The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(55)

Lavinia shrugged. “Maybe, but the manubalista makes a statement. Speaking of which”—she leaned toward me, her expression turning serious—“I need to talk to you.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s not. I—”

In the distance, a horn blew.

“Okay, guys!” Dakota called. “Time to rotate activities! Good team effort!”

Lavinia punched me in the arm again. “Later, Lester.”

The Fifth Cohort dropped their weapons and ran toward the next activity, leaving me to retrieve all their arrows. Cretins.

The rest of the afternoon, I stayed at the firing range, working with each cohort in turn. As the hours wore on, both the shooting and the teaching became less intimidating for me. By the time I was wrapping up work with my last group, the First Cohort, I was convinced that my improved archery skills were here to stay.

I didn’t know why. I still couldn’t shoot at my old godly level, but I was definitely better now than the average demigod archer or Olympic gold medalist. I had started to “jive.” I considered pulling out the Arrow of Dodona to brag See what I can do? But I didn’t want to jinx myself. Besides, knowing that I was dying of zombie poison on the eve of a major battle took some of the thrill out of being able to shoot bull’s-eyes again.

The Romans were duly impressed. Some of them even learned a little, like how to fire an arrow without blinding yourself or killing the guy next to you. Still, I could tell they were more excited about the other activities they’d done. I overheard a lot of whispering about unicorns and Hazel’s supersecret ghoul-fighting techniques. Larry from the Third Cohort had enjoyed boarding ships so much he declared that he wanted to be a pirate when he grew up. I suspected most of the legionnaires had even enjoyed ditch-digging more than my class.

It was late evening when the final horn blew and the cohorts tromped back to camp. I was hungry and exhausted. I wondered if this was how mortal teachers felt after a full day of classes. If so, I didn’t see how they managed. I hoped they were richly compensated with gold, diamonds, and rare spices.

At least the cohorts seemed to be in an upbeat mood. If the praetors’ goal had been to take the troops’ minds off their fears and raise morale on the eve of battle, then our afternoon had been a success. If the goal had been to train the legion to successfully repel our enemies…then I was less than hopeful. Also, all day long, everyone had carefully avoided addressing the worst thing about tomorrow’s attack. The Romans would have to face their former comrades, returned as zombies under Tarquin’s control. I remembered how hard it had been for Lavinia to shoot down Bobby with her crossbow in the tomb. I wondered how the legion’s morale would hold up once they faced the same ethical dilemma times fifty or sixty.

I was turning onto the Via Principalis, on my way to the mess hall, when a voice said, “Pssst.”

Lurking in the alley between Bombilo’s café and the chariot repair shop were Lavinia and Don. The faun was wearing an honest-to-gods trench coat over his tie-dyed T-shirt, as if that made him look inconspicuous. Lavinia wore a black cap over her pink hair.

“C’mere!” she hissed.

“But dinner—”

“We need you.”

“Is this a mugging?”

She marched over, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the shadows.

“Don’t worry, dude,” Don told me. “It’s not a mugging! But, like, if you do have any spare change—”

“Shut up, Don,” said Lavinia.

“I’ll shut up,” Don agreed.

“Lester,” Lavinia said, “you need to come with us.”

“Lavinia, I’m tired. I’m hungry. And I have no spare change. Can’t it please wait—?”

“No. Because tomorrow we might all die, and this is important. We’re sneaking out.”

“Sneaking out?”

“Yeah,” Don said. “It’s when you’re sneaking. And you go out.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“You’ll see.” Lavinia’s tone was ominous, as if she couldn’t explain what my coffin looked like. I had to admire it with my own eyes.

“What if we get caught?”

“Oh!” Don perked up. “I know this one! For a first offense, it’s latrine duty for a month. But, see, if we all die tomorrow, it won’t matter!”

With that happy news, Lavinia and Don grabbed my hands and dragged me farther into the darkness.





I sing of dead plants

And heroic shrubberies

Inspiring stuff

SNEAKING OUT OF A Roman military camp should not have been so easy.

Once we were safely through a hole in the fence, down a trench, through a tunnel, past the pickets, and out of sight of the camp’s sentry towers, Don was happy to explain how he’d arranged it all. “Dude, the place is designed to keep out armies. It’s not meant to keep in individual legionnaires, or keep out, you know, the occasional well-meaning faun who’s just looking for a hot meal. If you know the patrol schedule and are willing to keep changing up your entry points, it’s easy.”

“That seems remarkably industrious for a faun,” I noted.

Don grinned. “Hey, man. Slacking is hard work.”