The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(16)

‘And if I were Apollo?’ I asked the manager.

‘Oh, we’d comp your purchases!’ the manager cried. ‘We’d roll out the red carpet!’

That was a dirty trick. I’d always been a sucker for the red carpet.

‘Well, then, yes,’ I said, ‘I’m Apollo.’

The manager squealed – a sound not unlike the Erymanthian Boar made that time I shot him in the hindquarters. ‘I knew it! I’m such a fan. My name is Macro. Welcome to my store!’

He glanced at his two employees. ‘Bring out the red carpet so we can roll Apollo up in it, will you? But first let’s make the satyrs’ deaths quick and painless. This is such an honour!’

The employees raised their labelling guns, ready to mark us down as clearance items.

‘Wait!’ I cried.

The employees hesitated. Up close, I could see how much they looked alike: the same greasy mops of dark hair, the same glazed eyes, the same rigid postures. They might have been twins, or – a horrible thought seeped into my brain – products of the same assembly line.

‘I, um, er …’ I said, poetic to the last. ‘What if I’m not really Apollo?’

Macro’s grin lost some of its wattage. ‘Well, then, I’d have to kill you for disappointing me.’

‘Okay, I’m Apollo,’ I said. ‘But you can’t just kill your customers. That’s no way to run an army-surplus store!’

Behind me, Grover wrestled with Coach Hedge, who was desperately trying to claw open a family fun pack of grenades while cursing the tamper-proof packaging.

Macro clasped his meaty hands. ‘I know it’s terribly rude. I do apologize, Lord Apollo.’

‘So … you won’t kill us?’

‘Well, as I said, I won’t kill you. The emperor has plans for you. He needs you alive!’

‘Plans,’ I said.

I hated plans. They reminded me of annoying things like Zeus’s once-a-century goal-setting meetings, or dangerously complicated attacks. Or Athena.

‘B-but my friends,’ I stammered. ‘You can’t kill the satyrs. A god of my stature can’t be rolled up in a red carpet without my retinue!’

Macro regarded the satyrs, who were still fighting over the plastic-wrapped grenades.

‘Hmm,’ said the manager. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Apollo, but, you see, this may be my only chance to get back into the emperor’s good graces. I’m fairly sure he won’t want the satyrs.’

‘You mean … you’re out of the emperor’s good graces?’

Macro heaved a sigh. He began rolling up his sleeves as if he expected some hard, dreary satyr-murdering ahead. ‘I’m afraid so. I certainly didn’t ask to be exiled to Palm Springs! Alas, the princeps is very particular about his security forces. My troops malfunctioned one too many times, and he shipped us out here. He replaced us with that horrible assortment of strixes and mercenaries and Big Ears. Can you believe it?’

I could neither believe it nor understand it. Big ears?

I examined the two employees, still frozen in place, label guns ready, eyes unfocused, faces expressionless.

‘Your employees are automatons,’ I realized. ‘These are the emperor’s former troops?’

‘Alas, yes,’ Macro said. ‘They are fully capable, though. Once I deliver you, the emperor will surely see that and forgive me.’

His sleeves were above his elbows now, revealing old white scars, as if his forearms had been clawed by a desperate victim many years ago …

I remembered my dream of the imperial palace, the praetor kneeling before his new emperor.

Too late, I remembered the name of that praetor. ‘Naevius Sutorius Macro.’

Macro beamed at his robotic employees. ‘I can’t believe Apollo remembers me. This is such an honour!’

His robotic employees remained unimpressed.

‘You killed Emperor Tiberius,’ I said. ‘Smothered him with a pillow.’

Macro looked abashed. ‘Well, he was ninety percent dead already. I simply helped matters along.’

‘And you did it for –’ an ice-cold burrito of dread sank into my stomach – ‘the next emperor. Neos Helios. It is him.’

Macro nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right! The one, the only Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!’

He spread his arms as if waiting for applause.

The satyrs stopped fighting. Hedge continued chewing on the grenade pack, though even his satyr teeth were having trouble with the thick plastic.

Grover backed away, putting the trolley between himself and the store employees. ‘G-Gaius who?’ He glanced at me. ‘Apollo, what does that mean?’

I gulped. ‘It means we run. Now!’





8


We blow up some things

You thought all the things blew up?

No, we found more things





Most satyrs excel at running away.

Gleeson Hedge, however, was not most satyrs. He grabbed a barrel brush from his cart, yelled, ‘DIE!’ and charged the three-hundred-pound manager.

Even the automatons were too surprised to react, which probably saved Hedge’s life. I grabbed the satyr’s collar and dragged him backwards as the employees’ first shots went wild, a barrage of bright orange discount stickers flying over our heads.