The Burning Maze (The Trials of Apollo #3)(73)

‘Ah.’ My stomach felt as bruised as my ribs. I wondered if there was a special term for motion sickness while riding a horse on a boat. ‘So, when you said Caligula would eat me for breakfast –’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean that literally.’

‘Thank the gods.’

‘I meant the sorceress Medea will put you in chains and flay your human form to extract whatever remains of your godly essence. Then Caligula will consume your essence – yours and Helios’s both – and make himself the new god of the sun.’

‘Oh.’ I felt faint. I assumed I still had some godly essence inside me – some tiny spark of my former awesomeness that allowed me to remember who I was and what I had once been capable of. I didn’t want those last vestiges of divinity taken away, especially if the process involved flaying. The idea made my stomach churn. I hoped Piper wouldn’t mind terribly if I threw up on her. ‘You – you seem like a reasonable horse, Incitatus. Why are you helping someone as volatile and treacherous as Caligula?’

Incitatus whinnied. ‘Volatile, schmolatile. The boy listens to me. He needs me. Doesn’t matter how violent or unpredictable he may seem to others. I can keep him under control, use him to push through my agenda. I’m backing the right horse.’

He didn’t seem to recognize the irony of a horse backing the right horse. Also, I was surprised to hear that Incitatus had an agenda. Most equine agendas were fairly straight-forward: food, running, more food, a good brushing. Repeat as desired.

‘Does Caligula know that you’re, ah, using him?’

‘Of course!’ said the horse. ‘Kid’s not stupid. Once he gets what he wants, well … then we part ways. I intend to overthrow the human race and institute a government by the horses, for the horses.’

‘You … what?’

‘You think equine self-governance is any crazier than a world ruled by the Olympian gods?’

‘I never thought about it.’

‘You wouldn’t, would you? You, with your bipedal arrogance! You don’t spend your life with humans constantly expecting to ride you or have you pull their carts. Ah, I’m wasting my breath. You won’t be around long enough to see the revolution.’

Oh, reader, I can’t express to you my terror – not at the idea of a horse revolution, but at the thought that my life was about to end! Yes, I know mortals face death, too, but it’s worse for a god, I tell you! I’d spent millennia knowing I was immune to the great cycle of life and death. Then suddenly I find out – LOL, not so much! I was going to be flayed and consumed by a man who took his cues from a militant talking horse!

As we progressed down the chain of super-yachts, we saw more and more signs of recent battle. Boat twenty looked like it had been struck repeatedly with lightning. Its superstructure was a charred, smoking ruin, the blackened upper decks spackled with fire-extinguisher foam.

Boat eighteen had been converted into a triage centre. The wounded were sprawled everywhere, groaning from bashed heads, broken limbs, bleeding noses and bruised groins. Many of their injuries were at knee level or below – just where Meg McCaffrey liked to kick. A flock of strixes wheeled overhead, screeching hungrily. Perhaps they were just on guard duty, but I got the feeling they were waiting to see which of the wounded did not pull through.

Boat fourteen was Meg McCaffrey’s coup de grace. Boston ivy had engulfed the entire yacht, including most of the crew, who were stitched to the walls by a thick web of crawlers. A cadre of horticulturists – no doubt called up from the botanical gardens on boat sixteen – were now trying to free their comrades using clippers and weed-whackers.

I was heartened to see that our friends had made it this far and caused so much damage. Perhaps Crest had been mistaken about them being captured. Surely two capable demigods like Jason and Meg would have managed to escape if they got cornered. I was counting on it, since I now needed them to rescue me.

But what if they could not? I racked my brain for clever ideas and devious schemes. Rather than racing, my mind moved at a wheezing jog.

I managed to come up with phase one of my master plan: I would escape without getting myself killed, then free my friends. I was hard at work on phase two – how do I do that? – when I ran out of time. Incitatus crossed to the deck of Julia Drusilla XII, cantered through a set of double golden doors and carried us down a ramp into the ship’s interior, which contained a single massive room – the audience chamber of Caligula.

Entering this space was like plunging down the throat of a sea monster. I’m sure the effect was intentional. The emperor wanted you to feel a sense of panic and helplessness.

You have been swallowed, the room seemed to say. Now you will be digested.

No windows here. The fifty-foot-high walls screamed with garishly painted frescoes of battles, volcanoes, storms, wild parties – all images of power gone amok, boundaries erased, nature overturned.

The tiled floor was a similar study in chaos – intricate, nightmarish mosaics of the gods being devoured by various monsters. Far above, the ceiling was painted black, and dangling from it were golden candelabras, skeletons in cages and bare swords that hung by the thinnest of cords and looked ready to impale anyone below.

I found myself tilting sideways on Incitatus’s back, trying to find my equilibrium, but it was impossible. The chamber offered no safe place to rest my gaze. The rocking of the yacht didn’t help.