The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(36)

The mocking laughter of the other gods still rang in my ears.

If not for that encounter, I might never have known Reyna existed. I certainly had no designs on her. But we always want what we cannot have. Once Venus declared Reyna off-limits, I became fascinated with her.

Why had Venus been so emphatic? What did Reyna’s fate mean?

Now I thought I understood. As Lester Papadopoulos, I no longer had a godly face. I was neither mortal, nor god, nor demigod. Had Venus somehow known this would happen someday? Had she shown me Reyna and warned me off knowing full well that it would make me obsessed?

Venus was a wily goddess. She played games within games. If it was my fate to be Reyna’s true love, to wash away her curse as Frank had done for Hazel, would Venus allow it?

But at the same time, I was a romantic disaster. I had ruined every one of my relationships, brought nothing but destruction and misery to the young men and women I’d loved. How could I believe I would be any good for the praetor?

I lay in my cot, these thoughts tossing around in my mind, until late afternoon. Finally, I gave up on the idea of rest. I gathered my supplies—my quiver and bow, my ukulele and my backpack—and I headed out. I needed guidance, and I could think of only one way to get it.





Reluctant arrow

Grant me this boon: permission

To skedaddleth

I HAD THE FIELD of Mars all to myself.

Since no war games were scheduled that evening, I could frolic through the wasteland to my heart’s content, admiring the wreckage of chariots, broken battlements, smoldering pits, and trenches filled with sharpened spikes. Another romantic sunset stroll wasted because I had no one to share it with.

I climbed an old siege tower and sat facing the northern hills. With a deep breath, I reached into my quiver and pulled out the Arrow of Dodona. I’d gone several days without talking to my annoying far-sighted projectile weapon, which I considered a victory, but now, gods help me, I could think of no one else to turn to.

“I need help,” I told it.

The arrow remained silent, perhaps stunned by my admission. Or perhaps I’d pulled out the wrong arrow and I was talking to an inanimate object.

Finally, the shaft rattled in my hand. Its voice resonated in my mind like a thespian tuning fork: THY WORDS ARE TRUE. BUT IN WHAT SENSE MEANEST THOU?

Its tone sounded less derisive than usual. That scared me.

“I…I am supposed to show strength,” I said. “According to Lupa, I’m supposed to save the day somehow, or the pack—New Rome—will die. But how do I do that?”

I told the arrow all that had happened in the last few days: my encounter with the eurynomoi, my dreams about the emperors and Tarquin, my conversation with Lupa, our quest from the Roman senate. To my surprise, it felt good to pour out my troubles. Considering the arrow didn’t have ears, it was a good listener. It never looked bored, shocked, or disgusted, because it had no face.

“I crossed the Tiber alive,” I summed up, “just like the prophecy said. Now, how do I ‘start to jive’? Does this mortal body have a reset switch?”

The arrow buzzed: I SHALL THINK UPON THIS.

“That’s it? No advice? No snarky comments?”

GIVE ME TIME TO CONSIDER, O IMPATIENT LESTER.

“But I don’t have time! We’re leaving for Tarquin’s tomb, like”—I glanced to the west, where the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills—“basically now!”

THE JOURNEY INTO THE TOMB WILL NOT BE THY FINAL CHALLENGE. UNLESS THOU SUCKEST MOST WOEFULLY.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

FIGHT NOT THE KING, said the arrow. HEAREST THOU WHAT THOU NEEDEST, AND SKEDADDLETH.

“Did you just use the term skedaddleth?”

I TRY TO SPEAK PLAINLY TO THEE, TO GRANT THEE A BOON, AND STILL THOU COMPLAINEST.

“I appreciate a good boon as much as the next person. But if I’m going to contribute to this quest and not just cower in the corner, I need to know how”—my voice cracked—“how to be me again.”

The vibration of the arrow felt almost like a cat purring, trying to soothe an ill human. ART THOU SURE THAT IS THY WISH?

“What do you mean?” I demanded. “That’s the whole point! Everything I’m doing is so—”

“Are you talking to that arrow?” said a voice below me.

At the base of the siege tower stood Frank Zhang. Next to him was Hannibal the Elephant, impatiently pawing the mud.

I’d been so distracted, I’d let an elephant get the drop on me.

“Hi,” I squeaked, my voice still ragged with emotion. “I was just…This arrow gives prophetic advice. It talks. In my head.”

Bless him, Frank managed to maintain a poker face. “Okay. I can leave if—”

“No, no.” I slipped the arrow back in my quiver. “It needs time to process. What brings you out here?”

“Walking the elephant.” Frank pointed to Hannibal, in case I might be wondering which elephant. “He gets stir-crazy when we don’t have war games. Bobby used to be our elephant handler, but…”

Frank shrugged helplessly. I got his meaning: Bobby had been another casualty of the battle. Killed…or maybe worse.

Hannibal grunted deep in his chest. He wrapped his trunk around a broken battering ram, picked it up, and started pounding it into the ground like a pestle.