Page 55 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“Boundary,” I explain. “Between worlds, between life stages, between choices. To be crossed with intention, not accidentally.”
“Like the boundary we’re crossing today.”
“Yes.”
Her fingers continue their work, completing patterns across my back, shoulders, and chest. When she finishes, I meet my reflection in the mirror, the familiar yet always startling transformation. My pale skin and hair, now accented with the ritual markings, create the image that once struck fear in arena opponents.
“The Ghost,” Raven whispers, seeing him fully for the first time.
“No longer,” I correct gently. “Just Lucius.”
The interview setting remains deliberately simple—two chairs in the living room, a neutral backdrop, soft lighting with no hint of theatrics. Raven checks camera settings one final time while I settle into position, the ritual markings still drying on my skin.
“Remember,” she says, taking her seat across from me, “we can stop anytime. Edit anything. This belongs to us, not them.”
I nod, oddly calm now that the moment has arrived. The camera lens, though intimidating in concept, proves less threatening than an opponent’s blade. The red light blinks on, Raven settles into her chair, and begins with simple questions about my awakening in this century, my adjustment to modern life. She has allowed me to speak in Latin so I can answer freely and not struggle with translating in my head. She said the documentary will be translated to every language around the world.
Gradually, we move deeper, into temple life, into the falsified charges that sent me to the arena, into the strange circumstances that led to our preservation on theFortuna. The questions feel less like an interview and more like the midnight conversations we’ve shared since that first cemetery meeting.
“The ritual markings you wear today,” she says, gesturing toward the patterns visible on my exposed arms and neck, “what do they signify for this moment?”
“Protection,” I answer honestly. “Not against physical threats, but against exploitation. Against becoming a mere spectacle. They remind me that I chose this revelation, that I control my own story rather than having it stolen from me.”
“And what would you want people to understand about you—about all the gladiators—from this conversation?”
The question resonates in ways I hadn’t anticipated. What do I want from this modern world that never expected my existence?
“That we are not artifacts or curiosities,” I say slowly, finding words for thoughts long held. “We are men who have crossed an impossible boundary between times. We carry knowledge and perspective unique in the human experience. We have value beyond our biological uniqueness or historical significance.”
“One final question. After everything you’ve experienced—ancient Rome, the arena, awakening in this century—what matters most to you now?”
“Connection,” I answer without hesitation, my gaze meeting hers with an intensity that transcends the camera between us. “Finding genuine understanding across boundaries of time, experience, and perspective. The Romans feared death as separation. What I’ve learned—in the temple, in the arena, and especially in this new life—is that true connection transcends even the most impossible divides.”
Something in my words reaches her deeply. Tears gather in her eyes, though her professional composure holds.
“Thank you,” she says simply, before turning to address the camera with closing remarks.
When the recording ends, silence falls between us—not uncomfortable, but weighty with significance. What we’vecreated today cannot be undone. My image, my voice, my story now exist as a record rather than merely a memory.
“It wasperfect,” she says finally, playing back segments on the camera’s small screen. “Honest, dignified, powerful. Nothing sensationalized.”
“Will it be enough?” I ask. “Will it satisfy their curiosity without creating more?”
“I don’t know,” she admits honestly, one quality I’ve come to value most. “But it’s done on our terms. That matters.”
She rises, crossing to where I sit, still marked with the ritual patterns. Her fingers trace one of the symbols on my forearm—boundary crossing, transition.
“What happens now?” she asks softly.
“We return to the sanctuary,” I say, covering her hand with mine. “We face whatever consequences come from this choice.”
“Yes.”
Outside, wind stirs dust into small whirlwinds that dance across the landscape. Boundaries remain always in flux—between earth and sky, between past and present, between safety and risk. Today I’ve chosen to cross one such boundary deliberately, reclaiming power long surrendered.
Whether this modern world receives the offering with respect or hungry curiosity remains to be seen. But for this moment, the choice itself brings a sense of peace.
As I pack away the ritual supplies, one certainty emerges: I am no longer The Ghost performing for others' entertainment. I am Lucius, speaking my own truth.
