The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(53)

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.…”