Chapter 8:
The victory feast for FC Roma should have been a celebration. The great hall of Julia Antonia's villa overflowed with roasted meats, honeyed figs, and amphorae of Falernian wine. The players lounged on couches, their bruises and cuts badges of honor, while the Briton warriors—newly freed by Nero's whim—tore into their food with the fervor of men who had escaped death.
Lucius raised his cup. "To the beautiful game!"
The cheer that answered rattled the oil lamps.
Then the first player collapsed.
Nikias, mid-laugh, suddenly choked, his goblet slipping from his fingers. His face turned ashen, veins standing black against his skin. Across the room, two more players clutched their throats, foam bubbling at their lips.
Pandemonium erupted.
Julia's slaves screamed. The Britons overturned tables, bellowing about Roman treachery. Vulso, the only starter still standing, roared Lucius's name over the chaos.
The system's warning flashed like lightning behind Lucius's eyes:
[CRISIS: Mass poisoning detected. Primary toxin: Belladonna + Hemlock cocktail. Time to death: 38 minutes. Antidote available: Activated charcoal + milk thistle. Location: Subura apothecary.]
Lucius didn't hesitate. He vaulted over a couch, grabbing Vulso's arm. "Carry the worst to the baths—cold water, now! I need a fast horse!"
As he sprinted for the stables, Decimus's parting words from the stadium echoed in his mind: "The Emperor prefers tragedy to comedy."
The Subura at night was a labyrinth of shadows and daggers. Lucius's mare pounded through refuse-choked alleys, her hooves slipping on rotting vegetables. At the third crossroads, a knife flashed—a cutpurse lunging for the reins. Lucius drove his heel into the man's face without breaking stride.
The apothecary's shop looked abandoned, its wooden shutters bolted. Lucius kicked the door open to find a wizened Egyptian grinding herbs by candlelight.
"Belladonna antidote," Lucius gasped. "Now."
The old man's eyes gleamed. "For five denarii."
Lucius slammed him against the wall. "For their lives."
A sack of charcoal powder and a vial of milky liquid changed hands. As Lucius remounted, the Egyptian called after him: "Whoever dosed them wanted it slow. Painful. Personal."
The mare nearly killed them both racing back.
Julia's private baths had become a field hospital. Slaves frantically poured cold water over twitching bodies while Vulso pinned a convulsing Nikias to the tiles. The Britons, mistrustful of Roman medicine, had drawn their knives.
Lucius barged in, dumping his haul onto a marble slab. "Mix the charcoal with water! Force it down their throats!"
For thirty agonizing minutes, they fought death itself. Lucius knelt beside Nikias, prying his jaws open to administer the gritty paste. The Greek's pulse fluttered like a dying bird beneath his fingers.
Then—a cough. A gasp.
Nikias's eyes flew open, pupils grotesquely dilated. "The... ball..." he rasped. "Was it... a pass...?"
Lucius laughed through the burn in his throat. "Worst assist of your life."
By dawn, all would live—though the system's damage report was grim:
[Player Condition Updates:
- Nikias: -3 Stamina (permanent)
- Crixus: -2 Agility (nerve damage)
- 4 Reserve Players: Retired due to organ stress]
Julia appeared in the doorway, her stola splattered with vomit. In her hand, she clutched a wine amphora stamped with the Gallus family crest.
"This was a gift from Decimus," she said softly. "Delivered while we were at the stadium."
Vulso's fist shattered a marble bench.
Three days later, as Lucius supervised convalescent drills in the grove of Aesculapius, six white-robed figures emerged from the morning mist.
The Vestal Virgins moved with eerie synchronicity, their veiled faces unreadable. The eldest stepped forward, her voice like wind through sacred groves:
"The Goddess Vesta has spoken. Her daughters will have a team."
Lucius nearly dropped his whistle. "Respectfully, holy sisters, women don't—"
"The Sybil's scrolls mention Amazonian ball games," the Vestal interrupted. She produced a bronze plaque depicting nude women wrestling over a round object. "Our ancestors approved."
The system, traitorously, agreed:
[Religious Exception Unlocked: 'Sacred Matriarchy' team permitted. Bonus: +5 Morale for matches during festivals.]
Lucius massaged his temples. "Very well. But you'll need to train in private. The mob won't—"
"We've already begun." The Vestal clapped. From the trees emerged a dozen young women—patrician daughters in modified tunics, their hair braided for combat. At their head stood Decimus's own sister, her smirk mirroring her brother's.
"Our first match," the Vestal said sweetly, "will be against the Senate's wives."
Lucius made a mental note to invest in armor for spectators.
The explosion rocked the *Campum Ludus* at high noon.
One moment, the reserve teams were scrimmaging. The next, a fireball engulfed the pitch, sending players diving for cover. The ball—specially "enhanced" by a Greek alchemist seeking Nero's favor—burned with unnatural ferocity, its flames leaping from grass to sand like a living thing.
Lucius arrived to chaos. The Greek was screeching about "volatile sulfur compounds" while players beat at their smoldering tunics. The system's analysis was blunt:
[Experimental Football Detected:
- +50% Spectator Excitement
- -75% Player Survival Rate
Recommendation: Ban before imperial idiots get ideas.]
"Put it out!" Lucius roared. Slaves hurled sand until the last ember died.
The Greek wrung his hands. "But the Emperor would have loved it!"
Lucius seized him by his charred robe. "Listen carefully. The next 'innovation' that risks my players' lives will be tested *on your skin*."
As the man fled, Nikias limped over, his face still pale from the poisoning. "We survived barbarians, poison, and Vestal Virgins. Now flaming balls?" He coughed weakly. "What's next—gladiators on horseback?"
The system pinged ominously.
[New Research Path Detected: Mounted Football. Reward: +10 Speed. Risk: -8 Life Expectancy.]
Lucius made the sign against evil. "Don't give it ideas."
That night, Lucius pored over maps in Julia's library. The league's expansion had attracted predators—Decimus's poison, Nero's cruelty, the Greeks' recklessness. And now, the Vestals' political games.
The system offered cold comfort:
[Current Threats:
1. Decimus (Political sabotage: 85% chance of further attacks)
2. Nero (Unstable interest: 60% chance of lethal demands)
3. Alchemists (Experimental "improvements": 45% chance of disaster)
Countermeasures Available: Establish spy network (Cost: 200 denarii)]
Julia entered, her hair unbound for once. "You're thinking like a general." She traced the map's inked cities. "But this isn't a war. It's a game."
"Games are war by other means," Lucius muttered.
She poured wine—from a jar she'd tasted first. "Then play to win. The Vestals give us religious cover. The Britons prove foreigners can excel. Even Nero's madness can be useful—what emperor resists his own legend?"
The system updated:
[New Strategy: 'Controlled Chaos'
- Leverage Nero's vanity for imperial patronage
- Use Vestal team to normalize female participation
- Redirect alchemists to safer innovations (Inflatable bladders? Studded sandals?)]
Lucius exhaled. "We'll need more charcoal."
Outside, the first notes of a riotous chant rose from the streets—fans debating the flaming ball incident. Football had become Rome's heartbeat.
And Lucius?
He was learning to dance with monsters.