Page 33 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Lucius inclines his head slightly. “Different traditions, same truths.”
She studies him with new interest. “Indeed. The boundaries between worlds thin in places like New Orleans. Those who’ve walked close to death’s door often recognize each other.”
I grip the pendant at my throat—my grandmother’s hair preserved beneath glass. The woman notices the gesture and smiles.
“Both marked,” she says cryptically before returning to her counter.
Outside, the humid afternoon heat wraps around us like a wet blanket as we make our way toward St. Louis Cathedral. My phone buzzes again—Norris, now calling rather than texting. I silence it without answering.
“Your patron grows impatient,” Lucius observes.
“Let him wait.” The defiance in my voice surprises even me. “This is more important.”
In the cathedral’s cool interior, we find respite from both the heat and Norris’s demands. Lucius studies the religious iconography with the critical eye of someone comparing it to familiar traditions.
“Just a quick audio note for the segment on religious iconography,” I whisper, pulling out my small recorder. Lucius nods, moving slightly away as I describe the cathedral’s unique approach to death imagery and how saints’ martyrdoms are depicted with almost reverent detail. I keep it brief butprofessional, making mental notes for B-roll footage I’ll need to capture later.
After finishing the recording, I rejoin Lucius, who has been examining a particularly detailed statue of a martyred saint.
“Your Christianity absorbed much from older faiths,” he notes, gesturing toward saints depicted with symbols of their martyrdom. “Death made meaningful through sacrifice. Pluto would find these concepts familiar, if differently expressed.”
“Is that what happened to you?” The question slips out before I can reconsider. “A sacrifice?”
His expression closes briefly, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then something shifts—his eyes grow distant, unfocused, as if seeing across the centuries.
“The morning bells had only just fallen silent when Marcus Antonius summoned me to the inner sanctum,” he begins, his voice shifting—less like someone recounting a story, more like someone stepping back into it. “It struck me as unusual. I had not yet earned the right to enter the most sacred spaces. But Gaius Cornelius, the senior priest who trained me, had put my name forward for advanced ritual work.”
His fingers grip the edge of a nearby pew, knuckles whitening.
“The sacred silver vessels were missing from the treasury. Chalices blessed by three generations of priests, worth more than most men would see in a lifetime. Marcus Antonius stood there with two other senior priests, including Cornelius, andtheir faces…” He pauses, the memory clearly painful. “I knew before they spoke that I was meant to be the answer to their problem.”
“‘The pale one has access,’ Cornelius said, not even looking at me directly. As if I weren’t standing right there. ‘His nocturnal habits, his… condition… who would question his movements through the temple after dark?’”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “I’d thought Cornelius cared for me, perhaps even loved me as a father loves a son. I was so naïve. He’d been cultivating that trust for months, ensuring I had access to areas normally forbidden to someone of my rank.”
“What did you do?” I whisper, caught up in his reliving of the moment.
“I protested my innocence, of course. Swore by Pluto himself that I’d never touched the sacred vessels. But Marcus Antonius was already speaking of execution—crucifixion outside the temple grounds to appease the Gods’ anger.” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “Then Cornelius made his generous suggestion: ‘Perhaps exile would suffice. Sell the pale one to the gladiator schools. The proceeds could replace what was stolen, and the temple’s sanctity would remain unmarked by blood.’”
“He planned it,” I breathe, understanding dawning. “He stole the vessels and set you up.”
“I realized that as I stood there, watching him perform concern so perfectly. Every private lesson, every word of encouragement, every moment I thought showed affection—all calculated toposition me as the perfect scapegoat.” His jaw tightens. “And I was so grateful for his ‘mercy’ that I actually thanked him as they chained my wrists.”
His gaze becomes unfocused for a moment as though he’s traveled back in time, then he looks at me and says, “It wasn’t until months later, after I’d won my first dozen fights, that I understood the true calculation behind Cornelius’s suggestion. The stolen chalices were worth perhaps a year’s wages for a common laborer. But a gladiator with my unique appearance? My albinism made me worth fifty times that amount—a lifetime investment that would draw crowds for years. He hadn’t just framed me for theft; he’d identified a far more valuable commodity than silver vessels. The betrayal cut even deeper once I realized how thoroughly I’d been used.”
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. “You were just a boy.”
“Old enough to know better. Old enough to see the trap closing around me.” He finally looks at me directly, his pale eyes holding depths of old hurt. “That’s why… why trust doesn’t come easily. Why I questioned your motives for so long. When someone shows you kindness while planning your destruction, you learn to read the spaces between words, to watch for the blade hidden behind the smile.”
My stomach tightens at the thought. A young man raised in the temple, doing his best to be pious and helpful, allowing himself to be sacrificed for the good of others. “That’s terrible,” I whisper, imagining the betrayal that forced such a choice.
“It preserved the temple’s honor while providing restitution,” he says with that impossible dignity that makes my heart ache.
Outside once more, we walk toward Jackson Square, where artists display their work and fortune tellers promise glimpses of the future. The sunlight catches in Lucius’s white hair, creating that ghostly halo effect that earned him his arena name.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucius
