Lucius deliberately advanced to the center of the courtyard, still holding Numidius's dripping head. With studied gesture, he hurled it at Tacitus's feet.
"He insulted the Senator's daughter," he declared, voice carrying through the stunned silence. "Repeatedly. After being warned."
For several heartbeats, no one moved. The silence was so dense that the distant sound of the awakening city seemed unnaturally amplified. Even the veteran gladiators—men who had witnessed and caused brutal deaths in the arena—remained motionless, as if witnessing something beyond their comprehension.
Tacitus looked from the severed head to Lucius, then to the mutilated body in the center of the courtyard. His face, normally controlled with military discipline, cycled through a series of emotions in rapid succession—shock, horror, understanding, and finally, contained fury.
"By the gods..." murmured one of the nearby gladiators, breaking the silence. "He broke every... tore the jaw off with his bare hands..."
Another gladiator vomited loudly, unable to contain his visceral reaction to the methodically executed carnage. Even veterans of dozens of combats seemed pale, eyes fixed not just on the death—something familiar to all—but on the calculated cruelty with which it had been applied.
Tacitus stepped forward, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles went white. When he finally spoke, his voice carried contained rage that made each word vibrate dangerously.
"You..." he began, apparently struggling to formulate coherent thought. "This wasn't combat. This was... something I've never seen in thirty years training gladiators."
He took another step toward Lucius, but notably maintained a greater distance than normal—unconscious behavior of someone confronting an unpredictable predator.
"Rome knows violence, provincial," he continued, voice low but carrying across the silent courtyard. "I've lived and breathed combat since before you were born. I've seen men torn apart by beasts, mutilated in battle, executed in hundreds of ways."
He made a sweeping gesture toward the body and separated head. "But this... this is something different. It wasn't just killing. It was... systematic. Like a butcher dismembering an animal."
Some of the more experienced gladiators exchanged uneasy glances. Brutality was a daily companion in their lives, but there was an unwritten code even among professional killers. Quick death for a worthy enemy. Prolonged suffering reserved only for the most despicable or by specific order during public executions. What they had witnessed violated not only the ludus rules, but something more fundamental in their understanding of combat.
Cassius stepped forward, maintaining a safe distance from Lucius.
"This wasn't gladiator fighting," he observed, voice clinical but eyes revealing unease. "It was military execution. Methodical. Calculated. Trained."
Tacitus cast a penetrating look at his assessor, then again at Lucius.
"Who are you?" he finally asked, less accusation than genuine perplexity. "No common gladiator learns... this."
Lucius remained impassive, blood drying on his face and arms, dagger still dripping in his hand.
"Someone who doesn't tolerate insults to the Senator's daughter," he replied simply.
One of the veterans—a massive man with scars from countless combats—took a cautious step backward, dragging a less experienced companion with him. The movement was subtle but significant—instinctive recognition of mortal threat.
Tacitus seemed to notice the change in atmosphere. For a brief moment, he looked around, registering that dozens of his gladiators—men trained to face death daily—were unconsciously retreating from the bloodied killer in their center.
When he turned to face Lucius again, something had changed in his expression. The fury remained, but now accompanied by calculating caution that hadn't been present before.
"The Senator will be informed immediately," he declared, each word precise and controlled. "Numidius was valuable property of the Cassius house. Veteran of forty combats. Second in command of this ludus."
"And he chose to insult the wrong person," replied Lucius with disturbing tranquility.
The absolute calm after such a demonstration of violence was almost more unsettling than the act itself. Several gladiators exchanged glances—not of conspiracy to attack the intruder, but of mutual confirmation of the mortal danger in their midst.
"You will be punished for this," stated Tacitus, though his voice lacked the conviction it would normally carry. "The death of a gladiator outside the arena is not permitted without express order from the owner."
"Then seek that order," replied Lucius, methodically cleaning the dagger's blade on his already bloodied tunic. "Informing the Senator, naturally, that I executed a man who repeatedly insulted his daughter's honor in public. After explicit warning."
The invocation of family honor—a sacred concept for Roman aristocracy—created a tangible impasse. The violation of ludus rules was clear, but the justification equally powerful.
"You think that matters? You think you can kill whoever you want under the pretext of defending the domina's honor?" He pointed to the decapitated body. "Numidius was worth ten of you in pure gold! Veteran of forty combats!"
"And now he's worth nothing," replied Lucius simply. "Because he chose to insult the wrong person."
Tacitus remained motionless for several seconds, visibly trembling with contained fury. Something in his gaze suggested he was calculating the chances of subduing Lucius right there—and concluding that the risk was unacceptably high.
"Cassius," he finally ordered, "stay here. Make sure no one touches him until I return with orders from the Senator." He turned to the assembled gladiators. "The rest of you, to the secondary training field. NOW!"
No one questioned the order. Relief was almost palpable as the men quickly moved away, many casting glances over their shoulders as they left the bloody scene.
Before departing, Tacitus approached closer to Lucius than anyone else had dared since the incident.
"I don't know what you are," he said, voice low enough for only Lucius to hear, "but you're no common gladiator. I've seen men kill in hundreds of ways, but never... like this."
He paused, eyes studying Lucius's expressionless face. "The Senator will decide your fate. Pray that his daughter's honor weighs more than the loss of valuable property." He lowered his voice even further. "And know that if he orders your execution, I won't trust the task to just one man."
With that, he moved away quickly, leaving Cassius as the only intermediary between Lucius and the rest of the ludus.
When they were relatively alone, Cassius maintained respectful distance, eyes alternating between Lucius and the mutilated body.
"Do you understand what you just did?" he asked, voice mixing incredulity with something close to reluctant admiration.
"I established boundaries," replied Lucius simply, walking to the rack of training weapons as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.
He selected two wooden swords—the sica he had chosen the day before—and began a series of basic exercises, completely ignoring the blood that still covered his body.
"You established your funeral, more likely," commented Cassius, though without true conviction. "The Senator values experienced warriors. Numidius was worth his weight in silver."
"And Livia is worth more," replied Lucius, continuing his fluid movements with the training swords.
Cassius studied him for a long moment, clinical gaze cataloging every detail of the bloody man who trained with surreal tranquility amid the carnage he had created.
"The techniques you used," he began hesitantly. "They're not gladiator techniques. Nor legionnaire."
Lucius didn't respond, concentrating on his exercises.
"I've seen veterans of eastern campaigns," continued Cassius. "Men who fought against Parthians, Sassanids, tribes from the most distant frontiers. None killed... like this."
When it became clear that Lucius would offer no explanation, Cassius fell into contemplative silence, observing the strange bloodied enigma who practiced with wooden swords as if he hadn't just executed a man in a way that would make imperial executioners take notes.
Around the courtyard, servants paralyzed by shock slowly began to move, exchanging uncertain glances. No one approached the body or the separated head—as if they feared that touch might somehow attract the attention of the terrifying creature that had caused such destruction.
The blood stain in the center of the courtyard slowly expanded, forming a grotesque pattern on the stone floor. Numidius's head lay where it had fallen, glassy eyes fixed on the sky, jaw hanging at an impossible angle, final expression of absolute agony preserved in death.
Rome knew violence—lived on it, celebrated it, had built an empire upon it. But that morning, it was unaccustomed to certain cruel ways of killing a man.