"Are the soldiers fully prepared?"
"Yes, imperator."
Pompey nodded, accepting his officer's salute. The atmosphere within the Circus Maximus had already reached a fever pitch.
"Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!"
"Metellus! Metellus! Metellus!"
Troy against Greece. The colossal stadium trembled beneath the competing roars of the crowd.
As the competition remained neck and neck, the rivalry between the two groups of supporters grew increasingly fierce.
"There's no telling how this will end," Pompey muttered, gazing out over the Circus Maximus.
Before he knew it, the Troy Game was entering its third phase.
Following the joint cavalry demonstration and the individual riding contests, the bucking-horse event was now underway.
Pompey watched Antony and the other young nobles struggle to remain mounted on the bucking horses. Without a doubt, Antony had remained mounted far longer than any of the others.
"I can hardly wait to unveil what I've prepared..."
He, too, had a secret weapon prepared for the demonstration.
But his immediate concern was the outcome of the Troy Game. Who would emerge victorious?
Lucius? Or Metellus? Whichever side won, a massive commotion seemed unavoidable.
While those backing Lucius Caesar were far more numerous, Metellus's supporters were far from quiet.
If the supporters, swept up in the frenzied atmosphere, clashed with one another, a riot would be inevitable.
Pompey stared at Lucius and Metellus. Both remained mounted, quietly observing the arena.
What could those two be thinking right now?
***
'I don't want to lose!'
Metellus muttered to himself. He tightened his grip on his reins.
When his father had first appointed him commander of the Greek faction against his wishes, he had never intended to win or fight against Caesar.
His family had escaped total ruin during the banking crisis thanks to Lucius's timely aid, and unlike his father, he had no intention of turning against the man who had saved his family.
That was precisely why he had personally visited Lucius to concede the contest before it even began.
Yet Lucius had given an answer he never could have anticipated: a proposal for both factions to train together.
In doing so, Metellus had incurred yet another enormous debt of gratitude.
"But..."
As time passed, a new emotion had blossomed within him.
It was a burning desire to win. Having trained alongside his companions over the past few weeks, he had gradually grown deeply attached to his faction.
What if they could actually win? What if they could defeat the mighty Trojan faction?
His heavy obligation to repay his debt of gratitude to Lucius clashed violently with his desire to lead his faction to victory, trapping him in a painful dilemma.
And now, the final result was about to be revealed.
"Two points for the Trojan faction!"
"Four points for the Greek faction!"
"Four points for Troy! One point for Greece!"
The riders were awarded varying points based on how long they managed to stay mounted on the bucking horses.
And once every rider had completed his turn, the final score was at last calculated.
"Silence, everyone! We shall now announce the final scores!"
Metellus, the Greek and Trojan factions, and the entire stadium of spectators.
Every soul in the stadium fell silent—Metellus, the men of both factions, and the spectators alike.
Instead of immediately reading the results, the committee members began whispering to one another with visibly alarmed expressions.
Only after a lengthy, hushed debate did one of the officials finally rise to his feet.
"The victor of today's Troy Game is..."
Amidst the dead silence, the official's voice boomed across the arena.
In the next moment, gasps of disbelief erupted across the arena, and Metellus himself stood frozen in shock.
"A tie?!"
***
"A tie?"
Mounted on my horse, I stared at the judges' platform where the committee members sat.
A tie. Our scores were exactly equal?
For a brief moment, the thought that the committee might have rigged the results crossed my mind, but I quickly shook my head.
To begin with, the committee would have desperately wanted a clear winner and a clear loser.
If they had planned to rig a tie, they never would have gone through the trouble of preparing a chariot for the victor.
In fact, every single official looked utterly dumbfounded. They had clearly never anticipated a draw.
My team had secured a massive lead during the tactical maneuvers, but we had lost ground in the individual skill contests.
And in the third event—the rodeo—we had performed almost identically.
That was how we had ended up deadlocked.
"Isn't this actually a good thing?" Brutus asked with a chuckle.
"There's no longer any need to worry about either side claiming a decisive victory. And our supporters won't have an excuse to clash either."
"I suppose so."
I scanned the spectator stands. The crowd, which had been roaring with excitement throughout the contest, fell eerily silent at the announcement of a draw.
No one seemed certain whether to cheer or complain.
But then I recalled one particular rule of the Troy Game.
"By long-standing tradition, a draw is not permitted in the Troy Game! There must be one victor and one loser!" the official bellowed.
Instantly, the crowd erupted into a frenzy once more. Of course it would end up like this.
