The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(90)

“Yes,” Caligula said.

“HA!” Commodus forced a laugh. “Ha! Apollo, you look horrible!”

My hands trembling, I nocked an arrow and fired it at Caligula’s face. My aim was true, but Caligula swatted aside the projectile like it was a sleepy horsefly.

“Don’t embarrass yourself, Lester,” he said. “Let the leaders talk.”

He turned his grimacing face mask toward the Kodiak bear. “Well, Frank Zhang? You have a chance to surrender with honor. Bow to your emperor!”

“Emperors,” Commodus corrected.

“Yes, of course,” Caligula said smoothly. “Praetor Zhang, you are duty-bound to recognize Roman authority, and we are it! Together, we can rebuild this camp and raise your legion to glory! No more hiding. No more cowering behind Terminus’s weak boundaries. It is time to be true Romans and conquer the world. Join us. Learn from Jason Grace’s mistake.”

I howled again. This time, I launched an arrow at Commodus. Yes, it was petty. I thought I could hit a blind emperor more easily, but he, too, swatted the arrow away.

“Cheap shot, Apollo!” he yelled. “There’s nothing wrong with my hearing or my reflexes.”

The Kodiak bear bellowed. With one claw, he broke the arrow shafts in his shoulder. He shrank, changing into Frank Zhang. The arrow stubs pierced his breastplate at the shoulder. He’d lost his helmet. The side of his body was soaked in blood, but his expression was pure determination.

Next to him, Hannibal trumpeted and pawed the pavement, ready to charge.

“No, buddy.” Frank glanced at his last dozen comrades, weary and wounded but still ready to follow him to the death. “Enough blood has been shed.”

Caligula inclined his head in agreement. “So, you yield, then?”

“Oh, no.” Frank straightened, though the effort made him wince. “I have an alternative solution. Spolia opima.”

Nervous murmurs rippled through the emperors’ columns. Some of the Germani raised their bushy eyebrows. A few of Frank’s legionnaires looked like they wanted to say something—Are you crazy?, for instance—but they held their tongues.

Commodus laughed. He pulled off his helmet, revealing his shaggy curls and beard, his cruel, handsome face. His gaze was milky and unfocused, the skin around his eyes still pitted as if he’d been splashed with acid.

“Single combat?” He grinned. “I love this idea!”

“I’ll take you both,” Frank offered. “You and Caligula against me. You win and make it through the tunnel, the camp is yours.”

Commodus rubbed his hands. “Glorious!”

“Wait,” Caligula snapped. He removed his own helmet. He did not look delighted. His eyes glittered, his mind no doubt racing as he thought over all the angles. “This is too good to be true. What are you playing at, Zhang?”

“Either I kill you, or I die,” Frank said. “That’s all. Get through me, and you can march right into camp. I’ll order my remaining troops to stand down. You can have your triumphal parade through New Rome like you’ve always wanted.” Frank turned to one of his comrades. “You hear that, Colum? Those are my orders. If I die, you will make sure they are honored.”

Colum opened his mouth but apparently didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded dourly.

Caligula frowned. “Spolia opima. It’s so primitive. It hasn’t been done since…”

He stopped himself, perhaps remembering the kind of troops he had at his back: “primitive” Germani, who viewed single combat as the most honorable way for a leader to win a battle. In earlier times, Romans had felt the same way. The first king, Romulus, had personally defeated an enemy king, Acron, stripping him of his armor and weapons. For centuries after, Roman generals tried to emulate Romulus, going out of their way to find enemy leaders on the battlefield for single combat, so they could claim spolia opima. It was the ultimate display of courage for any true Roman.

Frank’s ploy was clever. The emperors couldn’t refuse his challenge without losing face in front of their troops. On the other hand, Frank was badly wounded. He couldn’t possibly win without help.

“Two against two!” I yelped, surprising even myself. “I’ll fight!”

That got another round of laughter from the emperors’ troops. Commodus said, “Even better!”

Frank looked horror-stricken, which wasn’t the sort of thank-you I’d been hoping for.

“Apollo, no,” he said. “I can handle this. Clear off!”

A few months ago, I would have been happy to let Frank take this hopeless fight on his own while I sat back, ate chilled grapes, and checked my messages. Not now, not after Jason Grace. I glanced at the poor maimed pegasi chained to the emperors’ chariot, and I decided I couldn’t live in a world where cruelty like that went unchallenged.

“Sorry, Frank,” I said. “You won’t face this alone.” I looked at Caligula. “Well, Baby Booties? Your colleague emperor has already agreed. Are you in, or do we terrify you too much?”

Caligula’s nostrils flared. “We have lived for thousands of years,” he said, as if explaining a simple fact to a slow student. “We are gods.”

“And I’m the son of Mars,” Frank countered, “praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata. I’m not afraid to die. Are you?”