The morning mist covered the ludus as Lucius crossed the silent courtyard. It was far too early for most gladiators, but he had slept little—not out of anxiety, but by choice. The quiet hours of the night were far too valuable to waste on sleep.
Wearing only a subligar and a light tunic, he made his way toward the secluded yard behind the guards' quarters. The place was rarely used, except for punishments Quintus preferred to keep away from curious eyes. Perfect for the kind of training that was about to begin.
The mist swallowed sounds, turning the world into a ghostly place where silhouettes emerged suddenly from the white. Atticus was already there, a still shadow that seemed part of the scenery.
"Punctual," he remarked as Lucius approached. "Good. Metilius hates waiting."
"Is he coming today?" Lucius asked, scanning the seemingly empty yard.
"Later. We start without him."
Without further explanation, Atticus led him to the center of the yard. Spread across a dark cloth were several weapons—not the usual gladiator gear, but smaller, discreet instruments. Daggers of various shapes, needle-thin stilettos, cords weighted at the ends, small darts that would fit in the palm of a hand.
"These aren't exactly arena weapons," Lucius observed.
"Because we're not training for the arena," Atticus replied simply. "At least, not only for it."
The implication was clear. This "specialized training" went far beyond preparation for the Senator's games.
"Does the Tribune have specific objectives in mind?" Lucius asked, testing how far Atticus was willing to be candid.
"The Tribune has enemies," Atticus replied, examining a small dagger. "And in Rome, those who control the right tools often decide which ambitions survive." He offered the weapon to Lucius. "Your demonstration yesterday confirmed what Metilius suspected. Now we refine what truly matters."
The following hours passed in a kind of instruction Lucius had never experienced before. Atticus was not just a trainer, but a master teaching an art rarely shown openly. Every movement was economical, precise, lethal—no dramatic flourishes like those of the arena, just the efficiency of someone who views combat as a practical problem to be solved with minimal effort.
"Strength should be conserved, not displayed," Atticus explained while demonstrating an almost invisible technique. "The human body has points where the slightest pressure yields immediate results."
Lucius absorbed every instruction, recognizing its value. Some movements felt vaguely familiar, as if his body remembered fragments of a former life—but the systematic approach was entirely new.
"Interesting," Atticus commented after watching him perform a complex sequence on the first try. "You have knowledge you didn't acquire here."
It wasn't exactly a question, but it clearly sought an explanation. Lucius chose his words carefully.
"Only fragments. Like reflexes the body remembers while the mind forgets."
Atticus studied him for a moment before nodding. "Convenient."
The training continued without further questions about his preexisting abilities, but Lucius noticed the veteran watching him more closely. Each movement was judged not just for technical execution but for something more fundamental.
After nearly two hours, the mist finally lifted enough to reveal a silent figure at the far end of the yard—Metilius, observing for an indeterminate amount of time.
"Progress adequate?" he asked as he approached.
"Solid fundamentals," Atticus replied. "Adapts quickly. Perfect retention."
"As expected." Metilius turned his attention to Lucius. "But the real test goes beyond technique."
Without warning, Metilius lunged in a surprisingly fast attack—not a demonstrative movement, but a real strike. Lucius reacted instinctively, dodging by mere millimeters while countering with a technique he had just learned.
Metilius blocked the counter easily, but a brief flicker of approval crossed his face. "Telling instinctive response. No hesitation."
Without pause, he launched a series of additional attacks, each more complex than the last. Lucius found himself genuinely challenged, operating at the edge of his abilities.
This wasn't an ordinary test—it was a methodical probing of his limits, aimed at discovering not just what Lucius could do, but how his mind and body functioned under extreme pressure.
After a particularly demanding sequence, Metilius stepped back, seemingly satisfied. "Fundamentals confirmed. Now we can proceed."
The "training" that followed was less instruction and more initiation into knowledge rarely shared. Metilius demonstrated not only physical techniques, but complete methodologies.
"Killing is rarely the hardest part," he explained with the ease of a professor discussing mathematics. "Escaping undetected often requires more preparation than the act itself."
Lucius absorbed every word, recognizing the priceless value of what he was learning. It was training few ever received—skills that went far beyond conventional combat, entering the realm of clandestine political operations.
"Enough for today," Metilius declared once the sun was high. "Tomorrow we continue, focusing on specific aspects relevant to the Tribune's immediate interests."
As they packed up the equipment, Lucius noticed the glance exchanged between Metilius and Atticus—a silent communication that clearly included an assessment of his performance.
"One question," Lucius ventured, recognizing the rare opportunity. "The three barbarian warriors in the games—was that your suggestion to the Senator?"
Metilius studied him for a moment before answering. "Yes. The format was designed as a final evaluation before the Tribune's formal commitment."
"An evaluation of what, exactly?"
"Of how you react under real pressure," Metilius replied. "Controlled demonstrations reveal only artificial capabilities. True potential only emerges when unpredictable elements are introduced."
"And the tribal warriors are those elements."
"Exactly. Gladiators, no matter how skilled, follow predictable patterns—standardized training, known techniques. Tribal warriors bring chaos—desperate ferocity, unpredictability, lack of rules."
"A test of improvisation under real pressure, then."
"Among other aspects," Metilius confirmed. "Tribune Cornelius values... resilience in his associates."
With that statement, he formally ended the session. Before leaving, however, he added:
"The young Livia Cassia's interest complicates the arrangements with the Tribune. How you handle that will reveal much about your priorities."
Once Metilius was out of earshot, Atticus remarked, "A warning. And another test, of course."
"Explain," Lucius requested, genuinely curious.
"Metilius never says anything without purpose. Mentioning Livia is both a practical warning and an evaluation of your judgment." Atticus was organizing the equipment as he spoke. "How you respond to her interest will reveal much about your character."
The remark confirmed what Lucius had suspected—even seemingly helpful warnings served evaluative purposes.
"I understand," he replied simply.
Atticus nodded in approval. "Go eat and rest a bit. This afternoon, we focus on specific preparation for the games—strategies to efficiently neutralize tribal warriors."
As he walked back, Lucius reflected on the nature of the "training" that had begun. The Tribune's interest clearly went beyond acquiring an impressive gladiator—he sought an operative with specific abilities for undeclared purposes.
The opportunity aligned perfectly with Lucius's goals, offering a path to ascend beyond the arena's limitations. But it also brought new variables—higher expectations, constant scrutiny, potentially lethal consequences for any misstep.
What he hadn't foreseen, however, was the satisfaction he felt after being genuinely tested. It wasn't just the calculated satisfaction of strategic advancement, but something more basic—a near-visceral pleasure in being challenged after so long restraining his true abilities.
It was a vulnerability he would need to monitor—that human desire for authentic challenge could compromise judgment in critical moments.
Everyone has blind spots created by fundamental desires, he thought as he served himself a simple meal. Identifying your own is just as important as exploiting those of others.