The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(14)

Caligula looked human enough, but I knew better than to credit him with any sort of compassion. I wanted to strangle him. Alas, I could do nothing except watch and fume.

“Pilot,” Caligula called out lazily. “What’s our speed?”

“Five knots, sir,” said one of the uniformed mortals. “Should I increase?”

“No, no.” Caligula plucked out one of the maraschino cherries and popped it in his mouth. He chewed and grinned, showing bright red teeth. “In fact, let’s slow to four knots. The journey is half the fun!”

“Yessir!”

Commodus scowled. He swirled the ice in his own drink, which was clear and bubbly with red syrup pooled at the bottom. He only had two maraschino cherries, no doubt because Caligula would never allow Commodus to equal him in anything.

“I don’t understand why we’re moving so slowly,” Commodus grumbled. “At top speed, we could have been there by now.”

Caligula chuckled. “My friend, it’s all about timing. We have to allow our deceased ally his best window of attack.”

Commodus shuddered. “I hate our deceased ally. Are you sure he can be controlled—”

“We’ve discussed this.” Caligula’s singsong tone was light and airy and pleasantly homicidal, as if to say: The next time you question me, I will control you with some cyanide in your beverage. “You should trust me, Commodus. Remember who aided you in your hour of need.”

“I’ve thanked you a dozen times already,” Commodus said. “Besides, it wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know Apollo still had some light left in him?” He blinked painfully. “He got the better of you—and your horse, too.”

A cloud passed over Caligula’s face. “Yes, well, soon, we’ll make things right. Between your troops and mine, we have more than enough power to overwhelm the battered Twelfth Legion. And if they prove too stubborn to surrender, we always have Plan B.” He called over his shoulder, “Oh, Boost?”

A pandos hurried in from the aft deck, his enormous shaggy ears flopping around him like throw rugs. In his hands was a large sheet of paper, folded into sections like a map or set of instructions. “Y-yes, Princeps?”

“Progress report.”

“Ah.” Boost’s dark furry face twitched. “Good! Good, master! Another week?”

“A week,” Caligula said.

“Well, sir, these instructions…” Boost turned the paper upside down and frowned at it. “We are still locating all the ‘slot A’s’ on ‘assembly piece sevens.’ And they did not send us enough lug nuts. And the batteries required are not standard size, so—”

“A week,” Caligula repeated, his tone still pleasant. “Yet the blood moon will rise in…”

The pandos winced. “Five days?”

“So you can have your work done in five days? Excellent! Carry on.”

Boost gulped, then scuttled away as fast as his furry feet could carry him.

Caligula smiled at his fellow emperor. “You see, Commodus? Soon Camp Jupiter will be ours. With luck, the Sibylline Books will be in our hands as well. Then we’ll have some proper bargaining power. When it’s time to face Python and carve up our portions of the world, you’ll remember who helped you…and who did not.”

“Oh, I’ll remember. Stupid Nero.” Commodus poked the ice cubes in his drink. “Which one is this again, the Shirley Temple?”

“No, that’s the Roy Rogers,” Caligula said. “Mine is the Shirley Temple.”

“And you’re sure this is what modern warriors drink when they go into battle?”

“Absolutely,” Caligula said. “Now enjoy the ride, my friend. You have five whole days to work on your tan and get your vision back. Then we’ll have some lovely carnage in the Bay Area!”

The scene vanished, and I fell into cold darkness.

I found myself in a dimly lit stone chamber filled with shuffling, stinking, groaning undead. Some were as withered as Egyptian mummies. Others looked almost alive except for the ghastly wounds that had killed them. At the far end of the room, between two rough-hewn columns, sat…a presence, wreathed in a magenta haze. It raised its skeletal visage, fixing me with its burning purple eyes—the same eyes that had stared out at me from the possessed ghoul in the tunnel—and began to laugh.

My gut wound ignited like a line of gunpowder.

I woke, screaming in agony. I found myself shaking and sweating in a strange room.

“You too?” Meg asked.

She stood next to my cot, leaning out an open window and digging in a flower box. Her gardening belt’s pockets sagged with bulbs, seed packets, and tools. In one muddy hand, she held a trowel. Children of Demeter. You can’t take them anywhere without them playing in the dirt.

“Wh-what’s going on?” I tried to sit up, which was a mistake.

My gut wound really was a fiery line of agony. I looked down and found my bare midsection wrapped in bandages that smelled of healing herbs and ointments. If the camp’s healers had already treated me, why was I still in so much pain?

“Where are we?” I croaked.

“Coffee shop.”

Even by Meg’s standards, that statement seemed ridiculous.