Page 50 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
“Your Norris sees opportunity. Others will too. The pharmaceutical companies that have sought our blood since we awakened. The scientists desperate to study us. The media hungry for sensational stories.”
He’s right, and we both know it. The careful protections the sanctuary had built around the gladiators’ privacy have been compromised by three minutes of shaky cemetery footage. All because someone found Lucius fascinating enough to record without permission.
All because I brought him here.
“We should return to the sanctuary immediately,” I suggest, reaching for some kind of action plan, though it might not provide any additional safety. “They have security protocols for this kind of situation.”
“Yes.” He nods, moving past me into the room to pack his few possessions. Each movement is precise, controlled, betraying nothing of what must be churning beneath the surface.
I follow, uncertain how to bridge the chasm opening between us. “I’ll book flights for this afternoon. And I’ll draft a statement denying any connection between the footage and my documentary project.”
“A practical approach.” His tone is polite but distant—the same careful courtesy he might offer a stranger.
“Lucius.” I move to stand before him, forcing him to stop his methodical packing. “Please don’t shut me out. Not now.”
For a long moment, he simply looks at me, eyes the color of winter sky. “I’m not shutting you out, Rosemary. I’m protecting what remains of myself.”
The words sting, but I steady my voice. “I understand why you’re upset—”
“No,” he interrupts gently. “I don’t think you do. This body has been owned, exhibited, exploited across centuries. My appearance made me valuable property, not a person. And now, despite our best intentions, it begins again.”
My phone buzzes with a text that manages to come through despite the silencing. It’s from Laura: “Sanctuary security detected unusual activity near the perimeter this morning. Confirmed pharmaceutical company vehicles in the area. IsLucius with you? Keep him there until we secure the compound.”
I read the message to him as I watch his expression harden further.
“It begins,” he says quietly.
Moving with sudden purpose, he takes my laptop and opens it. “Help me check transportation options. Flights may be too public now.”
Together, we book a private car and plan our getaway. As I pack, I draft messages to Laura with our plans, arranged in a code we’d established for emergencies.
Before we leave, Lucius disappears into the hotel kitchenette with our phones and my tablet. A minute later, the sharp tang of ozone fills the air. When I glance in, he’s watching the microwave pulse with electric arcs, the screens inside flickering wildly before going dark. Afterward, he wraps the melted wreckage in a towel and smashes it twice with the heel of his shoe. Parts of what's left get flushed and scattered down different trash chutes.
"Saw this in a movie." He shrugs.
Throughout our frantic preparations, Lucius maintains a careful distance—physically present but emotionally withdrawn. Every attempt I make to reconnect with him is met with a polite acknowledgment that never reaches his eyes.
By noon, we’re in the back of a nondescript sedan heading out of the city. The driver, hired through sanctuary connections, asks no questions about the unusual pale man wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled low, or the woman beside him who keeps scanning the highway behind them.
“They’ll be monitoring airports,” Lucius says, breaking the silence that has stretched between us since leaving San Miguel. “The sanctuary will arrange alternative transportation once we reach the coast.”
I nod, then gather my courage to ask the question haunting me. “Can you forgive me for bringing you into this?”
He turns away from watching the landscape pass outside. “There’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t create this situation.”
“But if I hadn’t brought you to Mexico—”
“Then it would have happened elsewhere, eventually.” His voice softens slightly. “The world has changed, Rosemary. Privacy exists now only in shadows and whispers.”
He reaches across the seat, taking my hand—the first gesture of connection he’s initiated since watching the video. His fingers are cool against mine, but the simple touch brings tears to my eyes.
“What happens now?” I ask, clinging to his hand like an anchor.
“We return to the sanctuary. We assess the damage. We adapt.” He squeezes my hand once before releasing it. “As I’ve done before.”
His voice holds certainty, but his eyes betray doubt. For all his composed exterior, Lucius is afraid—not of danger, which he’s faced countless times, but of once again becoming something less than fully human in the world’s eyes.
And as the miles stretch between us and San Miguel de Allende, I wonder if the boundary we’ve crossed—from observer and subject to something deeper—can survive this betrayal, even if neither of us wished it.
