Page 23 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“The mixture I used in the arena,” I say finally. “Chalk, herbs, oils. For protection.”
Her eyes widen with genuine interest. “From your days as ‘The Ghost’? I’ve read about how you appeared in the arena covered in white markings.”
The decision forms without conscious thought—an offering of trust. “I was about to prepare it. Would you… like to observe? It’s a private ritual, but perhaps relevant to your understanding of Roman practices.”
Surprise flickers across her features, followed by something deeper. “I’d behonored.”
Rather than the eager podcaster reaching for recording equipment, she approaches with quiet reverence that suggests she recognizes the significance of my invitation. Setting down my bag, I gesture toward the small table near the window, where light will best serve the careful work.
“The mixture must be prepared with intention,” I explain, unfolding a cloth. “Each component serves both practical and spiritual purpose.” I remove small containers holding modern versions of ancient ingredients.
“The base is calcium carbonate—similar to the chalk used by modern athletes,” I explain, measuring a precise amount into a small mortar. “In theludus, we used it to prevent rope burns during training. In the arena, it absorbed sweat and blood, preventing the opponent’s grip from taking hold.”
Raven watches with rapt attention as I add other elements—ground herbs that once grew in Roman gardens, oils pressed from plants that have remained unchanged across millennia.
“The physical benefits were understood by all gladiators,” I continue. “But as Pluto’s priest, I incorporated elements for spiritual protection as well.” The pestle moves in a precise pattern, grinding the mixture to the proper consistency. “Sacred herbs to cloud an opponent’s judgment. Oils to make the skin slippery against blades. Minerals to strengthen resolve.”
“It’s both medicine and magic,” she observes softly.
“The Romans didn’t distinguish between them,” I confirm. “Protection was protection, whether from blade or evil eye.”
When the mixture reaches the proper consistency—not too dry to adhere, not too wet to crumble—I set aside the mortar. The familiar scent rises between us—earthy, herbal, with a hint of something sharper that modern chemistry cannot perfectly replicate.
The next step gives me pause. Applying the mixture requires removing my shirt, exposing skin that bears the map of my arena history. The scars tell stories I’ve shared with no one in this century.
Raven seems to sense my hesitation. “I can step out while you apply it,” she offers. “I didn’t mean to intrude on—”
“No,” I decide. “If you’re to understand death practices across cultures, you should see how this one binds the physical and spiritual realms.”
With methodical movements, I remove my shirt and set it aside. Raven’s poorly stifled gasp tells me she’s noticed what thesanctuary’s medical team documented with clinical detachment—the road map of arena life etched into my skin. But she says nothing, her respect for the ritual evident in her silence.
Dipping my fingers into the mixture, I begin with my face, tracing patterns I developed as the “Ghost of the Arena.” The symbols, along with my pale skin, made opponents hesitate, believing they faced something otherworldly.
Over the years, I met others with strong ties to the occult who taught me about special markings said to provide protection by foreign gods.
“The marks must follow specific paths,” I explain, working methodically. “Each line serves to direct energy, deflect harm, channel strength.”
As I work, the ritual’s familiar rhythm calms me, bringing clarity that has been elusive since agreeing to this journey. When I reach my chest and shoulders, muscle memory guides my fingers in patterns practiced countless times before battles.
“May I ask what the symbols mean?” Raven’s voice remains respectfully quiet.
“Each tells a story. This one—” I indicate a curved line across my collarbone, “—represents the river Styx, the boundary between worlds. It reminds death that I am not yet ready for crossing.”
Moving down my arms, I explain other markings—protection for vulnerable areas, channels for strength, barriers against fear.Raven listens with genuine interest, no hint of the commercial calculation I feared.
When I reach my back, practicality interrupts ritual. “This part is more difficult,” I admit. “In theludus, my comrades helped me.”
“I could help,” she offers immediately, then catches herself. “If that wouldn’t violate the ritual’s meaning.”
The offer surprises me—not because of the assistance itself, but because of her keen awareness of boundaries. “The intention matters more than the hand that applies it. If you’re willing.”
Wordlessly, she moves behind me, accepting the small bowl of mixture I pass over my shoulder. Her touch, when it comes, is hesitant at first—clearly aware of the trust being placed in her hands.
“Like this?” she asks, following the pattern I’ve already established on my shoulders.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Follow the natural lines of muscle and bone.”
Her fingers move with increasing confidence, following my directions as they trace paths across my back with unexpected precision. The sensation of her touch sends sparks through muscles that have known only combat and survival for centuries.
