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Clegg grunted. “Someone put soot in his helm and it got into his eyes,” he said. “The man’s eyes are so red that he tells me he can hardly see, so he has been forced to forfeit his bout. That means you will face the beast from Athens at the end of the night. Mind that you do not let Whale Dung shite upon you. And that is a direct quote from Galan.”

Titus started to laugh, looking at Cam and Brody and seeing that they were laughing, too. In the long line of jokes and tricks they had all played on one another, Galan was having the last laugh with this one. He would forfeit his fight so that Titus would have to face a fully rested warrior. Clearly, Axel and Clegg were in on it, too, because, soon, they were all roaring with laughter as they headed over to the Fields of Mars.

But it would be the last moment of levity for some time to come.

Hell was coming.

It had been a long night of blood and brutality against a soft mist that fell steadily, coating everything and everyone with a layer of wet. As the night deepened, the field became muddier no matter what the field marshals did to it. They spread buckets of sand to absorb the water. But towards the end of the night, it was a slippery mess.

The spectators in the lists were wet and cold, but the abundance of hot, buttered ale made them quite drunk, so they didn’t care. They had been screaming all night, throwing coins to their champions but heartily condemning those they didn’t like with catcalls and hisses. It had been a wild and unpredictable evening.

It was something that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Ambrose and Conan. They sat in the middle of the lists, down towards the field so they could get a good look at Titus when it was finally his bout. After they’d left Clegg in a rage, they’d gone to the lists to wait for the games to begin, and they had been sitting in the same spot for hours.

It had been a long and uncomfortable wait.

“I dunna care if I ever see this place again,” Conan muttered. “I dunna want tae come back here, but what are we doing tae do about Titus? We canna buy him.”

Ambrose had been brooding on that all night. It was rare when he was denied anything, so he hadn’t learned to gracefully accept a refusal of any kind. He’d been mulling over the problem all night.

“If I could only see him,” he said. “If I can talk tae the man, I know I can convince him tae come with us.”

“How can ye talk tae him if ye canna get near him?”

The crowd around them was becoming restless because the field marshals were trying to prepare the field for the next bout. Ambrose yanked his son closer to him so he could be heard over the buzz of the crowd without shouting.

“The servant that took us tae Clegg told us that the warriors can be seen in the staging area after the bouts,” he said. “He said we would likely see Titus there.”

“He did.”

Ambrose looked at him. “Titus willna be there all night,” he said. “He’s got tae leave sometime and find his bed.”

“Where’s his bed?”

Ambrose threw a thumb over his shoulder. “Ye saw all of those cottages tae the west,” he said. “My guess is that is where the men who fight here live and sleep. If we can wait for him over there…”

Conan’s face lit up. “Of course,” he hissed. “We’ll wait for him tae make his way home.”

Ambrose nodded, but then he turned around and noted a few soldiers in the scarlet of the Ludus Caledonia who had been standing in the same place all night, watching him. He grunted as he returned his focus to the field.

“I suspect Clegg is having his men watch us,” he said. “Soldiers from The Cal have been watching us since we arrived in the lists. We’ll have tae lose them in the crowd.”

Conan very much wanted to turn around and look, but he resisted. He didn’t want to tip the soldiers off.

“Do ye think we can?” he asked.

“I think there are a great many men here and it would be a simple thing tae lose two men in a crowd of hundreds.”

“I’m ready when ye are.”

Ambrose shushed his son when he saw the big Saxon emerge out onto the field. He was the man who announced the coming fights. Ambrose and Conan waited with great anticipation for the next announcement.

The Eagle and Poseidon’s Wrath.

The crowd went mad.

“It’s him,” Conan muttered, poking his father. “Finally! This is Titus’ fight!”

Ambrose shushed his son loudly as the crowd around them began to cheer to ear-splitting proportions. Everyone was on their feet, so Ambrose and Conan rose, too.