Prologue
Twothousandyearsago,fourteen men, gladiators and crew, were on a journey from Rome to Britannia. During roiling seas and endless storms, the ship sank, and the men were entombed in ice beneath the Norwegian Sea. They were meant to be forgotten—gladiators silenced by centuries.
But fate had other plans.
When archaeologist Laura Turner uncovered the lost shipFortuna, she found more than a Roman vessel and the rumored chests of gold. She found men—gladiators preserved in ice, still whole, still waiting. With modern science and what the men quietly believe was a nudge from the Goddess Fortuna herself, those men woke again in a world they couldn’t begin to recognize.
Before their voyage, at the docks of Ostia, a priestess from the Temple of Fortuna performed a blessing. She gave each man a ritual drink meant to “bind their fates to the wheel.” They believe, every one of them, that this is why they survived under the ice for two thousand years. Fortuna isn’t a metaphor to them. She is part of their story.
Laura Turner gave the gladiators refuge. She created Second Chance Sanctuary in Missouri, a place where they could learn language, technology, and the fragile art of trust. A place where freedom was not a rumor, but a daily reality.
Each man woke carrying the weight of the life he had lived before the ice. Some woke into second chances. Some woke into consequences.
And some—like Flavius—woke still searching for the part of themselves the arena had stolen.
Chapter One
Sophia
The gravel crunches under my Honda’s tires as I pull up to the rustic gates of Second Chance Sanctuary. I have to grip the steering wheel to keep my hands from shaking.This is it. This is actually happening.
I’ve dreamed of this moment since I was eight years old, watching the movieGladiatorfor the tenth time as my parents argued downstairs about “age-appropriate viewing material.” While other kids fantasized about tiaras or telescopes, I wanted to be Maximus—noble, skilled, and fighting for honor in the blood-soaked sand of the Colosseum.
The security guard checks my ID against his clipboard. “Dr. Vitale? You’re expected. Follow the main road to the reception building—the big log structure straight ahead.”
Dr. Vitale.Even after three years, the title still sends a thrill through me. All those sleepless nights in graduate school, all those professors who looked at me like I’d suggested studying unicorns when I proposed my dissertation on gladiatorial combat techniques. “Circus performers,” one particularly dismissive committee member had called them. “Hardly worthy of serious academic attention.”
Well, here I am. A research placement funded by the Classical Studies Advancement Fellowship—initially summer semester on-site, with the option to extend into a longer research appointment. I havefull access to living, breathing gladiators who actually fought in Roman arenas two thousand years ago. Primary sources with a pulse and muscle memory.
At least Dr. Patricia Blackwell believes in this project. She was my dissertation advisor, the one person on my committee who saw the value in oral history from primary sources. Now she’s my faculty mentor, the senior colleague who sponsored my grant application. My research, my framework, her institutional signature on the paperwork. Her endorsement is what got me here.
“This could revolutionize gladiatorial studies,” she’d said when reviewing my proposal. Her support made securing the grant possible.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom:Remember, darling—keep your work rigorous. Public demonstrations aren’t the same as primary evidence.
Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just… precise. Expectant. My family has never discouraged scholarship—they’ve simply defined it so narrowly there’s barely room to breathe inside it.
I silence the phone and slide it into my messenger bag next to my digital recorder, laptop, noise-canceling headphones, and emergency fidget cube. Everything I need to document the archaeological discovery of the century—and everything I need to stay regulated while I do it.
My autism diagnosis came when I was twenty-three, late enough that I’d already developed an arsenal of coping mechanisms without knowing why I needed them. Now I plan for sensory overload the way other people plan for rain: headphones, quiet spaces, escape routes.
I finished my doctorate three years ago, and I’m in my fourth year as Assistant Professor at Palmyra University—two years from my crucial tenure review, which makes this research fellowship both an opportunity and a risk. Success here could secure my academic future; failure could end it.
The Second Chance compound spreads before me like something from a frontier movie—log buildings connected by wooden walkways, horse stables, and training yards carved from the Missouri prairie. It’s rustic but professional, clearly designed to accommodate both historical authenticity and modern safety requirements.
Inside the main reception building, a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and intelligent eyes approaches me with the confidence of someone who runs things efficiently.
“Dr. Vitale? I’m Laura Turner, sanctuary coordinator. Welcome to Second Chance.” Her handshake is firm, her smile genuine. “Ready to get started?”
Laura guides me through the initial paperwork with practiced ease—liability waivers, photography permissions, and basic research protocols. “Ethics approval is in place,” she adds. “You’ll just need each participant’s written consent before you begin.”
“Your quarters are a small cabin, number twelve,” she says, handing me a key and what looks like a small earpiece. “This is a translation device—one of our residents, Skye, developed them. The men have all learned some English since they’ve awakened in this century. Some are quite fluent while others still struggle, but these help with complex conversations.”
I turn the device over in my hand. “How does it work?”
“Impressive technology. They provide real-time translation from Latin to English and vice versa. It helps with complex vocabulary when the user needs more sophisticated expression or understanding than their current language skills allow. Think of them as training wheels that let someone communicate at their intelligence level while they’re still learning the language basics.”
Her words remind me that these men have been in the twenty-first century for over two years. These aren’t ancient Romans who’ve had decades to adapt. They’re men who were literally frozen in ice until recently, trying to navigate a world that’s moved forward two millennia while they slept.
