The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(61)

‘Absolutely!’ Piper said. ‘You can put down that heavy gun, toss that walkie-talkie away. Heck, you can just leave everything with us. We’ll watch it while you eat. Grilled snapper, homemade corn tortillas, seviche salsa.’ She glanced back at us. ‘Amazing food, right, guys?’

We mumbled our assent.

‘Yum,’ Meg said. She excelled at one-syllable answers.

Assault Rifle lowered his gun. ‘I could use some fish tacos.’

‘We’ve been working hard,’ Engine agreed. ‘We deserve a dinner break.’

‘Exactly!’ Piper pressed the money into Searchlight’s hand. ‘Our treat. Thank you for your service!’

Searchlight stared at the wad of cash. ‘But we’re really not supposed to –’

‘Eat with all that gear on?’ Piper suggested. ‘You’re absolutely right. Just throw it all in the boat – the Kevlar, the guns, your phones. That’s right. Get comfortable!’

It took several more minutes of cajoling and light-hearted banter, but finally the three mercenaries had stripped down to just their commando pyjamas. They thanked Piper, gave her a hug for good measure, then jogged off to assault the beachside café.

As soon as they were gone, Piper stumbled into Jason’s arms.

‘Whoa, you okay?’ he asked.

‘F-fine.’ She pushed away awkwardly. ‘Just harder charming a whole group. I’ll be okay.’

‘That was impressive,’ I said. ‘Aphrodite herself could not have done better.’

Piper didn’t look pleased by my comparison. ‘We should hurry. The charm won’t last.’

Meg grunted. ‘Still would’ve been easier to kill –’

‘Meg,’ I chided.

‘– to beat them unconscious,’ she amended.

‘Right.’ Jason cleared his throat. ‘Everybody in the boat!’

We were thirty yards offshore when we heard the mercenaries shouting, ‘Hey! Stop!’ They ran into the surf, holding half-eaten fish tacos and looking confused.

Fortunately, Piper had taken all their weapons and communications devices.

She gave them a friendly wave and Jason gunned the outboard motor.

Jason, Meg and I rushed to put on the guards’ Kevlar vests and helmets. This left Piper in civilian clothes, but, since she was the only one capable of bluffing her way through a confrontation, she let us have all the fun playing dress-up.

Jason made a perfect mercenary. Meg looked ridiculous – a little girl swimming in her father’s Kevlar. I didn’t look much better. The body armour chafed around my middle. (Curse you, un-combat-worthy love handles!) The riot helmet was as hot as an Easy-Bake oven, and the visor kept falling down, perhaps anxious to hide my acne-riddled face.

We tossed the guns overboard. That may sound foolish, but, as I’ve said, firearms are fickle weapons in the hands of demigods. They would work on mortals, but, no matter what Meg said, I didn’t want to go around mowing down regular humans.

I had to believe that if these mercenaries truly understood whom they were serving they too would throw down their arms. Surely humans would not blindly follow such an evil man of their own free will – I mean, except for the few hundred exceptions I could think of from human history … But not Caligula!

As we approached the yachts, Jason slowed, matching our speed to that of the other patrol vessels.

He angled towards the nearest yacht. Up close, it towered above us like a white steel fortress. Purple and gold running lights glowed just below the water’s surface so the vessel seemed to float on an ethereal cloud of Imperial Roman power. Painted along the prow of the ship, in black letters taller than me, was the name IVLIA DRVSILLA XXVI.

‘Julia Drusilla the Twenty-Sixth,’ Piper said. ‘Was she an empress?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘the emperor’s favourite sister.’

My chest tightened as I remembered that poor girl – so pretty, so agreeable, so incredibly out of her depth. Her brother Caligula had doted on her, idolized her. When he became emperor, he insisted she share his every meal, witness his every depraved spectacle, partake in all his violent revels. She had died at twenty-two – crushed by the suffocating love of a sociopath.

‘She was probably the only person Caligula ever cared about,’ I said. ‘But why this boat is numbered twenty-six, I don’t know.’

‘Because that one is twenty-five.’ Meg pointed to the next ship in line, its stern resting a few feet from our prow. Sure enough, painted across the back was IVLIA DRVSILLA XXV.

‘I bet the one behind us is number twenty-seven.’

‘Fifty super-yachts,’ I mused, ‘all named for Julia Drusilla. Yes, that sounds like Caligula.’

Jason scanned the side of the hull. There were no ladders, no hatches, no conveniently labelled red buttons: PRESS HERE FOR CALIGULA’S SHOES!

We didn’t have much time. We had made it inside the perimeter of patrol vessels and searchlights, but each yacht surely had security cameras. It wouldn’t be long before someone wondered why our little dinghy was floating beside XXVI. Also, the mercenaries we’d left on the beach would be doing their best to attract their comrades’ attention. Then there were the flocks of strixes that I imagined would be waking up any minute, hungry and alert for any sign of disembowelable intruders.