Chapter 9:
The summons came not on gilded parchment, but screamed from the lips of a hundred newsboys racing through Rome's streets at dawn:
"The Emperor declares football the official sport of the Empire! All teams to swear allegiance to Nero's league by the Kalends!"
Lucius, halfway through his morning bread, choked on the announcement. The system's alert flashed like a warning beacon:
[Imperial Override Detected: Nero's 'Divine League' Initiative. Immediate Effects:
- All teams now property of the Imperial Ludus
- Matches to be scheduled around state executions
- Player transfers subject to imperial veto]
Julia's wine cup hit the floor with a clatter. "He's stealing your league."
Across the table, Nikias—still gaunt from the poisoning—rubbed his temples. "Worse. He's making it interesting."
The imperial decree was nailed to every major crossroads in Rome, its words as inescapable as the summer heat:
"By order of Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus, Divine Emperor and First Fan of Football, all teams shall henceforth compete under the banner of the Magna Ludus Imperialis.
Team owners retaining more than three players without imperial consent shall be fined their weight in gold. Those resisting shall provide entertainment for the Colosseum's beasts."
Lucius stared at the notice outside Campum Ludus, where his players had gathered in stunned silence. The system's translation was blunter:
[Translation: Nero wants control. Resistance = death. Suggested Action: Play along while sabotaging from within.]
Vulso spat in the dust. "So we're slaves again."
"No." Lucius peeled the notice from the wall. "We're *valuable* slaves."
Nero's inaugural game was a grotesque parody of sport.
The Circus Maximus had been transformed into a football pitch crossed with an execution ground. At midfield, a raised platform held condemned prisoners in iron cages. The new rules were delivered by a herald with a voice like cracking ice:
"For every goal scored, one prisoner dies. For every goal conceded, a player joins them."
The crowd roared its approval.
Lucius's team stood paralyzed. Their opponents—a newly formed Praetorian Select XI—grinned beneath their gilded helmets. The system's analysis was grim:
[Match Conditions:
- Morale: Shattered
- Win Probability: 12%
- Survival Probability: 34%]
The whistle blew.
What followed wasn't football. The Praetorians played like butchers, their "tackles" leaving FC Roma players bleeding on the sand. When Nikias managed a desperate goal, the crowd cheered as a prisoner's throat was slit on the platform.
At halftime, the score was 2-1. One more conceded goal, and a Roman would die.
Lucius gathered his team in the shadow of the executioner's block. "Listen carefully. We're not playing to win. We're playing to survive." He grabbed a stick, sketching in the dirt. "Vulso, you become a wall. Nikias, you stop trying to score and start wasting time. Everyone else—keep the ball away from our half at all costs."
The system approved:
[Anti-Football Tactics Activated:
- Time-Wasting: +30%
- Defensive Formation: +50%
- Ethical Deterioration: +100%]
The second half was a masterclass in tedium. FC Roma passed sideways endlessly. When forced toward goal, Nikias "accidentally" kicked the ball into the stands. The crowd booed. Nero yawned.
Final score: 2-1. No additional deaths.
As they limped off the pitch, a sweaty palm clapped Lucius's shoulder. Nero's breath reeked of spoiled fruit.
"Clever," the emperor murmured. "But next time, I'll choose the sacrifices myself."
That night, in a Subura basement reeking of garlic and rebellion, Lucius faced the other team owners. The Ostia Dockers' captain nursed a broken arm. The Tibur Gladiators' owner kept glancing at the door.
Julia spoke first. "We have two options. Bow to Nero and become his puppets—"
"Or play our own game," Lucius finished. He unrolled a stolen imperial scroll. "The 'Magna Ludus' schedule. Notice anything?"
The Mercury's Merchants' owner squinted. "He's got us playing in Lugdunum two days after a match in Neapolis. That's impossible."
"Exactly." Lucius tapped the map. "His bureaucrats don't understand travel times. Half these matches can't happen. Which means..."
The system pinged:
[Exploit Found: Phantom League Opportunity.
- Play official matches with skeleton crews
- Reserve best players for secret true league
- Risk: Discovery = crucifixion]
The *Vestal Virgins*' representative—a sharp-eyed acolyte—smiled. "We have tunnels beneath Rome perfect for hidden pitches."
Nikias groaned. "Why does the holy order of virgins know more about smuggling than actual criminals?"
The acolyte winked. "Vesta sees all."
For the next month, football in Rome became a dance of shadows.
Official "imperial" matches were played by reserves and aging veterans, their deliberately poor performances written off as "artistic differences" with Nero's coaches. The real competition happened in abandoned aqueducts, beneath circus arenas, even in the catacombs—where Lucius's underground league flourished.
The system adapted:
[Dual League System Active:
- Imperial Matches: -5 Team Prestige (but keeps Nero happy)
- Underground Games: +3 Skill Growth (hidden from spies)
- New Risk: Decimus's informants report 40% infiltration chance]
The strain showed. Players slept in shifts, their kits hidden beneath workman's tunics. Lucius took to carrying a dagger after three "mugging" attempts left his guards bleeding in alleys.
Yet the football... the football was glorious.
In the cavern beneath the Aventine, where torches flickered off ancient Etruscan carvings, *FC Roma* and the *Briton Warriors* played a match that would never be recorded. No prisoners died. No emperors watched. Just pure, desperate sport—the kind that made men brothers.
After the 4-3 thriller, the Briton chieftain clasped Lucius's forearm. "This is why we fight."
The betrayal came on the Ides.
Lucius was reviewing scout reports when the system blared:
[ALERT: Underground Match Location Compromised. Praetorians En Route. Estimated Arrival: 18 minutes.]
He burst into the hidden stadium beneath the Baths of Agrippa, where Palatine Eagles and Subura Slums were mid-game. "Pack up! Now!"
Too late.
The iron grates burst open. Not Praetorians—Decimus's personal guard, their swords already drawn. Behind them, clad in a purple so dark it was nearly black, stood Nero.
"Ah," the emperor sighed. "*Real* football at last."
The players froze. The Briton chieftain reached slowly for his hidden dagger.
Nero strolled onto the pitch, picking up the abandoned ball. "Did you know," he mused, "that the best plays always happen when the stakes are highest?" He turned to Lucius. "So let's raise them."
The system's warning was apocalyptic:
[EMERGENCY: Nero demands immediate 'exhibition match'—winners go free, losers feed lions. Suggested Tactics: Cheat.]
As the emperor's mirthless laughter echoed off the ancient bricks, Lucius realized the terrifying truth:
Nero had never wanted control.
He wanted better entertainment.