Page 42 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Her responses become increasingly clipped. When a particularly long message appears that makes her grip tighten on the phone, I struggle not to react.
"That wasn't our agreement," she mutters as she types with forceful taps. "We discussed this. The focus remains on cultural practices, not sensationalizing individual participants."
Norris sends more demands. Notifications stack like blows—one after the next.
"I understand the network's position, but I'm not comfortable with—" She stops, frustration evident in her pinched expression as she deletes and restarts her response. "That's not what this documentary is about. We're exploring authentic death traditions, not creating exploitative content."
When she finally puts the phone down, silence hangs between us, heavy with unspoken tension.
"He wants sensational footage," she says finally, not meeting my gaze. "Dramatic reenactments of ancient rituals. Mysterious figures in ceremonial paint."
The implication hangs clear—now he wants to exploit the Mexican people, and later he'll insist on getting me in front of the camera, performing my former duties like a circus curiosity.
"And you?" I keep my voice carefully neutral.
"I want to honor these traditions properly," she answers, finally looking at me directly. "But damn, I also need thiscareer opportunity. I've worked for years to reach this level of recognition."
The conflict within her is plain to see—ambition locked in battle with her conscience. I've seen it before, in young priests torn between true devotion and the temple's hunger for power.
"Crossroads often appear when we least expect them," I observe, offering neither judgment nor solution.
She manages a wry smile. "Is that priestly wisdom or gladiatorial experience speaking?"
"Both. In the arena and the temple I learned that moments of decision reveal more about us than years of comfortable certainty."
The phone buzzes. She looks once, then silences it with a steady hand and slips it into her bag—no hesitation, no drama. Just resolve.
"I want to be present for this experience," she explains. "No more interruptions from Norris or his production team."
The gesture feels significant, choosing connection over obligation, even if only for now. The space between us shifts again, boundaries dissolving and reforming as we continue this journey between worlds.
As the plane begins its descent, Raven leans toward the window, pointing out landmarks below: ancient ruins threaded throughmodern sprawl, churches balanced atop crumbling temples. The past and present exist side by side, layered like sediment.
“That’s our destination,” she says, gesturing toward a small town in the distance. “San Miguel de Allende. Their Día de los Muertos celebrations are especially elaborate.”
Even from the air, I see signs of preparation—streets branching in precise patterns, central plazas already dressed in color.
“The festival begins tomorrow,” she adds, the tension in her voice replaced by excitement. “Families are probably working on theirofrendasnow—altars with photos, favorite foods, small offerings for their dead.”
As the plane touches down with a soft jolt, her words linger. In Rome, our rites were about order—ensuring the dead stayed where they belonged. Appease the gods. Bury the body. Keep the spirit quiet. This—this reveling in the nearness of the dead—is something else entirely. A different kind of reverence.
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—retrieving luggage, securing transportation—while I take in the overlapping voices, the scent of grilled meat, perfume, warm pavement, and the orange flowers I now know are marigolds.
From the taxi window, we see marigold petals spilled along the roadside—bright orange against the muted earth.
“Tomorrow night,” she explains as the driver turns into a winding street, “families will stay in the cemetery all night. Eating, drinking, telling stories. Celebrating with the dead like they’re right there beside them.”
“For these two days… they believe they are,” I say quietly, and this time I don’t need to borrow the words from a book—I understand them.
The taxi stops before a small hotel wrapped around a courtyard. Bright yellow stucco walls rise behind flowering vines. A stone fountain murmurs at the center, and cut-paper banners stretch in vivid color overhead. Candles flicker in small alcoves, casting gold across gathering shadows.
We step out of the cab into the thick scent of incense and marigolds. It wraps around me, sweet, earthy, and familiar in a way I can’t explain. It reminds me of temple smoke, of sacred rituals meant to blur the line between one world and the next.
Raven watches me. “What do you feel here?” she asks, her voice low.
I inhale slowly, letting the sensation settle. “Thinness,” I say at last. “The boundary is already fraying.”
Her smile holds something softer now—understanding, not study.
