The Tyrant's Tomb Read online

  “So we’re clear on the rules,” he said. “There aren’t any. We kill you, you die.”

  Then he gestured at the emperors: Come and get it.

  Not again. My heart.

  How many syllables is

  “Total hopelessness”?

  EVEN IN MY WEAKENED condition, you’d think I would be able to stay out of reach of a blind opponent.

  You’d be wrong.

  Commodus was only ten yards away when I shot my next arrow at him. Somehow he dodged it, rushed in, and yanked the bow out of my hands. He broke the weapon over his knee.

  “RUDE!” I yelled.

  In retrospect, that was not the way I should have spent that millisecond. Commodus punched me square in the chest. I staggered backward and collapsed on my butt, my lungs on fire, my sternum throbbing. A hit like that should have killed me. I wondered if my godly strength had decided to make a cameo appearance. If so, I squandered the opportunity to strike back. I was too busy crawling away, crying in pain.

  Commodus laughed, turning to his troops. “You see? He’s always the one whimpering!”

  His followers cheered. Commodus wasted valuable time basking in their adulation. He couldn’t help being a showman. He also must’ve known I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I glanced at Frank. He and Caligula circled each other, occasionally trading blows, testing each other’s defenses. With the arrowheads in his shoulder, Frank had no choice but to favor his left side. He moved stiffly, leaving a trail of bloody footprints on the asphalt that reminded me—quite inappropriately—of a ballroom-dancing diagram Fred Astaire had once given me.

  Caligula prowled around him, supremely confident. He wore the same self-satisfied smile he’d had when he impaled Jason Grace in the back. For weeks I’d had nightmares about that smile.

  I shook myself out of my stupor. I was supposed to be doing something. Not dying. Yes. That was at the top of my to-do list.

  I managed to get up. I fumbled for my sword, then remembered I didn’t have one. My only weapon now was my ukulele. Playing a song for an enemy who was hunting me by sound did not seem like the wisest move, but I grabbed the uke by the fret board.

  Commodus must have heard the strings twang. He turned and drew his sword.

  For a big man in blinged-out armor, he moved much too fast. Before I could even decide which Dean Martin number to play for him, he jabbed at me, nearly opening up my belly. The point of his blade sparked against the bronze body of the ukulele.

  With both hands, he raised his sword overhead to cleave me in two.

  I lunged forward and poked him in the gut with my instrument. “Ha-ha!”

  There were two problems with this: 1) his gut was covered in armor, and 2) the ukulele had a rounded bottom. I made a mental note that if I survived this battle, I would design a version with spikes at the base, and perhaps a flamethrower—the Gene Simmons ukulele.

  Commodus’s counterstrike would’ve killed me if he hadn’t been laughing so hard. I leaped aside as his sword hurtled down, sinking into the spot where I’d been standing. One good thing about battling on a highway—all those explosions and lightning strikes had made the asphalt soft. While Commodus tried to tug his sword free, I charged and slammed into him.

  To my surprise, I actually managed to shove him off-balance. He stumbled and landed on his armor-plated rear, leaving his sword quivering in the pavement.

  Nobody in the emperors’ army cheered for me. Tough crowd.

  I took a step back, trying to catch my breath. Someone pressed against my back. I yelped, terrified that Caligula was about to spear me, but it was only Frank. Caligula stood about twenty feet away from him, cursing as he wiped bits of gravel from his eyes.

  “Remember what I said,” Frank told me.

  “Why are you doing this?” I wheezed.

  “It’s the only way. If we’re lucky, we’re buying time.”

  “Buying time?”

  “For godly help to arrive. That’s still happening, right?”

  I gulped. “Maybe?”

  “Apollo, please tell me you did the summoning ritual.”

  “I did!”

  “Then we’re buying time,” Frank insisted.

  “And if help doesn’t arrive?”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me. Do what I told you. On my cue, get out of the tunnel.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. We weren’t in the tunnel, but our chat time had ended. Commodus and Caligula closed in on us simultaneously.

  “Gravel in the eyes, Zhang?” Caligula snarled. “Really?”

