Chapter 3:
The villa of Senator Gallus was a monument to excess. Marble pillars lined the entrance, frescoes of gods and battles adorned the walls, and slaves moved silently through the halls like shadows. Lucius adjusted his toga, feeling distinctly out of place.
A steward led him to the peristyle garden, where the senator reclined on a cushioned couch, plucking grapes from a silver platter. He was a broad man, his face lined with the marks of indulgence and cunning. At his side stood a younger man—sharp-eyed, lean, with the bearing of a predator.
"Ah, the man with the strange game!" Gallus boomed, waving Lucius forward. "Come, sit. Tell me more of this... football."
Lucius bowed slightly before taking a seat. "Honored, Senator. It's a sport of skill and strategy, one that could unite Rome in ways the arena never could."
The younger man scoffed. "Unite? Rome is built on conquest, not games."
Gallus chuckled. "My nephew, Decimus. Ever the traditionalist." He popped another grape into his mouth. "Still, he has a point. Why should Rome care about kicking a ball when we have gladiators and chariots?"
Lucius leaned forward. "Because football isn't just a game—it's politics by other means. Imagine the plebs cheering for their district's team. The provinces competing for prestige instead of rebelling. Even the legions could use it for morale."
Decimus's eyes narrowed. "Or it could stir up rivalries. Riots, even."
"Only if it's uncontrolled," Lucius countered. "But under the right leadership—say, a patron with vision—it could be the greatest spectacle since the Colosseum."
Gallus stroked his chin, intrigued. "And you think *you* could control it?"
Lucius met his gaze. "With your backing? Absolutely."
The senator's lips curled into a smile. "Bold words. Prove them. There's a festival in two weeks. I'll give you space in the Circus Maximus. Show Rome what football can do."
Lucius's heart raced. The *Circus Maximus*—where chariots drew crowds of hundreds of thousands.
Decimus stepped closer, voice low. "Fail, and you'll wish you'd only been fed to the lions."
---
The next fortnight was a blur. Lucius drilled his ragtag team of gladiators relentlessly, hammering tactics into their combat-hardened minds. The system's reward—enhanced conditioning—had sharpened their reflexes, but their discipline was another matter.
"You're not in the arena anymore!" Lucius barked as Titus tackled Drusus into the dirt for the fifth time. "No weapons means *no brute force*!"
Cassius, watching from the sidelines, smirked. "They're gladiators, not philosophers."
Lucius groaned. "They'll be jokes if they play like this in the Circus."
Then, an idea struck him. He called the men together.
"From now on, the winning team gets double rations. The losers? They clean the latrines."
The gladiators' eyes lit with competitive fire.
Progress, at last.
---
The day of the festival arrived. The Circus Maximus was packed, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and sweat. Chariot races had whipped the crowd into a frenzy—now it was football's turn.
Lucius's team, clad in red tunics, faced off against a hastily assembled group of legionnaires in blue. The crowd murmured in confusion as the players took their positions.
Then the whistle blew.
At first, it was chaos—legionnaires shoulder-charging, gladiators retaliating. But slowly, something shifted. The ball danced between players, passes connecting, tactics unfolding. The crowd began to *ooh* and *aah*.
Then Drusus broke free, darting past the last defender. With a swift kick—
GOAL.
The eruption of cheers was deafening.
By the final whistle, the crowd was on its feet, chanting for more. Even Decimus, watching from the senator's box, looked grudgingly impressed.
Gallus clasped Lucius's shoulder. "Well done. But this is only the beginning. Rome demands more."
Lucius grinned. "Then more it shall have."
The system's voice whispered in his mind:
[New objective: Establish the first league. Reward: Political influence.]
As the sun set over Rome, Lucius knew—the game had just begun.