Chapter Two

Thrax

Cold. So cold. My body aches. It’s a deep, bone-chilling agony that makes even breathing a struggle. Although I try, I can’t order my eyes to open.

Am I dead? Is this what awaits in the afterlife—an eternity of frozen torment?

Memories flood back, fragmented and chaotic. Setting sail from Ostia, bound for the far-off shores of Britannia. New arenas awaited us there, new crowds to entertain with our blood and sweat. But fate had other plans.

Storms battered our ship, driving us far off course. For weeks we fought the elements, each day colder than the last. The men grew restless, hope dwindling as quickly as our supplies.

Then came that final, terrible night. The crack of splintering wood. Icy water rushing in, stealing the air from my lungs. The Fortuna , our cursed vessel, broke apart beneath us.

Varro’s voice cut through the chaos, a lifeline in the storm. "Hold on! Don’t let go, no matter what!"

I remember grabbing onto him, onto others—Cassius? Quintus?—trying to keep them afloat. The names slip away like water through my fingers. Though the merciless sea battered us, we tried to cling to each other, fighting to keep our heads above the churning waves.

The cold stole our breath, numbed our limbs, and clouded our thoughts. One by one, the others slipped away into the inky depths despite my attempts to keep them afloat. Their cries haunt me still, fading into the roar of the wind and waves.

In those final moments, a strange calm settled over me. Death was no stranger; I’d faced it countless times in the arena. But this felt different. There was no crowd baying for blood, no opponent to best. Just the vast, uncaring sea.

Now, drifting in this twilight state between life and death, I wonder if the Gods have some crueler fate in store. Perhaps this is my punishment—to relive those final moments for eternity, trapped in a prison of ice and memory.

A new awareness breaks through the numbness—my fingertips are tingling, the odd sensation slowly spreading up my arms. It’s almost painful, like thousands of tiny needles pricking my skin. But it’s also… warm?

Confusion wars with suspicion. Is this some new torment?

With monumental effort, I force my eyes open. Blinding light assaults me, and I squeeze them shut again with a groan. The sound that escapes my throat is ragged, unfamiliar.

An excited voice pierces the fog in my mind. The words are strange, incomprehensible.

Hands touch me—gentle, probing. I flinch instinctively, body tensing for a blow that doesn’t come.

More voices chatter around me, a cacophony of foreign sounds. After living most of my life around gladiators from all over the Roman Empire, I know a few words in many languages. None of these sound familiar.

Panic rises in my chest. Nothing makes sense. The sounds, the smells, the people, even my own body feels wrong somehow, like it doesn’t belong. I try to sit up but am so weak I can barely lift my head.

Someone steps behind me and holds my head down. Memories, more than I can count, faster than I can control, bombard me of so many times in my life when I’ve been held down on a bed. With all my strength, I grip the person’s wrist that’s pressing on my shoulder.

A woman steps forward and drops something in my eyes. Though her tone is soothing, the liquid burns, making my already blurred vision swim.

As panic rises, I don’t know why it’s Varro’s name I manage to croak out, searching the blurry faces for the last person I spoke to before the sea took me.

A flurry of excited chatter erupts around me. One of the strangers hurries from the room, calling out in that strange tongue.

The door bursts open, and a familiar face appears. Varro. But… different. Part of his face is covered, his hair is shorter, and his face unlined by the constant worry of a slave’s existence. His eyes shine with a light I’ve never seen before.

"Thrax. Welcome back." His voice calms my confused mind. Finally, words I understand. "Welcome back, old friend."

Relief washes over me, but it’s quickly replaced by a tide of questions. Where am I? How am I here? Alive? In this strange room filled with people in masks? What madness have the Gods wrought?

As if reading my thoughts, Varro’s expression softens. "You must be confused." His voice is gentle. "But trust me, brother, when I say your life is about to change in ways you never could have imagined."

A blonde woman appears at his side; the warm look in her brown eyes is kind.

She speaks that odd language and Varro translates. "Thrax. You are safe here. I promise, we are all so glad you’re alive."

Perhaps it’s the cold, but I think it’s her words and the tone of her voice that causes my body to shiver. This must be a dream. No one has ever spoken to me with such kindness before .

"This is Skye," Varro explains, his chest puffing with pride. "My… woman. You can trust her. You’re safe."

His words should be comforting, but a lifetime of pain and betrayal has taught me to be wary of such promises. Still, as I look into Varro’s eyes, I see something I scarcely dare to name.

Hope.

"Where are we?" I rasp, my voice rough from disuse. "What happened to us?"