  Their blades crossed as Caligula pushed Frank toward the mouth of the Caldecott Tunnel…or was Frank letting himself be pushed? The clang of metal against metal echoed through the empty passageway.

  Commodus tugged his own sword free of the asphalt. “All right, Apollo. This has been fun. But you need to die now.”

  He howled and charged, his voice booming back at him from the depths of the tunnel.

  Echoes, I thought.

  I ran for the Caldecott.

  Echoes can be confusing for people who depend on their hearing. Inside the shaft, I might have more luck avoiding Commodus. Yes…that was my strategy. I wasn’t simply panicking and running for my life. Entering the tunnel was a perfectly levelheaded, well-reasoned plan that just happened to involve me screaming and fleeing.

  I turned before Commodus overtook me. I swung my ukulele, intending to imprint its soundboard on his face, but Commodus anticipated my move. He yanked the instrument out of my hands.

  I stumbled away from him, and Commodus committed the most heinous of crimes: with one huge fist, he crumpled my ukulele like an aluminum can and tossed it aside.

  “Heresy!” I roared.

  A reckless, terrible anger possessed me. I challenge you to feel differently when you’ve just watched someone destroy your ukulele. It would render any person insensible with rage.

  My first punch left a fist-size crater in the emperor’s gold breastplate. Oh, I thought in some distant corner of my mind. Hello, godly strength!

  Off-balance, Commodus slashed wildly. I blocked his arm and punched him in the nose, causing a brittle squish that I found delightfully disgusting.

  He yowled, blood streaming through his mustache. “U duhh stike bee? I kilb u!”

  “You won’t kilb me!” I shouted back. “I have my strength back!”

  “HA!” Commodus cried. “I nebbeh lost mine! An I’m stih bigguh!”

  I hate it when megalomaniac villains make valid points.

  He barreled toward me. I ducked underneath his arm and kicked him in the back, propelling him into a guardrail on the side of the tunnel. His forehead hit the metal with a dainty sound like a triangle: DING!

  That should have made me feel quite satisfied, except my ruined-ukulele-inspired rage was ebbing, and with it my burst of divine strength. I could feel the zombie poison creeping through my capillaries, wriggling and burning its way into every part of my body. My gut wound seemed to be unraveling, about to spill my stuffing everywhere like a raggedy Olympian Pooh Bear.

  Also, I was suddenly aware of the many large, unmarked crates stacked along one side of the tunnel, taking up the entire length of the raised pedestrian walkway. Along the other side of the tunnel, the shoulder of the road was torn up and lined with orange traffic barrels…. Not unusual in themselves, but it struck me that they were just about the right size to contain the urns I’d seen Frank’s workers carrying during our holographic scroll call.

  In addition, every five feet or so, a thin groove had been cut across the width of the asphalt. Again, not unusual in itself—the highway department could’ve just been doing some repaving work. But each groove glistened with some kind of liquid…. Oil?

  Taken together, these things made me deeply uncomfortable, and Frank kept retreating farther into the tunnel, luring Caligula to follow.

  Apparently, Caligula’s lieutenant, Gregorix, was also getting worried. The Germanus shouted from t
he front lines, “My emperor! You’re getting too far—”

  “Shut up, GREG!” Caligula yelled. “If you want to keep your tongue, don’t tell me how to fight!”

  Commodus was still struggling to get up.

  Caligula stabbed at Frank’s chest, but the praetor wasn’t there. Instead, a small bird—a common swift, judging from its boomerang-shaped tail—shot straight toward the emperor’s face.

  Frank knew his birds. Swifts aren’t large or impressive. They aren’t obvious threats like falcons or eagles, but they are incredibly fast and maneuverable.

  He drove his beak into Caligula’s left eye and zoomed away, leaving the emperor shrieking and swatting at the air.

  Frank materialized in human form right next me. His eyes looked sunken and glazed. His bad arm hung limp at his side.

  “If you really want to help,” he said in a low voice, “hobble Commodus. I don’t think I can hold them both.”

  “What—?”

  He transformed back into a swift and was gone—darting at Caligula, who cursed and slashed at the tiny bird.

