The Gates of Rome. Conn Iggulden
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Alexandros moved well, balanced and assured as he came to the middle of the amphitheatre. He was identically dressed, although his shield was stained blue.
‘They are not easy to tell apart,’ Gaius said. ‘In the armour, they could be brothers.’
His father snorted. ‘Except for the blood in them. The Greek is not the same as the Italian. He has different and false gods. He believes things that no decent Roman would ever stand for.’ He spoke without turning his head, intent on the men below.
‘But will you bet on such a man?’ Gaius continued.
‘I will if Tubruk thinks he will win,’ came the response, accompanied by a smile.
The contest would begin with the sounding of a ram’s horn. It was held in copper jaws in the first row of seats and a short bearded man was waiting for his own signal to set his lips to it. The two gladiators stepped close to each other and the horn sound wailed out across the sand.
Before Gaius could tell whether the sound had stopped, the crowd was roaring and the two men were hammering blows at each other. In the first few seconds, strike after strike landed, some cutting, some sliding from steel made suddenly slippery with bright blood.
‘Tubruk?’ came his father’s voice.
Their area of the stands was torn between watching the fantastic display of savagery and getting in on the bet.
Tubruk frowned, his chin on his bunched fist.
‘Not yet. I cannot tell. They are too even.’
The two men broke apart for a moment, unable to keep up the pace of the first minute. Both were bleeding and both were spattered with dust sticking to their sweat.
Alexandros rammed his blue shield up under the other’s guard, breaking his rhythm and balance. His sword arm came up and over, looking for a high wound. The Italian scrambled back without dignity to escape the blow and his shield fell in the dust as he did so. The crowd hooted and jeered, embarrassed by their man. He rose again and attacked, perhaps stung by the comments of his countrymen.
‘Tubruk?’ Julius laid his hand on the man’s arm. The fight could be over in seconds and if there was an obvious advantage to one of the fighters, the betting would cease.
‘Not yet. Not … yet …’ Tubruk was a study in concentration.
On the sand, the area around the fighters was speckled darkly where their blood had dripped. Both paced to the left and then the right, then rushed in and cut and sliced, ducked and blocked, punched and tried to trip the other. Alexandros caught the Italian’s sword on his shield. It was partially destroyed in the force of the blow and the blade was trapped by the softer metal of the blue rectangle. Like the other, it too was wrenched to the sand and both men faced each other sideways on, moving like crabs so that their arm-mail would protect them. The swords were nicked and blunted and the exertions in the raging Roman heat were beginning to tell on their strength.
‘Put it all on the Greek, quickly,’ Tubruk spoke.
The betting slave looked for approval to the owner behind him. Odds were whispered and the bets went on, with much of the crowd taking a slice.
‘Five to one against on Alexandros – could have been a lot better if we’d gone earlier,’ Julius muttered, as he watched the two fighters below.
Tubruk said nothing.
One of the gladiators lunged and recovered too fast for the other. The sword whipped back and into his side, causing a gout of blood to rush. The riposte was viciously fast and sliced through a major leg muscle. A leg buckled and as the man went down, his opponent hacked into his neck, over and over, until he was thumping at a corpse. He lay in the mixing blood, as it was sucked away by the dry sand and his chest heaved with the pain and exertion.
‘Who won?’ Gaius asked frantically. Without the shields it wasn’t clear, and a murmur went around the seats as the question was repeated over and over. Who had won?
‘I think the Greek is dead,’ the betting slave said.
His master thought it was the Roman, but until the victor rose and removed his helmet, no one could be sure.
‘What happens if they both die?’ Marcus asked.
‘All bets are off,’ replied the owner and financier of the betting slave. Presumably he had a lot of money riding on the outcome as well. Certainly he looked as tense as anyone there.
For maybe a minute, the surviving gladiator lay exhausted, his blood spilling. The crowd grew louder, calling on him to rise and take off the helmet. Slowly, in obvious pain, he grasped his sword and pushed himself up on it. Standing, he swayed slightly and reached down to take a handful of sand. He rubbed the sand into his wound, watching as it fell away in soft red clumps. His fingers too were bloody as he raised them to remove the helmet.
Alexandros the Greek stood and smiled, his face pale with loss of blood. The crowd threw abuse at the swaying figure. Coins glittered in the sun as they were thrown, not to reward, but to hurt. With curses, money was exchanged all around the amphitheatre and the gladiator was ignored as he sank to his knees again and had to be helped out by slaves.
Tubruk watched him go, his face unreadable.
‘Is he a man to see about training?’ Julius asked, ebullient as his winnings were counted into a pouch.
‘No – he won’t last out the week, I should think. Anyway, there was little schooling in his technique, just good speed and reflexes.’
‘For a Greek,’ said Marcus, trying to join in.
‘Yes, good reflexes for a Greek,’ Tubruk replied, his mind far away.
While the sand was being raked clean, the crowd continued with their business, although Gaius and Marcus could see one or two spectators re-enacting the gladiators’ blows with shouts and mock cries of pain. As they waited, the boys saw Julius tap Tubruk on his arm, bringing to his attention a pair of men approaching through the rows. Both seemed slightly out of place at the circus, with their togas of rough wool and their skins unadorned by metal jewellery.
Julius stood with Tubruk and the boys copied them. Gaius’ father put out his hand and greeted the first to reach them, who bowed his head slightly on contact.
‘Greetings, my friends. Please take a seat. This is my son and another boy in my care. I’m sure they can spend a few minutes buying food?’
Tubruk handed a coin to both of them and the message was clear. Reluctantly, they moved off between the rows and joined a queue at a food stall. They watched as the four men bent their heads close and talked, their voices lost in the crowd.
After a few minutes, as Marcus was buying oranges, Gaius saw the two newcomers thank his father and take his hand again. Then each moved over to Tubruk, who put coins in their hands as they left.
Marcus had bought an orange for each of them and when they’d returned to their seats he handed them out.
‘Who were those men, Father?’ Gaius asked, intrigued.
‘Clients of mine. I have a few bound to me in the city,’ Julius replied, skinning his orange neatly.
‘But what do they do? I have never seen them before.’
Julius turned to his son, registering the interest. He smiled.
‘They are useful men. They vote for candidates I support, or guard me in dangerous areas. They carry messages for me, or … a thousand other small things. In return, they get six denarii a day, each man.’
Marcus whistled. ‘That must add up to a fortune.’
Julius transferred his attention to Marcus, who dropped his gaze and fiddled with the skin of his orange.
‘Money well spent. In this city, it is good to have men I can call on quickly, for any sudden task. Rich members of the Senate may have hundreds