16. Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

L aura

“I’ll tell you everything you need to know and will answer all your questions, but let’s start with this.” I make sure he’s looking straight at me when I put on my most serious expression. “You are not a slave.” Since I assume he’s been a slave for all or part of his life, I pause, letting that thought sink in.

The room turns quiet as his face turns to stone, then he shakes his head and scoffs.

“You play with me.” It’s an accusation, but barely carries any anger, as though this man is so used to having his mind messed with that he’s inured to it.

“Perhaps you’ll understand better in a moment. But for now, I’ll simply repeat. You are not a slave and will never be a slave again.”

He shakes his head, the slightest smirk on his face as if to say, “You’re a liar.”

Sadly, I think this will be the highlight of my explanation because the rest of what I have to say will be even more upsetting.

“So, Varro.” I try to keep my voice casual, although I feel like an attorney asking a witness a trick question that will tighten the noose around his neck the moment he answers it. “What year is it?”

He gives me a quizzical look, cocking his head. The action reminds me of how handsome this man is.

“The year 835 Ab Urbe Condita .”

Yep. That was the Roman method of counting time which means it was 82AD, just as my research indicated.

“Varro.” I reach to touch his hand, then snatch my hand back, realizing I’ve overstepped. “I have something difficult to tell you.”

He pierces me with a bitter look and asks, “More difficult than watching my family die when I was age twelve? More difficult than becoming a slave? More difficult than being forced into a ludus to train as a gladiator?” His handsome face doesn’t look so handsome with that irritating sneer on his features, but I try to maintain my compassion.

“Maybe.” I spear him with a serious gaze and wait for that to sink in. When he realizes what I have to tell him might be worse than those horrible things, his expression sobers.

“Where I come from…” I almost said when I come from, “835 Ab Urbe Condita is considered the year 82.” He shrugs, with a what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me expression. “So you think it’s the year 82, but…” When I tell him the actual date, he glowers.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Laura, but I don’t find it amusing.”

“You were on a ship, the Fortuna , which went down in what we consider the year 82. I’ve been searching for it for years, as have others. It was rumored to be laden with gold.”

He tries to keep his face schooled, but I’m watching closely enough to see an almost imperceptible lip twitch.

“I found your body encased in ice, hauled you from the bottom of the Norwegian Sea, and now you’re thawed and somehow, magically or miraculously, alive.”

He says nothing, but I see his face run a gamut of emotions. Now that he’s hinted at the worst times of his life, it’s no surprise that he can normally hide what he’s thinking, but this blow is too big to conceal. Now he seems to be cycling between shock and disbelief.

“My shipmates?” There’s no smirk now. He has that thousand-yard stare of someone who’s narrowly escaped being flattened by a semi.

“Presumed dead, but we only found the bow of the ship. When I can, I’ll look for them, though I have no idea how you survived and doubt the rest… fared so well.”

He’s a gladiator, been through so much, yet he looks ready to lose his shit. Even though he tried to kill me, I have compassion.

“Want some space? I can go to the men’s tent, rummage for clothes that might fit you, leave you alone for a bit.”

When he doesn’t answer, I don’t believe he’s being rude. Honestly, I doubt he heard me.