At the center of the line, both teams strained against each other with all their might. A soldier from Antonios’s squad finally managed to scoop up the olive ball from the ground and snapped it back between his legs to Olivas. The quarterback immediately unleashed a powerful throw, sending the ball spiraling toward the towering figure of Tegertinos on the left flank.

The moment the ball was in his hands, Tegertinos spun, deftly evading a tackler before tucking the ball under his arm and surging forward.

Another opponent dove at him from the side.

This time, Xenothemis was there, throwing a crucial block to stop the tackle.

Tegertinos was a mountain of a man, and once he built up a head of steam, he was an unstoppable force. He was grabbed twice more by defenders, but each time he simply shrugged them off with his sheer momentum.

As he thundered past the second yard marker in their own half, Epitenes, coaching from the sideline, could no longer contain his agitation and began shouting frantically.

Just then, a player shot forward from the rear flank, closing the distance with astonishing speed. He launched himself into the air, arms outstretched, and wrapped them in a powerful, precise tackle around Tegertinos’s ankles.

Tegertinos crashed to the turf like a falling monument. Fortunately, he held onto the ball, preventing a fumble.

The players from Epitenes’s team rushed over, slapping their triumphant teammate on the back. He was one of the Lucanians. Though he couldn’t understand the Greek words being shouted around him, he could feel the joy and goodwill in their gestures, and a wide grin split his face.

A sudden cry of recognition went up from the Lucanian slaves on Antonios’s sideline.

“What are they saying?” Antonios asked Bagulos.

“They’re calling his name. That’s Litom,” Bagulos explained, pointing to the Lucanian player on the field. “He’s a renowned warrior from our tribe, and a very skilled hunter!”

Antonios nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The referee, Drakos, ran over to the downed player. “Are you alright? Anything broken?!” he asked with concern.

Tegertinos struggled to his feet and took a few steps to show he was fine. Since olive ball was physically demanding and prone to causing injuries, and because Amendolara lacked the resources to provide protective gear for every soldier, Davos enforced strict safety rules. Tackling, grabbing, pulling, and blocking were the only permissible ways to stop an offensive play. Any dangerous actions like striking, hitting, or kicking were forbidden, with violators banned from future games. As a result, the soldiers were careful with their tackles, fearing a suspension. Davos had also stationed medics on the sidelines, ready to provide immediate aid.

“Excellent! That was excellent work!” Olivas clapped his hands, rallying his teammates. “We’ve gained a huge amount of ground! Let’s push hard and get that score!” With that, he began calling out the new play.

The game resumed. Olivas took the snap and immediately tossed the ball to Tegertinos.

The big man took two steps before two defenders converged on him, forcing him to quickly pitch the ball back to Olivas.

With his teammates providing a protective pocket, Olivas faked a pass, then threw to Tegertinos once more.

Again, the big man quickly threw it back.

For a third time, Olivas feigned a throw to Tegertinos, drawing the full attention of the defense. Then, in a sudden twist of his body and a flick of his wrist, he unleashed a long, arcing pass toward the front right corner of the field before being flattened by a defender.

A collective gasp went up from the players on the field. The olive ball soared twenty meters through the air, looking as if it would fly past the end line. Just then, a player from Antonios’s team sprinted to the spot, leaped high into the air, and managed to get a hand on it. But the ball was moving too fast, and he couldn’t secure the catch. He landed, jumped again, but still couldn’t get a firm grip. In that instant, an opponent slammed into him, tackling him to the ground.

A great sigh of disappointment rose from the soldiers watching from the sidelines. Antonios’s squad had lost their chance to score.

The slaves on the sideline, however, began shouting animatedly.

“What are they saying now?” Antonios asked curiously.

“They’re saying that if it were them, they definitely would have caught that ball,” Bagulos explained. “We Lucanians grow up walking and hunting in the mountain forests. We’re used to climbing and leaping. When it comes to jumping, not many other people can compare to us!”

Antonios nodded. “Alright. We’re on defense next. All five of you are going in.”

Bagulos’s eyes widened in surprise, then lit up with excitement. Having watched from the sideline, he had found the game both thrilling and fascinating, and he was itching to play.

“One more thing,” Antonios added with a meaningful look. “I suggest that when you go back, you encourage your people to learn Greek. Otherwise, it’s impossible to communicate during a match.”

***

As evening approached, the more than eight hundred Lucanian slaves waiting at the construction site grew anxious. Some became agitated and began arguing with the soldiers guarding them.

Just then, the forty slaves who had been taken away returned, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

“Hey, are you all alright?!” their kinsmen called out, rushing forward to greet them.

“Don’t worry, we’re fine!” Bagulos reassured them, unable to hide the exhilaration on his face.

“You wouldn’t believe it! This olive ball game the Greeks invented is amazing!” one of the returning slaves exclaimed. “You should have seen it! In the final match, Bagulos leaped into the air, caught the ball, dodged two defenders, and scored the final break to win the championship for his team!”

