The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(94)

“Frank!” I sobbed.

He glanced over, silently ordering me: GO.

I could not bear it. Not again. Not like Jason. I was dimly aware of Commodus struggling to crawl toward me, to grab my ankles.

Frank raised his piece of firewood to Caligula’s face. The emperor fought and thrashed, but Frank was stronger—drawing, I suspected, on everything that remained of his mortal life.

“If I’m going to burn,” he said, “I might as well burn bright. This is for Jason.”

The firewood spontaneously combusted, as if it had been waiting years for this chance. Caligula’s eyes widened with panic, perhaps just now beginning to understand. Flames roared around Frank’s body, sparking the oil in one of the grooves on the asphalt—a liquid fuse, racing in both directions to the crates and traffic barrels that packed the tunnel. The emperors weren’t the only ones who kept a supply of Greek fire.

I am not proud of what happened next. As Frank became a column of flame, and the emperor Caligula disintegrated into white-hot embers, I followed Frank’s last order. I leaped over Commodus and ran for open air. At my back, the Caldecott Tunnel erupted like a volcano.





I didn’t do it.

Explosion? I don’t know her.

Probably Greg’s fault.

A THIRD-DEGREE BURN was the least painful thing I carried from that tunnel.

I staggered into the open, my back sizzling, my hands steaming, every muscle in my body feeling like it had been scored with razorblades. Before me spread the remaining forces of the emperors: hundreds of battle-ready warriors. In the distance, stretched across the bay, fifty yachts waited, primed to fire their doomsday artillery.

None of that hurt as much as knowing I had left Frank Zhang in the flames.

Caligula was gone. I could feel it—like the earth heaved a sigh of relief as his consciousness disintegrated in a blast of superheated plasma. But, oh, the cost. Frank. Beautiful, awkward, lumbering, brave, strong, sweet, noble Frank.

I would have sobbed, but my tear ducts were as dry as Mojave gulches.

The enemy forces looked as stunned as I was. Even the Germani were slack-jawed. It takes a lot to shock an imperial bodyguard. Watching your bosses get blown up in a massive fiery belch from the side of a mountain—that will do it.

Behind me, a barely human voice gurgled, “URGSSHHH.”

I turned.

I was too dead inside to feel fear or disgust. Of course Commodus was still alive. He crawled out of the smoke-filled cavern on his elbows, his armor half-melted, his skin coated with ash. His once-beautiful face looked like a burnt loaf of tomato bread.

I hadn’t hobbled him well enough. Somehow, I’d missed his ligaments. I’d messed up everything, even Frank’s last request.

None of the troops rushed to the emperor’s aid. They remained frozen in disbelief. Perhaps they didn’t recognize this wrecked creature as Commodus. Perhaps they thought he was doing another one of his spectacles and they were waiting for the right moment to applaud.

Incredibly, Commodus struggled to his feet. He wobbled like a 1975 Elvis.

“SHIPS!” he croaked. He slurred the word so badly, for a moment I thought he’d yelled something else. I suppose his troops thought the same thing, since they did nothing.

“FIRE!” Commodus groaned, which again could have simply meant HEY, LOOK, I’M ON FIRE.

I only understood his order a heartbeat later, when Gregorix yelled, “SIGNAL THE YACHTS!”

I choked on my tongue.

Commodus gave me a ghastly smile. His eyes glittered with hatred.

I don’t know where I found the strength, but I charged and tackled him. We hit the asphalt, my legs straddling his chest, my hands wrapped around his throat as they had been thousands of years before, the first time I killed him. This time, I felt no bittersweet regret, no lingering sense of love. Commodus fought, but his fists were like paper. I let loose a guttural roar—a song with only one note: pure rage, and only one volume: maximum.

Under the onslaught of sound, Commodus crumbled to ash.

My voice faltered. I stared at my empty palms. I stood and backed away, horrified. The charred outline of the emperor’s body remained on the asphalt. I could still feel the pulse of his carotid arteries under my fingers. What had I done? In my thousands of years of life, I’d never destroyed someone with my voice. When I sang, people would often say I “killed it,” but they never meant that literally.

The emperors’ troops stared at me in astonishment. Given another moment, they surely would have attacked, but their attention was diverted by a flare gun going off nearby. A tennis-ball-size globe of orange fire arced into the sky, trailing Tang-colored smoke.

The troops turned toward the bay, waiting for the fireworks show that would destroy Camp Jupiter. I’ll admit—as tired and helpless and emotionally shattered as I was, all I could do was watch, too.

On fifty aft decks, green dots flickered as the Greek fire charges were uncovered in their mortars. I imagined pandos technicians scrambling about, inputting their final coordinates.

PLEASE, ARTEMIS, I prayed. NOW WOULD BE A GREAT TIME TO SHOW UP.

The weapons fired. Fifty green fireballs rose into the sky, like emeralds on a floating necklace, illuminating the entire bay. They rose straight upward, struggling to gain altitude.

My fear turned to confusion. I knew a few things about flying. You couldn’t take off at a ninety-degree angle. If I tried that in the sun chariot…well, first of all, I would’ve fallen off and looked really stupid. But also, the horses could never have made such a steep climb. They would have toppled into each other and crashed back into the gates of the Sun Palace. You’d have an eastern sunrise, followed immediately by an eastern sunset and lots of angry whinnying.