The Tower of Nero Page 16

  Just as fervently, I hoped Nico, Will, and Rachel had survived the bulls’ attack. Our friends were resourceful and brave, yes. Hopefully, they still had the assistance of the troglodytes. But too often, survival depended on sheer luck. This was something we gods didn’t like to advertise, as it cut down on donations at our temples.

  “Grr-Fred—?” I started to ask.

  “It’s Grr-Fred,” he corrected.

  “GRR-Fred?”

  “Grr-Fred.”

  “gRR-Fred?”

  “Grr-Fred!”

  You would think, with my musical skills, I would be better at picking up the nuances of languages, but apparently, I did not have Nico’s panache for Troglodytish.

  “Honored guide,” I said, “what of our friends? Do you believe Screech-Bling will keep his promise and help them dig to the emperor’s fire vats?”

  Grr-Fred sneered. “Did the CEO make such a promise? I did not hear that.”

  “But—”

  “We have arrived.” He stopped at the end of the corridor, where a narrow brick stairwell led upward. “This is as far as I can go. These steps will take you into one of the humans’ subway stations. From there, you can find your way to the Crusty Crust. You will surface within fifty feet of Nero’s tower.”

  I blinked. “How can you be sure?”

  “I am a trog,” he said, as if explaining something to a particularly slow tunnel-ling.

  Meg bowed, making her acorn squash knock together. “Thank you, Grr-Fred.”

  He nodded gruffly. I noticed he didn’t correct her pronunciation.

  “I have done my duty,” he said. “What happens to your friends is up to Screech-Bling, assuming the CEO is even alive after the destruction you hatless barbarians brought to our headquarters. If it were up to me…”

  He didn’t bother finishing the thought. I gathered Grr-Fred would not be voting in favor of offering us stock options at the next troglodyte shareholders’ meeting.

  From my soggy backpack, I fished out Beanie Boy’s crystal ball and offered it to Grr-Fred. “Please, would you take this back to its owner? And thank you for guiding us. For what it is worth, I meant what I said. We have to help one another. That’s the only future worth fighting for.”

  Grr-Fred turned the crystal sphere in his fingers. His brown eyes were inscrutable as cavern walls. They might have been hard and unmovable, or about to turn to meringue, or on the verge of being broken through by angry cows.

  “Good digging,” he said at last. Then he was gone.

  Meg peered up the stairwell. Her hands trembled, and I didn’t think it was from the cold.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked.

  She started, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “Like you said, either we help each other, or we let a snake eat the future.”

  “That’s not exactly what I—”

  “Come on, Lester.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s get going.”

  Phrased as an order, it wasn’t something I could have refused, but I got the feeling Meg was saying it to steel her own resolve as much as mine.

  Together we climbed back toward the Crusty Crust.

  I EXPECTED A MOAT FILLED WITH ALLIGATORS. A wrought-iron portcullis. Possibly some vats of boiling oil.

  In my mind, I’d built up the Tower of Nero as a fortress of darkness with all the evil trimmings. Instead, it was a glass-and-steel monstrosity of the ordinary Midtown variety.

  Meg and I had surfaced from the subway about an hour before sunset. Luxuriously early, by our standards. Now we stood across Seventh Avenue from the tower, observing and gathering our nerve.

  The scene on the sidewalk out front could’ve been anywhere in Manhattan. Annoyed New Yorkers jostled past groups of gawping tourists. Kebab-scented steam wafted from a halal food cart. Funk music blared from a Mister Softee ice cream truck. A street artist hawked airbrushed celebrity paintings. No one paid any special attention to the corporate-looking building that housed Triumvirate Holdings Ltd. and the doomsday button that would destroy the city in approximately fifty-eight minutes.

  From across the street, I spotted no armed guards, no monsters or Germani on patrol—just black marble pillars flanking a plate-glass entrance, and inside, a typical oversize lobby with abstract art on the walls, a manned security desk, and glass turnstiles protecting access to the elevator banks.