“It’s called a touchdown, not ‘breaking’,” Bagulos corrected with a grin.

“If my squad had better coordination, we definitely would have beaten you and made it to the finals!” Litom retorted, still feeling competitive.

“Brother, you need to understand that your team’s coordination was poor because you couldn’t speak the same language!” Bagulos advised him. “If you want to beat me next time, you have to learn Greek!”

Litom considered this for a moment, then nodded seriously.

The waiting slaves were completely bewildered. Game? Match? Championship?

The returning slaves then began to excitedly recount their experiences at the Amendolaran training camp. The listeners’ initial curiosity soon turned into genuine interest, and many of them made a silent vow to work harder on the construction site, hoping they would be the next ones chosen to participate in this incredible-sounding game.

From that day forward, the progress of all construction projects in Amendolara advanced by leaps and bounds.

For the original citizens of Amendolara, however, it was a night of deep reflection. Alcinous, for one, could not forget that his parents had died at the hands of the Lucanians. Yet, when he had been running with the ball, and his Lucanian teammates had repeatedly thrown blocks to clear his path, allowing him to score a touchdown, he had embraced them in a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. In that moment, his hatred had been cast to the furthest corners of his mind. Now, back in the solitude of his home, the memory filled him with a profound sense of conflict. Such was the power of modern team sports—an alchemy that Davos understood well. When an individual becomes part of a collective and achieves victory through unity, all prior hatreds and conflicts can be dissolved in the ensuing euphoria. This was precisely why he had mandated that every team include five Lucanian slaves.

***

The next morning, just as Davos finished his breakfast and was preparing to inspect the carpenters’ progress on the elevated waterwheels, Axistes burst into the room.

“What’s happened?!” Davos demanded immediately.

“Kunogelata… Kunogelata has been exiled from Thurii! He’s leading his family… and his clansmen toward Amendolara right now!” Axistes gasped, struggling to catch his breath.

What?! Davos was utterly shocked.

As it turned out, the trouble had begun after the signing of the alliance treaty. On the pretext of needing to formulate a new trade plan to replenish the city’s empty coffers, Kunogelata had dispatched men to investigate the financial state of Thurii’s treasury.

While the investigation was underway, a rumor began to circulate through the city. It claimed that Kunogelata had been the sole proponent of the hasty battle against the Lucanians. It said that Pheresus and the mercenary leader had been vehemently opposed, and that the hero who saved Thurii, Davos, had even submitted a more viable battle plan, but Kunogelata had rejected them all. It was his incessant pressure, the rumor insisted, that had forced the old general Pheresus to march into a doomed battle. And during the fighting, it was Kunogelata’s premature flight that had caused the collapse of the center phalanx, while Pheresus had died a hero’s death.

Fanned by the whispers of those with ulterior motives, the rumor spread through the city like wildfire. Because it was woven with threads of truth, when the doubtful citizens sought confirmation, they selectively believed the parts that aligned with their grief. They were the families of the fallen, and their sorrow, which had been suppressed by the joy of Davos’s victory, now needed an outlet. Kunogelata was the perfect target. Public fury erupted. Mobs gathered, chanting, “Down with Kunogelata! Punish Kunogelata!” as they surrounded the city hall.

Seeing the situation devolve, Kunogelata slipped out a back door and returned to his home, only to find that the mob had followed him, surrounding his estate and cutting off all escape.

He ordered his household and slaves to fortify their position and prevent the mob from breaking in, while he himself stood inside the courtyard walls, shouting explanations to the seething crowd.

As the standoff intensified, a new voice suddenly cried out from the crowd, “Citizens, don’t forget! After Kunogelata fled back to the city, it was he who forced us to shut the gates! Because of him, our own retreating soldiers couldn’t get inside, and most of them were slaughtered by the Lucanians! He is a murderer!”

The accusation struck a chord. Many remembered Kunogelata’s panicked screaming: “Close the gates! Close the gates now!” In truth, that desperate measure had likely saved the entire city from being overrun. But in their rage, the people were incapable of such reasoning. All they remembered was standing helplessly on the walls, watching their loved ones being butchered like lambs below. They hated their own powerlessness, and they hated the “mastermind” of their misery even more.

The confrontation turned violent. The mob surged forward, trying to break into Kunogelata’s estate, while those inside fought desperately to hold them back. The enraged citizens even brought up a battering ram and eventually smashed the main gate open. A flood of frenzied people poured into the courtyard. If not for Kunogelata feigning death and the unwavering loyalty of his slaves who shielded his body, he would have been beaten to death on the spot.

That day, the mob ransacked his home like a pack of wild animals. One of his sons was killed, his daughter was violated, and many of his kinsmen and slaves were wounded. The majority of his family’s wealth was stolen.