The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(54)

Hazel sighed. “That would be my group of delinquents. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to teach them how to slay ghouls.”

She jogged away, leaving me alone with my cartwheeling sidekick.

“So where do we go?” I asked Meg. “Frank said we had, er, special jobs?”

“Yep.” Meg pointed to the far end of the field, where the Fifth Cohort was waiting at a target range. “You’re teaching archery.”

I stared at her. “I’m doing what now?”

“Frank taught the morning class, since you slept forever. Now it’s your turn.”

“But—I can’t teach as Lester, especially in my condition! Besides, Romans never rely on archery in combat. They think projectile weapons are beneath them!”

“Gotta think in new ways if you want to beat the emperors,” Meg said. “Like me. I’m weaponizing the unicorns.”

“You’re—Wait, what?”

“Later.” Meg skipped across the field toward a large riding ring, where the First Cohort and a herd of unicorns were staring suspiciously at one another. I couldn’t imagine how Meg planned to weaponize the nonviolent creatures, or who had given her permission to try, but I had a sudden horrible image of Romans and unicorns assaulting one another with large cheese graters. I decided to mind my own business.

With a sigh, I turned toward the firing range and went to meet my new pupils.


The only thing scarier than being bad at archery was discovering that I was suddenly good at it again. That may not sound like a problem, but since becoming mortal, I’d experienced a few random bursts of godly skill. Each time, my powers had quickly evaporated again, leaving me more bitter and disillusioned than ever.

Sure, I may have fired a quiverful of amazing shots in Tarquin’s tomb. That didn’t mean I could do it again. If I tried to demonstrate proper shooting techniques in front of a whole cohort and ended up hitting one of Meg’s unicorns in the butt, I would die of embarrassment long before the zombie poison got me.

“Okay, everyone,” I said. “I suppose we can start.”

Dakota was rummaging through his water-stained quiver, trying to find an arrow that wasn’t warped. Apparently, he thought it was a great idea to store his archery supplies in the sauna. Thomas and another legionnaire (Marcus?) were sword-fighting with their bows. The legion’s standard-bearer, Jacob, was drawing his bow with the butt of the arrow directly at eye level, which explained why his left eye was covered in a patch from the morning’s lessons. He now seemed eager to blind himself completely.

“C’mon, guys!” said Lavinia. She had sneaked in late without being noticed (one of her superpowers) and took it upon herself to help me call the troops to order. “Apollo might know stuff!”

This was how I knew I had hit rock bottom: the highest praise I could receive from a mortal was that I “might know stuff.”

I cleared my throat. I’d faced much bigger audiences. Why was I so nervous? Oh, right. Because I was a horribly incompetent sixteen-year-old.

“So…let’s talk about how to aim.” My voice cracked, naturally. “Wide stance. Full draw. Then find your target with your dominant eye. Or, in Jacob’s case, with your one working eye. Aim along your sight pin, if you have one.”

“I don’t have a sight pin,” said Marcus.

“It’s the little circle thingie right there.” Lavinia showed him.

“I have a sight pin,” Marcus corrected himself.

“Then you let fly,” I said. “Like this.”

I shot at the nearest target—then at the target next farthest out, then at the next—firing again and again in a kind of trance.

Only after my twentieth shot did I realize I’d landed all bull’s-eyes, two in each target, the farthest about two hundred yards away. Child’s play for Apollo. For Lester, quite impossible.

The legionnaires stared at me, their mouths hanging open.

“We’re supposed to do that?” Dakota demanded.

Lavinia punched my forearm. “See, you guys? I told you Apollo doesn’t suck that much!”

I had to agree with her. I felt oddly not suckish.

The display of marksmanship hadn’t drained my energy. Nor did it feel like the temporary bursts of godly power I’d experienced before. I was tempted to ask for another quiver to see if I could keep shooting at the same skill level, but I was afraid to press my luck.

“So…” I faltered. “I, uh, don’t expect you to be that good right away. I was only demonstrating what’s possible with a lot of practice. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”

I was relieved to take the focus off myself. I organized the cohort into a firing line and made my way down the ranks, offering advice. Despite his warped arrows, Dakota was not terrible. He actually hit the target a few times. Jacob managed not to blind himself in the other eye. Thomas and Marcus sent most of their arrows skittering across the dirt, ricocheting off rocks and into the trenches, which elicited shouts of “Hey, watch it!” from the ditch-digging Fourth Cohort.

After an hour of frustration with a regular bow, Lavinia gave up and pulled out her manubalista. Her first bolt knocked down the fifty-yard target.

“Why do you insist on using that slow-loading monstrosity?” I asked. “If you’re so ADHD, wouldn’t a regular bow give you more instant satisfaction?”