Page 2 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“I’m Raven.” She extends a hand adorned with rings bearing death’s heads and occult symbols. “Rosemary Anne Vaughn officially, but nobody calls me that.”
When our fingers touch in the modern greeting, her skin feels warm, too warm, against mine.
“Lucius.” No additional explanation seems necessary.
Her eyes narrow with interest. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? The thawed gladiators.”
I sigh. The familiarity in her voice tells me everything. Curiosity-seeker. Like the rest.The world remains fascinated by our impossible existence, treating us as attractions rather than men attempting to rebuild our shattered lives after being frozen for two thousand years under the sea.
“Wait…” She leans in slightly, her gaze sharpening. “Your coloring… you’re albino, aren’t you?”
Most hesitate, unsure whether to speak the obvious aloud. Some avert their gaze entirely. But she names it without flinching, without discomfort. There’s a quiet kind of respect in that.
“Yes.” I nod.
She forgets her equipment as she steps closer. “In ancient Rome, people with albinism were often considered touched by the gods, weren’t they? Especially those connected to the underworld.” She gestures to the cemetery. “Is that why you’re out here in the middle of the night?”
Now she has my interest. Few modern people possess such specific knowledge without academic training.
“Why you here?” I ask, the words clumsy in my mouth. I’ve been in this country, America, for months and know enough English to make my needs known. “This place… not open now.”
“Research,” she says, motioning to the blinking devices. “I run a podcast calledBeyond the Veil.We investigate historical sites with reported paranormal activity.”
“Ghosts.” The word is strange and blunt on my tongue.
“Among other things.” Her gaze returns to the headstone she’d been examining. “I was recording baseline readings when you appeared. Actually…” She hesitates, then turns back to me. “You said they weren’t screaming. The miners. What did you mean by that?”
I hesitate. Then offer the truth.
“Miners… die fast. No scream. Wind, maybe. In tunnels. Sounds strange.”
Her head tilts, disappointment crossing her face. “That’s… disappointingly logical.” Then, with suspicion. “How would you know that?”
“Long training.” I tap my chest. “I serve Pluto. Long time.”
“Served Pluto.” She repeats the phrase slowly, realization dawning. “You were a priest. Before becoming a gladiator.”
“Yes. Since child.”
“A priest of death who became a gladiator, then slept for two thousand years only to wake in our time.” She shakes her head in wonder, then reaches for her recorder. “Would you mind if I—”
“No.” I raise a hand before she can finish. “I not talk for machine.”
To her credit, she lowers the device immediately. “Of course. Sorry. Professional habit.” She smiles, lips painted blood-dark. “But you can’t blame a girl for trying. Your perspective would be invaluable.”
“You go now.” My tone is firm, but not angry. “Place… not safe for stranger.”
Instead of arguing, she starts packing. “Fair enough. Trespassing probably isn’t the best way to start a professional relationship anyway.”
“Pro-fessional?” I raise an eyebrow.
She zips her case. “I’d like to interview you. Properly. With permission, equipment, a translator—whatever you need. I’ve studied death rituals for years. But hearing from someone who actually performed them?”
I shake my head. “Not interested.”
“I don’t want to turn you into a sideshow,” she says softly. “My podcast isn’t about that. It’s about… validation.”
The word catches me. “Validation?” I repeat, testing the shape of it.
