Page 31 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“That’s not our agreement,” I remind Norris, keeping my voice steady. “Lucius provides historical context off-camera. That was non-negotiable.”
The meeting stretches longer than anticipated, Norris introducing concept after concept that we politely deflect. During breaks, I catch Lucius studying the view from the hotel windows, the Mississippi River curving like a brown snake through the city’s heart.
“The water connects everything,” he says during one pause. “Rivers were sacred to the Romans, passages between worlds. This one carries the same energy.” His perspective transforms how I see the city, adding layers of meaning I’d never considered.
When the meeting resumes, Norris’s smile tightens. “Raven, be reasonable. The network is investing millions in this project. They need compelling visual elements, not just you wandering around graveyards talking to yourself.”
“My knowledge does not require my face,” Lucius interjects in Latin. “Ms. Vaughn can effectively present the information.”
“The gladiator speaks!” Norris’s eyes light up with undisguised excitement. “The authentic Latin alone would be worth including. Perhaps voice-over work if you’re uncomfortable on camera?”
My patience fractures. “David, stop. Lucius isn’t a prop or a special effect. He’s a human being, a consultant with boundaries that we agreed to respect.”
“Boundaries limit creativity,” Norris argues, his tone hardening slightly. “This documentary isn’t just about death rituals—it’s about viewers connecting emotionally with the content. Your mysterious consultant has a compelling presence that screen tests would likely confirm.”
Beneath the table, I feel Lucius’s hand touch mine briefly—a gesture of either support or restraint, I’m not entirely sure. The warmth of his fingers against mine sends me back to lastnight’s cemetery kiss, reminding me that whatever is happening between us exists beyond professional considerations.
“Tell me,” Lucius addresses Norris directly, his voice carrying that quiet authority I’ve come to recognize, “in your vision, what purpose would my appearance serve that my knowledge alone cannot?”
Norris leans back, pleased to be engaged directly. “Authenticity. Connection. Your unique perspective would be legitimized by your physical presence. Viewers crave real people with real stories.”
“Yet you wish to present me as a mysterious figure emerging from mist,” Lucius observes dryly. “That seems more theatrical than authentic.”
“The presentation may require certain artistic liberties,” Norris admits, “but the core value remains your expertise.”
I watch this exchange with growing admiration for Lucius’s composed dignity. Where I feel anger building, he maintains perfect control. I imagine it’s a skill learned through years of navigating power imbalances far more severe than this modern meeting.
“The answer remains no,” I state firmly, making my choice. “Lucius’s knowledge is available to this project. His image is not. If that’s a deal-breaker, we need to know now.”
Norris’s expression darkens momentarily before his professional mask returns. “Not a deal-breaker… yet. But we’llneed to revisit this discussion as production progresses.” He turns to his team with forced enthusiasm. “Let’s move on to location scouting. The Laveau tomb access—where do we stand with permits?”
As the meeting continues, I feel oddly lighter despite Norris’s obvious displeasure. Choosing Lucius’s boundaries over my career ambitions should feel terrifying, yet it brings unexpected clarity. My fingers find his under the table, and we exchange a glance loaded with understanding that transcends our different eras.
Two hours later, we escape into the humid New Orleans air, leaving behind Norris’s world of ratings and visual aesthetics. Lucius tilts his face toward the sun briefly before adjusting his protective sunglasses.
“Thank you,” he says simply.
“For what?”
“Choosing principle over opportunity. Few would make such a sacrifice—in my time or yours.”
I shake my head, surprising myself with the truth that emerges. “It wasn’t really a sacrifice. Some opportunities cost more than they’re worth.”
His smile transforms his solemn features, creating a private moment amid the bustling French Quarter. The tension from the meeting dissipates as we step in rhythm down the uneven sidewalk, passing shops selling voodoo dolls and tarotreadings—reminders that death’s mysteries have always been simultaneously sacred and commercialized.
“So,” I say, lightness returning to my voice, “now that we’ve survived corporate sharks, how about I show you the real New Orleans? There’s a cemetery in the Garden District that makes last night’s look ordinary. Oh, but before that, you can’t visit the Big Easy without eating beignets.”
“Big Easy? Beignets? Whatever they are, lead on,” he replies, the formality of the meeting room replaced by something warmer. “I find myself increasingly content to follow where you go.”
The double meaning hangs between us, unacknowledged but undeniable. Whatever boundaries we’re navigating—professional, personal, or somewhere in between—we’re choosing to cross them together.
Chapter Fourteen
Raven
The powdered sugar dusts Lucius’s lips as he takes his first bite of a beignet, his eyes widening with surprise and pleasure. I can’t help but laugh at his expression—a two-thousand-year-old gladiator experiencing a New Orleans delicacy for the first time.
“This is… remarkable,” he says, examining the half-eaten pastry with the careful consideration of someone used to analyzing sacred offerings. “Sweet, yet not overwhelmingly so. The texture reminds me of something the patricians might have enjoyed at festivals.”
