The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(93)

In addition, every five feet or so, a thin groove had been cut across the width of the asphalt. Again, not unusual in itself—the highway department could’ve just been doing some repaving work. But each groove glistened with some kind of liquid…. Oil?

Taken together, these things made me deeply uncomfortable, and Frank kept retreating farther into the tunnel, luring Caligula to follow.

Apparently, Caligula’s lieutenant, Gregorix, was also getting worried. The Germanus shouted from the front lines, “My emperor! You’re getting too far—”

“Shut up, GREG!” Caligula yelled. “If you want to keep your tongue, don’t tell me how to fight!”

Commodus was still struggling to get up.

Caligula stabbed at Frank’s chest, but the praetor wasn’t there. Instead, a small bird—a common swift, judging from its boomerang-shaped tail—shot straight toward the emperor’s face.

Frank knew his birds. Swifts aren’t large or impressive. They aren’t obvious threats like falcons or eagles, but they are incredibly fast and maneuverable.

He drove his beak into Caligula’s left eye and zoomed away, leaving the emperor shrieking and swatting at the air.

Frank materialized in human form right next me. His eyes looked sunken and glazed. His bad arm hung limp at his side.

“If you really want to help,” he said in a low voice, “hobble Commodus. I don’t think I can hold them both.”

“What—?”

He transformed back into a swift and was gone—darting at Caligula, who cursed and slashed at the tiny bird.

Commodus charged me once more. This time he was smart enough not to announce himself by howling. By the time I noticed him bearing down on me—blood bubbling from his nostrils, a deep guardrail-shaped groove in his forehead—it was too late.

He slammed his fist into my gut, the exact spot I didn’t want to be hit. I collapsed in a moaning, boneless heap.

Outside, the enemy troops erupted in a fresh round of cheering. Commodus again turned to accept their adulation. I’m ashamed to admit that instead of feeling relieved to have a few extra seconds of life, I was annoyed that he wasn’t executing me faster.

Every cell in my miserable mortal body screamed, Just finish it! Getting killed could not hurt any worse than the way I already felt. If I died, maybe I’d at least come back as a zombie and get to bite off Commodus’s nose.

I was now certain Diana wasn’t coming to the rescue. Maybe I had messed up the ritual, as Ella feared. Maybe my sister hadn’t received the call. Or maybe Jupiter had forbidden her from helping on pain of sharing my mortal punishment.

Whatever the case, Frank, too, must have known our situation was hopeless. We were well past the “buying time” phase. We were now into the “dying as a futile gesture sure is painful” phase.

My line of vision was reduced to a blurry red cone, but I focused on Commodus’s calves as he paced in front of me, thanking his adoring fans.

Strapped to the inside of his calf was a sheathed dagger.

He had always carried one of those back in the old days. When you’re an emperor, the paranoia never stops. You could be assassinated by your housekeeper, your waiter, your launderer, your best friend. And then, despite all your precautions, your godly ex-lover disguised as your wrestling trainer ends up drowning you in your bathtub. Surprise!

Hobble Commodus, Frank had told me.

I had no energy left, but I owed Frank a last request.

My body screamed in protest as I stretched out my hand and grabbed the dagger. It slipped easily from its sheath—kept well-oiled for a quick draw. Commodus didn’t even notice. I stabbed him in the back of the left knee, then the right before he had even registered the pain. He screamed and toppled forward, spewing Latin obscenities I hadn’t heard since the reign of Vespasian.

Hobbling accomplished. I dropped the knife, all my willpower gone. I waited to see what would kill me. The emperors? The zombie poison? The suspense?

I craned my neck to see how my friend the common swift was doing. Not well, it turned out. Caligula scored a lucky hit with the flat of his blade, smacking Frank into the wall. The little bird tumbled limply, and Frank shifted back into human form just in time for his face to hit the pavement.

Caligula grinned at me, his wounded eye closed tight, his voice filled with hideous glee. “Are you watching, Apollo? You remember what happens next?”

He raised his sword over Frank’s back.

“NO!” I screamed.

I could not witness another friend’s death. Somehow, I got to my feet, but I was much too slow. Caligula brought down his blade…which bent in half like a pipe cleaner against Frank’s cloak. Thank the gods of military fashion statements! Frank’s praetor’s cape could turn back weapons, even as its ability to transform into a sweater wrap remained unknown.

Caligula snarled in frustration. He drew his dagger, but Frank had recovered enough strength to stand. He slammed Caligula against the wall and wrapped his good hand around the emperor’s throat.

“Time’s up!” he roared.

Time’s up. Wait…that was my cue. I was supposed to run. But I couldn’t. I stared, frozen in horror, as Caligula buried his dagger in Frank’s belly.

“Yes, it is,” Caligula croaked. “For you.”

Frank squeezed harder, crushing the emperor’s throat, making Caligula’s face turn a bloated purple. Using his wounded arm, which must have been excruciating, Frank pulled the piece of firewood from his pouch.