Chapter 5:
The morning after *FC Roma*'s victory, Lucius found himself summoned to the Senate—not as a citizen, but as a curiosity. The Curia Julia loomed before him, its marble façade gleaming under the harsh Roman sun. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and ambition. Senators draped in purple-trimmed togas lounged on wooden benches, their eyes sharp with calculation. At the center of it all sat Senator Gallus, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Ah, the football man!" boomed a voice from the crowd. Lucius turned to see Senator Marcus Drusus, a barrel-chested patrician with a reputation for backing winning causes. "Tell us, how does your little game benefit Rome?"
Lucius didn't miss a beat. "Unity, Senator. The plebs cheer for their teams, not against their rulers. The provinces compete on the field, not the battlefield. And the legions? They train harder when there's glory to be won."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Then a new voice cut through the noise—cold, precise, and dripping with venom. "Or perhaps it's a distraction from true Roman virtues."
Lucius turned. Decimus. Dressed in a senator's toga far too soon for his age (courtesy of his uncle's influence), Gallus's nephew stood with the practiced stillness of a predator. His dark eyes never left Lucius.
"Gladiators remind us of sacrifice," Decimus continued. "Chariots remind us of speed and daring. What does football teach? To kick a ball like children in the streets?"
Lucius held his gaze. "It teaches strategy. Teamwork. Discipline. The same virtues that made Rome great."
Before Decimus could retort, Gallus raised a hand. "Enough. The people have spoken—they like this game. And where the people go, wise men follow." He turned to Lucius. "You'll have your league. But know this—Rome rewards success. It does not forgive failure." The unspoken threat hung in the air as Lucius bowed and left.
Decimus didn't wait to strike. By sundown, notices were plastered across the city: "Lupa Roma seeks warriors of skill and honor. Train under true Roman tradition. Sponsored by the House of Gallus." The name was a provocation—Lupa, the she-wolf who had nursed Romulus and Remus. A direct challenge to FC Roma's legitimacy. Worse, Decimus wasn't recruiting plebs or freedmen. He was poaching legionnaires.
Lucius learned this the hard way when he arrived at *Campum Ludus* the next morning to find Nikias nursing a split lip. "They came at dawn," the Greek muttered. "A dozen soldiers in full armor. Said any man who joined *Lupa Roma* would earn silver and the Senate's favor." Lucius clenched his fists. "How many did we lose?" "Half the team."
That night, the system's voice was grim. [Warning: Political interference detected. Rival faction established. New objective: Win the first derby match. Reward: Financial backing + increased public support.] Lucius unrolled the system's latest blueprint—a detailed plan for scouting networks and youth academies. Long-term tools. But first, he needed to survive the short-term war.
Decimus's tactics weren't limited to recruitment. Over the next week, the goalposts at Campum Luduswere sawed halfway through. During practice, they collapsed. Lucius's remaining players were ambushed at a local inn by "drunken" legionnaires. Three were too injured to play. Suddenly, the merchants supplying food to Lucius's team found their goods "inspected" by Decimus's allies. Delays mounted. Through it all, Lucius refused to retaliate in kind. "We play clean," he told his battered team. "Because when we win, we'll do it our way."
But Rome wasn't entirely against him. In the Subura slums, where children kicked rags tied into balls, Lucius became a folk hero. At the baths, plebs debated tactics with the fervor of generals. Even some patrician women—officially barred from attending games but watching from rooftops—began placing bets. Then came the breakthrough. Julia Antonia.A senator's daughter and widow of a wealthy merchant, she arrived at Campum Ludus in a litter borne by Nubian slaves. Behind her marched ten men—former gladiators, all freed by her late husband's will. "I hear you need players," she said, her voice like honeyed steel. "These men are tired of killing. Let them try winning instead." Lucius didn't ask her price. He didn't need to. Julia wanted what every Roman craved: influence.
The day of the match dawned bloody. A heat haze shimmered over the city as twenty thousand spectators packed into Campum Ludus. The crowd was split—plebs chanting "Roma! Roma!"while off-duty legionnaires roared "Lupa! Lupa!"Senator Gallus presided from the VIP podium, flanked by Julia (earning scandalized whispers) and Decimus (who hadn't taken his eyes off Lucius since dawn).
The teams lined up. FC Roma – A patchwork of freed gladiators, Greek exiles, and Subura street rats. Lupa Roma – Legionnaires in polished greaves, their muscles honed by war. The referee (a bribed centurion) barely finished his whistle before the violence began. Decimus's players didn't tackle—they charged, elbows flying. Nikias went down in the first minute, spitting blood. A freed gladiator named Crixus retaliated with a shoulder-check that sent a legionnaire sprawling. The crowd howled.
Then—the play. Lucius, watching from the sidelines, saw it unfold before it happened. Nikias, limping but unbowed, feinted left. The legionnaire followed. A quick pass to Julia's giant ex-gladiator, Vulso, who launched the ball— GOAL.The stadium exploded. Decimus's face darkened. He barked an order. Suddenly, Lupa Roma abandoned all pretense of sport. Kicks aimed at knees. "Accidental" stamps on fallen players. The referee, bought and paid for, turned a blind eye. By halftime, FC Roma led 2-1, but three men were carried off the field.
In the locker room, Lucius faced his battered team. "They want us to break," he growled. "So we rise. No fists. No revenge. We beat them where it hurts—on the scoreboard."
What followed wasn't just a match. It was art. Nikias, though favoring his left leg, danced through defenders like smoke. Vulso used his bulk not to crush, but to shield, creating space for others. And then—the moment. A long pass from Crixus. Nikias, sprinting. Decimus himself stepped in, face twisted with hate. Nikias flicked the ball over his head, spun around him, and— GOAL. The final whistle blew. 4-2.
The plebs surged onto the field, lifting Nikias onto their shoulders. Even some legionnaires, grudgingly, clapped. Only Decimus stood motionless, his knuckles white around a dagger hilt.
That night, the system's rewards arrived: Financial Backing – Julia pledged her late husband's fortune to expand the league. Public Support – Graffiti across Rome proclaimed "Football is the People's Game!" But as Lucius celebrated in a tavern, a slave slipped him a note: "You won a battle. Not the war. –D."Lucius burned the message in an oil lamp.