40. Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty

M arcus Fabius Varro

I wake up feeling surprisingly content, the warmth of yesterday’s celebration still lingering in the air. The necklace I made for Laura catches the morning light, throwing tiny rainbows across her sleeping face. The sight fills me with affection.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” I call out, mimicking her usual morning greeting. “It’s Christmas Day, remember?”

Laura stirs, a smile spreading across her face before she even opens her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Varro,” she mumbles, stretching like a cat in the sunlight. Her gaze catches mine, filled with something different. Maybe it was the fun we had together last night, but she seems… softer somehow.

Now that I have that journal, I not only want to write, but I want to sketch. I’d love to draw her as she was a moment ago, stretching in the sun with that gentle smile on her face. If I didn’t think she’d find the journal, I’d draw her as I imagine her nude—breasts full, nipples pointed. But no. I’ll draw her with the baggy men’s clothes she took from the compound and wears almost constantly.

We go about our morning routine, the atmosphere between us light and comfortable. As I serve up our usual fish breakfast, Laura groans dramatically .

“If I never eat another bite of fish in my life, it’ll be too soon,” she declares, even as she takes a hearty bite.

I chuckle, settling down across from her. “Oh really? And what would you prefer? Some of that ‘fast food’ you always go on about?”

Her eyes light up at the mention. “Yes. A big, greasy cheeseburger with fries. And a milkshake. No, wait—pizza! With extra cheese and pepperoni.”

Though I’m still not entirely sure what these foods are, I enjoy her enthusiasm. “Sounds… interesting. Though I’d trade it all for a proper Roman feast. Roasted boar, fresh figs, honey cakes…”

Laura laughs, shaking her head. “Okay, I have an idea. Let’s take turns telling each other what we miss most from our old lives. Could be fun, right?”

I nod, intrigued by the suggestion. “Agreed. You first.”

And so begins a back-and-forth that lasts well into the morning. Laura overflows with enthusiasm about hot showers and air conditioning, while I reminisce about the bawdy songs I sang with my comrades in the gladiator barracks and the jugglers and musicians who performed on the street for coins. She misses her cell phone and the internet; I long for the bustling energy of the Forum and the quiet solitude of the temples.

“Okay, last one.” Her smile is wide as she gazes into my eyes, although it soon darts away. “What I wouldn’t give for a proper bookstore. Rows and rows of books, that new book smell, cozy reading nooks…”

I smile, remembering how passionate she gets about her studies. “That does sound nice. Though I must say, I’m quite impressed by that little device of yours. All those books in such a tiny package—it’s like magic.”

Laura’s eyes light up. “Oh, wait! One more. Coffee! I sure wish we hadn’t run out of that. ”

“Yes, you were kind enough to let me try it before it all ran out. Aren’t you glad I didn’t like it and left all of it for you?”

“I guess coffee to you is like garum to me.” Laura shrugs as her smile widens. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

Maybe I’m wrong, but she seems happier now than she used to be.

“Would you mind if I use your phone? You said you had many books there about ‘ancient’ Rome. I thought I could practice reading, since you decreed there would be no work today.”

“Go you! Glad to see you’re following my no-work edict. Sure.”

She taps on the screen several times and hands it to me, then leans close to show me how to look through the titles. We seldom touch. Even though we share this small space, we avoid getting close. I won’t soon forget her comment that I crush her soul. My heart feels heavy just thinking about that.

“Just scroll through, but I’ve got to warn you, there’s some long, boring stuff in there. I’m not sure your ability to read English is good enough to enjoy most of it. Have fun, though.”

I take the device carefully, still marveling at how something so small can contain so much knowledge. As Laura busies herself with some chores, nothing large enough to be considered real work, I scroll through the titles. Many words are unfamiliar, but I recognize some names—Caesar, Cicero, Augustus.

And then I see it. The title hits me like a physical blow. I can’t read all the words, but I can read “Fall of the Roman.” But it’s the image accompanying it that truly shatters me. The Colosseum, once the crown jewel of Rome, brand new when I boarded the Fortuna , now stands in ruins, a skeletal shadow of its former glory.

My breath catches in my throat, my vision blurring as I stare at the crumbling arches, the missing walls and statuary, and the marble stripped from the walls. This can’t be real. It can’t be .

But deep down, I know it is. This is what became of my world, my Rome. Not just gone, but forgotten— ancient as Laura would say. It’s reduced to rubble.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until I feel Laura’s hand on my shoulder. “Varro?” Her soft voice is laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

I want to brush her off, to run outside and scream at the Gods for this cruel joke. But as I look into her worried eyes, I realize I can’t shut her out. Not Laura, who’s become not only my anchor but my friend in this strange new world.

“It’s… it’s gone,” I manage to choke out, gesturing helplessly at the screen. “All of it. Everything I knew, everything I fought for… it’s just ruins now.”

Laura’s face crumples with understanding and sympathy. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls her chair to sit beside me, offering her presence as a silent comfort.

For a long moment, we just sit here, the weight of two thousand years pressing down on us. I struggle to find the words to express the storm of emotions churning inside me—grief, anger, a profound sense of loss.

Finally, Laura speaks, her voice gentle. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I take a deep breath, wrestling with the instinct to retreat into myself, to hide this vulnerability as I’ve always done. But as I look at Laura, I see no judgment in her eyes, only compassion and a willingness to listen.

And so, I make a decision. To open up, to share this pain with the one person who might understand, even a little. Because if I’ve learned anything in these past months, it’s that I don’t have to face the world alone.

“Yes,” I say softly, my voice rough with emotion. “I think I do.”