15. Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Fifteen

L aura

I didn’t get much sleep last night. In addition to the iceman’s panicked shouts from nightmares every few hours, I did a lot of tossing and turning, worrying that he would wake up and decide to strangle me again. Not to mention my concerns about how to tell him he’s two thousand years old.

That pizza I handed him was from one of our last MREs. I’d been saving it. Tony, our mechanic, had been in the Army years ago and said the pizza variety was the holy grail of MREs. He used the tone of voice normally reserved for describing a lover.

Oh well, more for me. Wait until he gets a load of the sawdust and whey protein bars I have stashed in the other room. And, yeah, wait until all our food runs out and he realizes I rescued him from the depths of the sea only to kill him again.

I need to tell him what date it is, which, I assume, will blow his mind. Before that, though, perhaps we could exchange some pleasantries.

“I’m Laura. Nice to meet you.”

I know we’re millennia apart, but I’d think it wouldn’t be too much to expect him to say hello and introduce himself. Instead, he seems to be considering the correct answer. His eyes narrow to slits as he looks me up and down as though he’s assessing livestock.

A bolt of panic darts through me as I wonder if perhaps the poor guy has brain damage, maybe amnesia. More likely, though, is that the Latin I learned is so far removed from what he speaks he can barely understand me.

“Varro.”

“Hi. Perhaps you noticed, my Latin isn’t good. I’m… rusty.” That’s one way of saying that Latin is a dead language, and as no one has spoken it for so many years, we only have a vague idea of proper pronunciation.

He doesn’t respond, merely stares. As the saying goes, if looks could kill…

He must have seen a hundred things that make no sense to his ancient brain: from the plastic spoon to the nylon tent, to the zipper, to the tangle of cords connected to what he must think are odd black boxes on the makeshift desk across from the foot of our beds. Before he asks questions, I should start what promises to be a difficult conversation.

Perhaps because I want to put off the angst this information will bring him, my mind hands me a better idea, something that will help me stall the inevitable big reveal. I stand and cross the short distance to lean against my desk.

“You’ve been… asleep, uh, ill… for a while.” I sniff, not wanting to mention he smells terrible. Not that I blame him. The poor guy hasn’t brushed his teeth in a couple millennia. “Would you like a bath?”

The Romans loved their baths, so this shouldn’t be a hard sell.

“A bath sounds… welcome,” Varro says, relief evident in his voice. He starts to push himself up, but I quickly realize my mistake.

“Wait, don’t—” But it’s too late. His arms shake with the effort, and he collapses back onto the bed, frustration etching deep lines in his handsome face.

“What have you done to me, woman?” he growls, glaring at me with such intensity that I involuntarily ease back, pressing against my desk.

Swallowing hard, I try to keep my voice steady. “You’ve been… sick and weak for a while. Your muscles need time to recover.” Understatement of the millennium. “How about a sponge bath instead?”

His eyes narrow suspiciously. “If you think to take advantage—”

“I don’t!” The words burst out of me, probably a bit too forcefully. “Look, I’m just trying to help. You smell like… well, let’s just say a bath would do you good.”

He considers this for a long moment, then gives a curt nod. “Very well. But know this, if you try anything beyond keeping me steady, you’ll regret it.”

The threat strikes terror through me, but I force a smile. “Understood. I’ll get the supplies.”

As I gather warm water, soap, and a washcloth, my mind races. How did I end up in this situation? Playing nurse to a two-thousand-year-old Roman who’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying.

Returning to Varro’s bedside, I take a steadying breath. “Ready?”

He grunts in response, eyeing me warily as I dip the washcloth in the warm water.

“No strigil?” The small missing detail seems to intrigue him as he wonders why I’m not using the sickle-shaped tool the Romans used to wipe themselves clean of dirt and sweat.

“We do things differently here. This cloth will clean you with the help of this soap.” I hold up the oval bar. It took me a moment to recall that Romans didn’t use soap .

He watches me even more warily as I bring the soapy cloth to his skin. I can’t help but notice the defined muscles of his chest and arms. Even after millennia in ice, his physique is impressive.

Stop it, Laura. Focus.

I work methodically, trying to keep things clinical. But as I move the cloth over his skin, I find myself captivated by the small details—a long scar here, a freckle there. Each mark tells a story, hinting at a life lived long ago.

Varro remains tense at first, but as I continue, I feel him relax. His eyes drift closed, and a small sigh escapes his lips.

“This is… not unpleasant,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Warmth spreads through my chest at his words, catching me off guard. What is wrong with me? He’s a subject of study, nothing more. An incredible, once-in-a-lifetime discovery, but still just that—a… science experiment.

