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“Sir Clegg de Lave.”

“Of course,” Ambrose said, pretending to be forgetful. “How foolish of me. I’d like tae speak with the man. Can ye direct me tae him?”

The man continued to point over towards the fence. “His private viewing chambers are over by the fence,” he said. “Tell the guards. They can tell ye if he’s receiving audiences tonight.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Ye dunna understand,” he said. “My name is Ambrose Stewart. I am the Duke of Ayr and Titus is my cousin. I wish tae see Sir Clegg. Find someone who will take me tae him.”

The last few words were icy, a demand couched by a polite request. The man in the scarlet tunic realized the seriousness of the situation and the request. Very quickly, he was moving.

“Come with me, m’laird,” he said. “I’ll take ye tae him. Come!”

Ambrose looked at his son, giving the man a knowing expression, before following the man in the scarlet tunic. Conan followed close behind, still marveling at the crowds, at the bustling complex that was the Ludus Caledonia. It was difficult to believe that Titus had thrived at this place.

Soon enough, they were going to find out just how much he had thrived.

And what his price was.

With any luck, Titus would once again belong to the House of Ayr.

In the staging area below, there was a chamber carved into the hillside where warriors could gather outside of the range of the curious crowd. It was a cold and dank chamber, not particularly comfortable because Clegg never liked his warriors to be too relaxed before a fight.

He always wanted them edgy and ready to move.

Titus was sitting on a stone bench, fixing one of the leather straps on his gloves. He was sitting with Christos and the African fighter known as The North Star. Samuel Gondar was his real name, a tall, lanky, and silent man who mostly kept to himself, but he seemed to like Titus. At least, as far as Titus could tell. He’d never really spoken to him, but he seemed to gravitate in his direction.

Galan was also there, as he was going to fight a bout on this night. As far as doctores went, Galan was relatively new, having been a seasoned warrior until his promotion to trainer and, from time to time, he was given permission to fight. Tonight, he’d be fighting against a new warrior who had arrived with his liege only today, a man all the way from Athens who went by the name of Poseidon’s Wrath.

“I hear you are battling the winner of my bout tonight,” Galan said as he sat down next to Titus to retie his shoes. “Careful, Chicken. We might be scratching each other’s eyes out at the end of the night.”

Titus grinned. “The Eagle will always win over The Sapphire Dragon,” he said, referring to the persona Galan went by when he was fighting. “I’ll be there tae wipe yer tears when it is all over, so dunna let Whale Dung get too close tae ye.”

Galan burst out laughing. “Whale Dung?” he repeated. “I think the man’s name is Poseidon’s Wrath.”

Titus turned his nose up at that. “Like I said – Whale Dung,” he said. He eyed Galan. “I saw the man earlier today as he trained. He’s got a mighty right fist and he uses it frequently, so watch yerself.”

“’Tis true.” Aurelius came over to stand with them, fussing with a piece of forearm protection. “I saw him train, too. He’s big and nasty and old. How did the man get tae be so old living this kind of life?”

“Mayhap he’s immortal,” Titus said. He stopped fussing with his glove and looked at Aurelius. “But I’ll tell ye now that I intend tae live tae a very old age, but I dunna intend tae be a warrior my whole life.”

Galan frowned. “You?” he said, standing up. “You are the best there is, Titus. For you to be anything less would be a waste of material.”

Titus eyed Galan as the man headed over to the rack containing helms. Galan usually wore one, and a particular one at that, and Titus watched him as he plucked his favorite helm.

“We canna be warriors all our lives,” he said. “Is that all ye wish for yerself, Galan? Tae fight yerself right intae the grave?”

Galan plopped the helm on his head, moving it around to adjust it. It was the type of helm that went down over both cheeks and the bridge of his nose, leaving his eyes and mouth clear.

“Nay,” he said. “I’ll return home at some point, to the Welsh Marches, and serve my eldest brother when he inherits my father’s lands, but I will return a rich man. As the third son, I have had to earn my own money. I shall be richer than my brothers, both of them.”

Titus knew something about making his own way. But since it was his style not to open up about his personal life or past, he didn’t commiserate with Galan. He simply returned his focus to his glove, or at least he pretended to, but he kept an eye on Galan as the man fussed with his helm.

“Return while ye’re still young,” Titus said. “Find a good woman and have many good English sons.”

Something wasn’t right with Galan’s helm and he pulled it off to inspect it. When he pulled it off, however, it was clear that someone had sabotaged it. Wherever the helm had touched him – his cheeks, forehead, and the bridge of his nose – it was black. His dark hair was also plastered in black, but not realizing this, he rubbed at his chin and ended up smearing it everywhere.

Titus started to laugh. Christos and Aurelius caught sight of Galan and they, too, started to laugh. Over in the corner of the chamber where Cam and Brody were reviewing last minute strategies with a few novicius who would fight this night, they heard the laughing and turned to see Galan covered in soot.

The trickster had struck again.