Page 17 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
Chapter Seven
Lucius
The dining hall buzzes with conversation. Raven’s black clothing stands out against the sanctuary’s practical attire, drawing curious glances from the residents.
“Your sanctuary is nothing like what I imagined,” she admits, accepting a plate of food from Flavius. She stares at the plate, clearly intrigued. “What is this?”
“Libum,” Flavius answers with characteristic enthusiasm. “Ancient Roman cheese bread. Our cook has been experimenting with traditional recipes.”
She takes a tentative bite, surprise registering on her features. “It’s delicious. I expected Roman food to be… I don’t know, weirder somehow?”
Quintus snorts from across the table. “What did you think we ate? Roasted peacock tongues and dormice rolled in honey?”
“Well…” Her sheepish expression suggests the thought had crossed her mind.
“Only at the most ostentatious patrician feasts,” I clarify, unable to keep the corner of my mouth from lifting. “Everyday Roman cuisine was simple—bread, cheese, olives, fish.”
“Andgarum,” adds Thrax, settling his massive frame beside Flavius. “Fish sauce. We make it here, at the outskirts of the property.”
Laura sighs dramatically. “If you’re ever here on a windy day, you might catch a whiff of it. If you smell something that reminds you of death warmed over, that’s garum. Fermented fish sauce.” She makes a horrible face, which makes all of us laugh.
Raven’s gaze moves constantly, taking in every interaction with sharp-eyed attentiveness. She isn’t cataloguing content—she’s absorbing. Trying to understand.
“So,” Varro begins, his tone carefully casual as he addresses her, “Laura tells me you run a podcast about death traditions.”
The table quiets slightly, attention shifting toward our guest. She straightens, clearly recognizing the implied question beneath his statement.
“Beyond the Veil,” she confirms. “We explore how different cultures understand and process death. Historical practices, modern interpretations, paranormal elements—though that last part tends to get the most attention.”
“Ghost hunting,” Quintus says bluntly. “Like those ridiculous television shows.”
Rather than taking offense, she nods. “Sometimes. Though I try to approach it with more respect than most. My near-death experience gave me… perspective that many investigators lack.”
Her candid acknowledgment of the accident takes me by surprise. Such personal revelations rarely emerge in group settings.
“You died?” Flavius leans forward, one eyebrow cocked, fascination evident in his expression.
“Clinically. For three minutes.” Her hand rises unconsciously to the pendant at her throat. “Car accident, ice storm. I saw… things the doctors couldn’t explain away.”
“What things?” Thrax asks, his usual reserve giving way to curiosity.
Her gaze finds mine across the table, a silent question. I nod once.
“A river shrouded in mist,” she says quietly. “A path leading toward it. Something massive guarding the way—somethingwith multiple heads, though I couldn’t see them clearly through the fog.”
Silence falls over the table. Varro and Quintus exchange glances laden with meaning.
“Cerberus,” Thrax murmurs. “The three-headed hound who guards the underworld’s gate.”
“Yes.” Her voice holds no triumph at their recognition, only quiet certainty. “Lucius said I stood at the threshold of Pluto’s realm.”
Quintus studies her with new intensity. “Many claim near-death visions. Few describe elements specific to beliefs they’ve never studied.”
“I’ve studied plenty of death traditions,” she counters. “I’ve read about Cerberus, but only after my near brush with him.”
“Interesting,” Varro says, his calculating gaze moving between us. “And what do you intend to do with this… connection you’ve discovered?”
The implied question hangs in the air. Will she use this for her podcast? For fame? For profit?