  It was after 7:00 p.m., but employees were still leaving the building in small clusters. Folks in business suits clutched briefcases and phones as they hurried to catch their trains. Some exchanged pleasantries with the security guy on their way out. I tried to imagine those conversations. Bye, Caleb. Say hi to the family. See you tomorrow for another day of evil business transactions!

  Suddenly, I felt as if we’d come all this way to surrender to a brokerage firm.

  Meg and I crossed at the crosswalk. Gods forbid we jaywalk and get hit by a car on our way to a painful death. We attracted some strange looks from other pedestrians, which was fair since we were still dripping wet and smelled like a troglodyte’s armpit. Nevertheless, this being New York, most people ignored us.

  Meg and I didn’t speak as we climbed the front steps. By silent agreement, we gripped each other’s hands as if another river might sweep us away.

  No alarms went off. No guards jumped out of hiding. No bear traps were triggered. We pushed open the heavy glass doors and walked into the lobby.

  Light classical music wafted through the chilly air. Above the security desk hung a metal sculpture with slowly swirling primary-colored shapes. The guard bent forward in his chair, reading a paperback, his face pale blue in the light of his desktop monitors.

  “Help you?” he said without looking up.

  I glanced at Meg, silently double-checking that we were in the right building. She nodded.

  “We’re here to surrender,” I told the guard.

  Surely this would make him look up. But no.

  He could not have acted less interested in us. I was reminded of the guest entrance to Mount Olympus, through the lobby of the Empire State Building. Normally, I never went that way, but I knew Zeus hired the most unimpressible, disinterested beings he could find to guard the desk as a way to discourage visitors. I wondered if Nero had intentionally done the same thing here.

  “I’m Apollo,” I continued. “And this is Meg. I believe we’re expected? As in…hard deadline at sunset or the city burns?”

  The guard took a deep breath, as if it pained him to move. Keeping one finger in his novel, he picked up a pen and slapped it on the counter next to the sign-in book. “Names. IDs.”

  “You need our IDs to take us prisoner?” I asked.

  The guard turned the page in his book and kept reading.

  With a sigh, I pulled out my New York State junior driver’s license. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that I’d have to show it one last time, just to complete my humiliation. I slid it across the counter. Then I signed the logbook for both of us. Name(s): Lester (Apollo) and Meg. Here to see: Nero. Business: Surrender. Time in: 7:16 p.m. Time out: Probably never.

  Since Meg was a minor, I didn’t expect her to have an ID, but she removed her gold scimitar rings and placed them next to my license. I stifled the urge to shout, Are you insane? But Meg gave them up as if she’d done this a million times before. The guard took the rings and examined them without comment. He held up my license and compared it to my face. His eyes were the color of decade-old ice cubes.

  He seemed to decide that, tragically, I looked as bad in real life as I did in my license photo. He handed it back, along with Meg’s rings.

  “Elevator nine to your right,” he announced.

  I almost thanked him. Then I thought better of it.

  Meg grabbed my sleeve. “Come on, Lester.”

  She led the way through the turnstile to elevator nine. Inside, the stainless-steel box had no buttons. It simply rose on its own as soon as the doors slid closed. One small mercy: no elevator music, just the smooth
hum of machinery, as bright and efficient as an industrial-grade meat slicer.

  “What should I expect when we get to the top?” I asked Meg.

  I imagined the elevator was under surveillance, but I couldn’t help asking. I wanted to hear Meg’s voice. I also wanted to keep her from sinking completely into her own dark thoughts. She was getting that shuttered expression she often had when she thought about her horrible stepfather, as if her brain were shutting down all nonessential services and boarding itself up in preparation for a hurricane.

  She pushed her rings back on her middle fingers. “Take whatever you think might happen,” she advised, “and turn it upside down and inside out.”

  That was not exactly the reassurance I’d been hoping for. My chest already felt like it was being turned upside down and inside out. I was unnerved to be entering Nero’s lair with two empty quivers and a waterlogged ukulele. I was unnerved that no one had arrested us on sight, and that the security guard had given Meg back her rings, as if a couple of magical scimitars would make absolutely no difference to our fate.

