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

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 amphitheater, 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 reenacting 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 jewelry.
Julius stood with Tubruk, and the boys copied them. Gaius's 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 of clients. It is part of our system."
"Can you trust these clients of yours?" Gaius broke in.
Julius grunted. "Not with anything worth more than six denarii a day."

Renius entered without announcement. One moment, the spectators were chatting amongst themselves