  Commodus charged me once more. This time he was smart enough not to announce himself by howling. By the time I noticed him bearing down on me—blood bubbling from his nostrils, a deep guardrail-shaped groove in his forehead—it was too late.

  He slammed his fist into my gut, the exact spot I didn’t want to be hit. I collapsed in a moaning, boneless heap.

  Outside, the enemy troops erupted in a fresh round of cheering. Commodus again turned to accept their adulation. I’m ashamed to admit that instead of feeling relieved to have a few extra seconds of life, I was annoyed that he wasn’t executing me faster.

  Every cell in my miserable mortal body screamed, Just finish it! Getting killed could not hurt any worse than the way I already felt. If I died, maybe I’d at least come back as a zombie and get to bite off Commodus’s nose.

  I was now certain Diana wasn’t coming to the rescue. Maybe I had messed up the ritual, as Ella feared. Maybe my sister hadn’t received the call. Or maybe Jupiter had forbidden her from helping on pain of sharing my mortal punishment.

  Whatever the case, Frank, too, must have known our situation was hopeless. We were well past the “buying time” phase. We were now into the “dying as a futile gesture sure is painful” phase.

  My line of vision was reduced to a blurry red cone, but I focused on Commodus’s calves as he paced in front of me, thanking his adoring fans.

  Strapped to the inside of his calf was a sheathed dagger.

  He had always carried one of those back in the old days. When you’re an emperor, the paranoia never stops. You could be assassinated by your housekeeper, your waiter, your launderer, your best friend. And then, despite all your precautions, your godly ex-lover disguised as your wrestling trainer ends up drowning you in your bathtub. Surprise!

  Hobble Commodus, Frank had told me.

  I had no energy left, but I owed Frank a last request.

  My body screamed in protest as I stretched out my hand and grabbed the dagger. It slipped easily from its sheath—kept well-oiled for a quick draw. Commodus didn’t even notice. I stabbed him in the back of the left knee, then the right before he had even registered the pain. He screamed and toppled forward, spewing Latin obscenities I hadn’t heard since the reign of Vespasian.

  Hobbling accomplished. I dropped the knife, all my willpower gone. I waited to see what would kill me. The emperors? The zombie poison? The suspense?

  I craned my neck to see how my friend the common swift was doing. Not well, it turned out. Caligula scored a lucky hit with the flat of his blade, smacking Frank into the wall. The little bird tumbled limply, and Frank shifted back into human form just in time for his face to hit the pavement.

  Caligula grinned at me, his wounded eye closed tight, his voice filled with hideous glee. “Are you watching, Apollo? You remember what happens next?”

  He raised his sword over Frank’s back.

  “NO!” I screamed.

  I could not witness another friend’s death. Somehow, I got to my feet, but I was much too slow. Caligula brought down his blade…which bent in half like a pipe cleaner against Frank’s cloak. Thank the gods of military fashion statements! Frank’s praetor’s cape could turn back weapons, even as its ability to transform into a sweater wrap remained unknown.

  Caligula snarled in frustration. He drew his dagger, but Frank had recovered enough strength to stand. He slammed Caligula against the wall and wrapped his good hand around the emperor’s throat.

  “Time’s up!” he roared.

  Time’s up. Wait…that was my cue. I was supposed to run. But I couldn’t. I stared, frozen in horror, as Caligula buried his dagger in Frank’s belly.

  “Yes, it is,” Caligula croaked. “For you.”

  Frank squeezed harder, crushing the emperor’s throat, making Caligula’s face turn a bloated purple. Using his wounded arm, which must have been excruciating, Frank pulled the piece of firewood from his pouch.

  “Frank!” I sobbed.

  He glanced over, silently ordering me: GO.

  I could not bear it. Not again. Not like Jason. I was dimly aware of Commodus struggling to crawl toward me, to grab my ankles.

  Frank raised his piece of firewood to Caligula’s face. The emperor fought and thrashed, but Frank was stronger—drawing, I suspected, on everything that remained of his mortal life.

  “If I’m going to burn,” he said, “I might as well burn bright. This is for Jason.”