  Nevertheless, I straightened my back and squeezed Meg’s hand one more time. “We’ll do what we have to.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped into the imperial antechamber.

  “Welcome!”

  The young lady who greeted us wore a black business suit, high heels, and an earpiece in her left ear. Her luxurious green hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her face was made up to give her a rosier, more human complexion, but the green tint in her eyes and the points of her ears gave her away as a dryad. “I’m Areca. Before you meet the emperor, can I get you a beverage? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

  She spoke with forced cheerfulness. Her eyes said, Help, I’m a hostage!

  “Um, I’m good,” I said, a feeble lie. Meg shook her head.

  “Great!” Areca lied in return. “Follow me!”

  I translated this to mean Run while you can! She hesitated, giving us time to reconsider our life choices. When we did not scream and dive back into the elevator, she guided us toward a set of double golden doors at the end of the hallway.

  These opened from within, revealing the loft space/throne room I’d seen in my nightmare.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a 360-degree view of Manhattan at sunset. To the west, the sky was bloodred over New Jersey, the Hudson River a glowing purple artery. To the east, the urban canyons filled with shadow. Several varieties of potted trees lined the windows, which struck me as strange. Nero’s decorating taste usually tended more toward gold filigree and severed heads.

  Rich Persian rugs made an asymmetrical checkerboard across the hardwood floor. Rows of black marble pillars supported the ceiling, reminding me a bit too much of Kronos’s palace. (He and his Titans had been all about black marble. That was one reason Zeus insisted on Mount Olympus’s strict building codes that kept everything blinding white.)

  The room was full of people, carefully positioned, frozen in place, all staring at us as if they’d been practicing on their marks for days and Nero had shrieked only seconds ago, Places, everyone! They’re here! If they started in on a choreographed dance number, I was going to dive through the nearest window.

  Lined up on Nero’s left were the eleven young demigods of the Imperial Household, aka the Evil von Trapp children, all wearing their best purple-trimmed togas over fashionably tattered jeans and collared shirts, perhaps because T-shirts were against the dress code when the family welcomed important prisoners to be executed. Many of the older demigods glared at Meg.

  On the emperor’s right stood a dozen servants: young ladies with serving trays and drink pitchers; buff young men with palm-frond fans, though the room’s AC was set to Antarctic winter. One young man, who had obviously lost a bet, was massaging the emperor’s feet.

  Half a dozen Germani flanked the throne—including Gunther, our buddy from the Acela ride into New York. He studied me, as if imagining all the interesting and painful ways he could remove my head from my shoulders. Next to him, at the emperor’s right hand, stood Luguselwa.

  I had to force myself not to sigh with relief. Of course, she looked terrible. Steel braces encased her legs. She had a crutch under each arm. She wore a neck brace as well, and the skin around her eyes was a raccoon mask of bruises. Her mohawk was the only part of her that didn’t appear damaged. But considering that I’d thrown her off a building only three days before, it was remarkable to see her on her feet at all. We needed her for our plan to succeed. Also, if Lu had ended up dying from her injuries, Meg probably would have killed me before Nero got the chance.

  The emperor himself lounged on his gaudy purple sofa. He had exchanged his bathrobe for a tunic and traditional Roman toga, which I supposed wasn’t much different from his bed-wear. His golden laurels had been recently polished. His neck beard glistened with oil. If his expression had been any smugger, the entire species of domestic cats would have sued him for plagiarism.

  “Your Imperial Majesty!” Our guide, Areca, tried for a cheerful tone, but her voice cracked with fear. “Your guests have arrived!”

  Nero shooed her away. Areca hurried to the side of the room and stood by one of the potted plants, which was…Oh, of course. My heart thumped with sympathetic pain. Areca was standing by an areca palm, her life force. The emperor had decorated his throne room with the enslaved: potted dryads.

