After the Trojan Games concluded, I believed I could finally enjoy a long-overdue rest. Or rather, I thought I could.
Until the representatives started showing up.
"You wish to learn about gridiron?"
"Yes, and we would also like to learn more about the stirrups you introduced. Many of our cavalrymen are already using them, but is there any way we can secure a larger supply?"
The first gridiron match played before the Roman public had ended in roaring success. To my surprise, Pompey's team of veterans had won.
I had expected either my team or Metellus's to emerge victorious, since both had far more practice.
Perhaps their actual combat experience made the difference.
In any case, the subsequent chain of events also exceeded my expectations. Representatives from the allied cities, having heard reports of the Trojan Games, had come to see me. Even excluding those who visited in person, dozens of other cities had sent inquiries through the signal towers or by letter.
"How did the allied cities hear the news so quickly?"
"It must be thanks to the signal towers."
An unintended side effect, but certainly the most logical explanation.
Beginning with Ostia, a growing number of allied cities were now linked to Rome through the tower network.
Information was flowing back and forth with little obstruction, and public games and festivals were no exception.
Whatever captured attention or stirred controversy in Rome now rippled through the allied cities almost instantly.
"Still, I never imagined gridiron would attract this level of fascination."
And not long after, Father visited my house. As always, he brought an even bigger surprise.
"Use gridiron to bind all of Italy together?"
***
"Yes. I believe it can be done."
Father sat back in his chair and plucked a grape from a nearby platter.
"This gridiron of yours has everything the Roman people love. But it goes beyond that. Gridiron is a game almost anyone can play," father said. "While some citizens do enter the gladiatorial arena, they are usually men driven there by poverty or desperation."
"And they suffer from the stigma of infamia as well."
I nodded. Gridiron, by contrast, had debuted as a pastime of the nobility. It carried a far more prestigious public image than the bloody spectacles of the arena.
Nor did it require expensive horses or chariots, unlike chariot racing.
I began to suspect where Father was going with this.
"Each city could hold its own matches and choose its champion. And the champion of each city..."
"Would gather in Rome to determine the final champion," Father said, completing my sentence with a nod.
Selecting the champion of each city and bringing them to Rome to crown an overall winner. It was essentially a league built around a final tournament in Rome. A Roman version of the NFL?
Come to think of it, early American football had grown around universities. In that case...
"We could place the teams under the patronage of local temples. We could attach the matches to festivals and offerings dedicated to the gods."
Temples instead of universities. The parallel was absurd enough to make me laugh.
"And then there are the collegia you have been gathering information about. We can have each collegium—each association—form its own team, and the local temples can sponsor whoever wins the local qualifiers."
Temples and collegia. Using those two institutions to spread gridiron throughout Italy.
And with the signal-tower network carrying match results and news of the games across Italy...
"It might actually work."
"Though relations have improved since the Social War, a deep divide remains between Rome and the allied cities."
Father spat a grape seed into his palm and set it on the floor.
As the servants stepped forward to change the dishes, I sank into thought.
Games had an uncanny power to bring people together.
American football and baseball in the United States, soccer in Brazil, cricket in India.
A game could become a shared source of pride, a symbol, and eventually part of a people's national identity.
Culturally integrating Rome and Italy through gridiron was by no means an impossible dream.
Yet in the history I knew, people would not fully recognize the power of sports to shape national identity until the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.
To think someone in this age of Rome could arrive at such a strategy on his own.
Even as I stared at him, Father remained perfectly nonchalant and popped another grape into his mouth.
"You are truly remarkable, Father."
"And the sun rises every morning."
Father smiled warmly and sat up straighter.
"There is no need to state the obvious, Lucius."
"I will begin making preparations."
I shrugged. Deepening the ties between Rome and the cities of Italy was something I wanted as well.
It would strengthen Rome as a whole by fostering a shared Roman identity.
"Actually, this situation has given me another idea."
"You have an idea?"
"The allied citizens are now receiving news from Rome and other cities through our signal towers. The Trojan Games were a perfect example."
A vast array of information was flowing through the towers. The network linking the cities was already working well.
Yet, few people had realized the true potential of this network. While merchants and politicians were already using it actively, they were doing so only at a rudimentary level.
"What if we were the ones to organize the information flowing between Rome and the other cities?"
"Organaize the information? Do you mean to control the messages sent through the towers?" Father raised an eyebrow. "That would provoke a severe backlash from the citizens."
I shook my head in response. Censorship was one way to control information, of course, but I was not foolish enough to choose that path.
Attempting that would immediately result in the Senate confiscating the signal towers. I had a far better method in mind.
"We provide the news to the citizens ourselves."
In other words, it was time to create Rome's first organized news service.
***
Information was a highly valuable commodity in Rome. Who had died the day before, what motions had been proposed in the Senate, which cases were being heard in court, and so on.
At present, fresh information—news—moved through personal connections, often distorted along the way to serve private interests.
"Provide news to the citizens of Rome and the cities of Italy?" Pompeia asked, her brow furrowing. "But what is there to gain from doing that?"
"The act of providing information is a source of leverage in itself. Depending on what news we provide, public opinion in Rome and throughout Italy can be shaped."
"..."
Pompeia remained quiet for a moment before raising her eyebrows.
"Are you attempting to manipulate the citizens of Rome and all of Italy?"
"Manipulation is a harsh word," I replied with a smile. "Persuade would be far more accurate."
"In a way that benefits us?"
"In a way that benefits the Roman people."
