Page 41 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
There’s no manipulation in her request—only a quiet need for connection, something deeper than desire. I say nothing, just open my arms and let her come to me.
As she settles against my chest, her breathing gradually slowing toward sleep, I become acutely aware of every point where our bodies meet. The softness of her breast pressed against my ribs, the tangle of her legs with mine, the silk of her hair acrossmy shoulder. Her scent surrounds me—a heady mixture of desire, subtle perfume, and something uniquely her that I could recognize blindfolded.
I find myself contemplating the strangeness of my existence. To have lived in ancient Rome, slept two millennia in ice, and awakened to find this complex, passionate woman who walks the boundaries between worlds as I do.
Perhaps Fortuna’s wheel turns in patterns too vast for even a priest of Pluto to comprehend. Perhaps this unexpected intimacy—this vulnerability we’ve shared despite my caution—is part of some design beyond my understanding.
As sleep claims me, one certainty emerges from the confusion: whatever lies ahead in Mexico, neither of us will emerge unchanged from the crossing of these boundaries.
Chapter Nineteen
Lucius
The small plane we’re flying in rocks beneath us, dropping suddenly before settling again. My grip tightens on the armrest, the unfamiliar sensation of flight still unsettling despite Raven’s assurances of safety. This modern miracle—crossing in hours what would have taken months on a horse—remains both wondrous and terrifying.
Her patron paid for the private charter. My expenses are funded by my monthly stipend from the substantial resources Laura discovered alongside our frozen forms—two chests of Roman gold that have proven invaluable for maintaining our independence.
“Look,” Raven whispers, leaning across me to point out the window. “You can see the coastline now.”
Mexico stretches beneath us—a tapestry of mountains, forests, and cities unfolding like one of the detailed maps that once decorated Roman villas. The beauty momentarily distracts from the uncomfortable awareness of her body pressed against mine, her scent—vanilla and something spicier—filling my senses. Since last night, we’ve maintained a careful distance, physically close but emotionally guarded.
“Rome never reached these lands,” I observe, grateful for neutral conversation. “Though I heard many temples here honored death with a reverence similar to Pluto’s priests.”
Her eyes light with genuine interest. “The Aztecs built entire structures dedicated to death deities. They believed dying in certain ways guaranteed a better place in the afterlife.”
“As did Romans. A soldier’s death opened different paths than a merchant’s peaceful passing.”
The conversation flows easily as we discuss cultural approaches to mortality. Here, in this ill-defined space between nations, between earth and sky, the tension between us softens. This is where we connect most naturally, through a shared fascination with how humans navigate the ultimate transition.
“In Rome,” I explain, watching her expression as she absorbs my words, “we believed the soul remained near the body for nine days. Specific rituals marked each passing day, guiding the deceased toward proper rest.”
“Nine days matches several other traditions,” she notes, pulling a small notebook from her bag and jotting something down. “The journey isn’t instantaneous in most belief systems.”
She thinks differently. Instead of focusing on how things vary, she notices the links, the patterns that repeat, the ways people are the same underneath it all. In another life, she might have been a philosopher or scholar rather than a content creator.
“What happens afterward varies considerably,” I continue. “Some souls required proper burial and ongoing offerings to find peace. Others traveled to underworld realms based on their actions in life.”
“And what did you believe? Not just as a priest reciting doctrine, but personally?”
The question catches me off guard, intimate in its directness. Before I can form an answer, the plane shudders again, this time more violently. Raven’s hand finds mine instinctively, our fingers intertwining before either of us can reconsider the automatic gesture of comfort.
“Just turbulence,” she assures me, though her grip suggests she needs the reassurance as much as I do.
Even after the plane settles, we stay as we are—close, unmoving. The connection remains; a silent acknowledgment of something unresolved between us.
We talk quietly about what we see below us until the plane begins its descent. The landscape transforms beneath us—ancient mountains giving way to cities, the blend of old and new that seems to define this country we're approaching.
The airport is small but alive with motion. Locals gather for the holiday. Tourists move among them, phones raised, eyes drinking in the spectacle. Raven moves with practiced confidence as she points me toward our luggage and secures transportation.
The moment she has a moment, Raven pulls out her phone. "Let me turn off airplane mode," she says, then immediately frowns as notifications flood her screen. "Oh god. Norris sent a barrage of texts during our flight."
I move closer, unable to avoid glimpsing the rapid-fire messages that appeared the moment her device reconnected to service. Her expression tightens as she reads, jaw clenching visibly.
"He's been messaging every hour," she mutters, thumbs moving quickly to respond. "Demanding updates on our arrival, giving instructions about shooting schedules and location scouting."
I watch her posture shift—shoulders squaring, spine straightening as she slips into her professional persona even through text communication.
"Yes, we've just entered Mexican airspace… The local celebration is perfect for the documentary's aesthetic… Of course we'll capture the essential elements…" She murmurs as she relates what she's typing.
