The Tower of Nero (The Trials of Apollo #5)(61)

She wheeled around. “After what I DID?!”

She picked up the chair again and threw it across the room—but not at Nero. It whanged off the window, leaving a smudge but no cracks. I caught the flicker of a smile on Nero’s face—a smile of satisfaction—before his expression fixed back into a mask of sympathy. “Yes, dear. This anger comes from guilt. You led Apollo here. You understood what that meant, what would happen. But you did it anyway. That must be so painful…knowing you brought him to his end.”

Her arms trembled. “I—no. You cut off—” She gagged, clearly unable to say the words. She stared down at her own fists, clenched as if they might fly off her wrists if left unattended.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Nero said in a tone that somehow implied, This is all your fault.

“Luguselwa made the wrong choice. You know that. You must have understood what would happen. You are too smart to be blind. We’ve talked about consequences so often.” He sighed with regret. “Perhaps Cassius was too harsh, taking her hands.” He tilted his head. “If you like, I can punish him for that.”

“What?” Meg was shaking, as if no longer sure where to direct the giant cannon of her anger. “No! It wasn’t him. It was—”

She choked on the obvious answer: YOU.

With Nero sitting right in front of her, talking in gentle tones, giving her his full attention, she faltered.

Meg! I shouted, but no sound came forth. Meg, keep smashing things!

“You have a kind heart,” Nero said with another sigh. “You care about Apollo. About Lu. I understand that. And when you unleash the Beast…” He spread his hands. “I know that is unsettling. But it isn’t over, Meg. Will you sit with me? I’m not asking for a hug, or for you to stop being angry. But I have some news that may make you feel better.”

He patted the mattress again. The maid wrung her hands. The Germanus picked his teeth.

Meg wavered. I could imagine the thoughts racing through her head: Is the news about Apollo? Will you offer to let him go if I cooperate? Is Lu still alive? Will she be released? And if I don’t play along with your wishes, will I be endangering them?

Nero’s unspoken message seemed to hang in the air: This is all your fault, but you can still make it right.

Slowly, Meg moved to the bed. She sat, her posture stiff and guarded. I wanted to lunge between her and Nero, to insert myself in the gap and make sure he could not get any closer, but I feared his influence was worse than physical.…He was worming his way into her mind.

“Here is the good news, Meg,” he said. “We will always have each other. I will never abandon you. You can never make a mistake so great I will not take you back. Lu betrayed you when she betrayed me. Apollo was unreliable, selfish, and—dare I say—a narcissist. But I know you. I have raised you. This is your home.”

Oh, gods, I thought. Nero was so good at being evil, and so evil at being good, he made the words lose their meaning. He could tell you the floor was the ceiling with such conviction you might start believing it, especially since any disagreement would unleash the Beast.

I marveled how such a man could rise to be emperor of Rome. Then I marveled how such a man could ever lose control of Rome. It was easy to see how he’d gotten the mobs on his side.

Meg shivered, but whether from rage or despair, I couldn’t be sure.

“There, there.” Nero put an arm around her shoulders. “You can cry. It’s all right. I’m here.”

A cold knot formed in my gut. I suspected that as soon as Meg’s tears fell, the game would be over. All the independence she’d built and fought so hard to maintain would crumble. She would fold herself against Nero’s chest, just as she’d done as a little girl, after Nero killed her real father. The Meg I knew would disappear under the twisted, tortured mess Nero had spent years cultivating.

The scene lost cohesion—perhaps because I was too upset to control my dream. Or perhaps I simply couldn’t bear to watch what happened next. I tumbled down through the tower, floor after floor, trying to regain the reins.

I’m not done, I insisted. I need more information!

Unfortunately, I got it.

I stopped in front of a golden door—never a good sign, golden doors. The dream swept me inside a small vault. I felt as if I’d entered a reactor core. Intense heat threatened to burn my dream-self into a cloud of dream-ashes. The air smelled heavy and toxic. Before me, floating above a pedestal of Stygian iron, was the fasces of Nero—a five-foot-tall golden ax, bundled with wooden rods and lashed together by gold cords. The ceremonial weapon pulsed with power—exponentially more than the two fasces Meg and I had destroyed at Sutro Tower.

The meaning of this dawned on me…whispered into my brain like a line of Python’s poisoned prophecy. The three emperors of the Triumvirate hadn’t just linked themselves through a corporation. Their life forces, their ambitions, their greed and malice, had entwined over the centuries. By killing Commodus and Caligula, I had consolidated all the power of the Triumvirate into the fasces of Nero. I had made the surviving emperor three times as powerful and harder to kill. Even if the fasces were unguarded, destroying it would be difficult.

And the fasces was not unguarded.

Behind the glowing ax, his hands spread as if in benediction, the guardian stood. His body was humanoid, seven feet tall. Patches of gold fur covered his muscular chest, arms, and legs. His feathery white wings reminded me of one of Zeus’s wind spirits, or the angels that Christians liked to paint.