Chapter 7:
The gilded scroll arrived at dawn, its imperial seal glinting in the pale morning light. Lucius barely had time to straighten his tunic before the praetorian guards escorted him through streets still slick with last night's rain.
The summons had been clear—Nero demanded a spectacle, and football would either amuse him or die in the trying.
The new stadium rose like a monstrous jewel in the heart of Rome, its unfinished arches gaping like hungry mouths. Workers scrambled to complete the outer colonnade before sunset, their hammers ringing a frantic counterpoint to Lucius's racing thoughts.
The system's message pulsed behind his eyes like a second heartbeat: **[Imperial Showcase Event Unlocked. Primary Objective: Survive Nero's scrutiny. Secondary Objective: Identify elite talent. Reward: Imperial sponsorship—or death.]**
The throne room stank of perfume and power. Nero lounged on his dais, one hand dangling over the edge to scratch behind the ears of a chained leopard.
His eyes—sharp and endlessly calculating—tracked Lucius's approach with the lazy interest of a cat observing a wounded bird.
"So," the emperor drawled, examining the jewels on his fingers, "you're the man who's made my city forget its gods in favor of a leather ball." The courtiers tittered on cue.
Lucius bowed low, his mouth suddenly dry. "Not forget, Divine One. Merely... worship differently."
Nero's laughter rang hollow against the marble walls. "Clever words for a man who plays children's games." He snapped his fingers, and a slave unrolled a map of the empire across the floor.
"For Saturnalia, I want something worthy of Rome. Barbarians against your so-called champions." His finger stabbed down on Britannia.
"My captured warriors will face your FC Roma. If they entertain me, perhaps I'll let them live. If not..." His smile showed too many teeth. "The beasts grow hungry this time of year."
The imperial dungeon smelled of piss and despair. The Britons—twelve men with matted hair and eyes that still burned with defiance—huddled against the far wall.
Their leader, a red-haired giant with knotted scars across his chest, spat at Lucius's feet.
"Come to measure us for our graves, Roman?"
Lucius set the leather ball down carefully between them. "I've come to teach you how to fight for your lives."
The days that followed passed in a blur of frantic preparation. The Britons learned the game with the same ferocity they'd once wielded swords, their massive frames barreling through drills with terrifying intensity.
The system whispered its analysis:
[Cultural Adaptation Activated: Briton players gain +2 Physicality / -3 Discipline. Temporary Trait Unlocked: 'Woad Rage' (Double stamina when bloodied).]
Meanwhile, FC Roma trained until their feet bled, Nikias limping through formations with a broken rib wrapped tight against his side.
The morning of the match dawned hot and heavy, the air thick with the promise of violence. The newly completed Neropolis Ludus glittered under the sun, its golden ornaments blinding the crowds that poured through its gates.
Fifty thousand voices rose in a wordless roar as the teams took the field—FC Roma in their patched red tunics, the Britons bare-chested and painted blue, their chains removed but their collars still gleaming around their necks.
Nero's arrival silenced the mob. He reclined in his opulent box, a wreath of roses tilted drunkenly on his brow. "Let us see," he proclaimed to the hushed masses, "whether civilization triumphs over savagery today." The starting whistle pierced the air like a knife.
What followed was less a football match than a war played with different rules. The Britons fought like men possessed, their 'Woad Rage' sending Roman players crashing into the barriers.
By halftime, they led 1-0, their chieftain roaring his triumph to the adoring crowd. In the locker room, Nikias spat blood into a basin while Vulso tested the weight of a practice sword in his hands.
"Forget the rules," Lucius told his battered team. "Watch their left flank—when the big one charges, the side opens up." He turned to Vulso. "You go through them like the Tiber in flood." To Nikias: "You dance around them like you're back in the Subura alleys."
The second half became legend. Vulso plowed through the Britons like an angry bull, Nikias twisted through their defenses like smoke, and in the dying moments of the match, a perfect pass from Crixus found Vulso's foot for the winning goal.
The stadium erupted in a sound Rome had never heard before—plebs and patricians screaming as one voice, roses raining down onto the pitch, even Nero rising to his feet with something like respect in his eyes.
"Marvelous," the emperor murmured as the teams collapsed onto the grass. "Though I did so hope for blood..." His jeweled fingers drummed against the railing.
"You'll have your league, little dreamer. But every Saturnalia, you'll give me this." His smile turned wicked. "And next time, the losers die."
That night, as Lucius stood alone on the empty pitch, the Briton chieftain approached. Moonlight turned his blue paint to silver.
"You saved our lives today," the warrior growled. "Why?"
Lucius watched the torches flicker along the stadium walls. "Because Rome needs new legends." He offered his hand. "Will you help me write them?"
The Briton's grip could have crushed bones. "For freedom? Aye."
Somewhere in the darkness beyond the stadium, a new kind of war was just beginning.