Striker King returned home, answering the summons issued by Sandro's cousin, the Roman senator, ordering him to battle for his freedom, inside the Colosseum.
Light streamed through the open windows as though the eyes of the Roman gods beamed on the arena floor. Striker King marveled at the holy battleground, where his soccer idols once stood, inside the enormous amphitheater, built of concrete and stone.
Goosebumps crawled on his skin like ants scaling the bark of a tree.
A strong wind blew a funnel of desert sand into the stadium.
Striker King looked up into the stands, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mamma or Nonno Alberto. But he could only see a blurry blob of spectators.
Dressed in imperial purple and gold, he walked on the soccer pitch with his head held high. He touched the Golden Gladiator badge on his jersey, and he lifted the tunic collar for good luck.
From a balcony box at the south end, Sandro raked his cross eyes on the field. The owner of the Triton Eagles set hefty entrance fees, and he wagered the land titles of Albano and the seven hills of Rome.
A loud trumpet roused the start of the contest. The Triton Eagles with bright, orange eyes hurled punches and sacked mud at the Golden Gladiators.
Striker King wiped his brow and locked eyes with a beautiful girl seated beside Sandro. She wore a crown of yellow laurel flowers. Her long, wavy hair glistened in the sun like silk gossamer threads of gold. Her electric smile jolted his memory of her, sobbing in his dreams on Mount Vaticana.
Distracted by the stares of the Princess of Palatine Hill, Striker King fell to the ground, tackled by a Triton Eagle.
The crowd roared as Striker King rose from the muddy pitch. He leaped forward and intercepted a Triton pass, headbutting the ball to his teammates.
A Triton defender crept behind Striker King and wrestled him to the ground. The Triton Eagles marched toward the goal net.
“Goaaaaal!” Sandro shouted, raising his silver, pearl-studded goblet in the air.
Striker King surveyed the damage on the field: the Golden Gladiators were down, wincing in a pool of blood. The Eagles towered over the injured Gladiators. And the crowd drummed for more.
Determined to free his village, Striker King mustered the strength to rise from a slick, mud puddle. Blindsided, he fell to the ground, after a Triton Eagle punched the side of his face.
“Goaaaaal!” Sandro yelled, once more.
Red clay streaked across Striker King's cheeks like war paint. A spark of energy unleashed when he heard the voice of the Great Oracle.
“There is a sacred lamp within you. May you always draw close to the light and let the light shine bright in your eyes for all to see. The dark curse shall fall and do you no harm.”
Rain blanketed the Colosseum, lightening flashed and a violent wind howled. A halo of light beamed from the crown of Striker King's head, as he ascended from the pitch like a Roman god drawn from Mount Olympus. He was the last Golden Gladiator left, standing in the soccer pitch.
Striker King sprinted down the field and seized the soccer ball from the Triton Eagles. He drove the ball inside the corner of the goal net.
“Goaaaaal!” the fans hollered.
The Triton Eagles reclaimed the ball, kicking it high, above the field.
Striker King flipped backward, throwing himself off the ground. He punted the ball in mid-air, kicking one leg in front of the other like a shearing tool, cutting rolls of fabric. When he landed, he tripped a wall of defenders. The ball lobbed over the Triton Eagles, and then it sailed into the goal net.
The crowd shouted, “Goaaaaal!”
The game tied, two-all.
Striker King held the soccer ball above his head, and he shouted to Sandro,“If I score from here, my village and all the Roman villages, including the Palatine Princess shall go free.”
Sandro nodded at the boisterous challenge waged against him in the public forum. The eyes of the serpent pendant on his thick neck glowed lava red, cursing Striker King with fire hoops thrown on the field.
The spectators stomped their feet at the sight of the fiery obstacle course. From the center of the field, Striker King lined the soccer ball on the pitch, just like the day he scored his first goal. With one eye on the ball and the other on the goal net, he planted his hind leg, and he kicked the ball with all his might.
The soccer ball shot through the rings of fire like a cannon, cinching the Triton Eagles. It cruised past the goalkeeper and vaporized inside the mouth of the net. Striker King felt his heart thump out of his Golden Gladiator jersey.
A horde of spectators jumped out of their seats, and thrashed their arms, waving flags and banners that circled around the arena like chariots looping around the racetrack at Maximus Circus.
The Triton Eagles fell to the Golden Gladiators. In the wake of victory, the walls of the Colosseum shook.
The Golden Gladiators reclaimed the golden Scudetto shield, freeing Striker King, the Princess and the villages of Rome.
The squad lifted Striker King onto their shoulders, proclaiming him the King of Rome.
“Striker King, King of Rome. Striker King, King of Rome,” the Golden Gladiators chanted, pumping their fists at Sandro.
The Senate of the Roman Empire and their guards departed the assembly box, where Sandro sulked over his loss.
As a mob rushed inside, one of the boys from the hobo wolf pack ripped the serpent pendant from Sandro's neck, the source of his black magic. Another wolf stripped the land deeds from Sandro's tight grip.
The Princess of Palatine Hill escaped unharmed, and dashed on the field, to thank Striker King.
In gratitude for her freedom, the princess placed her laurel, gold-leaf crown on top of his head.
Striker King whirled her around, as though they danced around the maypole at a festival for Jupiter.
Mamma and Nonno Alberto joined them and wrapped their arms around Striker King and the Palatine Princess. The crowd tossed laurel flowers and olive branches.
Striker King raised the Scudetto, championship trophy. The chanting grew louder, “Long Live, The Striker King... Long Live, The Striker King... Long Live, The Striker King!”
In a long list of champions, Striker King became the most celebrated Golden Gladiator. Fate sealed by his mother when she refused to let him play for the Triton Eagles. Striker King was bestowed the royal crown for winning the triumphal, Olympic shield and freeing the villages of Rome. Soon after, he married the Princess of Palatine Hill. The royal union birthed pups with the same patch of yellow gold hair and blue sapphire eyes. Carved in Roman lore, legend holds the gods took celestial form the night Striker King was born. On that wide and starry night of a thousand bright stars, the winds of destiny whisked across the rolling Tiber River, past the clip clop of horses on narrow, cobbled streets, through the open windows of the Colosseum and into the lush, olive groves of the Alban Hills. The legendary tale of Striker King outlived the Roman Empire. Long live the Legend of The Striker King.