  Next to me, I could actually hear Meg’s teeth grinding. I presumed the dryads were a new addition, maybe put here just to remind Meg who held all the power.

  “Well, well!” Nero kicked away the young man who had been giving him a foot massage. “Apollo. I am amazed.”

  Luguselwa shifted on her crutches. On her shaved scalp, veins stood out as stiff as tree roots. “You see, my lord? I told you they would come.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.” Nero’s voice was heavy and cold. He leaned forward and laced his fingers, his belly bulging against his tunic. I thought of Dionysus staying in a schlubby dad bod as a form of protest against Zeus. I wondered what Nero’s excuse was.

  “So, Lester, after all the trouble you’ve caused me, why would you roll over and surrender now?”

  I blinked. “You threatened to burn down the city.”

  “Oh, come now.” He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “You and I have both stood by and watched cities burn before. Now, my precious Meg here…” He regarded her with such tender warmth I wanted to vomit on his Persian rug. “I can believe she might want to save a city. She is a fine hero.”

  The other demigods of the Imperial Household exchanged disgusted glances. Clearly, Meg was a favorite of Nero’s, which made her an enemy of everyone else in her loving adopted family of sociopaths.

  “But, you, Lester,” Nero continued. “No…I can’t believe you’ve turned so noble. We can’t change thousands of years of our nature so quickly, can we? You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think it would serve…you.”

  He pointed at my sternum. I could almost feel the pressure of his fingertip.

  I tried to look agitated, which wasn’t hard. “Do you want me to surrender or not?”

  Nero smiled at Luguselwa, then at Meg.

  “You know, Apollo,” he said lazily, “it’s fascinating how bad acts can be good, and vice versa. You remember my mother, Agrippina? Terrible woman. Always trying to rule for me, telling me what to do. I had to kill her in the end. Well, not me personally, of course. I had my man Anicetus do it.” He gave me a little shrug, like, Mothers, am I right? “Anyway, matricide was one of the worst crimes for a Roman. Yet after I killed her, the people loved me even more! I’d stood up for myself, shown my independence. I became a hero to the common man! Then there were all those stories about me burning Christians alive.…”

  I wasn’t sure where Nero was going with all this. We’d been talking about my surrender. Now he was telling me about his mother and his Christian-burning parties. I just wanted to get thrown in a cell with Meg, preferably un-tortured, so Lu could come by later and
release us and help us destroy the whole tower. Was that too much to ask? But when an emperor starts talking about himself, you just have to roll with it. You could be there for a while.

  “You’re claiming those Christian-burning stories weren’t true?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Of course they were true. The Christians were terrorists, out to undermine traditional Roman values. Oh, they claimed to be a religion of peace, but they fooled no one. The point is, real Romans loved me for taking a hard line. After I died…Did you know this? After I died, the commoners rioted. They refused to believe I was dead. There was a wave of rebellions, and every rebel leader claimed to be me reborn.” He got a dreamy look in his eyes. “I was beloved. My so-called bad acts made me wildly popular, while my good acts, like pardoning my enemies, bringing the empire peace and stability…those things just made me look soft and got me killed. This time, I will do things differently. I will bring back traditional Roman values. I will stop worrying about good and evil. The people who survive the transition…they will love me like a father.”

  He gestured to his line of adopted children, all of whom knew enough to keep their expressions carefully neutral.

  That old metaphorical skink was trying to claw its way back up my throat. The fact that Nero—a man who had killed his own mother—was talking about defending traditional Roman values…that was just about the most Roman thing I could imagine. And the idea that he wanted to play Daddy to the entire world made my guts churn. I pictured my friends from Camp Half-Blood forced to stand in rows behind the emperor’s servants. I thought of Meg falling back into line with the rest of the Imperial Household.

  She would be the twelfth, I realized. Twelve foster children to Nero, like the twelve Olympians. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Nero was raising them as young gods-in-training to take over his nightmarish new world. That made Nero the new Kronos, the all-powerful father who could either shower his children with blessings or devour them as he wished. I had badly underestimated Nero’s megalomania.