Page 35 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
We sit at a small cafe, its tables spilling onto the sidewalk. Across from us, the white face of the St. Louis Cathedral rises tall against the morning. Light catches on its surface, clean and sharp. Along the iron fence, artists set up their easels, brushing bright colors across paper, trying to trap the moment before it slips away.
“Try the crawfish eggs benedict,” Raven suggests, ordering for both of us. “It’ll ruin regular breakfast for you forever.”
The waiter brings steaming mugs of chicory coffee, rich and earthy with a hint of bitterness that Raven tempers with cream and sugar. “Local tradition,” she explains. “During the Civil War blockades, they stretched limited coffee supplies with chicory root. The taste stuck around even when the need disappeared.”
“Adaptation becoming tradition,” I observe. “Rome had similar practices after resource shortages.”
She smiles. “History repeats itself in the strangest ways.”
Our food arrives—poached eggs perched on round bread disks topped with crawfish and sauce.
“You must try this,” she insists. “The perfect bite.”
She holds out a forkful with a little of everything in what does, indeed, look like the perfect bite. The gesture feels intimate. Feeding another was reserved for lovers or close family in my time.
Rather than taking the fork from her hand, I lean forward, accepting the offering directly from her. Our eyes meet as the sweetness dissolves on my tongue, and something shifts in her expression—surprise followed by awareness.
“Good?” she asks, her voice slightly lower than before.
“Beyond compare,” I answer, though my focus has shifted from the food to the woman offering it.
The food, like Raven herself, is a revelation. The spicy, buttery flavor explodes on my tongue, nothing like the simple meals at the sanctuary.
“The Romans would have invaded Louisiana for this alone,” I admit, earning her delighted laugh.
After the meal, the city takes hold of us. Brass horns cry from open doors, sharp and aching. A dancer’s feet strike the stones with purpose. Vendors call out in a language the translator doesn’t fully catch, but the rhythm speaks clearly enough.
We walk past restaurants throwing their doors wide, the air thick with steam and spice—charred meat, rich sea-creatures, and something sweet and slow-cooked in copper. It’s loud, alive… and nothing like the Rome I knew.
“Close your eyes,” Raven suggests as we turn a corner.
I comply, and immediately my other senses heighten—the sticky embrace of humidity against my skin, a feeling both foreign and reminiscent of Rome’s summer bath houses. The air tastes different here, heavy with river moisture and history, salt and sweetness competing on the back of my tongue.
“Now breathe,” she instructs.
Beneath the obvious food scents, I detect subtler notes—the earthy dampness of aging buildings, the metallic hint ofapproaching rain, and something floral that reminds me of temple gardens.
“Jasmine and magnolia,” Raven explains when I identify this last element. “The city’s unofficial perfume.”
A nearby horn player begins a mournful melody that rises above the street noise, the notes hanging in the humid air longer than they would in drier climates. The sound seems to penetrate deeper here, vibrating against skin and bone.
“They say music sounds better in New Orleans because the air holds onto notes,” Raven says, her voice dropping to match the horns’s mood. “Like the city doesn’t want to let anything go.”
As we wander, Raven purchases a bottle of champagne. “For celebration later,” she explains with a smile that quickens my pulse. The easy rhythm we’ve developed over these days feels dangerously natural, as if we’ve known each other across centuries rather than mere days.
When a street performer plays a haunting melody on a differently shaped horn, Raven pauses, swaying slightly to the music. Without conscious decision, my hand finds the small of her back, a gesture that seems to surprise us both. She leans into the touch rather than pulling away.
“Dance with me?” she asks impulsively.
“I don’t know modern dances,” I admit, suddenly reminded of my limitations in this world.
Her smile holds no judgment. “Then I’ll teach you. Just follow my lead.”
She places one hand on my shoulder, the other clasping mine palm to palm, and begins a simple swaying motion. Having her this close sends heat through me—a feeling I’d almost forgotten, both comforting and terrifying. We move together on the uneven cobblestones, her body gradually drawing closer to mine until I can feel her heartbeat against my chest.
“See? You’re a natural,” she murmurs, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes that seem to hold secrets in their depths.
“I have an excellent teacher.” The compliment emerges without calculation, earning a smile that transforms her features.
