Chapter 15:
The morning sun glittered off the gilded prow of the Neropolis Navis as it floated in Ostia's harbor like a drunken peacock. Three hundred oarsmen strained against the currents, their sweat-slicked backs reflecting the light as the massive barge—outfitted with a full-sized football pitch, marble spectator stands, and an onboard vineyard—listed dangerously to starboard.
Lucius rubbed his temples as the system's assessment flickered before him:
[Structural Analysis:
- Hull Integrity: 62% (leaking)
- Pitch Stability: "Questionable"
- Emperor's Delusion: 100%]
Nero, resplendent in a sea-green chiton, clapped his hands. "Isn't she magnificent? We'll sail south, liberate those poor enslaved players, and host a floating tournament!" He leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, "With volcanic fireworks."
Behind him, Decimus smirked from the shadows of a silk canopy.
The Neropolis Navis made it exactly four miles before the inaugural match between FC Roma and the Ostia Dockers devolved into chaos:
- Minute 3: The ball rolled into a gap between improperly fitted deck planks and vanished into the bilge.
- Minute 7: A rogue wave drenched Nero's lyre, prompting him to order the oarsmen to "row quieter."
- Minute 12: The Vestal acolyte's sacred flame (for pre-game rituals) ignited a wine cask, creating a makeshift Molotov that nearly capsized them.
Nikias clung to the goalpost, his face greener than the sea. "I'd rather face lions again."
Vulso, busy bailing water with his helmet, growled, "At least lions don't rock sideways."
The system's update was grim:
[Match Suspended:
- Player seasickness: 89%
- Nero's amusement: Fading
- Decimus's sabotage probability: 83%]
At dusk, a flickering light caught Lucius's eye from the distant shore—a torch waved in deliberate sequence. The system decoded it instantly:
[Morse Equivalent:
"Mines guarded. Two legions. Strike at dawn. Bring bears."]
The Briton chieftain grinned, sharpening his dagger. "Told you we'd need them."
Nero, now sulking over his waterlogged lyre, perked up. "Ooo, are we sneaking? I love sneaking!"
Lucius seized the opportunity. "Divine One, imagine the drama—a clandestine rescue, with you as the heroic lead! We'll need your barge as a distraction…"
The emperor's eyes gleamed. "And a ballad afterward?"
"Three ballads," Lucius lied.
While Nero's barge drew the coastal patrols' attention (by "accidentally" ramming a customs dock), Lucius's team rowed ashore in a stolen fishing boat. The mines of Carthago Nova loomed ahead—a maze of tunnels carved into the cliffs, echoing with the clang of pickaxes and the occasional roar of spectators.
The system mapped the facility:
[Slave Compound Layout:
- Barracks (east)
- Training yard (central)
- Fighting pits (north)
Security:
- Legionnaires: 200+
- Iron ball matches: Ongoing
Escape Routes: 2 (collapsed?)
Disguised as olive merchants, they infiltrated the training yard, where emaciated players scrimmaged with a ball chained to their ankles. A whip cracked—a barrel-chested lanista bellowed, "Faster! The next match is for your lives!"
Then Lucius spotted lhim: Marcus's brother, a midfielder from the Ostia Dockers, his legs scarred but his eyes still sharp. Their silent exchange said everything.
The plan was simple:
1. Vestal acolyte triggered a "divine omen" (smoke bombs in the shrine).
2. Briton and Vulso freed the slave players during the chaos.
3. Nikias sabotaged the gate mechanisms.
But Decimus had anticipated them.
As the smoke billowed, a horn blew—*not Roman, but Germanic. From the shadows marched a cohort of mercenaries, their shields painted with… footballs?
Decimus's voice cut through the chaos: "Did you truly think I'd let you turn these slaves into heroes?" He gestured to the mercenaries. "Meet the Hansa Football Club. They play for gold, not freedom."
The system's alert screamed:
[New Faction: Germanic Mercenary Team
Strengths:
- Ruthless efficiency
- No moral constraints
Weakness:
- Poor teamwork (they're mercenaries)]
With escape routes collapsing, Lucius made a desperate gamble. He grabbed the iron match-ball and shouted, "You want a game? Let's play!"
The rules were simple:
- Win: Slave players go free.
- Lose: Lucius's team joins the mines.
What followed was the ugliest football match in history.
- The iron ball broke bones on impact.
- The Vestal acolyte used her robes to blind opponents.
- Vulso tackled a mercenary into a water trough.
At halftime, the score was 1-1, and Lucius's ribs were cracked.
Then—Marcus's brother stole the ball, dribbled past three mercenaries, and kicked the iron sphere straight into Decimus's face.
The crack echoed like a bell.
As Decimus crumpled, a familiar trumpet sounded. Nero's barge had *somehow* crashed through the mine's sea gate, its prow scattering legionnaires like ninepins. The emperor stood atop the splintered mast, lyre in hand:
"Did someone call for a deus ex machina?"
In the chaos, the slaves fled through the breached walls. The mercenaries, unpaid now that Decimus was unconscious, defected on the spot.
Nero sighed. "This was far more exciting than my ballad."
By dawn, the freed players were aboard the Neropolis Navis (now listing at 45 degrees). The system's summary was bittersweet:
[Mission Results:
- Slave players rescued: 32
- Decimus's nose: Rebroken
- Nero's ego: Inflated
New Problem:
- Germanic mercenaries now loose in the league
- Decimus will retaliate
- The barge is sinking]
As the sun rose, Lucius watched the former slaves touch real grass on the deck, their chains replaced with FC Roma's spare kits. The Vestal acolyte murmured, "This changes everything."
Lucius nodded.