Varro exchanges a concerned glance with Skye, his tight expression reminding me of the Varro I grew to know on the Fortuna . "It’s a long story, my friend. One that will take some time to tell. But for now, know this—we are safe. We are free. And the world… the world has changed more than you can possibly imagine."

His words wash over me, too fantastical to fully understand—or believe. But as I lie here, surrounded by strange faces and things, one thought echoes in my mind.

My life has changed forever.

Chapter Three

Skye

My head spins as I pace the small confines of my temporary room. Ancient Roman gladiators. Frozen in ice since the ship Fortuna sank in 82 AD when it was hundreds of miles off course on its way from Rome to England. Efforts to revive men whose bodies should have been eaten by fish millennia ago. The words tumble through my mind, each more unbelievable than the last.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I try to ground myself in the familiar. The antiseptic smell of the hospital. The hum of the air conditioning. The weight of my laptop bag leaning against my thigh. But even these ordinary things feel surreal now, tainted by the extraordinary revelations of the day .

How did I end up here? A low-level programmer suddenly thrust into what could be the biggest news story of the century. It doesn’t make sense.

Except…

The pieces fall into place. Jenny, my immediate supervisor, is on maternity leave. Her boss, Ted, refuses to fly—something about a near-death experience in heavy turbulence years ago. And wasn’t there some last-minute crisis with the new software rollout that had the head of my department working around the clock?

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. Is that really all it took? A perfect storm of unavailable superiors, a background of working on NextGenTech’s translation program, and suddenly I’m the one jetting off to Switzerland to work on a top-secret project involving time-displaced gladiators ?

The absurdity of it all threatens to overwhelm me. I reach for my phone, desperate to call someone, anyone, to confirm I haven’t completely lost my mind. But the stack of NDAs I signed earlier looms large in my memory. This secret isn’t mine to share.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to consider the situation logically. If what Skye told me is even partially true, the implications are staggering. Not just for history and science, but for language, culture… everything. And I’m right in the middle of it.

A spark of excitement ignites in my chest, growing with each passing moment. This is the kind of challenge programmers dream about. Creating a translation system for a dead language, bridging a gap of two thousand years… perhaps meeting some of these men, hearing their stories.

Although I’ve never been a history buff, the idea of talking to someone who walked in ancient Rome, fought on the sands of the actual Colosseum, it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to a computer geek like me.

I boot up my laptop, fingers flying over the keys as I map out potential approaches. Natural language processing algorithms, machine learning models, speech recognition systems—my mind races with possibilities.

But as quickly as the excitement builds, doubt creeps in. What if I’m not up to the task? What if I fail and these men remain trapped, unable to communicate in a world that’s moved on without them?

A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Skye pokes her head in, her smile tired but genuine.

"How are you holding up?" she asks. "Have you processed everything yet, or are you still in shock?"

I manage a weak laugh. "Still in shock. I’m not sure I believe any of this."

Skye nods sympathetically. "I know the feeling. But trust me, once you meet one of them, it will become very real, very quickly."

"Is the man you mentioned earlier…?" I stumble over the words, still struggling to reconcile the idea of an ancient gladiator in a modern hospital.

"Thrax is awake," Skye confirms, her eyes shining with excitement. "It’s early yet, but thank God he’s alive, which means there’s hope for the other ten men. The doctors are optimistic. I met Thrax briefly. Speaking of shock, the poor guy doesn’t know what hit him and we haven’t begun to explain what’s happening. Varro’s with him now."

Varro. The first gladiator they revived. Skye’s partner. I can’t help but wonder what he’s like, this man who’s seen the rise and fall of empires, who’s walked through time itself.

"I’m… kind of an introvert, but I have to say, I can’t wait to meet them."

Skye’s smile widens. "Soon. Thrax will need to adjust a bit first, but as I said, you’ll talk a lot with Varro. His input will be crucial for your work. "

I nod, trying to temper my eagerness. These aren’t lab rats or strings of code. They’re people, thrust into a world they couldn’t possibly understand. My curiosity takes a backseat to compassion.

"Of course," I say. "Whatever’s best for them."

As Skye leaves, I turn back to my laptop, filled with renewed enthusiasm. I may not be able to ease their transition into this new world, but I can give them a voice. A way to understand and be understood.

It’s a daunting task, but as I lose myself in lines of code and linguistic theory, I feel a sense of purpose I’ve never known before. This is bigger than me. Far bigger.

With a deep breath, I dive back into my work. There’s a bridge to be built, spanning two thousand years of history. And somehow, improbably, I’m the one to build it.