"Troy Game cannot end in a draw. Someone has to win."
"I didn't know about that rule," Brutus muttered with a frown.
"But we can't exactly replay the entire game now. If we do, Pompey won't have time to put on his demonstration."
"Replaying the match now would take far too much time and effort. All of our men are exhausted already. If we force them to compete again now, there will be a far greater risk of injury."
I nodded. Brutus was right.
Leaving aside the fact that both factions were completely exhausted, resuming the game now would leave no time for Pompey's demonstration.
Before we knew it, the spectators had already divided once more into their respective camps, screaming at the top of their lungs.
"Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!"
"Metellus! Metellus!"
At this rate, a full-blown riot was going to break out. It was common for opposing supporters to clash violently at public spectacles.
But if that happened today, the blame would fall squarely on Metellus and me.
I looked around.
What should I do? Replay the game to decide a winner?
Just as I was scanning the arena, my eyes caught sight of Father seated in the center of the section reserved for senators.
He had risen from his seat, staring intently at where I stood.
Seeing his anxious expression, a conversation we had shared recently flashed through my mind.
'Spolia opima.'
Father had warned me that my supporters were expecting something akin to the spolia opima from me.
It was the single most prestigious honor a commander could claim: slaying the enemy general in single combat and stripping him of his armor.
We had both spoken of it in jest back then, but...
Perhaps that was the solution.
Leaving behind a confused Brutus, I picked up my wooden sword and shield.
Amidst the deafening screams and shouts echoing from all sides, I dismounted my horse and began walking toward the center of the arena alone.
Will this actually work? For it to succeed, Metellus has to grasp my intentions.
I had no choice but to take a gamble here.
As I stood at the center of the field, the roaring clamor slowly began to die down. Senators, judges, and ordinary citizens alike began whispering to one another in hushed tones.
"Look over there. What on earth is Lucius Caesar doing?"
"I have no idea."
Amidst the sudden silence, I raised my wooden sword high toward the sky.
"Before the gods and the people of Rome, I, Lucius Julius Caesar, challenge Metellus, commander of the opposing faction, to single combat!"
My challenge reverberated across the colossal stadium.
Instantly, a wave of stunned murmurs swept through the stands.
"A challenge to single combat? Was there ever such a rule in the Troy Game?"
"I've never heard of it."
"Young Caesar just challenged Metellus to single combat?!"
I slowly lowered my sword and fixed my gaze on the Greek faction across from me.
Suddenly challenged before the entire stadium, Metellus stood frozen in bewilderment.
Well, I would have reacted the exact same way.
Ending in a tie was shocking enough, but to suddenly be challenged to single combat by the opposing general was completely out of left field.
Would he grasp my intention?
Metellus stared at me in bewilderment, then turned to accept a wooden sword and shield from his subordinates.
In the next moment, he began slowly striding toward me.
He pointed his sword at me and roared.
"I, Metellus, accept your challenge, Caesar!"
Amid a roar so deafening that it felt as though the stadium itself were shaking, the two of us stood face to face.
I looked at him and let out a broad grin.
Thank goodness. He had caught on.
I needed to break the tie, produce a clear victor, and prevent our supporters from tearing each other apart.
There was only one way to accomplish all three at once: by putting on an even more spectacular show.
Now that the atmosphere had reached such a fever pitch, even the committee would not dare intervene.
I tightened my grip on my wooden sword and shield.
"Then, let us begin."
***
In all the years since I had been born into this Roman world, I had never once had confidence in my swordsmanship.
Like most young Roman nobles, I had been trained in horsemanship and swordsmanship on the Campus Martius since childhood.
But I had never found any real enjoyment in it.
To begin with, being trained by a brutal Spartan instructor was hardly a pleasant experience. Even now, I still could not defeat Father in a sparring match.
Thud!
The heavy crack of my wooden sword against his scutum echoed across the field.
I blocked Metellus's strike with my shield and drove forward with all my weight.
Metellus pivoted aside at the last moment, narrowly avoiding my charge.
Is this how gladiators feel in the arena?
With an opponent standing before me and cheers roaring from every side, sweat trickled down my forehead.
To think I would end up fighting like a gladiator before the people of Rome.
At the very least, I could take comfort in the fact that we were fighting with wooden swords.
I lunged forward, thrusting my sword.
The moment Metellus twisted his body to dodge once more, I delivered a powerful kick.
Struck squarely in the knee, Metellus stumbled backward.
Fortunately for him, my kick had not carried enough force to do serious damage.
