The Gates of Rome. Conn Iggulden

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      ‘Who will win, Tubruk?’ Gaius’ father suddenly snapped.

      ‘The smaller, in the blue. His footwork is excellent.’

      Julius summoned one of the runners for the circus betting groups and gave over a gold aureus coin, receiving a tiny blue plaque in return. Less than a minute later, the smaller man side-stepped an over-extended lunge and drew his knife lightly over the other’s stomach as he stepped through. Blood spilled as over the lip of a cup and the audience erupted with cheers and curses. Julius had earned two aurei for the one he’d wagered and he pocketed the profit cheerfully. For each match that followed, he would ask Tubruk who would win as they began to feint and move. The odds sank after the start, of course, but Tubruk’s eye was infallible that day. By the fourth match, all nearby spectators were craning to catch what Tubruk said and then shouting for the betting slaves to take their money.

      Tubruk was enjoying himself.

      ‘This next one is to the death. The odds favour the Corinthian fighter, Alexandros. He has never been stopped, but his opponent, from the south of Italy, is also fearful and has never been beaten to first blood. I cannot choose between them at this point.’

      ‘Let me know as soon as you can. I have ten aurei ready for the wager – all our winnings and my original stakes. Your eye is perfect today.’

      Julius summoned the betting slave and told him to stand close. No one else in the area wanted to bet, as they all felt the luck of the moment and were content to wait for the signal from Tubruk. They watched him, some with held breath, poised for the first signal.

      Gaius and Marcus looked at the crowd.

      ‘They are a greedy lot, these Romans,’ Gaius whispered and they grinned at each other.

      The gates opened again and Alexandros and Enzo entered. The Roman, Enzo, wore a standard set of mail covering his right arm from hand to neck and a brass helmet above the darker iron scales. He carried a red shield in his left. His only other garments were a loincloth and wrappings of linen around his feet and ankles. He had a powerful physique and carried few scars, although one puckered line marked his left forearm from wrist to elbow. He bowed to Cornelius Sulla and saluted the crowd first, before the foreigner.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