We had no need to resort to what my own age would call yellow journalism—outright fabrications dressed up as news.
Thus far, I had hired free citizens instead of relying solely on slaves, improved livelihoods, and helped restore security in the allied cities.
Every move I made to consolidate power had ultimately brought benefits to Roman citizens as well.
I intended to keep playing that same win-win game, so to speak.
Honesty needs neither disguise nor ornament. Only falsehood requires decoration.
"Stating only facts does not guarantee fairness, Lucius."
"What do you mean?"
"What if you selectively report only the facts that favor you while remaining silent about those that do not? You could claim you never lied, yet the citizens would still be led to believe only what you choose to tell them. And they will discover the omission eventually.
I fell silent. She wasn't wrong.
Even without outright lies, a media outlet could steer public sentiment in any desired direction through calculated editing.
Naturally, that effect was precisely what made the idea so powerful.
"Then we must establish strict editorial guidelines—rules for how the news is gathered and reported. We will separate fact from opinion, and we will report Senate resolutions and matters of public safety even when doing so angers powerful people."
"Even news unfavorable to you?"
"Yes, even news unfavorable to me. It will be challenging, but it is the only way to build enduring public trust."
In the history I knew, the news pamphlets that gained popularity in the mid-1500s were notoriously rife with misinformation, often manipulated by rulers, nobles, and merchants for private gain.
"Our task is simply to inform the people of Rome and the allied cities, expanding access to information for as many people as possible."
News for the Romans, gathered by Romans, and delivered by Romans.
It had a certain ring to it. At this rate, I felt like I owed royalties to Lincoln—or was it Daniel Webster who said it first?
Rome had no concept of delivering timely news to the public cheaply, let alone for free. In fact, nothing quite like it existed anywhere in the world.
Strictly speaking, the pioneer of Roman public news was Father, Gaius Caesar. In the original course of history, during his consulship, Caesar would make the proceedings and resolutions of the Senate and the popular assembly public—the famous Acta Diurna.
Through these daily bulletins posted in the Forum, Roman citizens could keep up with current political developments.
"That new machine you are building to print stamps—the printing press," Pompeia whispered, leaning in. "You plan to use it for this, don't you? If it can impress letters onto paper, then it can produce identical texts again and again."
I nodded. She was as sharp as always. But there was no need to rush into print immediately.
"We do not need to print daily news sheets and distribute them throughout Rome and the allied cities just yet. Building such a logistical network will take time."
While the postal network was under development, it still required time. Fortunately, there was a better and more immediate alternative: our signal towers.
"We can transmit the latest news to each city daily via the towers, and have hired criers announce the contents in each local forum."
"But gathering, verifying, and organizing all that information every day..."
"We already have the collegia, don't we?" I countered with a grin.
We could easily gather local information through the network of collegia spread across Italy. In essence, I already had access to tens—perhaps hundreds—of thousands of potential informants.
"However, we will need capable editors to sift through this mountain of reports, verify them, and compile the essential points."
I turned my gaze to Pompeia. She had already proven her talent for shaping public opinion by publishing a book about my campaign against the bandits and by creating the posters for my vigintisexviri election.
She had taken my raw dispatches, organized them clearly, and shaped them into something ordinary citizens could understand.
Brutus had also shown real literary talent in turning the bandit pacification into a story the public could admire.
Would they not be perfect for shaping the voice of this new venture? Well, the only way to know was to try.
I leaned close to Pompeia and whispered, "Wouldn't you like every citizen in Italy to hear your voice?"
***
"You utter fool! Do you have any idea what a laughingstock you have become in Rome now?!"
A silver wine goblet flew through the air, hurled by Quintus Metellus. His son merely stepped aside and let it fly past, his face expressionless.
"Taking that boy's hand and riding in his chariot! You should have rejected him on the spot!"
"And show all of Rome that I am just as narrow-minded as you, Father?"
The young Metellus offered a faint, calm smile.
Normally, he would have shrunk under his father's roaring temper, but today was different.
Even the household slaves sensed the shift in power and watched the exchange with poorly concealed curiosity.
"When I think of the humiliation I had to endure in the Circus Maximus because of your actions..."
"Father, we owe the survival of our house to Lucius Caesar—and by extension, to Gaius Caesar. If they had not saved us during the banking crisis, our house would have collapsed."
"That does not mean we must become their clients! The Senate is still full of senators who deeply distrust Caesar, Crassus, and Pompey," Quintus Metellus spat, breathing heavily. "Our family must stand with the Optimates to survive! Have you forgotten the fate of those Populares demagogues, the Gracchi?!"
"Rome is changing, Father. And our family must change with it if we wish to survive." The young Metellus replied, holding himself upright. "If we turn on the Caesars now, all of Rome will denounce us as ungrateful betrayers. Especially after you embraced Caesar before the eyes of all Rome."
"That was only because you climbed into that chariot with that boy—"
"I will take my leave now, Father."
As his son turned his back to leave, Quintus Metellus slammed his fist onto the desk.
"I am not finished speaking! I am your father! Are you betraying your family now?!"
"I am not your slave, Father. I am merely taking the necessary steps to preserve the dignitas of our house and the honor of our ancestors."
"Without my support, you will never set foot in the Senate! Once your term among the vigintisexviri ends, you—"
"Lucius has already promised to support my election as quaestor."
With those words, the young Metellus strode across the atrium and out the front entrance.
"Get back here this instant! If you do not turn back right now—!"
Quintus Metellus's furious bellows echoed through the halls, but his son was no longer there to heed them.