Free Emperor: The Gates of Rome E#1 by Conn Iggulden

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 amphitheater. He was identically dressed, although his shield was stained blue.
"They are not easy to tell apart," Gaius said. "In the armor, 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 with 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 fathers 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, 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 said.
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