In the Greek and Roman antiquities hall of the Louvre, in a room of vaulted ceilings and warm museum light, four marble figures stand back-to-back around a central pillar and refuse to let you walk past without stopping. The group is known as the Four Captives — a Roman work, probably inspired by Hellenistic precedents, likely once decorating a monumental structure whose specific identity is lost. What survives is the message, and the message is not subtle.

Denis Foyatier carved this Spartacus in 1830 and put him in the Louvre’s Cour Puget, where he has stood ever since in a room of arched windows and pale stone, looking out over the other sculptures with an expression that is not quite triumph and not quite grief. The arms are crossed over his chest. The body is athletic, coiled without being in motion. A broken chain dangles from his wrist — the moment of liberation captured in marble, though Foyatier was careful not to make the moment simple. The face is the point: this is not a victor. This is a man who has just broken free and is now confronting what that means, which turns out to be a harder problem than the breaking.

The Starz series Spartacus arrived in 2010 with a visual style so aggressively stylized — slow-motion combat, digitally saturated color, blood that moves through the air with the deliberate beauty of a special effect — that critics spent their first reviews debating whether it was art or exploitation before most of them had noticed what was actually happening in the story. What was happening was more interesting than the style wars suggested: a show about Roman slavery that took the institution seriously, a gladiatorial drama that understood what the arena was and what it cost, and a protagonist whose journey from Thracian warrior to rebel general was built on genuine dramatic logic rather than franchise mechanics.

The Starz series Spartacus: Blood and Sand, which premiered in 2010 and ran for three seasons plus a prequel miniseries, was not trying to be HBO’s Rome. It was trying to be 300 with a continuing narrative, and within those self-defined limits it largely succeeded. The historical record of the Third Servile War provided the scaffolding; everything else was constructed from the materials of a production that prioritized stylized violence, explicit sexuality, and operatic emotion over archaeological fidelity. The question is whether that constitutes a failure, and the answer depends on what you expected the show to be.