  The firewood spontaneously combusted, as if it had been waiting years for this chance. Caligula’s eyes widened with panic, perhaps just now beginning to understand. Flames roared around Frank’s body, sparking the oil in one of the grooves on the asphalt—a liquid fuse, racing in both directions to the crates and traffic barrels that packed the tunnel. The emperors weren’t the only ones who kept a supply of Greek fire.

  I am not proud of what happened next. As Frank became a column of flame, and the emperor Caligula disintegrated into white-hot embers, I followed Frank’s last order. I leaped over Commodus and ran for open air. At my back, the Caldecott Tunnel erupted like a volcano.

  I didn’t do it.

  Explosion? I don’t know her.

  Probably Greg’s fault.

  A THIRD-DEGREE BURN was the least painful thing I carried from that tunnel.

  I staggered into the open, my back sizzling, my hands steaming, every muscle in my body feeling like it had been scored with razorblades. Before me spread the remaining forces of the emperors: hundreds of battle-ready warriors. In the distance, stretched across the bay, fifty yachts waited, primed to fire their doomsday artillery.

  None of that hurt as much as knowing I had left Frank Zhang in the flames.

  Caligula was gone. I could feel it—like the earth heaved a sigh of relief as his consciousness disintegrated in a blast of superheated plasma. But, oh, the cost. Frank. Beautiful, awkward, lumbering, brave, strong, sweet, noble Frank.

  I would have sobbed, but my tear ducts were as dry as Mojave gulches.

  The enemy forces looked as stunned as I was. Even the Germani were slack-jawed. It takes a lot to shock an imperial bodyguard. Watching your bosses get blown up in a massive fiery belch from the side of a mountain—that will do it.

  Behind me, a barely human voice gurgled, “URGSSHHH.”

  I turned.

  I was too dead inside to feel fear or disgust. Of course Commodus was still alive. He crawled out of the smoke-filled cavern on his elbows, his armor half-melted, his skin coated with ash. His once-beautiful face looked like a burnt loaf of tomato bread.

  I hadn’t hobbled him well enough. Somehow, I’d missed his ligaments. I’d messed up everything, even Frank’s last request.

  None of the troops rushed to the emperor’s aid. They remained frozen in disbelief. Perhaps they didn’t recognize this wrecked creature as Commodus. Perhaps they thought he was doing another one of his spectacles and they were waiting for the rig
ht moment to applaud.

  Incredibly, Commodus struggled to his feet. He wobbled like a 1975 Elvis.

  “SHIPS!” he croaked. He slurred the word so badly, for a moment I thought he’d yelled something else. I suppose his troops thought the same thing, since they did nothing.

  “FIRE!” Commodus groaned, which again could have simply meant HEY, LOOK, I’M ON FIRE.

  I only understood his order a heartbeat later, when Gregorix yelled, “SIGNAL THE YACHTS!”

  I choked on my tongue.

  Commodus gave me a ghastly smile. His eyes glittered with hatred.

  I don’t know where I found the strength, but I charged and tackled him. We hit the asphalt, my legs straddling his chest, my hands wrapped around his throat as they had been thousands of years before, the first time I killed him. This time, I felt no bittersweet regret, no lingering sense of love. Commodus fought, but his fists were like paper. I let loose a guttural roar—a song with only one note: pure rage, and only one volume: maximum.

  Under the onslaught of sound, Commodus crumbled to ash.

  My voice faltered. I stared at my empty palms. I stood and backed away, horrified. The charred outline of the emperor’s body remained on the asphalt. I could still feel the pulse of his carotid arteries under my fingers. What had I done? In my thousands of years of life, I’d never destroyed someone with my voice. When I sang, people would often say I “killed it,” but they never meant that literally.

  The emperors’ troops stared at me in astonishment. Given another moment, they surely would have attacked, but their attention was diverted by a flare gun going off nearby. A tennis-ball-size globe of orange fire arced into the sky, trailing Tang-colored smoke.

  The troops turned toward the bay, waiting for the fireworks show that would destroy Camp Jupiter. I’ll admit—as tired and helpless and emotionally shattered as I was, all I could do was watch, too.

  On fifty aft decks, green dots flickered as the Greek fire charges were uncovered in their mortars. I imagined pandos technicians scrambling about, inputting their final coordinates.