"You are a far better fighter than I expected, Caesar."
"Better than you anticipated? Have you been underestimating me all this time?"
The two of us burst out laughing together.
It was certainly rare to engage in single combat in such a good-natured atmosphere.
Well, we had spent the past several weeks training alongside each other. By now, we had become quite close.
We traded blows once more, neither of us landing a decisive hit, our weapons scoring only glancing strikes.
I retreated a few paces, feeling a dull throb in my shoulder.
At this rate, I figured I would lose within another two or three exchanges.
Still, I was holding my ground far better than expected.
Then again, I had always lost miserably whenever I sparred with Father.
Wait. Was Father really just that absurdly good with a sword?
The two of us stared at each other, catching our breath.
If I won, I simply had to avoid insulting Metellus. If I lost, I just had to accept defeat with grace.
The issue was not whether I won or lost; it was making sure this match did not end in mutual resentment.
Even if I lost, if I displayed a graceful acceptance of defeat, my supporters would have no excuse to erupt into violence.
Metellus, too, was fighting in earnest.
"Do not insult me by holding back, Caesar."
"Pardon?"
"I did not walk out onto this field to have a victory handed to me. Fight me with everything you have."
"It will be too late to regret those words," I replied with a smile. Indeed. If I threw the match on purpose, it would be nothing short of an insult to Metellus.
I had to fight with everything I had.
The spectators, who had been roaring at the top of their lungs, fell silent and watched our every move with bated breath.
After several more exchanges, I received a heavy blow to my shoulder, and Metellus took a solid strike to his thigh.
Limping slightly on his bruised leg, Metellus retreated.
Every muscle in my body screamed with exhaustion. I stared at him, panting heavily.
"This should settle it."
"I believe so."
Metellus smirked, adjusting his stance.
The two of us raised our swords and fixed our eyes on one another.
In the next instant, our wooden swords sliced through the air simultaneously.
My blade slipped past Metellus's guard and struck the center of his breastplate.
The moment the wooden tip struck the center of his breastplate, I immediately sprang backward.
Metellus's blade missed me entirely, slicing through empty air.
Metellus stared down at his chest for a brief moment, then let out a bitter smile and lowered his sword.
"Had this been a real battle, I would be dead. I concede defeat. I gave it everything I had, so I cannot help regretting the loss."
Rather than humiliation, his voice carried a deep sense of regret.
It seemed he had genuinely wanted to win that badly.
"Perhaps this is for the best. After all, my family and I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude, Caesar. But for some reason, I truly wanted to win today."
"I felt the exact same way."
Somewhere along the way, this had stopped being a mere performance.
Just then, a thunderous roar shattered the silence of the arena.
"Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!"
I bent down and picked up the wooden sword Metellus had dropped to the ground as a sign of surrender.
Dropping to one knee, Metellus spoke.
"With this, the victor of the Troy Game is decided."
"It seems so."
I lifted my head to scan the spectator stands. Countless people were chanting my name in unison.
The voices backing Metellus had vanished entirely, as if they had never existed to begin with.
The Romans truly had eyes only for the victor.
I looked at Metellus, who was smiling despite being drenched in sweat.
"Now ride the chariot and parade around the arena and through the nearby streets. After a victory won in single combat, far fewer men will dare object to your riding the chariot."
"And the victor has the right to decide the fate of the defeated."
Holding both wooden swords, I stepped toward him.
As Metellus flinched and leaned back, I extended my hand.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"Exercising my right as the victor."
Metellus stared at me in complete bewilderment.
I handed the wooden sword he had dropped back to him.
Right now, I had two obvious choices.
To parade alone on the chariot, or to decline the parade entirely.
But there was also a third choice.
"In the end, this is just a game. We are all Romans, heirs to Troy. In that case, should we not share in the glory of Troy?"
"You mean..."
"Ride the chariot with me."
I smiled at Metellus as he struggled to find his words.
"I cannot do that. How could the defeated possibly mount the triumphal chariot alongside the victor?"
"Then allow me to rephrase. This is an order from the victor," I said, reaching out to pull him to his feet.
"The victor decides the fate of the defeated. That is what I just said."
To the roaring cheers of the young nobles from both factions, the two of us mounted the waiting chariot together.
The bewildered charioteer shook the reins the moment I gave him the signal.
The moment the chariot began to move, the loudest roar of the entire day erupted through the Circus Maximus.
"Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!"
"Metellus! Metellus! Metellus!"
Amid the deafening chants of both our names, the horses marched forward.