Page 36 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
As afternoon fades toward evening, we make one final visit to St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, completing the circuit of New Orleans’ famous Cities of the Dead. Unlike our previous cemetery visits, this one carries a different energy—less about research and more about appreciation.
“I wish we could stay for All Saints’ Day,” Raven says as we walk among the above-ground tombs. “The locals bring flowers and candles, and clean the family crypts. It’s a precursor to what we’ll see in Mexico, but I’ve read it has a distinctive New Orleans flair.”
“The dead appreciate remembrance in any form,” I observe. “Whether elaborate festival or quiet prayer.”
She studies me with unexpected seriousness. “Do they? Can you truly sense that?”
The question deserves honesty. “Yes. In the temple, we could perceive their gratitude when properly honored. Their restlessness when forgotten. Their peace when finally acknowledged.”
“That’s why I’m drawn to these traditions,” she admits. “Not just for content or anthropological study. I want to understand… to honor properly.”
“I know.” The simple acknowledgment seems to please her more than elaborate praise might have.
As twilight descends, we return to our guesthouse, climbing the stairs to our shared room in comfortable silence. The champagne bottle swings gently from Raven’s hand, a promise of celebration waiting to be fulfilled.
In our room, Raven pulls her phone from her bag and immediately taps its surface with practiced fingers.
“Our flight to Mexico leaves tomorrow morning,” she announces. “Just double-checking the flight times.”
I watch as images flicker across the device. “In Rome, journey preparations took weeks.”
She glances up, amusement dancing across her features. “Welcome to the digital age. Need anything from Amazon? Could have it delivered before we leave.”
My brow furrows. “Do I remember correctly? That’s the river in South America? It delivers packages now?”
Her laughter fills the room. “Different Amazon. The online marketplace? Basically, any item you can imagine, delivered to your door.”
“Your century’s conveniences continue to bewilder me,” I admit, watching as she returns to packing. “In one breath, you summon transportation across continents. In the next, goods appear at your command.”
“Says the man who communicated with the underworld,” she teases, but her expression softens at my obvious discomfort. “Does it bother you? All this technology?”
I consider the question carefully. “Not bother, exactly. But there’s something… disconnected about it. Romans understood the effort behind actions: the physical toll of travel, the labor of creation. In your world, that weight seems to have been stripped away.”
“That’s… actually profound,” she says, setting down her phone. “We gain convenience but lose connection to the process.” She picks up her suitcase, struggling with its weight. “Though right now, I wouldn’t mind a Roman porter.”
Despite my reluctance to use the phone, I find myself reaching for it later, curious about this Mexico we’ll soon visit. The images that appear at my touch still feel like sorcery: ancient pyramids, elaborate skull decorations, families gathered around gravesites with orange flowers and candles.
On our balcony overlooking the darkening cemetery, Raven struggles to open the bottle, laughing as she tells me she’s never done this before, but the drink is commonly used in celebrations. The cork makes a satisfying pop before she pours the bubbling liquid into two glasses.
“To Mexico,” she says, raising her glass. “And to unexpected journeys.”
“To boundaries crossed,” I add, the double meaning intentional.
Our glasses meet with a sharp, clean ring that lingers in the night. The champagne is bright on my tongue—light, biting, and full of cheer. It brings to mind Falernian wine, the kind reserved for senators and feasts, though this carries the sharp joy of something new.
“In Rome,” I say, finding myself wanting to share something genuine, “we would pour the first drops as libation to the gods before drinking.”
“Show me?” Her request carries genuine curiosity rather than the pretense of being interested.
Taking my glass, I tilt it slightly over the balcony’s edge, allowing a few drops to fall toward the earth below. “To Fortuna, who guides our paths. To Pluto, who guards our final journey. To the Lares of this house, who shelter travelers far from home.”
As I complete the simple ritual, Raven’s expression holds… reverence. She mimics my gesture, adding her own words: “Tothose who’ve crossed before us. To those waiting beyond the veil. To unexpected connections.”
The last phrase hangs between us, laden with meaning neither of us has fully articulated. When our eyes meet, the careful distance we’ve maintained crumbles like ancient stone.
“Lucius,” she whispers, setting down her glass. My name in her mouth sounds like an invocation.
My hand rises to touch her face, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. When she turns her face slightly to place a kiss against my palm, the simple gesture ignites something I’ve kept carefully banked since our cemetery kiss.
