to Mexico!” she announces after ending the call, her genuine excitement breaking through professional composure. The childlike pleasure in her expression draws an involuntary smile to my lips.
“When you want something, you go after it like a lion.”
She tilts her head, studying me with curious eyes. “Is that a compliment or criticism?”
The question reveals an uncertainty I recognize—the doubt that accompanies those who operate in spaces where they’re constantly evaluated.
“An observation,” I clarify. “You’d have made an excellent negotiator in the Senate.”
When she asks whether I’ll join this expedition to Mexico, my resolve to maintain distance weakens. “I admit, I’m curious to see how this modern culture honors its dead. And…” The admission forms before I can reconsider its wisdom. “I find myself reluctant to conclude our travels quite yet.”
“Then it’s settled. Pack your bags, priest. We’re trading jazz for mariachi. Mexico will be different, you know. It’s not just another tourist stop—they truly understand death there.”
She reaches for my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine.
“I’ll need to record some final segments here in New Orleans before we leave. Maybe at Lafayette Cemetery? The contrast between New Orleans’ approach to death and what we’ll see in Mexico would make a compelling narrative thread.”
I nod, understanding without judgment. “I can wait at a distance while you film.”
“Thank you.” There is genuine gratitude in her voice. “I promise to keep it brief.”
Just as I’m wondering why I jumped at the chance to go with her to another country, she returns to her original subject.
“They don’t just acknowledge death in Mexico; they celebrate it. Families spend the night in cemeteries with their ancestors, sharing food and stories.” Her eyes shine with genuine excitement. “For once, I won’t be the weird girl obsessed with death rituals. I’ll be participating in a cultural tradition where everyone honors what lies beyond.”
Something in her words resonates deeply. In Rome, death was respected, feared, even appeased—but rarely celebrated with joyful reverence.
“A culture that embraces both sides of existence,” I say thoughtfully. “Perhaps I have something to learn from them.”
“We both do,” she whispers, her hand squeezing mine. “And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather explore it with.”
Chapter Sixteen
Lucius
After receiving permission and funding for our Mexican journey, Raven suggested we spend our remaining three days “like proper tourists.” Our final day in New Orleans begins beneath a perfect autumn sky.
“First stop,” she announces, leading me toward Jackson Square. “Breakfast with a view.”
