Page 43 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“Welcome to Mexico, Lucius,” she says. “You might find something here that even Rome couldn’t offer.”
And as we step inside, surrounded by a celebration meant to honor the dead—not banish them—I wonder if she’s right.
The long journey has taken its toll, and despite the vibrant energy of the town’s preparations visible through our window, exhaustion weighs heavily on both of us. We order simple food from room service—tamales and fresh fruit that we eat while discussing tomorrow’s plans.
“The celebration officially begins at sundown tomorrow,” she says. “Families will start gathering at the cemetery around eight.”
“Then we should rest,” I say, though I glance out the window where paper banners flutter in the evening breeze. “Tomorrow will be… significant.”
We retreat to our separate rooms—the hotel fortunately had two singles with a connecting door available. As I lie in bed, I can hear the distant sounds of preparation through the thin walls: music, laughter, the occasional firework. But sleep comes surprisingly easily, my body finally relaxing after days of travel and anticipation.
Chapter Twenty
Lucius
The next morning, after a surprisingly restful sleep, we venture into the heart of the town. San Miguel de Allende unfolds before us in a riot of color that defies anything I’ve encountered in this modern age. The cobblestone streets wind between buildings painted in shades of terracotta, golden yellow, and deep blue, tones that stir memories of Pompeii before the ash stilled its breath. Yet where Pompeii once celebrated life, this city seems to dance with death, not as an enemy, but as a companion.
“It’s beautiful,” Raven breathes beside me, her usual dark attire subdued amid the surrounding brilliance.
Indeed, the entire town thrums with preparation for Día de los Muertos. Altars bloom in doorways and windows, laden with marigolds and their spicy-sweet scent. Paper cuttings flutterfrom strings overhead, whispering in the breeze like offerings to unseen spirits. Vendors line the streets, selling sugar skulls—each one a remembrance rather than a warning.
“The flowers,” I observe, brushing a fingertip over a marigold petal. “You said their scent is said to guide spirits back to the realm of the living?”
Raven nods eagerly. “Cempasúchil—marigolds. The Aztecs believed they represented the fragility of life.” Her eyes meet mine with the open joy she reserves for unguarded moments. “The Romans had similar beliefs about certain flowers, didn’t they?”
“Yes. We placed violets on graves during Parentalia. Their scent was thought to soothe themanes—the ancestral spirits.” The parallel strikes me deeply. “Different blooms. Same purpose.”
As we near the central plaza, families bustle around us carrying baskets of bread, bottles of tequila, and framed photographs. Children, their faces painted as skulls, race past laughing. The collision of youth and death’s imagery somehow feels natural here.
“Romans feared the dead,” I explain as we pause beside an elderly woman lighting candles on a small altar. “Our festivals—Lemuralia, Parentalia—were designed to appease spirits, not welcome them.”
“And here?” Raven asks, her hand slipping into mine.
“Here, they invite them to dinner.”
The simple truth makes her smile. Her fingers tighten around mine, her shoulder brushing mine as we continue. Since New Orleans—since that intimacy shared, then set aside—we’ve lingered in a space between decisions. Each touch now carries weight. Each glance, an echo.
A young woman approaches, her English accented but fluent. “You’re visitors? For Día de los Muertos?” When we nod, she grins. “My grandmother has a stall nearby. She makes the bestpan de muertoin all of San Miguel. You must try.”
Before we can answer, she takes Raven’s hand and leads us through winding alleys to a small market. Dozens of stalls offer traditional foods. Her grandmother, small and sharp-eyed, inspects us with frank curiosity before pressing loaves of sweet bread into our hands.
“Coman,” she says. “Eat. The dead rejoice when the living savor life.” I know she’s speaking a language other than English, but the device in my ear tells me what she is saying. The translation device was originally designed to translate English to Latin and vice versa, but it has recently been upgraded to translate many languages. I am very grateful for this bit of modern technology.
The bread surprises me—soft within, lightly crisp outside, flavored with orange and anise. As I chew, the old woman speaks quietly to her granddaughter.
“She says the pale one knows death well.” Her eyes rest on mine. “She asks if you are returning or merely visiting.”
The question halts me. Its insight is too precise to dismiss.
“Both… perhaps.” I say in English.
The elder nods, as though this confirms something she already believed. Then she reaches into a clay bowl filled with vivid pigment. Before I can react, her fingers dip into the orange-yellow paste and draw a line across my forehead.
“Marigold,” the girl explains. “So your ancestors can find you.”
Instead of bristling at the gesture, I feel something stir, something long buried. It has been centuries since anyone acknowledged my ancestors. They lie forgotten beneath the dust of modern Rome, their names remembered by no one… but me.
Raven watches closely. When the woman gestures to her, she bends without hesitation. A swirl of crimson appears on her cheek.
