Page 1 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Chapter One
Lucius
Death walks behind me like a loyal hound—familiar, even comforting—as my pale fingers trace the chalk-white markings etched into the wooden altar. The small shrine to Pluto rests in the darkest corner of my quarters, hidden from curious eyes and the whispered judgments that follow me in this strange new world.
Darkness swallows the sanctuary whole, moonlight slipping through a gap in the heavy curtains that shield my sensitive skin even now. A droplet of blood falls from the ceremonial blade onto the altar, joining countless others that have darkened the wood during my months at the Second Chance compound, where we thawed gladiators try to understand our place in this bewildering age.
“Gratias tibi, domine inferorum.” The words emerge as a whisper, a thank-you to the lord of the underworld who has watched over me since childhood.
Most would consider it strange—a former priest of Pluto revived after two millennia of frozen sleep. The other gladiators see our resurrection as proof that fortune favors us. Perhaps they’re right. Yet the gods’ reasons remain as mysterious as the darkness between stars.
My reflection catches in the small mirror mounted near the altar—skin pale as bone, hair colorless, and eyes more the color of clouds than the blue of the sky. The temple elders called it Pluto’s blessing, a mark of divine favor. Others called it a curse. Either way, it determined my path from the moment my parents placed me on the temple steps as an infant.
A knock at the door interrupts my evening ritual. Quintus stands there. His massive frame fills the doorway, expression carefully neutral, but discomfort flickers in his eyes. Even after everything we shared—theludus, the voyage, this impossible awakening—my fellow gladiators remain uneasy about my devotion to the lord of the underworld. Some bonds between brothers transcend time, but some differences remain unchanged by millennia.
“Just checking that you’ll be joining us for the morning training session,” he says, his voice carrying the gruff tone of a man unaccustomed to delivering messages. “Varro wants everyone there at sunrise.”
“I’ll be there,” the response comes automatically, though we both know sleep rarely finds me until the darkest hours of night.
Quintus nods and retreats down the hall. The man has never wasted words.
After completing my ritual and snuffing the ceremonial candles, restlessness settles in my bones. Sleep remains distant, as it often does.
The cemetery calls to me when the sanctuary grows quiet. Only in the midnight hours, when others seek their beds, can true communion with the spirits occur. The path is familiar even in darkness—my eyes better suited to night than day.
Barefoot and silent, I move past the sleeping compound toward the old cemetery that lies just beyond our southern boundary. The familiar peace should await me among the stones. Instead, artificial light flickers where none should be—an unwelcome disruption in the darkness. Someone moves among the graves, a handheld lamp casting strange shadows across the ancient stones. Whoever holds it does not belong here.
An intruder. How tiresome. Visitors rarely venture this close to the sanctuary grounds, especially at night. The security measures we have implemented should prevent casual visitors. Whoever walks among the dead has deliberately sought this place out. Yet, my curiosity proves stronger than irritation.
Moving between shadows comes naturally. It’s a skill learned during years of temple service when communing with grieving families required a discreet presence. The intruder remains unaware as I draw closer, observing.
A woman’s silhouette emerges, illuminated by the soft blue glow of her equipment. She kneels beside a weathered headstone, one hand tracing the faded inscription while the other holds what appears to be a recording device. Her voice, low and rhythmic, carries through the still night air.
“If you’re here, if you’re listening, I’d like to speak with you.” Her tone holds no mockery, no performative drama, only genuine reverence that catches my attention. “This device can help you communicate. Just come near the light.”
I absently touch my left ear. The translator there has become as much a part of me as the loincloth I wear. Although I didn’t imagine I’d encounter a stranger on my walk, the device I’d accidentally left in my ear allows me to understand her every word as it translates the English that I’m becoming familiar with into the Latin I was raised with.
Her back remains turned, allowing me to ease closer. She’s dressed entirely in black, from her combat boots to the fitted jacket adorned with silver chains. Several peculiar devices surround her, blinking with colored lights and emitting soft electronic tones.
“Thomas Wilkins, miner, died 1856. According to local records, you were among those trapped in the cave-in at the northern shaft.” She pauses, consulting notes illuminated by her phone’s screen. “Your body wasn’t recovered for three weeks. That’s a long time to be alone in the dark.”
The familiarity with which she addresses the dead stirs something unexpected—not disapproval, but recognition. Thisisn’t the first time she’s sought communion with those who’ve passed. Her methods differ from temple practices, but her intent feels eerily similar.
“Local accounts claim miners’ spirits still wander these grounds,” she continues, adjusting one of her devices. “That sometimes, on still nights, screams can be heard coming from underground.”
“They weren’t screaming.” My English words emerge before I think better of it.
She startles, dropping her recorder.
Her hand presses to her chest as she whirls to inspect me. For a heartbeat, fear flickers across her features as she steps backward—understandable, given my unusual coloring and silent approach. Then something else replaces it. Recognition? Curiosity? Interest?
“Holy shit!” she exclaims, voice shaky with surprise. “You nearly sent me to meet these ghosts personally.”
Despite her startled words, she shows remarkable composure, studying me rather than fleeing. Her eyes—lined with black paint that accentuates their tilted shape—widen slightly as she takes my measure. A strand of hair falls across her face—black as a raven’s wing, though the roots reveal a hint of vibrant red. Deliberate artifice, then, like so much else about her carefully crafted appearance.
“You’re from that sanctuary down the road, aren’t you? Second Chance?” She tilts her head, assessment evident in her gaze.
I nod. Words don’t come easily in this tongue. My silence confirms her assumption.