Yet as I rinse the cloth and continue my ministrations, I can’t shake the growing awareness of him as a person. A man who’s been through God knows what, waking up in a world he can’t possibly understand.

The room is quiet except for the water lapping in the basin. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the tension in the air shifts. It’s no longer just the wariness of two strangers, but something… else. Something that makes my breath catch.

Rinsing the cloth again, I soap it up and hand it to him. “You can… do the rest yourself.” My gaze dips to his privates, chastely covered by the sleeping bag, then I turn my back until he murmurs, “I’m done.”

I thought that would be the end of the bathing adventure, but I blurt, “Shall I do your hair?”

He pauses, his brow pleated as though he’s repeating my words in his head, looking for the catch .

“Yes.” He nods, his gaze catching mine for the first time since the bath started.

After fetching more clean, warm water, I squeeze behind the head of his bed in this enclosed space, place a towel under his head to keep from drenching the bedclothes, and get to work.

Perhaps because his hawklike gaze was on me when I was bathing him, and the process itself was fraught was wariness on both our parts, I performed it with swift, business-like motions. Now, without his scrutiny, I find myself enjoying the sensual process of washing his long, dark hair.

As I run my fingers through Varro’s damp locks, a shiver runs down my spine. The silky strands slip between my fingers, surprisingly soft for someone who’s been frozen in ice for millennia. The scent of the herbal shampoo mingles with something uniquely him—a hint of salt and pine that transports me to ancient forests by the sea.

“Is this… acceptable?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Varro’s eyes are closed, his breathing steady. For a moment, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Then his deep voice rumbles, sending vibrations through my hands.

“It’s… agreeable,” he admits, a note of surprise in his tone.

A small smile tugs at my lips. Who would have thought that washing a two-thousand-year-old Roman’s hair could be so… intimate? The thought catches me off guard, and I snatch my hands back to rinse them in the basin as I take a moment to focus.

Laura, this is purely scientific. Right?

But as I massage his scalp, working the lather through his thick mane, it’s hard to maintain that clinical detachment. My fingers brush against his nape, and I feel goosebumps rise on his skin.

What am I thinking? That this poor man, completely out of his element, stranded, out of time, is feeling the same sensual swirl of feelings that I am ?

Get a grip. Even with the heater on, he’s wet and cold, nothing more.

The sloshing water in the basin becomes a soothing rhythm, almost meditative. I find myself relaxing, my earlier tension melting away like the soap bubbles disappearing in the water.

“You have… skilled hands,” Varro murmurs, his voice husky.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I, uh… thanks.”

As I rinse his hair, letting the warm water cascade over his scalp, I can’t help but notice the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He’s undeniably handsome, in a rugged, classical way that is the stuff of Hollywood heroes.

Stop it, Laura. He’s a research subject, not a potential… anything else.

But as I wrap a towel around his head, gently patting his hair dry, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. The air feels charged, alive with possibilities I hadn’t even considered before.

Varro opens his eyes fully, meeting my gaze. There’s a warmth there that wasn’t present before, a hint of… something. Gratitude? Interest?

“Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere. “I feel better.”

I smile, suddenly aware of how close we are. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the shine reflected in his dark eyes.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, my voice barely audible.

“I wasn’t lying, Varro. I mean you no harm.” For a moment, it seems we’re having an unspoken conversation, although for the life of me, I have no idea what either of us is saying. To break the mood, I pop up and take a few steps to the doorway. “Um, one more thing. Be right back.”

I dash to the men’s tent, rummaging through their toiletries until I find an unopened toothbrush. When I return, Varro eyes the small plastic object suspiciously .

“What manner of tool is this?”

“This is like your dental sticks.”

He nods in understanding.

“We use this,” I hold up a tube of toothpaste, “instead of…” I let my sentence trail off. The ancient Romans used human or animal urine and ashes. “This tastes better.” Not that I ever tried the ancient Roman method. “Here, let me show you.”

I grab my toothbrush and demonstrate the proper technique as Varro watches intently. When he tries it himself, his face scrunches up at the minty taste of the toothpaste.

“This is most strange,” he mutters around the toothbrush.

Really? He’d prefer the urine mixture?

Welcome to the future, I think. How am I going to explain all of this to him?

For now, I focus on the small victory of a clean, minty-fresh Roman as I try to ignore the lingering warmth in my chest and the questions swirling in my mind.

For a moment, we just look at each other, the silence stretching between us like a living thing. Then Varro clears his throat, breaking the spell.

“Perhaps… perhaps you could tell me more about this strange place, how I came to be here, and how I got to be your slave.”